Red Robin #3 – Yet another problem
Location – The Belfry, Gotham City, New Jersey.

---

If you thought you could save a loved one, how far would you be willing to go? That was a question that plagued Tim’s mind whenever it strayed towards the infamous Mr. Freeze. Dedicating his life to the study of cryogenics, Dr. Victor Fries's life had spiraled after his wife tragically found herself contracting a rare terminal illness. In an effort to save her life, he had placed her in cryo-stasis until he could find a cure. Such work wasn’t free though, with the tragic doctor donning a self-made freeze-gun and a suit of armour in order to fund his efforts.

The Batman had tried to lend his hand on many occasions, however, as the years of conflict showed, it would seem that the doctor wanted his mission to be a solitary one, with him believing that only he was smart enough to find a cure.

In his time as Robin, this cure was something that the boy wonder had thought to investigate himself. Tim was ashamed to admit, however, that such a plan was only one item within a list of hundreds. He knew it was important. It was to save someone’s life! But with everything that had happened in Gotham in recent years, it was definitely easy to get distracted.

Given the recent attack on Wayne Biotech though, that item had quickly been prioritized.

After politely ending his call with his potential future classmate, Tim had dived right back into work. The first challenge of course was finding where Freeze was currently holed up. That problem however proved to be a lot easier than he had expected. Given the nature of his work, Tim theorized that Freeze would need somewhere large and desolate, with enough generators and freezer space for his samples. That quickly narrowed it down to a number of factories within the city.

Pulling his cowl back over his head, Red Robin made his way into the night, leaping wildly from the clock-face of the Belfry down into the city below. The line of his grabbling hook rocketed outwards towards a nearby apartment block. After it found its mark, the line grew tight as the vigilante swung forwards. Reaching the peak of his swing, the line retracted, sending Red Robin into the air once more.

The 17 miles per hour winds, combined with this newfound momentum was exactly what he needed. Grabbing the edges of his cape, he stretched out his arms, the wind now carrying him forward above the streets below.



The locations of the factories listed themselves within the HUD of his cowl as he flew. From here Tim sought to narrow down his options further, however, upon reading one of the names, the teenager decided to take a gamble. Arching to the right, he changed his direction, moving towards the Narrows, one of Gotham’s most decrepit districts. If an ice-themed villain was trying to choose a factory to work out of, there was a good chance he’d go toward one catered to making ice cream. Snowy Cones Ice Cream Factory seemed to be the perfect location, with the facility being adequate for his power needs, along with having plenty of potential lab space and storage. What more, was that it backed onto the Sprang River for easy disposal of whatever chemical waste the doctor within might have.

As the Red Robin descended gracefully upon the building opposite, his suspicions were immediately confirmed as he laid his eyes upon the gothic building before him. A number of characters, wrapped head to toe in thermal outerwear, huddled together smoking within the factory’s yard. A smile spread across Tim’s face as he brought a small set of binoculars to his eyes. He had recognised a few of them immediately. They were all ex-goons. Previous henchmen of all of the worst Gotham had to offer. Whilst not confirming the activities of Mr. Freeze himself, their presence at the very least hinted that something was afoot.

Tim reached to his commlink in the side of his cowl.

“I’ve tracked Freeze to the abandoned Snow Cones Ice Cream Factory.” He spoke clearly, hoping that one of his many family members would be on the other end of the line somewhere. “Heading in now and will ping if I need a hand.”

Lexcorp
Metropolis

The 105th floor of the Lexcorp building served as both the office and residence of the company’s owner and CEO. But above that floor was a small penthouse Lex Luthor would retreat to sometimes. He called it the godspot. It contained a full panoramic view of Metropolis, and served as a reminder of where he had come from and where he was now. Somewhere out across the vast expanse of this city was a little rundown tenement building in Suicide Slum. Lex knew it was still there. It was one of the first things he’d bought with his wealth. He let some local drunk manage it for him. He kept rent down for the residence and refused to either renovate the place or tear it down.

For Lex the building was another one of his grand experiments. Lexcorp scientists and security monitored the residents, especially the younger ones, and recorded the data that was there. Could that little ramshackle building produce another Lex Luthor? Only time would tell. Part of him hoped that it would end in failure. That would defeat his narrative if he could just be copied and pasted like a file. That would lessen the great man If the same conditions could birth yet another great man. No he firmly believed that what he had achieved had been both a product of his upbringing andh is natural abilities. Growing up in Suicide Slum had motivated him to use those abilities to great effect. And here he was, lord above all Metropolis. The Lexcorp building straddled the city like a colossus, with Lex atop that colossus and in control. And still…

It wasn’t good enough.

“Mr. Luthor.”

Lex was seated crossed-legged on the floor of the penthouse. His hands were clasped together and eyes were open, taking in all of the city. The voice was coming from his wrist watch.

“Yes, Miss Teschmacher?”

“Otis is on the line… he wants to know if he can publish the statement on yesterday’s shuttle landing.”

Lex let the question hang in the air. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since that disaster. The press had hounded Lexcorp since the reports of Superman’s intervention. Lucky for Lex the landing site in the Indian Ocean was heavily guarded. No press or anyone else to bother him after Mercy’s smooth landing. But Lex had continued to let his silence linger longer than it should have. Even the president had commented on it quicker than Lex had.

“Tell Otis… he can publish the fourth revision,” Lex said into his watch. “The one that mentions failure, and ones ability to overcome it, is what makes us human. It’s what makes us better. Emphasis on the human and better parts.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex sighed and stood up. He crossed the penthouse with one hand on his chin and already lost in thought. With the statement on the shuttle failure out there he could move on. Yesterday would not be his last time in space. They already had future projects lined up. As government seemed to balk at the idea of space exploration, it would be up to him to fill the void and push the envelope. He hoped to launch a moon mission sometime within the next four years. After that there was Mars, then the outer planets. If his physics department could manage a breakthrough there would be what was outside the solar system. True extrasolar exploration would be where humanity would find its place among the stars. This planet was dying. It was only a matter of time. This was to save humanity, even if they seemed to resist his attempts.

“Aos,” Lex said aloud. “Call Dr. Fine.”

“Calling, Dr. Fine,” a robotic voice said from somewhere in the penthouse.

Still in the beta stage, the Aos program was a lot like Lexcorp’s space initiative in that it had all the makings of a game changer. Healthcare, security, and quality of life could all be improved by the AI’s cognitive and predictive abilities. While other smart assistants played music and told you the weather Aos had the power to tell you what was going to happen. It just needed more data, more refinement. That’s where Milton came in.

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Milton Fine's voice came through the AOS speaker.

“What’s on your agenda today, Milton?”

“I’m at the free clinic in Suicide-- I mean, Southside. So far we’ve had over two dozen sign up for the AOS program.”

“Of course,” said Luthor. “I figure we’ll have over one hundred in the program by the end of the week.”

In exchange for wearing an Aos monitor bracelet at all times, poor income residents across Metropolis would receive the finest medical care on Lexcorp’s dime. The bracelets broadcasted vitals of the program members to Lexcorp. Pulse, blood sugar, blood pressure, and oxygen intake were just some of the many vitals the Aos device kept track of. The plan was to take all that information, along with dietary and physical activity history, and create a profile. They could identify which people were predisposed to having heart diseases years before it struck. Cancer could be caught in its earliest stages and treated before any true symptoms began to manifest.

“I need to make more tweaks to the AI, but I imagine we can start a fully realized health profile of project members within six months. That should be more than enough data to predict short to mid term health issues.

“Data, data, data,” Luthor said softly to himself. “It’s the building blocks of a better future.”

Lex ended the call with a request that Fine touch base at the end of the day. He felt better after talking to the doctor. Superman could fly and throw cars around, but he couldn’t offer people health advice. As many people he saved from catastrophe, he couldn’t cure cancer.

Yes… let him have the little dog and pony shows. Let him get front page news for saving a handful of people. In one hundred years, cancer would be a thing of the past. Not because some alien had blasted it away with his laser vision. It was because of Aos and Lex Luthor.

Superman was the man of tomorrow? Okay, he could have that. Lex Luthor would be the man of the next century. As death was abolished and humanity took to the stars, the name Luthor would be the first name among those that ventured into the void. Lexcorp, Lillian, and Aos was the first step on the road to empire. And no man, no matter how strong, could not stand in the way of empire.

---

White House Situation Room

“They call themselves the 100.”

ARGUS deputy director Maria Hill stood at the end of the conference table while a presentation projected over her shoulder. Calvin sat at the end of the table along with Perry White and Sarge Steel. Displayed on the screen behind Hill was a logo of the number 100 in black, little white stars dotting the numbers. Calvin figured if he counted each star it would put it at one hundred.

“We think the name comes from the fact they started initially with one hundred members. We’re not sure how many members they have now, but our best guess is somewhere in the upper hundreds to lower one thousand. They started in the 90’s militia boom after Ruby Ridge, Waco, and the OKC bombing. While other groups have faded, they’ve stayed strong.”

Hill clicked the remote in her hand and the picture on the screen changed to a map of the US. Parts of the western US and midwest were highlighted in red.

“ARGUS and FBI believe the group operates through the western states, particularly in Montana and North Dakota. Sparsely populated states give them a lot of land and mountain cover to hide out in.”

“Where do they get their funding from?” asked Steel.

“Internet donations,” said Hill. “Their website advertises both public and anonymous, for anyone a little shy about letting people know what they’re donating to. Oh, and silly me… they also rob banks.”

Hill clicked the remote again. The picture on the screen changed to a mugshot. It showed a surly, long haired man with an iron cross tattoo on his cheek and a tattoo around his throat that read “Make America White Again.”

“Arthur Blackwood. Confirmed metahuman and multiple times convicted felon. He’s believed to have robbed over fifteen banks for the 100. At last count Blackwood is wanted for murder, arson, assault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery, and a handful of other lesser crimes. All of those are across multiple states. ARGUS surveillance caught this photo two days ago…”

The picture changed to a black and white photo of what appeared to be Blackwood on a motorcycle going down a street.

“This is Helena, Montana. ARGUS sources say Blackwood is in Helena to do something on behalf of the 100.”

“FBI sources and chatter can confirm that,” said Steel. “The suspicion. It seems that leaders in the 100 asked for him by name to go to Helena.”

“To what end?” asked Perry White. “You don’t send a piece of garbage like that to just run some guns or to just rob a farmer’s savings & loan.”

“ARGUS thinks…” Hill paused. “ARGUS thinks Blackwood is there to do something very bad. Domestic terrorism levels of bad.”

“What do you need from me?” Calvin asked.

“Presidential approval to collect raw surveillance data from as many people in Helena as possible. Cellphone conversations, messages, internet history, whatever. We need to find out where Blackwood is now so we can monitor him and potentially stop whatever is going down. In short, we need to spy on our own people to find him.”

This was the back and forth debate that plagued America ever since 9/11. Spying on the American people to save them from some potential threat. Was the price of freedom security, and vice versa? Calvin leaned back in his hand and rubbed his chin.

“You get a forty-eight hour window,” said Calvin. “If we can’t find Blackwood by then, we’ll re-evaluate and see about extending the window.”

“Very good,” Hill said, nodding.

“Anything DNI can do let us know,” said Steel.

“Will do,” said Hill. “Director Waller and I will coordinate with the FBI to get things rolling, Sarge. We’ll reach out after that. Thank you, Mr. President.”

“All I can say is good luck,” said Calvin.

He checked his watch. It was almost time for his work day to be over. After that it was dinner. And after that? Maybe he could help take a little flight out west… maybe Montana? Who knew where the night would take him.

The Law Office of Nelson & Murdock
Hell's Kitchen, New York

"eteen," huff, "nineteen," huff, and "twenty!"

The hand weights yielded a dull rap against the hardwood floor as the muscles within Franklin "Foggy" Nelson's forearms violently relax, with a vaguely painful surge touching down in his spine as he nods with satisfaction. It was his eighth set of the night and, if he had his way, it wouldn't have been his last. But Foggy Nelson, the only constant member of the business most often known as Nelson & Murdock, didn't need super senses to smell the load of bullshit in the air headed his way.

It was storming harder than usual outside. That meant that the region was slated for roughly a forty percent increase in activity for predatory ambush criminals and a one hundred and fifty percent increase in supernatural disturbances, if his Excel sheet was to be believed. The weatherman certainly wasn't.

He was just in the middle of finishing up his Powerade bottle when it came, the tit, tit, tat of his closest friend in the whole wide world, pretending to find his way with a cane.

"Beautiful evening we're having, Matt," Foggy said, kicking his hand weights out of sight.

"Hey, Foggy. Quick question: Did you know that Wilson Fisk has a grandson?"

"Not specifically, no," Foggy furls his brow. "I can't say that's something I knew. Is that a bad thing?"

"Probably...?"

"Well that's foreboding. Did something happen to your phone?" he probes, his quick legal mind going through the motions of decoding the obvious, "Or is this the sort of thing where you're here to tell me that I can't go to my own house until I get the all clear?"

"Neither actually," Matt grins devilishly. "I don't think is actually aimed at us this time. Yet. But I did bring you an apple fritter."

"Damn you to hell, Matt Murdock," Foggy says, succumbing to the sticky salience of four hundred calories of refined carbohydrates in a sudden snatch.

"Did you bring me any milk?"

"I love you, Foggy," Matt says, backing towards the door.

"You only say that when I'm in in critical condition."

"That's why you're the world's best lawyer. Also, almost forgot, the reason I'm here: Turk Barrett dropped Fisks grandson into my lap because his estate is in some undefined trouble and the kid's cologne literally smells like the guy who killed my dad. So I assume it means that I need to be ready to put up some kind of fight tonight. Which is a shame, because I'm really in the mood for an apple fritter but if its a fight night, I really need slow burning energy."

"Do you think we should arrange to get the kid out of town?"

"Not... immediately. That doesn't quite seem necessary. He seems normal."

"Okay, then. Lemme tell you what. I'll just dial up Exeter and have her on retainer for the next few days in case we need an exit. Worse case scenario: Everything is peachy and we're out a couple hundred bucks."

---

Frank woke up in much the same way as he'd fallen asleep that morning; sharply and unwillingly, followed by settling in to a cold routine. He stood, picking up the book from the floor next to the bed where it had fallen and folding the corner of the page he last recalled reading before setting it down on his pillow. He undressed, feeling clammy from sweating fully-clothed in his sleep, and pulled a large trunk from beneath his bed to fetch another uniform. Nothing extravagant: black utility trousers, a white tank top, a black denim jacket. The cap, black with a small logo on the front, was the only thing the company had paid for; most of his first paycheque had gone on buying something his boss deemed acceptable. Something black and "tough-guy-looking", he'd said. Frank disliked his boss.

Still, he dressed as instructed all the same, all black with heavy boots and his flashlight swinging on his hip again. No weapons, company policy - they were watchmen, not guards, and insurance was pricey enough without employees looking for fights - but Frank had sworn-off weapons just over a decade ago. The brass knuckles were just for self-defence. Hell’s Kitchen was a rough side of town, only getting rougher despite all the ‘good’ that horned bastard thought he was doing.

Frank checked his watch. 2130. He’d slept late. Better get a move on.



The job this week had been boring but well-paid, relative to Frank’s other jobs. Better thank watching the door on another failing dive bar at least; some abandoned ex-factory near the waterfront. Been empty a couple years, but last week someone had bought it, a nice chunk of dilapidated real estate, and this week they needed someone to watch it while they figured out what to do with it. The chain-link fencing around the perimeter had gone up in a day, and the day after that had been spending ‘evicting’ the squatters within. Frank had gotten the post Sunday just gone, and the last three nights had been uneventful.

He relieved the afternoon watch in his usual way; appearing near-silently in the door to the impromptu ‘office’, spooking the shit out of the early-20’s ‘roid-head who had his feet up on the desk and his phone propped up against a coffee mug, watching some livestream of a young blonde in some kind of costume. Frank vaguely recognised it from some freak he’d seen in the news a few months ago. Kids today had no respect.

The ‘noon guard pocketed his phone quickly, paling beneath Frank’s glare despite the finely-crafted muscles he obviously spent most of his time and money on. Despite standing a good few inches taller than Frank, he still felt small. He scooped up the one walkie-talkie provided to the job and handed it to Frank, squeezing past the older man as he looked to make a sharp exit. Frank had a way of making rooms uncomfortable to be in.
“Nothin’ t’report, Pete. All quiet.”
Frank nodded and stepped aside, clipping the talkie to his belt next to his flashlight and taking a seat on the folding chair. It was as close to a formal relief as Frank was going to give. The ‘noon guard lingered awkwardly, as if pausing to collect some words. Frank just stared straight ahead out of what once probably housed a glass pane, looking out onto what was once probably a production floor. The ‘noon guard left, and Frank breathed an infinitesimal sigh of relief. He rarely felt like talking, and tonight the stale, rust-scented air sat even more uncomfortably than usual in the back of his throat.



Four hours went by slowly. Frank had made a couple rounds of patrol since he'd started, but right now he was simply enjoying the last dregs of coffee from his thermos. With his watch rolling past 2AM, Frank crossed and uncrossed his legs. His bladder was filling, and the on-site toilet was on the other side of the building. Irritating; he was comfortable, and it was chilly tonight. Nevertheless, it was get up and walk, or piss himself. Frank was older, but not quite that old yet. He got up, grunting as he felt his knee pop. Old scars. He ambled across the ground floor, assorted gravel and broken glass crunching beneath his boots. His torch swung at his side, un-needed; while the bulbs in the building had burnt out long ago, Frank was well-used to moonlight and muzzle-flashes being his only illumination. The former filtered through the skylights nicely and he found his way easily.

He pushed through a door at the rear of the building into the cool night air, letting the distant cacophony of the city drift in. New York, the city that never sleeps. The crisp air felt good in his lungs and he savoured it, taking long, even breaths. Despite the background ambience of New York proper, there was a detachment from it at this building that afforded an almost peaceful atmosphere, and offered a clarity of thought that wouldn’t be possible once enveloped fully in the din of so-called ‘civilisation’.

So Frank was displeased when a distinct, tell-tale clinking off to his right let him know someone was scaling the chain-link fence that was meant to ward off this exact kind of intrusion. He sighed, pausing in his purposeful plod, and turned carefully on the spot in the direction of the noise. There was the crunch of someone hitting the ground on the inside of the perimeter, followed by more clinking and two more landings. There was a swollen pause of silence, and then Frank saw them cutting across the yard towards the main building. Three figures, with dark jackets and beanie caps. Two were holding crowbars. Frank sighed, and quietly followed at a steady pace.

The trio pushed forwards into the factory, moving carefully but with little regard for the amount of noise they were making. Frank trailed behind, imperceptible in the darkness and silent as the grave. By the way they were looking around, they were obviously expecting a night watchman, but they weren’t thorough in their investigation. Frank felt almost bored at how easy it had been to follow them across the old factory floor without being noticed. The lead of the three was distracted, though, fidgety. He kept adjusting his jacket - obvious firearm in the inner pocket, one Frank simultaneously wished he would and wouldn’t be forced to use - and checking a scrap of paper that creased a little more every time he retrieved it from his pocket. They passed the ‘office’, and even gave it a cursory sweep - but they weren’t here for the guard.

Instead, they approached a seemingly random factory press, and the biggest of the three - nearly a foot on Frank, and probably the better part of forty kilos - braced himself against the rusted old manufacturer and heaved. There was a terrible screeching roar of metal-on-metal, but Frank was nearly impressed to see that the damn thing moved, and then all of a sudden noticed the machine was sat on finely-carved rails in the floor. Frank cursed himself for not noticing sooner, for not taking better recon on the job before he’d accepted it. He was getting complacent in retirement.

There was a pause as the sound faded, echoing off rotting walls and rusted rafters. Frank didn’t breathe. The trio muttered amongst themselves, and each gave another cursory sweeping of the eyes across the factory floor; but Frank knew how to wait, and the trio thought whoever was supposed to be here wasn’t interested. Either that, or impatient and stupid.

With the machine press out of the way, the crowbars came out, and the larger two dug the prying ends sharply into deep grooves in the floor. There was some pushing and tugging and grunting and swearing, but slowly, surely, a great lid began to lift, and soon enough all three men were beneath it, heaving it up from out of the ground and pushing it back on rusted hinges. The trio paused again to collect themselves and take some gulping breathes - which they immediately regretted as the unmistakeable scent of old sweat and stale blood ballooned out of the hole like mustard gas seeping across a trench. Frank’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t gag and retch like the men he was watching. Instead, he zeroed in on it, like a grey old bloodhound catching the scent of a hunt again. The crowbars were cast aside as the men descended the steps down, covering their noses with their arms. Frank scooped one up as he followed them into the pit.



At the bottom of the stairs, Paulie flipped the lightswitch, and was surprised when the fluorescent tube in the ceiling actually flicked on. Vin, despite being maybe half Paulie’s weight, shot him a look. Paulie just glared. Like the noise hadn’t screamed out their presence here anyway. Guard wasn’t here, just like they were told he wouldn’t be here by Ace. Pete Castiglione was Ace Security Solution’s latest hire, and he was just some washed up bootcamp reject with a vocabulary better than his IQ. Ace told Pete to jump, Pete asked how high, and either he wouldn’t bother you at all or you can just chuck a couple hundred his way and he’ll go sit in a dark room until you’re done. And what’s a couple hundred compared to what they were getting paid for a little bit of clean-up?

Paulie wondered what ‘vocabulary’ meant.

He hadn’t shown anyway. No sign of him as they entered the factory, no sign of him after moving the machine, no sign of him after lifting the trapdoor. It didn’t even look like he’d turned up to his shift. That was Pete’s problem, though, not Paulie’s or Vin’s or Karl’s. Ace would dock him the night’s pay and then pocket it.

Paulie was broken out of his wondering by Vin hitting his shoulder, and Paulie scowled.
“Find what we came to find or watch the stairs. Don’t just fuckin’ stand there like a retard.”
“Fuck off, Vin. Find my ass.”
Karl chuckled as he overturned a soiled mattress. He tried to ignore the handcuffs beneath it, stained with drops of blood, just like he was trying to ignore the faint sight of scratch-marks on the underside of the lid when they’d lifted it.
“What we lookin’ for again Vin?” Karl asked as he let the mattress fall again. Vin swore and smacked Karl.
“Some kinda stash. Few valuables, some photos. Ace said there was a tape, though. Said if we walk out without the tape, we’re done in this town.”
Karl considered the threat for a moment, then nodded, and resumed his search. Paulie leant against the wall, absentmindedly scratching his chin.

Vin looked around the room. It wasn’t very big, and only sparsely decorated; a handful of mattresses, a couple chairs. There was a desk in the corner, but no drawers. Drawers would have been too easy, he supposed. There was a drain in the corner of the room, and a vent above it.
“Paulie, make yourself useful. Boost me up.” Vin commanded, gesturing at the vent in the wall. Paulie trudged over and cupped his hands for Vin to step in, hoisting him up until his shoulders were level. Vin balanced himself, then grabbed the vent with both hands and wrenched it back; a couple yanks, and it popped out. Vin grinned in success and stuck his arm in shoulder-deep; after a few seconds feeling around, he gripped something and grinned again, pulling it free.

It was a small plastic bag, duct-taped shut. Inside the bag were some bracelets, rings, necklaces - assorted jewellery, but nothing extravagant or overly mature in its style - a small pouch of photos - the top one was a provocative image of an attractive young woman, but the rest weren’t visible - and a black, un-marked videotape.
“Bingo, boys. Payday tonight.” Vin said, affecting an air of triumph as Paulie lowered him down. “Let’s get out of he-“

Vin stopped mid-sentence as he turned back towards the stairs and came face-to-face with Pete Castiglione. Pete had cast an eye over the squalid little pit already, and his face bristled with rage and disgust; now, Pete’s gaze fell to the baggie clutched in Vin’s hand, and the content within. Pete’s face contorted into something Vin could only describe as demonic. Carefully, Vin rested his other hand on the pistol in his pocket. Frank rolled the crowbar in his hand, feeling the weight and the swing of it.

“Pete? Pete Castiglione? You’re on watch tonight? Ace - your boss - he said you would be. Said you’re a reliable guy. Said you don’t talk much, but you’re smart and money-orientated. Well, Ace asked us to come and pick up some bits. Said if we ran into you, that you’d be smart enough to know we’re not causing trouble, just here to collect some stuff the old owners left behind. Smart guy like you would take an easy couple hundred to let us get on with our business so you can get on with your business.”

Vin liked to talk, Frank thought. Liked to think he was in control. Liked to think he was faster with that .45 in his pocket than Pete Castiglione would be with his crowbar. Liked to think he was never wrong, despite rarely being right. Liked to be backed up by men bigger than him with less brains, like Paulie and Karl. Unfortunate.

“You’re wrong.” Frank said. “My name’s not Pete.”

“What?”

“It’s Frank.”

“Huh?”

“Frank Castle.”

“Oh, fuck.” Vin could only whisper.

The last thing Frank saw before he threw his crowbar at the lightbulb was three men, making their peace with God, illuminated only by the moonlight and a muzzle flash.

IN DREAMS
CHAPTER 5

New York City
1938

Meg Turner knew she was going to die. The evil man with the dead eyes told her repeatedly that it was only a matter of time before he killed her. Meg sat in a hardback chair, stripped down to her skivvies, her wrists and ankles tied, and with a thick leather belt around her neck. The man that had abducted her paced around the rundowne flop naked. Meg saw the giant spider tattoo on the man's back, a crude thing that looked like it had be done in some prison. He turned and she saw his little prick was hard. It was always the ones hung like cashews that did the most violence.

Like her uncle Joey. He was the reason she’d left Nebraska for New York. She couldn’t take his little “midnight games” anymore. Her parents never believed her, and the cops? They just laughed her out of the police department. No way was a pillar of the community like Joey Franklin a pervert. The last time Joey tried to come for Meg, she was ready with a broken beer bottle. Joey lost an eye and Meg got the hell out of Hastings that night.

A young girl fresh to New York she ended up falling into the same trap like all the others. A handsome man at the bus stop whispered words in her ear. And the next thing she knew, she was on the streets turning tricks.

“Just a matter of time,” her captor muttered. "Step into my parlor, ssaid the sssspider to the f-f-fly."

He came up behind her and yanked on the belt hard with both hands. Meg gasped for air as the belt tightened around her neck. She tried to struggle and break free. But it was no use. She could feel her attacker’s hard cock pressing into the small of her back as she struggled for air. She wanted to cry so badly. This was how it would end. She was only nineteen. There was so much she hadn’t done. So much she wanted to do and see and try. Would this be how her story ended? Just a victim of one man after another? Black spots began to form in her vision. Pretty soon it would all be black. She didn’t believe in heaven or hell. This world they lived in, this was equal parts heaven and hell. What waited for her on the other side of the veil was oblivion. At least that would be peaceful. No molesting uncles, no johns and pimps trying to beat you up, and no sex killers.

Meg heard coughing and could smell something pungent all of a sudden. It was smoke... Of some kind. Oh, god. Maybe Hell was real? She felt the pressure around her neck loosen and she gasped suddenly for breath. The chair she was in collapsed on its side as Meg’s body racked with pain. She could hear she wasn't the only. A thick layer of some greenish smoke filled the room. She wasn’t sure if it was from a lack of oxygen or what… but she suddenly felt very tired.

“You’ll be okay, Miss,” a muffled voice said from above.

She glanced up and blinked slowly. She was unsure of what she was seeing. Was this… thing a demon? Or was it some angel? The old testament angels who were always hideous harbingers of God’s wrath, the ones who cautioned people not to look directly at them.



“Help is on the way. For the first time in a long time, sleep and have pleasant dreams.”

---

New York City
Now

Detective Paul Gold stepped out into the warm summer night and sighed. He hated working the nightshift and he hated working homicide during the summers. It seemed fate was fucking him over by putting on the nightshift during summer. He just hoped tonight would be as quiet as last night had been. He'd rolled on a death that got ruled natural causes and one suicide. Some old bastard hanged himself in a roach motel not too far from Gold's 19th Precinct.

Santos and Richards found him after a noise complaint from a tenant. Based on everything at the scene Gold couldn't tell if it was intentional suicide, or if the fucker had been trying to do some kinky stuff and got carried away. He wouldn't be the first homicide cop to discover a case of autoerotic asphyxiations gone bad, and he sure as shit wouldn't be the last. Other than some odd remarks from Santos and Richards about the old man having a bunch of masked man memorabilia in his apartment. Gold did find it curious why this Hawkins guy hadn't just done the deed at home. Maybe he was too afraid to making a mess around his comic books. Regardless, Gold was happy to have a pretty straightforward case of suicide, accidental misadventure at the very worst.

Gold got into his car that was parked on the street and frowned when the engine wouldn't turn over. Just the tell tale clicks of a dead battery. He swore and began to climb back out the car. He stopped when he smelled something sharp in the air. Some kind of chemical. He saw the greenish gas waft in front of his face and he began to cough. The sudden urge to fall asleep overcome him. Something gripped his shoulders and he tried to shake it off. He was too weak to fight it.

"Detective Gold," a muffled voice said over his shoulder. "Sanderson Hawkins' death was not a suicide. He was murdered. You're going to take a little nap, but when you wake up you'll find Hawkins' laptop on the front seat of your car. It points to Sanderson's involvement in an erotic underground that fetishizes the old costumed heroes of the 30's. His killer is somewhere inside that list of contacts. The pieces are there, Gold. You just need to put them together. Sleep the sleep of the just, detective, and wake up refreshed and ready to bring justice to Sandy Hawkins."

Gold slumped against the wheel and began to snore loudly. From the backseat of the car, Wesley Dodds climbed out. The suit still fit as good as it had... almost eighty years ago. The gasmask was difficult to breath through, but that had been the case when he was younger. As Gold continued to snore, The Sandman ventured out into the night for the first time in seventy years.

It was a cold winters night. One of many. The stars were falling in the dark Novosibirsk sky. The November frosts covered the streets in a deep snow, it was quiet. Soviet flags still waved from outside of homes who's residents were now soundly asleep or gathered around their fires with their families. Outside there was only the woman with the light brown hair, and her pursuer. She ran, as fast as she could. She had sworn to herself that she would, flee to Western Europe, to America. West, she had to go west. In her right hand she clutched tightly her silenced pistol, in her left she held even tighter a briefcase. The briefcase which she intended to hand over to S.H.I.E.L.D. Despite the precarious footing she ran perfectly. Her pace was swift and efficient each movement of her form was perfect.

FFFPT. CRACK. Rolling forward at the last second the woman narrowly avoided the bullet zipping down, instead of hitting its target it imbedded itself into a brick in the wall behind. The woman aimed her gun up at the roof and fired off two shots. The obscured figure had already stepped back, the two bullets are sent off up into the night sky. The woman rushed around the corner into an alley and pressed her back up against the wall, with her gun out she peaked around the corner.

Her pursuer had gracefully leaped off of the roof, landing with practices finesse, silently in the snow. Before the woman could understand what was happening her pursuer had kicked her gun out of her hand just as she peaked around the corner to try and see where she was. Panicked the woman threw the briefcase onto the snow behind her.

"Please. We don't have to do this." The woman pleaded as her pursuer drew closer. Throwing a punch the woman's fist was caught by her pursuer, and the woman was pulled into a judo throw, sending her onto the ground on her back with a powerful impact. The woman could see the steam of her own breath escaping as she exhaled painfully. Grabbing the blade at her waist the woman quickly rolled onto her stomach and lashed out with the knife, slashing horizontally at the legs of her pursuer. Unfortunately her pursuer had intercepted the blade, slamming it down into the snow, trapping it under their boot. The woman's head snapped back as she was kicked in the face, she could feel the blood begin to drip out of her nose.

Before she could rise to her knees her pursuer grabbed hold of her body and threw her at the wall. Colliding with the wall side first the woman cracked her head against it before she fell to the ground. "Please... Nat. Alya. We could leave this together. Live in peace. Away from this..." The woman tried to rise to her feet, the world spun as she got to her knees. She knew that she was outmatched, in speed, strength, durability. She was a Widow too, but not one like her.

There was no indication that Natalya was listening to what she had said. The woman watched as she brandished her pistol, identical to the one that she had held. The feeling of the silenced barrel pressing into her forehead filled her with fear. She had hoped S.H.I.E.L.D would have protected her from this. But in truth she knew that even if she had made it to the West, this likely would have been how her days ended even then. The woman looked over desperately at the briefcase she had discarded. The files on the Red Room she had been bargaining with for her safety, for her freedom.

"Dasvidanya." Natalya said without emotion in her voice, her face a mask, her eyes empty. CRACK The woman fell lifelessly onto the floor. Her lifeblood escaping from the wound in her head. CRACK a second shot to make it completely certain. Natalya collected the dead woman's knife and pistol as well as the briefcase that she had been sent to recover. The body may as well not have been there for her, she had been told not to worry about it, that it would be handled.

It was not the first time that Natalya had been ordered to kill one of her 'sisters'. She was anticipating the coming injections, being hooked up and restrained on the medical bed in the Red Room. Strange machines and instruments being brought in. They always flooded the other Widows with stuff like that whenever something like this happened. But Natalya most of all. She was their prized possession. Natalya felt nothing towards such thoughts, those had been extracted out of her. Anything that happened, for a long time it was not happening to her, a spectator in her own body. That made it easier to kill anyone.

Unlocking the latches on the briefcase she opened it up, confirming that the files were really there and not hidden away somewhere else. She would take these and later burn them, the files and the briefcase both. Natalya picked up the briefcase, holding it firmly in her left hand as she walked into the frozen night. She was due in Moscow the next morning...

Finding Fury - Black Widow Tie In #2
Location - Alpha Base

---

"We will be landing at Alpha Base in 10 minutes Agent Romanoff!" The pilot of the quinjet called back to her.

Natasha nodded her head. It was about time. There was something about flights that brought back old memories for her. Although in part it could also be from who she was about to meet. She had been to Alpha Base only once before, since then she had tried her best to avoid it and so far had been successful. Anchorage Alaska, perhaps it reminded her too much of home.

Once the quinjet landed she collected her equipment and carried it out off the quinjet and onto the airfield. Where a squad of S.H.I.E.L.D agents were awaiting for her, including Alexei Shostakov, the 'Red Guardian'. Or at least that is what he was once known as. Now he was known simply as Agent Shostakov to most, Natasha was curious if some of the younger agents had even heard of the Red Guardian outside of history classes. With his arms wide open he had a stupid grin on his face. "Zdrastvuyte Natalya! It is good to see you again, how have you been?!"

"Natasha will do Alexei. No one has called me Natalya in a long time. Let us keep it that way."

Alexei snorted dismissively "Oh come on Natalya, we are not Americans there is no need for that." Before she could respond he continued speaking.

"It has been so long Natalya, far too long. When was the last time we met eh? The world was much different place then no?" Alexei and Natasha began to walk towards Alpha Base from the airfield as the other Agents who had been gathered boarded the quinjet which Natasha had arrived in.

"Yes. It has been some time..." Natasha spoke stoically.

"Hah, some time. Yes that is true no matter how you put it I guess. Best not to think of the years no? Will only make us feel old."

Alexei extended his hand to Natasha, in it he held a flask which he was offering to her. Natasha shook her head and waved her hand in rejection.

"Natalya. You used to love this stuff give it a drink it will do you good. It's Vodka. Russian Vodka not American. From home." Reluctantly Natasha accepted the flask and opened up. Tilting her head back she took a drink of the Vodka. It burned violently as it went down. In truth it was a truly despicable drink, one to make even the harshest drunk take a second to think about whether they should take a second swig. However for Alexei and Natasha it had become a sort of comfort. Or at least it had, she had not tasted it in years.

There was some feeling of nostalgia to it, a feeling that Natasha quickly snuffed out. Handing Alexei back the flask it was now his turn to take a drink from it, only his was much longer and far more greedily. In fact he drained the rest of the flask in that single gulp. He laughed loudly as he wiped his mouth "Ah nothing matches that no?"

"That is one way to put it."

"See? You always enjoyed it Natalya. These American's couldn't tell a good drink if I forced it down their throats! I convinced one or two of them to drink with me but you know after that I couldn't find anyone. Says a lot about them no?"

"I see. That really is a shame isn't it." Natasha spoke with a not so subtle sarcastic tone, even so it seemed to scathe over Alexei's head.

"Yes. Yes a great shame. But you are here now."

The two of them entered Alpha Base and walked down its corridors, Alexei leading the way.

The two of them now entered Alpha Base properly. Natasha placed her equipment onto a bench with pegs of large warm coats hanging above it."How long do we have until the next flight?"

"Around two hours I would say. Hmm, are you hungry Natalya? You must be hungry."

"No, not particularly."

"Well I am sure you can eat some. I am starving come we shall eat! This is like old times eh? We shall feast before departing for our mission yes?"

"About the mission-"

"There is no rush I shall get to that, I have not forgotten you know?

"Ah Natalya, you are always so to the point. Relax please, we shall get to that after we eat I do not forget such things you know?"

Alexei led the way to the cafeteria. When entering Natasha quickly found a table on which she could sit with her back against the wall and quickly made her way towards it. Meanwhile Alexei was gathering up a platter of food. There was various kinds of fish, sausages, crabs, a few different scoops of ice cream into a bowl. He had a smile on his face all the while. He brought the platter over to the table once he was finished and placed it in front of the two of them as they sat across from each other.

"I swear to you Natalya you will enjoy this. This here is some of the best they have to offer in Alaska I promise you that."

"So-" Natasha was about to try and bring back up the topic of their mission but was interrupted before she could get even a second word out.

"So! Let us eat Natalya!"

Alexei broke off a few crab legs and began to quickly eat up their contents. Natasha resigned herself to testing some of the salmon, with sparing bites. Alexei handed her one of the crab legs he had broken off, accepting it she found herself rather enjoying the taste of the crab leg although one would not be able to tell by watching her. It was not long until the platter had been completely cleared off, the vast majority of it had been done so by Alexei but it seemed as if he had made an effort to ensure that Natasha had at least tasted a bit of everything that was on it.

Once finished Alexei stretched out his back before leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Now. What have you been told about this mission of ours?"

"From my understanding we will be taking a flight to Sokovia. To investigate some reports coming out of there concerning something that both Director Fury and Director Rogers took a considerable amount of interest in.

"Yes... There have been several reports of sightings on the Winter Soldier. And even a Hydra base deep in the heart of Sokovia. The odd report of seeing the Winter Soldier here and there over the years is fairly common but, to have so many in one place in such a short time?"

"Well. If that is the case then I suppose a Hydra base would come as no surprise."

"Really? There have been several Hydra based without a single sighting of the Winter Soldier. And we both know that he has shown up in places where we know there is none don't we?"

"Why even ask that Alexei, you already know the answer?"

"Yes yes, I know. I just wanted to see if you could remember it."

"You wanted to see if I could remember it? Why wouldn't I? Alexei?"

"It is nothing Natalya, you worry too easily. Somethings given time can slip free of the grasp of our mind yes? It was a long time ago after all."

"Something can never be forgotten Alexei."

"Well now, that isn't exactly true."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah nothing, you remember that night. Let us get back on track."

"Alright... If Hydra is so deeply imbedded in Sokovia, just what are they doing deploying the Winter Soldier there so carelessly? It ought to be something big if they are willing to risk that."

Alexei took out a second flask from one of his pockets and twisted the top open. "Or it is part of the plan." He drank from it deeply, once again draining its contents in a single gulp.

Speaking honestly. I do not know. Nobody does. First thing we will be doing when we get there will be determining whether these reports have been accurate and from there was can plan what to do next."

Coughing into his fist Alexei looked to Natasha with a warmth in his eyes. "Earlier you did not answer me Natalya, how are you doing?"

"As always."

"A fine enough answer. I do not think I could say any different." Alexei nodded his head.

"Still missing the old days?"

"I had to move on. Gorbachev and Yeltsin saw to that. Did not have much of a choice. Thought that either way the West had won. Why not fight for S.H.I.E.L.D. Better them than those who call themselves our leaders back home now."

"Of course I need not return such a question Natalya. An Avenger. Make sure to put a word in with them for me yes?"

"If I remember to. Maybe."

Alexei chuckled "Ah time has treated both of us well no?

"I guess so."

---

So read the inscription on the Mjölnir, inscribed in the runes of the World-Tree by the Allfather's own hand. Prince Thor stared at it, squatting in front of the plinth in the royal armory upon which the hammer rested. He frowned as he read the inscription again, for what was very likely the literal millionth time. He hated this hammer. It was ugly, for starters. A square, grey brick with a stunted handle, it bore no resemblance to the elegant golden spear Gungnir that the Dwarved had forged for his father, despite both being forged from precious uru. Furthermore, the inscription was ludicrous; "the power of Thor?" He already was Thor, and already had his own power. What would happen if someone else picked it up, would they get his power? It didn't make any sense.

Prince Thor rocked back on his haunches, taking up a sitting position as he continued to stare miserably at Mjölnir. He hated this hammer, he thought again. He didn't need it, but it had hung over him like impending doom since he was old enough to read. Its inscription was a challenge, he knew, and it was the only challenge that he had ever failed to measure up to. Whether it was hunting, fighting, wrestling, eating, drinking, wenching, sailing, or singing, there was only a single soul in all of Asgard that could hope to best Prince Thor. Somehow, despite all of that, he was still not "worthy." It felt almost like a joke, as though this were all a ruse meant to keep him unhappy. Thor snorted to himself mirthlessly, thinking that his brother Loki would struggle to come up with a more infuriating trick.

Pulling himself back onto his feet, Thor stared down at the hammer, this time with fury crackling in his eyes. "Who is unworthy?" He challenged Mjölnir. He grabbed its handle, wrapped in the tanned skins of star-drakes, and the hammer did not budge. He pulled, first with one hand, and then with both, straining fruitlessly against the infinite weight of Mjölnir's enchantment. He let go, pausing for a moment to rub his hands together, static electricity sparking between his palms, and grabbed Mjölnir's handle again in a fierce grip. He heaved with all of his strength, eyes and veins glowing furiously with all of his divine might. Against strength that could shatter mountains or bury civilizations, the hammer did not even tilt. Lightning arced across Prince Thor's body, leaping from him to Mjölnir, other weapons in the armory, and eventually the walls and floors as he willed the power of the storm into his body. As his power reached its peak, Prince Thor cried aloud in rage before his strength gave out, releasing the hammer's grip. In that instant he was flung across the room as though tossed by a giant, and smacked loudly against the far wall.

The young god groaned, rising back onto his feet, and after parting his golden hair from in front of his eyes, he saw that the hammer had not moved at all, still mocking him from its place on the plinth. He also saw that he was not alone. A raven was perched on a suit of armor, staring at Thor with its beady black eyes. The prince eyed the bird coldly; his father's envoy. The King of Asgard did not often send for his eldest natural son and heir, and when he did the tidings were usually not good.

"Well? Out with it." He commanded the raven.

"Prince Thor," the bird croaked, "Lord Odin summons you to Valhalla."

"Did my lord father give a reason for summoning me?" Thor attempted to inquire.

"Lord Odin summons you." The bird repeated.

Thor sighed, looking at the mess he made of the royal armory. Weapons had been flung about or burned with electricity, and lightning strikes had left huge singe-marks in the walls and floors. "I have a bit of goat meat I was saving. I'll give it to you if you don't tell my father about what I was doing in here."

"Meat! Meat!" The bird crowed, and Thor gave it the scrap of jerky he had in his pocket.

Thor emerged from the armory, the guards posted at the door saluting him as he exited. Drums were beating, not far off. War drums, the young god recognized them in an instant. Sól, the daystar of Asgard, shone brightly overhead, and Thor shielded his eyes to get a better look around. Everywhere he looked, men and women were scurrying, carrying weapons and provisions. Horses and goats carried huge carts loaded with supplies, and dozens of Valkyries flitted overhead, either overseeing whatever preparations were underway or carrying out some other errand for the Allfather. The prince began to have an idea for the reason his father had sent for him, and picked up his pace, running energetically to Valhalla.

---

The divine longhall of Valhalla loomed over all of Asgard from its perch atop the mountain Glaðsheimr. The hall was huge, golden, and imperious. Rather than shingles, its roof was shod with the shields of enemies the Allfather had slain, and its beams and rafters were carved from the spears of slain giants. Thor approached from the west, barreling up the winding mountain path that led to Valhalla's doors. It was easiest to reach the sacred hall when borne on a Valkyrie's wings, but Prince Thor made do. During his ascent he had seen the longships docked on the sea of stars, preparing to depart and wage war on Asgard's enemies. The sight had made Thor clench his fists with excitement, sparks dancing across his knuckles in anticipation of glorious battle.

Thor strode in through Valhalla's western doors, paying no mind to the carving of Fenris that hung over the doorway. Inside, the Einherjar, Odin's companions and warriors from across the Nine Realms, were not feasting and drinking as was their typical pursuit, but making ready for battle. Thor could hardly contain himself as he strode down the length of the massive hall toward his father's throne at the feasting table's head. Many of the Einherjar offered friendly greetings and other salutations to the God of Thunder as he passed, and Thor answered their regards warmly. Thor counted many friends and comrades among his father's army, and was eager to fight at their sides again.

Finally at the heart of Valhalla, there he waited. The Hooded God, the God of the Gallows, the Lord of Ravens, the Master of Runes, the Wise One, the King of Asgard and the Lord of the Aesir. Spear-Shaker, Lie-Teller, War-Maker, Hel-Binder, and countless other names, all of them and none of them true. Odin Allfather. He was dressed in his full panoply of war, his storm-grey beard hanging over his raiment of golden uru mail, the holy spear Gungnir clutched in his gnarled hand. At his heels two massive wolves sat attentively, staring at Prince Thor as he approached. Freki and Geri most commonly greeted Thor by pouncing on his chest and licking his face, and so he wondered what held them back. Ravens crowed overhead in the spear-rafters of Valhalla, occasionally swooping down to land on Odin's shoulder and whisper secrets in his ear. The two largest birds in the hall, a pair of grim-looking ravens with blood on their beaks and talons, perched on the back of the Allfather's throne. They too watched the approaching prince warily. Last of all did Odin himself turn to acknowledge his son, his single grey eye regarding him much the same way a wolf regards a deer.

As Odin continued to keep his silence as Thor stood before his throne, the prince bent down on one knee and greeted his father and king, "Hail, Lord Odin Allfather," said the smiling prince, loud enough for the Einherjar to hear, "I, your loyal son and vassal, have answered your summons."

Odin continued to stare down at his son where he knelt, his grim expression unchanging. Thor noticed only now that his mother, Frigga, Queen of the Aesir, stood at the side of Odin's throne. He was about to greet his lady mother, when he saw her face and noticed that she had been crying. Before Thor could ask what troubled her, Odin's voice boomed across the great hall. "Einherjar, leave us. I must take council with my son." The sound of his voice was like steel striking bone, the whisper of magic through the leaves of Yggdrasil, and the taut snap of a hangman's rope, all at once. At his command, the soldiers in the hall packed up their weapons and armor, and gradually shuffled out of Valhalla's many doors. Thor rose to his feet to watch them depart, turning back to his father once the last of them was gone.

"I hear you have been making trouble in my private armory, Prince Thor." These were the first words Odin spoke to his son once the hall was empty save for the Gods and their familiars.

"Do not believe all you hear from these birds, father." Thor replied, his roguish smile returned. "They are very easily bribed."

Odin ignored his son's jest, continuing, "That place is reserved for the relics and weapons of the mightiest heroes in Asgard. The crowns of my father, and his father before him rest there, and you think to make it your personal playpen."

Quickly realizing that this meeting was not going how he thought it would, Thor tried to plead his case, "Father, I-"

"You will be SILENT!" Odin cut him off, banging his spear against the floor. Outside the hall, thunder rumbled, and the sun seemed to momentarily dim. The brief flash of rage in his eye gave way to bitterness and resignation as Odin continued, "I have tolerated your childish antics for much too long. You play at war, and think of kingship as a game. You squander your birthright with frivolities, and fill your bed with whores, unworthy to carry the royal bloodline of Asgard." At that last criticism, Thor spared an embarrassed glance toward his mother, but she only looked back at him with tears welling in her eyes. Suddenly flushing with shame, Thor's attention returned to his father. "I am as much to blame as you, as I have failed you by not providing the firm hand that you clearly needed. No more. If you are to be my heir, you shall learn what makes a God, and what makes a King."

"I know these things, father!" Prince Thor retorted, angry tears in his eyes. "I shall prove it to you!"

Odin scoffed, a sound like the creak of a burdened tree branch. "You know many ways to make battle and slay foes, but not how to lead men with courage and honor. You know how to wield your strength and privilege to cow others, but not of the duty they confer upon you. You know of the might and majesty of our ancient kingdom, but not the sacrifice it took to build it. Until you learn these things... Until you are worthy of your birthright, you have no place in these halls, Prince Thor."

Thor could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Banishment? Exile? The idea seemed ludicrous; he felt like he was stuck in a bad dream that he couldn't wake up from. He looked to his mother with desperation in his eyes, only to see that she had turned away from him to sob quietly into her hands. Frigga would clearly be no help in this matter.

Looking back to his father, Thor asked, "Is that why all of Asgard prepares for war? Are you sending me to lead a war in your honor and prove my worth?"

"No, my son. You will have no part in the battle that is to come, but you will prove your worth all the same. I am sending you away to Midgard, the Middle-Earth. You have some affection for those people, as I recall. Go there, and learn to rule with justice and wisdom. You may return to us, Prince Thor, once you have proved you are worthy."

#1
S.H.I.E.L.D FIELD OFFICE, NEW JERSEY

The dossier flew onto his desk, he was playing with the pen in his hand, twirling it around with incredible dexterity. The ginger-haired man peered up, his superior Regina Bellum grimaced.

"You asked for this, Harper. I'd say you'd live to regret it, but I'm not so sure you'll make it that long." Roy peered up and smiled at the older agent.

"C'mon 'Gina. How bad can it be?"

"Gotham's only ever produced one man more nuts than him." She dismissed Special Agent Roy Harper with a wave of her hand, walking back to her office. Roy opened up the dossier and smirked. Inside were pictures of the young man, the dossier was full of blacked-out information, names and dates. Places he had grown up, the name of his beneficiary. Date of birth - even the far more rare death certificate was included, yet mostly blacked out. Very little was known about the man whose information Roy held in his hands. The only sentence that had survived the merciless grip of the classification officer who had worked on this file was a quote.

“Fearless, arrogant, brash and gifted.” - The Batman.

Beneath it followed remnants of his psych report, his rap sheet, the number of bad guys he had stopped in his relatively short time as Batman's right-hand boy. The number of bad guys he had killed when he came back to Gotham after his absence - even included details about how he had committed 7 murders while incarcerated at Arkham Asylum. The man, only a few years Roy's junior, was sentenced to multiple life sentences in jail. Yet one call from the big boss at Argus and suddenly this man became his problem.

"What's the group who's got maybe the highest concentration of combat skill in the world, Roy?" He leaned back in his chair, pondering.

"The Bats, right. See, ol' Batman himself created a legacy of being a hero who toed the line. Operating well in the grey, but knowing full well where the line always has been. Batman trained himself to be a soldier, and it's always been the assumption that he trained the rest of his merry band of heroes, right?" He continued talking to himself, playing with the pen still in his fingers, moving it meticulously, flawlessly with his fingers from the index to the pinky in one swift motion, only to rotate it back and do it all again.
"They're all famous, every last one of them for their unorthodox solutions. Their willingness to go the extra mile." A smile crept upon his face.

"And I managed to score myself a 1 on 1 with the black sheep of that family? You've done it again Harper. The guy was such an asshole that even Death spit him back up." Roy threw his feet off of his desk, his black tie falling over his shoulder quickly as he turned around, pulling his suitcase from the floor. His hair was slicked back and he comfortably pulled the green trucker hat over his head, making his outfit clash something fierce between the dirty trucker hat and the freshly pressed black suit that S.H.I.E.L.D forced him to wear at the field offices.

He left his cubicle and headed out, looking at the secretary, Liam.
"Cancel my meetings, Liam."
"I'm not your secretary and you don't have any meetin-"
"I'm off to a lunch date with a psychopath."

---

On a small private airfield in New York, the private Jet belonging to Argus landed, opened up, and revealing four men, three in black suits and one man in cuffs.
Jason was wearing a casual outfit, whatever ARGUS had on hand to give him before they shipped him out. Jason's hands were cuffed still, the three ARGUS agents were still keeping him in their custody before SHIELD would take him into theirs.

Agent Sharon Carter, the Grandniece of Steve Rogers himself was the agent in charge of the meeting. She was also Roy's former partner. Roy smiled sheepishly at her as he arrived on the scene and she sighed.
"I'll take him from 'ere. You can uncuff him." Sharon told the ARGUS agents who looked at each other before shaking their heads
"That's uh, unwise, Miss Cart-"
"Agent. Carter."
"Right, Agent Carter. Prisoner #411's supposed to be transferred directly to the helicarrier and interviewed there. Those were the order we received."
"Waller and I negotiated another deal. So unless you wanna call her up in the middle of her exercise routine - 3-4 P.M every day. - I'd shut up and hand me the prisoner." The agents once more let out a loud sigh and pushed Jason forward, making him turn around and unlocked his cuffs.

"I'm impressed, Agent Carter. But you just made a great mistake. Jason's shot back, as he took a step forward, his hands pulling the two Glock 19's from each of the Agents holsters, undoing the security strap without hesitation, stunning the agents of ARGUS. The firearms were aimed at Carter and Harper.

"You let a crazy man get his hands on some toys." He smiled, Roy reached for his gun but Sharon raised her hand to tell him to stand down, likewise for the Argus Agents.

"I don't think you are crazy, Mr. Todd. Not anymore, at least. ARGUS spent a lot of money on making you better. You suffered from great chemical unbalance, combined with your demise, resurrection, and already pretty substantial anger issues, you lashed out. Started a war in Gotham."

"You think me trying to kill Batman and burn Gotham to the ground was a temper tantrum?"

"More or less."
Jason laughed, put down the guns, and put his hands forward to be cuffed again. The argus agents reclaimed their guns and went for the cuffs again.

"Told you, he's frickin' Crazy!"

"And I told you. You are to release him into my custody. Or, more specifically, into Agent Harper's custody." Sharon commanded, as the Argus agents begrudgingly stood down. Roy was impressed, concerned and a little amused by Sharon's display of confidence. She reminded him a lot of Fury. Jason rubbed his wrists, threw back his hair out of his face, and scratched his unkempt beard. SUPERMAX didn't give him the ability to shave - not after he sliced the guard who was taking money from Black Mask's wrist with a disposable razor.

"This is the guy?" Jason asked with a disappointed look in his eyes. Trying to see if there was a bigger, more, let's say 'Captain America' looking guy Behind the ginger-haired man with the cheap suit and dirty trucker hat. But, no, this seemed to be it.

"Special Agent Roy Harper. He volunteered to be your chaperone. He's also one of SHIELDs Best." Jason wasn't convinced. Roy grimaced.
"He's slow on the trigger. I could've killed you both and the other 3 mooks before he'd even pull his gun."

"You didn't take the guns of safety. So either you've lost your killer instinct in prison - or you've forgotten how to shoot a gun." Roy smiled and Jason shrugged.

"I'm a retired supervillain, after all."

"Thank you, Agent Carter. I'll brief Mr.Hood here on our missions. You tell Rogers hi for me when you get back onto the carrier."

"He still barely knows your name, you know that right?" She said as she walked towards the armored SUV at the end of the tarmac.

"Don't break my little heart like that, Shar." Roy exclaimed as she walked away, a grin on his face he turned back to Jason.

"Hope you're ready to work off your sentence by doing some real good, Todd. There's our ride." An old RV-7A stood parked, rust visible and the plane looked like it hadn't been flown for decades. But he had no choice, Waller had made sure of that. Jason sighed and followed the trucker-hat-clad moron.

Steve reached to his back pocket and pulled out a small smartphone. He still couldn't get over the fact that this tiny device had more computing power than anything that had existed back when he had gotten the serum. The level of progress made by the world was staggering. He scrolled through the phone as he spoke. "Everything I have is on here, which isn't a lot. All I know is he was investigating reports of Hydra deploying the Winter Soldier out of Sokovia. I've sent Romanoff to see if she can dig up more on that end."

Pulling up the photos he handed the phone over to Bruce. "As first on the scene we handled all the crime scene photos, before Waller muscled her way in and convinced the UN that since it happened on US soil that ARGUS should handle the investigation."

He pulled out his old notepad, flicking through the pages until he found the notes he was looking for. "From what we gathered on the scene, and this is all unconfirmed as we never got to keep the physical evidence. We estimated that there were three shooters, other than Fury. Scuff marks and a blood trail indicated they went north from the car however no other traffic cameras in the area seemed to witness anything untoward." Steve pointed to with his free hand to the phone. "All these notes are in there, I just prefer old fashioned pen and paper."

Something's off...

Scanning over each detail of the photos presented by Rogers as carefully as he could, The Batman's immediate reaction to the crime scene was that it was as if looking at a jigsaw puzzle that had undergone a complete reconstruction - with a single piece replaced. There was a detail staring at The Dark Knight almost instantaneously, subliminally pinpointing his attention towards everything else and enhancing what fit the scene so that his mind could do the work of determining what didn't. It was one of about a hundred different methods of deduction - take the subject of analysis, work backward to ascertain the problem, then find the solution within the problem itself - that he had been taught many years before by some of the keenest deductive minds on the planet.

The interior of Fury's vehicle had been riddled with high-impact armor-piercing rounds. The ballistics attached to the document running counter to the image file had confirmed as much, but what likely wasn't in the accident report was that the rounds were fired at a specific angle. Batman had seen this specific pattern at work before - it was a million-to-one shot that only a series of highly-trained marksmen could pull off once, let alone in succession with multiple shooters all converging on the scene at the same time. There had been an attempt to hide it in the manner that the windshield had been blown apart. It had been shattered from the outside, but the glass hadn't been completely destroyed.

Hardly surprising, given that Nick Fury held access to the most advanced espionage defenses in the world - there was a secondary bulletproof pane of glass behind the outer windshield, likely activated during the skirmish. But what was surprising to The Dark Knight was that the trajectory of the break in the bulletproof pane suggested that it had been broken from within. And while it would be easy to suggest that this was a result of a violent struggle within the vehicle itself, as an old war dog like Fury would never go quietly without a substantial reason, Batman suspected something else once he noticed a certain detail hidden just beyond the broken glass and bullet holes. That subliminal message that had been rattling around in the forefront of his mind.

Without missing a beat, The Batman held up the phone so that he could illustrate.

"The blood spatter. Take a look at the pattern on the dashboard."

Director Rogers squinted, staring for a moment before indicating that nothing seemed out of place.

"That's a pattern common within a certain type of vehicular homicide. Which would ordinarily suggest that Fury was murdered by an enemy convoy, except..."

Batman's gaze narrowed. "Why would there have been both a gunfight and a struggle to incapacitate Fury if he'd already been murdered?"

Taking that into consideration, Rogers was handed the phone back as The Dark Knight elaborated.

"There's enough blood to suggest a fatal crash, and yet the supposed victim was pelted with rounds that would pierce a tank. Except that if you look closely, each individual bullet entered at an angle. They weren't shooting at Nick, Captain. They were shooting around him. Carefully coordinated with instruction to make it look as bleak as possible."

Pointing to a specific part of the photo that Rogers was currently going over, Batman made sure to direct his eyes towards the shattered glass.

"The outer-pane of glass was taken out by ballistics. That's indisputable. What's odd is the inner-pane, which was shattered from inside the vehicle. Wouldn't make any sense for an attacking convoy to break it down that thoroughly, even by accident. Which means that it wasn't used to break into the vehicle. It was used to hide something. A detail small enough to escape Waller's eye, but large enough for you and I to find."

Registering a look of pure confusion, the old man was clearly waiting for a more concrete answer than that. Batman folded his arms over his chest, knowing that what he was about to say would likely change the course of the investigation - but also knowing that it was, in all likelihood, the truth.

"The inconsistency with the blood spatter. The angle of the bullets. Obvious misdirection by themselves, but visually indistinct when hidden behind a sheen of shattered protective glass. A trick that only a few would know... likely, they would be on the level of an ex-spy with a record as long as Fury's."

Finally, conclusively, Batman's tone grew colder.

"You and I both know that there aren't any living spies with a record as long as Fury's. Which can only mean one thing."



"Nick orchestrated this himself."

---

Do not engage with any of Arkham or Blackgate regulars without accompaniment. Do not make yourself known if you don't have to. And never kill, even if that's all your mind is telling you to do.

Don't engage. Don't be known. Don't kill.

Three simple rules. One problem. Batgirl was bored out of her mind. Helping people like Bruno was nice, of course it was. It made her feel good. Taking on the armies of misguided crooks in Gotham used to be fun, too, but that quickly got old. Without anything to break up the monotony, she'd lost track of the simple joys of crime fighting. There was no variety, no challenge. Criminals were a...how did it go?

A lot of scaredy cats who were easily spooked.

Something like that. She'd have to figure something out Busting gangs and common crooks wasn't doing enough for her. Maybe later she could convince Batman to move the schedule forward...

As Batgirl silently crawled with her predatory stealth, her limbs elongated in shadows, wordlessly stalking her prey, the criminals of Gotham City quickly became afraid of her. After all, she did carry the pedigree of the bat symbol. Especially when she put on her scary mask. Most often, she wore the Domino style mask. The type that the Robins wear: showing her mouth, nose, the expression in her hidden eyes, and her short black hair drifting from underneath her hood. People knew she was human, and could read her face.

(As limited as their understanding would be. Surface level observations, like happy and sad. Not the gospel of the human heart that The Batgirl understands.)

'The Batgirl.' Ugh. My inner voice takes itself way too seriously.

Showing part of her face like that was for reassuring people. But when she wanted to scare people, she put on her scary mask. It showed no part of her face. Black canvas, stitched over the mouth like some kind of hideous monster. Eyes completely masked in shadow, as if she were blind, too. In other words: Batgirl thought it was quite spooky. Back in the day she had two big bat ears and a leathery type mask on all the time, but she figured it didn't let her be friendly when she wanted to be. Nightwing had this affable nature about him that she wanted to emulate. She wanted to let common people know that they could trust her. As tempting as it was, Batgirl stopped herself from doing that thing where you sneak away in the middle of a conversation.

You'd think after a certain point Commissioner Gordon would have gotten used to it. I wonder if Batwoman ever did it to her own dad? Does Batman think it's funny? I think it's funny.

Where was Batgirl now? People often spotted her out and about. It wasn't an uncommon sight to see the costumed vigilante, armored up and ready to go, just strolling around town. At least for brief moments of time, before she seemingly vanished from view and ended up on the other side of the neighborhood. But if she ever felt like not attracting attention, she would remove the top layers of her armor, stash them somewhere, and go about town as a normal girl. That wasn't the case tonight. Night was the time of Batgirl. Patrolling around town, seeking out danger. Waiting for one of the members of the heroes that had taken her into the fold to reach out to her and ask her to do something.

As the moon loomed overhead, so big and bright it felt like she could reach out and pluck it from the sky, Batgirl stood on a rooftop, fists clenched, eyes closed. Scents and sounds came to her. Honking horns, gas, food, metal. Rain, wet cement. Buzzing neon lights. When she opened them, there was an endless sea of stout brick buildings, highways, and lights. In the distance the forest of steel, concrete, lights and glass that was downtown Gotham erupted forth from the earth. Like waves pounding against pillars of rock, buildings around this central area grew ever higher. Beyond, or somewhere in downtown, the Bat-Signal had briefly shown into the sky. Painting the clouds as a beacon. It looked different from normal. Batman was probably meeting someone. Was it Gordon? Waller? Rogers? Would he mind if she paid him a visit? Or would that be a bad time to try and up her crime-fighting privileges?

To her left the watery sister of the moon watched the world from underneath the waves. In her own dark sky, visible only in the reflection of the water's surface around Gotham, it was much more peaceful. Bridges were rebuilt over it in the seven years since the bigearthquake. Gotham City had almost become a no man's land. Batgirl stared at the waves, thinking about what might lay beneath. What could have slipped underneath there and never returned. When she first arrived in Gotham, it was a much wider, much deeper river. In that rainy season a lifetime ago, the Gotham River had flooded the streets, before receding.

One year ago. Smoke pillars rose from the city. Cassandra Cain, sixteen years old, stood on the gravel covered shore of New Jersey. More than a mile of black, icy water was between her and Gotham. Behind her the ground was uprooted and twisted. Pillars of smoke joined the skyline. Flames danced in windows, the only light available in the darkened city. Chilled winds carried those scents and sounds, though now of panic and blood. Squinting, she saw someone on the opposite beach. A young woman. Isolated from humanity, for she was surrounded by four people who Cassandra could tell had malicious intent. What they wanted from her, she could only guess. To the west, the sun had mostly set, only a single stroke of blue painted the sky and the haze. Grey clouds above gently sprinkled the Gotham River. Ice slushed against the gravel and sand. Cassandra was tired, hungry, and dirty. A homeless, wandering nomad for just under a year. Ratty sneakers clung to her feet, a baggy green t-shirt was tucked into a pair of pants. Over her shoulder a burlap sack full of meager supplies was slung.

5500 feet of freezing water between her and someone who needed help. Someone who had been chased to the lonely edges of a broken city.

It was then that Cassandra made a deal with the universe. Smirking, the girl kicked off her shoes. There were no socks underneath, just the calloused soles of her feet.

Here. A deal. Let's settle this.

Thud. Burlap against rock. Next, she pulled her t-shirt over her head. Under it was a black tank bra, and uncountable scars.

I'm going to swim for it. I'm going to go help that person that needs it.

(Don't. No point.)

Shut up.

She unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down, and kicked them off into the dirt. A pair of briefs, and on her legs a latticework of regularly spaced bullet wounds. Right around the arteries.

If I make it, I'll save him. If I drown, then consider my scores settled. I'll just wash up somewhere, pale and bloated.

If I help im, I'll help someone else. And so on. Until my luck runs out. My work won't be finished until I am finished. Deal?

A cold wind howls.

Deal.

Cassandra took a running start and dove into the Gotham River hands first. Immediately she was drenched in freezing cold water. The powerful heart within her chest tensed up in surprise. Muscles twitched from the shock. But she pounded forward anyway. Arms wheeling through water, she surfaced and shifted her head from side to side to take in breaths. Swimming wasn't her speciality, but when your body has been modified with techniques, training, and rituals, one can reach times that make olympians blush.

All you gotta do is trade your life for it. Dedicate yourself to being the perfect weapon, and you can swim real fast. It's definitely worth it. Cassandra thought to herself.

She wouldn't be able to focus on this glib monologue for long. All of her focus had to be on treading through this icy abyss beneath her. Lest she slip underneath calm river waves. Freezing fingers seemed to wrap around her arms, legs, and shoulders, dragging her back and under. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Was the person even still in trouble? Or had the danger passed, one way or the other? She didn't know anymore, and didn't particularly care either.

Four. Five. Six. Over halfway across. No one should be able to swim this fast. Mechanically, rhythmically, the human projectile pushed and pulled her way across the surface of the water.

On the shore, a man had found herself inside a broken down car, unable to outrun his pursuers. Tears down his face, the man desperately clung to a paper bag with only a few cans of beans in them.

"Thief!" A woman in heavy black clothing shouted, making another go for the window. All of the doors were locked, leaving only the windows to enter. But as she did, the frightened men inside lashed out with a knife. The henchwoman swore and backed up. Her face was mostly hidden behind a face mask, her red hair was covered by a beanie with the symbol of a predatory looking penguin skull on the brim. She glanced around at her fellows, the rest of whom were men, wearing similar outfits. One of the men slammed a metal pipe against the car, earning a frightened shriek from the man on the inside.

"How are we getting in there, boys?" The woman asked, clearly frustrated.

"I dunno." The guy with the pipe replied. "I know I don't wanna get stabbed."

"One of us is gonna have to take one for the team." An unarmed bald man said. The fourth one was kicking at cans and rocks, not really paying much attention.

"When I get my hands on him..." The female thug walked over to the window. "Nobody steals from Cobblepot! Gimme those cans!" Jasper kicked at her. He knew she was going to be on the receiving end of a beating. A hard and brutal beating. One hhe might not walk away from afterwards, in this cold, with so little energy. This man's name was Jasper, and he had nowhere else to go. A criminal before the flood, and a criminal now, though he broke different laws of different orders.

"Alright. Anyone got any bricks to throw?" The man with the pipe asked. He went over to the window and began poking at Jasper with the pipe, more like blunt stabs, to bruise and break. Jasper, like a cornered animal, couldn't back up too far lest the other woman grab him from behind. The unarmed man began searching for bricks and heavy stones.

"Yeah, we've got him now." He said casually, kneeling down to heft a stone in his hands. As he looked up, he blinked in surprise. From the nearby shore, about a hundred feet away, a ghostly figure had emerged from the Gotham River. Shivering, exhaling moisture from her open mouth, a drenched teenage girl in her underwear had crawled her way from the heavy waters.

"What the fuck?" The bald man said, rising to his feet. The other two were two busy harassing their prey, and the fourth member was still kicking absent mindedly at the ground.

"Better run, before we kill you two." Her black hair hung over her eyes, but he could feel her staring right through him. The girl, shaking, holding her arms, began making her way closer with staggering steps. "Are you listening to me, you little shit?" The bald man backed up, a curious creeping feeling crawling up his spine.

"Jones." He indicated the fourth, distracted member. "Take care of her." Jones perked up, looked between his boss and the newcomer, and nodded. With that he strolled the remaining 80 or so feet to get to the girl. As Jones approached, he began to make out details about the girl he couldn't before. A tapestry of scares wove itself along her densely muscled form. Haggard, surgical, wide or narrow. Long or circular. This girl stared straight ahead at the car.

As he reached out to grab her roughly, she slipped right through his grasp by turning slightly. "Come on, kid. You're not supposed to be here." As he went to grab her again, he found his leg swept out from under him. Stumbling forward and to the side , he landed on his hands and knees in the soaking wet gravel, scraping his hands.

Baldie turned around from his prepared stones through into the yet unbroken window the car Jasper was hiding in. "The fuck's the problem?"

Jones, face turning red from embarrassment, stood to his feet and wiped his hands on his pants. "All right. I mean it." He went to wrap his arms around her entirely from behind this time. Once again his efforts were frustrated. It wasn't even like she was doing anything. He couldn't notice the movements she was making. It was like someone placed an invisible barrier against his knee and pulled her aside. Suddenly he fell over again. The girl kept walking, making her way to the car.

"What are you doing, dumbass?!" The bald man shouted. This got the attention of the first henchwoman and her accomplice, who glanced up from trying to ensare their trapped victim. Now Jones clambered to his feet, not wanting to underestimate this girl again. Spurred on by his superior, he moved in for the attack.

"I tried to warn you!" Winding up his powerful punch, he prepared to knock the kids head off if he had too, and drag her away.

His fist caught nothing but empty air and he was on the ground, a knee against his chest. From beneath her wet, ratty hair she stared at him, eyes like pools of silver. A startingly piercing gaze that froze his breath. She jerked her head to the side, and then winked at him knowingly. Shoving Jones against the ground again, the shivering girl rose to her feet and began making her way to the car again.

"...fuck this." Jones muttered to himself. Scrabbling up to his feet he sprinted away from this otherworldly encounter.

"What the fuck!" Baldie shouted, watching Jones run. "Hey, Tyrone, get over here." The man with the pipe was watching this now, walking over.

"What's the problem?!" The woman shouted. "Just get rid of her!"

Yeah, come on. Try. Cassandra found herself smirking, uncurling her arms around her body and spreading them wide, taunting the two six foot toughs. She had already affectionately nicknamed one Baldie, and the woman in the back was now called Meanie Bo Beanie. Some kid called her mom that while Cass was sleeping behind the dumpster of a supermarket and it made her laugh. Unfortunately, she learned Tyrone's name so she couldn't call him Lackey, or the Pied Piper.

Growling, Baldie narrowed his eyes. "You take the left, I'll take the right." Baldie whispered. Of course, Cassndra easily heard him. But she was in the open, and not nearly fast enough to avoid their flank. Instead she watched them intently, figuring out what they were going to do.

Baldie had a rock, he was going to clobber her over the head. Tyrone was more cautious, going for her knee. Tired of being criticised for it, these two goons were going to attack the hero at the same time. People always gave them shit for that. But it was harder than it looked. Nevertheless, they were going for it this time.

Once it came in, Cassandra lifted her targeted leg and fell forward, avoiding the strike to her head. She rolled forward and landed on her feet, but Baldie slammed the rock into her belly. Skin rippled and her organs bounced into each other.

Oof! Cass bent forward. Oops. I'm too slow. Shivering, Cass dashed/stumbled towards Tyrone and away from Baldie. Tyrone swung and she took the hit on the arm. With a crack she fell to the ground. Tyrone kicked her, but she caught it and swept his leg out from under him. Gravity slammed him into the dirt and he grunted. Baldie approached, but she swung Tyrone's pipe swiped out at his knee. As Cassandra rose, so did the pipe, and it smacked into his ribs. Prone Tyrone kicked out at her legs but she jumped over it and stomped hard on his knee. It felt like she was jumping on Jupiter. Legs like jelly, she fell onto all fours and began crawling to put some distance between her and the two large men. Baldie was complaining as loudly as he could about his injuries while Tyrone quietly moved his injured leg back and forth, wondering if it was broken.

(Shatter them!)

They're hungry, desperate, scared. It's made them cruel. Or merely given them an excuse? I don't know, I don't know. But their violence can't go unchallenged.

Cassandra struggled to stand. Veins full of ice. Teeth chattering. Flesh pale. She sat back down.

I'm dying. That's all right. I just need to win, first.

(We can't just win. Not like we usually do. Hands are shaking too much to stop their hearts.)

I really don't think I want to stop anyone's hearts.

(Fine. Target Tyrone's knee. Break his stoic composure. Baldie is angry- make him angrier. Snap his pinky and break his toes.)

First, I have to get up.

(So get up, Cassandra.)

So she did. Darkness crowded the edges of her vision. Breathing came in shallow gasps, her limbs were apart to come apart at the seams. Drenched, it was like she was fighting underwater. Sluggishly, Cassandra lifted herself to her feet. Tyrone and Baldie were up, too. As they got closer, Cass lunged forward and kicked out at Tyrone's knee. He blinked in surprise as it hyperextended, he had to fall over to prevent it from breaking. Baldie went in for a punch, but Cass glided out of the way and snatched the tip of his pinky, twisting it as the fist soared past. There was a sound like popping bubble wrapper and the man cried out. Grimacing, Cass stomped on his foot and then practically punctured his abdomen with her fist, sending him wheezing to the ground.

Growling, she whirled on Tyrone, who scrabbled backwards. As he turned to crawl away she threw Baldie's rock at his hand, sweeping it out from under him and sending him groaning to the floor. Both men were incapacitated.

"A-all right..." Meanie Bo Beanie said from her position outside the car. "Don't come any closer." She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a handgun. A simple little pocket revolver, but lethal enough. Jasper ducked.

(It's-)

Yeah, it's empty. Can see it in her eyes.

(You should have picked up on the empty gun in her coat from a glance.)

I just wasn't paying attention- whatever, it's fine.

Mouth screwed up into a defiant pout, Cassandra stared Meanie down. Each step was a topple forward, halted by a stagger.

"I mean it. I'll shoot you." Meanie said, face darkening. Cassandra put her hand on the car for support, walking around to face Meanie.

(Wait. Wait a minute.)

Oh. There is a bullet in there.

(How did you miss that? Idiot!)

I really am compromised.

Cassandra's eyes widened, and she stared at the guy. Slowly, her hands came up. Satisfaction lit up Meanie's face. Emboldened, she smirked. Cassandra could see the lust for power in her eyes. The way she had successfully hidden this secret gun from her companions. With how difficult it was to find a gun and ammo in the new, broken Gotham, she was waiting for the right time to reveal it. With this little thing, she could move up in the hierarchy of respect. People would start taking her more seriously. Even though she always knew she could take Baldie and Tyrone in a fight. All of this played across her features and posture like someone had projected it onto her for Cassandra's benefit. A slideshow of shadows.

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Meanie said. "You." She pointed the gun at the man in the car, who froze up. "Crybaby. Out." Hands up, Jasper slowly opened the car door and rose to his feet.

"Bring the- bring the cans, dumbass." Meanie order. Jasper, desperate for a stay of execution, scrambled around inside for the paper bag of stolen goods.

"You... weird girl." Meanie said awkwardly. "Hands on the car. You too, crybaby. Wait, what's your name?" She asked.

"J-jasper."

"All right. Jasper. Hands on the car roof or I shoot you." She levelled the gun at Cass. "You. Tell me your name."

Fuuuck. Not so death wishy now, huh, Cassandra? Man, I'm screwed.

(This is what you get for trying to play the hero.)

I'm not a hero. I'm just trying to...

"Bitch!" Meanie interrupted her thoughts. "Gimme your name!"

Cass compressed her lips. Raising her shoulders, she shrugged.

"What? You don't know? Bullshit!" Meanie looked Cassandra up and down, seemed to consider where she had come from, and what she had done, and what she looked like. "...So, what? You a freak or something?" Cassandra knew Meanie was considering the possibility that this weird person didn't actually know her name. Meanie was now thinking about shooting Cassandra straight up and bullying Jasper with the empty gun. Cassandra was an unknown variable, Jasper wasn't. On the other hand, she didn't want to waste the bullet. And Cassandra appeared to be dying in front of her eyes. A mountain of buildings slowly sloped upwards behind the gun woman, the vertex of the peak being marked by a looming, crooked W.

A pause in the snow. Nothing happened for a moment, a brief moment. Focusing on the gun as hard as she could, Cass was trying to think of a way out. Mind, body, and skills; all were failing her. All were frozen and damaged.

Aaaah. Hmmm.

(Hm, hm, hm. See her drifting? Wait for it to drift upward a few millimeters, duck, and then go for it.)

What if she brings it back down a few milliseconds later?

(She won't!)

How do you know?

(...)

I can barely see straight.

(Well. Maybe we just lose. Let her beat up Jasper, take his food, and then hopefully she'll spare your life.)

I can't let that happen. He's exhausted, and not as durable as me. Regardless, if she hits me...if I even just fall over into this snow...

(You're dead.)

I just don’t know if I’ll be be able to get back up. No, we need to win. Somehow. I'm warm, and getting warmer. Hypothermia is setting in.

"Hands on the car." Meanie said hesitantly.

(Jump over the car.)

What if she takes him hostage?

(Who cares?)

Me!

(Well, gosh dang it. Is it too late now? I don't feel good...)

Hold on a second. Just hold on, we need one more thing. One more move.

"Hands on the car!" Meanie ordered. Cassandra didn't move. "Now!"

Shivering, Cass's blue eyes slowly drifted upwards to the night sky.

"Hey!"

The girl wobbled to one side, then the other. Meanie kept her gun trained on her center of mass. Cass stumbled a few feet to the left, and then collapsed on her side. Cold, wet gravel pressed against her bare arm and face.

Meanie trained her gun on the fallen girl. Circling around to see her face, she saw her eyes were closed. Her breath, slow and shallow, was visible in front of her mouth and nose. "Shit" Several options ran through her head. Kick her while she's down? Plug her anyway? Ignore her? Meanie wasn't sure what to do. Her main priority was on securing the cans, and punishing the thief. Kill him, probably. Maybe give him a brutal enough beating that he could crawl to a safe zone and die as a warning. But this weird ocean girl had really creeped her out.

"You-" As she turned to face Jasper, she found he was already making a break for it.

Meanie swore and went to aim at him. At that moment, glass shattered against her hand. A beer bottle thrown at high velocity crashed into her arm. The gun went off into the ground, the bullet ricocheting over and into the river. Cass barely heard the gun go off.

Cass was up on her feet already, silently screaming against the cold death that had gripped her. Faking passing out from hypothermia almost turned into the real thing. Running forward, she tackled Meanie, knocking them both to the ground. "What?!" Meanie exclaimed. Cassandra struck her in the face, but got punched right back. Like a bobble head, she swayed and fell onto her side.

Kapoot. That’s all I got. Show’s over, folks. More like Cassandra in Vain. Cassandra rolled onto her back and Meanie wrestled on top of her. Cass squinted at her as Meanie wrapped her hands around her neck and began to squeeze. The penguin thug had a manic, angry look in her eyes, warm blood running down her hands from where she was cut. Trembling hands came up to her wrists in a vain attempt to pull them away, but Cassandra knew it was over.

I guess I saved one..? Better than nothing.

(stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid)

"You..! Ruined everything!" The tough cursed down at Cass.

On that, you and I can agree.

(no no no nonononononono)

Cass grimaced and kicked, bucked in vain. Ow.

Bonk!

Huh?

"I don’t like the little birdies..." The penguin thug trailed off before tumbling off Cassandra and landing in a heap. Through the spots in her vision Cass turned her head and saw the man who had fled, holding a can of beans as a weapon. A knife in the other. He chose.

Running up a few moments later in a huff was an older woman. They started talking about something. Had she been attracted by the gunshot and Jasper decided to lead her back there? Something like that, she would later find out. This older woman, who's name was Candice, hooked her arms under Cass's armpits. Jasper lifted Cass by the legs.

Huh.

After that, her memory gets foggy. Cassandra was dragged to one of the safe zones in the city in crisis. Warm enough tents, hypothermia treatment from travelling nurses. Fresh pairs of clothes. Above her tent, tucked against the wall of a highway overpass, was a symbol. A yellow symbol of a bat, like a torch to ward off evil hiding in the dark. Those people saved her life, and before she was done recovering, she left them in the middle of the night. As to why, she couldn't be sure. Maybe she just didn't want to hear, or see their questions. Or maybe there was just more work to be done.

Blinking out of the memory, Batgirl cast her eyes over the calm waters that surrounded Gotham. Watched the stars stare back at her like distant eyes. Judging and damning. Cloying seaweed lay in wait for the moment she returns to the water. Or perhaps, a moment where it can once again take over the land, devouring the city whole. Cassandra Cain should have died that night. Maybe she did. Maybe a Cain went in, and a Batgirl emerged. A baptism of ice. A deal ongoing.

I haven't drowned yet.

Batgirl turned away from the river facing side of the island and back towards the concrete jungle she called home.

I'm hungry. Pizza sounds good.

With that, she took the plunge over the edge, carefully and quickly descending into the depths. Submerging herself once again in the shark-infested waters of Gotham City.

---

I’ve tracked Freeze to the abandoned Snow Cones Ice Cream Factory.

The words seemed to go by quick as Damian operated at the helm of the Batcomputer.

Did Mr. Freeze ever consider his lack of efficiency was due to the nature of revisiting the same abandoned building over-and-over? The best criminals in Gotham utilized a variety in approaches and certainly wouldn’t be using the same base of operations they did when they first appeared. Damian wasn’t particularly surprised. Annoyed. But not surprised. Drake probably had a theory about the pathos regarding using the same ice cream factory in the north end of Gotham. Reliable refrigeration and temperature control seemed to be the most cut-and-dry reason, not that a reason ever helped Batman & Robin from taking down an enemy. Tactics were more important than Pathos as far as he was concerned.

“Hn.” Damian mulled over the thought of participating.

Drake was somewhat competent and had been his rival ever since he arrived in Gotham. He had been the leader of the Titans before him. Damian liked him the least of all the Robin’s and Batgirl’s he had met and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. The thirteen-year-old scoffed as he looked at the map, analyzing all of the entry points. Mr. Freeze seemed like an adequate target to test his mettle after being away from Gotham for a few months. He would have to deal with Drake, but what better way to prove that he shouldn’t have been sent away then by working with and upstaging his rival—his threat to the mantle?

Damian tightened his hood as he moved forward, toward the R-Cycle.

It was time to ride.

#02 The Secret Name (Part 2)

---

Earth, Manhattan

Stepping through a mystic doorway of light was Kent Nelson, the civilian guise of Doctor Fate, Sorcerer Supreme of Earth. Kent emerged from the portal into a small, tidy condominium. The doorway vanished as soon as Kent was through, and he was alone in the small apartment. While everything in it was clean and seemed like new, it was very clear that no one lived there, and that it had been that way for some time. The decor looked like something out of a homegoods catalog from the 70s, and with good reason: the brown carpet, brown drapes, brown furniture (kept pristine with spotless cellophane furniture covers), brown paneling, and orange-brown wallpaper had been copied wholesale from the 1971 Sears Spring Catalog. Doctor Fate was not much of an interior decorator, and saw no reason to change the furniture of a residence he only maintained as part of his civilian alter-ego. He had similar residences set up in London, Cairo, Lima, and Hong Kong. Each was shielded from magic surveillance, connected to Fate's personal teleportation nexus, and was enchanted to keep itself tidy, collect the mail, and keep the bills paid on time. Fate did not undervalue the advantage of having shielded safehouses like these; they helped enormously when he wanted to drop into the city without announcing his presence to every magician and metahuman in New York.

He departed his time-capsule apartment, looking much the part of someone that would live in such a place. Doctor Fate's wardrobe suffered similarly to his interior design, serving as a relic of the last time the he cared about such earthly endeavors. He wore an ultramarine pinstripe suit, brown oxfords, and had the matching navy hat and tan ox leather briefcase. Kent checked his wristwatch, a heavy, gold timepiece, and saw that he was right on time, as always. Time and Fate worked hand in hand.

Despite what Kent regarded to be the rapidly-worsening condition of his safehouse's neighborhood, Kent made it to the closest subway station without incident. He already knew what line to take, and when his train would arrive, and so he surprised himself by arriving early, and having to wait on the platform for the train like everyone else. Kent diverted himself by watching a street magician, who was busking on the platform by performing various simple tricks of misdirection, generally haranguing passerby in the process. Kent approached and watched a few coin tricks, and then volunteered to choose a card from a deck. The magician went through many seemingly complex maneuvers with the card Kent had picked, though the magician (and Kent of course) knew where it was the entire time. When asked to pick out his card, Kent did so, deftly sliding the card out of the deck with two fingers. Then, he crumpled the card into his hand, blew into the knot of his fist as though pantomiming blowing up a balloon, and as he opened his hand, a paper butterfly fluttered out. The street performer watched amazed as the animated origami landed in his outstretched hands, and then unfolded itself, revealing the kind eyes of Benjamin Franklin on the hundred-dollar-bill it had been folded from. As the performer looked up, they saw that Kent had boarded his train, and was pulling away from the station.

After a few more stops, transfers, and a hot dog, Kent managed to reach Tribeca and the office he had been on his way to reach; the New York branch of the American Institute of Archaeology. He had a lunch date with the chapter president, Mr. Carter Hall, known to Kent and a rapidly dwindling list of others as Hawkman. Kent stepped into the lobby, its air conditioning refreshingly cool in the late-summer Manhattan heat. He would take the dry heat of a desert over the sweltering stink of the city any day. He doffed his hat and fanned himself with it as he rode the elevator to Carter's office within the complex. The AIA chapter offices were merely a few rooms connected by a waiting room that boasted an impressive plaster casting of a slab of stone from the eighteenth dynasty, depicting the god Horus. There, the receptionist, Julie, was waiting for him.

"Good afternoon Dr. Nelson," she said, her North Jersey-Gotham accent broken up by the smacking of the gum in her mouth, "Dr. Hall will be with you in just a sec."

"Hello, Mrs. Sirrico," Kent said, easing himself into a chair to await his friend, "How is your baby, dear? I didn't expect to see you back so soon." He said, with a warm, grandfatherly affectation. Kent's carefully-maintained received pronunciation helped in making him seem genial and wise, as an elderly man should be.

"Don't call me 'Missus,' it makes me feel old," she mockingly chided him. Julie retrieved a few things from her desk and stepped over to show them to Kent. "Here she is," she said, offering a photo of a newborn baby, swaddled and with a pink bow in her thin infant hair, "Maria Josephine, six pounds twelve ounces. She's a dream, but I can't leave Carter alone too long or he'll miss me too much. I've got the husband at home looking after her."

Kent examined the photo, holding it out to feign farsightedness, and smiled with a parent's genuine affection. "She's breathtaking, absolutely beautiful, you must be very proud. I hope she enjoys my gift from the shower."

"Oh, the bassinet? It's gorgeous, where did you find an antique like that in such good condition?" Julie asked, accepting the photo back from Kent. "Actually, I have something for you, here." She handed him another photo.

"Well, it wasn't any trouble..." Kent started, before looking at the photo Julie handed him. He was then slightly startled to be looking at his own face. Much younger, of course, he was barely in his twenties when he had been shipped off to France to fight in the Great War. Cameras were uncommon things; Kent had not even known that his photo had been taken, but there he was in a muddy foxhole in France none the less. Kent smiled again, this time completely insincerely, and said, "This is quite a find, my dear, did you pull this from Carter's personal collection?" She nodded, and said she found it while digitizing his photo album. "You have an excellent eye. This is my grandfather, Kent Nelson Senior." It was a convenient lie for a man who was perpetually in his early sixties. Every time he started to look too young for the age he was supposed to be, he fabricated a new identity as his own son and continued the ruse. He had done it twice already, but the digital age was shrinking ground beneath his feet. If anything was evidence of that fact, it was his own face from a hundred years ago staring back at him at that moment.

"So you're Kent Nelson the Third? Is there a fourth?" Julie asked, innocently breaking Kent of his internal monologue.

"Er, that's correct," he said, feigning as though he had been mesmerized by the photograph. He gave a small, sad laugh before answering, "No, I didn't see the point in continuing the tradition. My son's name was Khalid."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Julie said, tensing suddenly, "I didn't know."

"It's quite alright," he said with a bittersweet smile, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

It was then that Carter Hall emerged from his office into the reception area. While Kent was a tall, well-built man, in very good shape for his alleged age (supernaturally good shape for his actual age), Carter was comparatively a towering figure. He was a head taller than Kent, burly in the shoulders and huge, calloused hands. His hair was short and gone completely white, and he had a face like a bulldog, all wrinkles and jowls. Kent wondered if there was enough fabric in his suit to make a tent. Said suit was a terribly garish thing, forest green with golden accents, just like Carter's old costume, just without the wings, helmet, and mace.

"Carter, you mummy," Kent called out to his old friend as soon as he saw him, eager to break the tension in the room, "Have they been hiding you in the discount suit rack? You look like a lawyer for the Wizard of Oz." He rose to shake his comrade's hand.

Carter laughed boisterously, accepting his friend's handshake with his bearlike grip. "Me? You look like a Sinatra-themed bank robber." He returned Kent's jest, and the two shared a laugh that was long-needed by both.

The two old heroes quickly exchanged the routine of "Hi, how's your mother" and so on, before Carter suggested the two take their lunch at a hotel bar nearby that he was particularly fond of. While Kent wasn't eager to step back into the noonday heat, he agreed, and the two set out on foot, a striking pair on Manhattan's streets. Along the way they discussed matters that were relevant to their civilian identities, as they were each highly respected doctors of archaeology. The difference between them had been that Carter had retired and embraced his civilian persona wholly. For Kent it was still merely that, a persona. Still, they chatted like old friends and colleagues about the ongoing digs in southern India, about the damned extremists continuing to blow up Mesopotamian ruins in the Levant, and Carter swore up and down about how the British Museum's recent repatriation of many of its artifacts was merely pandering to "liberals and pinkos."

They reached their destination and ordered their lunch and martinis, sitting shoulder to shoulder with businessmen yammering into cell phones or tapping away at laptops. "So," Carter broke the ice between sips of his drink. "What brings the immortal Doctor Fate down to rub shoulders with we mere human beings?"

Kent could only give his old friend an annoyed glance. "Carter, you're a demigod, and you're older than I am." He said, taking a sip of his own drink. Gin martini, no ice, double olives. He looked back at his friend, their eyes meeting, and in that moment Carter knew why Kent had come to see him.

"God dammit." He said, exasperated. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before sighing and asking, "Alright, who this time?"

"Sandy Hawkins." Kent said, momentarily feeling like some unwelcome visitor in the lives of his old comrades. Just like Carter had said a moment before, the immortal Doctor Fate descends to share the news of their dying friends. Carter didn't reply at first, so Kent continued, "He was Wesley's protege, and took over for-"

"Yes, I remember him, Kent." Carter cut him off, sounding more distraught than unkind. "He and Hector worked together, back when Hector was still the Silver Scarab. Christ, I'm gonna have to be the one to tell him. It's gonna break his heart." He sighed again, and ran his hands through his short, white hair. "Sandy was young, wasn't he? Well, maybe not young, but younger than us."

"Most people are." Kent said, sipping his martini.

"You know what I mean, smart-ass. When did this happen, what did him in? Is Wesley holding up alright?"

"A few days ago, if I understand correctly. His ex-wife called my New York house, I guess I was still in their address book. Police have ruled it a suicide so far, but the investigation is ongoing." He took another sip. "I was hoping to check in on Wesley while I was still in town."

Carter nodded approvingly, still clearly deep in thought. "Good, he needs the company. Loony old bastard." He caught himself and chuckled ruefully, "Heh, look who's talking though." He turned back to Kent. "You know that makes two this year." It was true, Alan Scott had died of a stroke at the beginning of the year. It had been a massive blow to the superhuman community as a whole, and his funeral was an international event, complete with media circus. Sandford Hawkins, Sandy the Golden Boy as they had best known him, was a comparatively obscure hero, and his death would likely go unremarked, save for those few that knew him.

"Death comes in threes." Kent remarked joylessly, understanding Carter's implication. The words hung ominously in the air between them, despite the noise and bustle of the bar at business lunch hour. The two shared another pregnant glance, each pondering the idea of the other's death. Carter had little to fear from death; he would simply reincarnate with the love of his life into the next iteration of Khufu, champion of Horus. A much different afterlife awaited Kent, as the soul of a sorcerer was a prized commodity in dark realms below the mortal world.

Before they could remark on the point, their food was served to them, and there was only one thing left to do. Together, the two heroes recited an ancient prayer in a long dead tongue, a humble plea to the Jackal-God of the Underworld to judge their departed friend with truth and wisdom, and to wish him luck in his journey to the Western Lands. Their task accomplished, the two enjoyed their meal, continuing to converse about the news of the world, and reminisce about old victories and long-lost friends.

Kent and Carter parted ways after their meal, as Kent had more errands to run while he was in New York. Still, as he walked through the congested Manhattan streets, he noticed something very peculiar going on. It was as though he was the only thing moving, and the world had gone as still as a photograph. Sure enough, people were stood like statues mid-stride around him. A bird hung in the air as though by a wire, and steam billowing out of a subway grate froze like a sculpture. Just as Kent was sensing his surroundings for signs of magic or other interference, he turned and came face to face with one of the most powerful entities in the known universe.

"Hello, Doctor Fate." Said a haggard old man in a filthy robe, carrying a heavy book, bound to him by thick, golden chains.

"Greetings, Destiny." Fate said warily, "It's funny to be running into you, I was just anticipating a visit from your sister."

"You'll see her. All you mortals inevitably do." Every one of his words felt like a grain of sand ticking down to the end of Kent's life. He tried to keep it from bothering him.

"In that case, to what do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit from one of the Endless?"

"I don't know. Not yet, anyway."

"That's unusual. You have the entire fate of the universe inscribed in your book."

"That's just the trouble." He sounded more exasperated than angered. "Something is tampering with fate. Who, or what, or to what end, I cannot say. It is difficult for me to know what exists outside the bounds of this universe's intended destiny. What I do know is that whenever I feel these... deviations, I'm always lead back to you, Doctor Fate."

"To me? Surely there must be some mistake." Kent hadn't been concerned before, but he was now. For something to be tampering with destiny at a level noticed by one of the Endless was one thing. The fact that he was being set up to take the fall for it was quite another.

"Maybe... Maybe not." Destiny pointed a withered finger at Kent. "Know this, so-called Fate: I will learn the truth of this aberration, and I will know what hand you have played in it, and then there will be penance extracted. Do not mistake me for some petty god or demon. I am Destiny, inescapable."

With that, he disappeared, as did the street Kent had been standing on. So he thought at first, but he realized after a moment that time had leaped several hours forward in an instant, leaving him in the middle of a darkened Manhattan street. Destiny, and all of the people that had been on the street when he had left his lunch with Carter were gone. Only the noise of the city and few assorted streetwalkers kept him company now. Kent rubbed his eyes the same way he had seen Carter do, hours before. Wesley would have to take care of himself for a while yet, Doctor Fate had pressing business to attend.

_{Location: Wall Street - New York City}

Something Sinister #1.02: Are all my foes animals?

---

Pete sighed as he quickly typed out his response with his left hand while running at a slight incline along the sixteenth story windows of a building on his right. Fifteen minutes seemed like more than enough time to quickly deal with whatever rogue decided to rip up Wall Street and then swing over to a nice little cafe in Soho that MJ had picked out. Maybe pick up some flowers from Mrs. Li on the way to help smooth things over. That couldn't hurt, at the very least. After all, Mrs. Li did insist on paying Spider-Man back. Pete slipped the phone back into a small pocket on his waist and zipped it up, whipping around the corner of the building with a webline to get a clear line of sight down Nassau to the Stock Exchange. His lenses narrowed as he made out a familiar gray figure hulking over the nearby cop cars.

Aleksei Sytsevich, known by most as the infamous Rhino, chuckled as the police let loose a wave of bullets from behind their patrol cars at the supervillain. Despite doing this dance for nearly a decade now, the cops still hadn't quite grasped the idea Rhino's skin was now bulletproof. Ignoring the gunfire, Alecksei turned his back to the police barricading The intersection of Wall and Broad to approach an iconic statue of a girl and a bull. Rhino wrapped his hands around the metal bull's legs and ripped it from its base, turning his body and throwing the statue with a lateral swing. The statue flew through the air with tremendous speed towards one of the police cruisers, and the cops were tripping over themselves trying to dive out of the projectile's path.

Luckily for them, they didn't need to dive out of the way. For a certain spider-themed hero landed a couple yards in front of the police cruiser, and braced his arms to catch the statue. Spider-Man's feet began digging into the cracking asphalt as he was slid a few feet from the impact, his body straining slightly before setting the bull statue to the side. Pete took a moment to catch his breath as he patted the bull's back, before turning his gaze back towards the Rhino. "This your cousin, Alecksei? I can see the family resemblance."

Rhino shook his head and grunted as he took a few steps towards his adversary. "You have come again to jest, Pauk? How predictable." Rhino began to hasten his steps, lowering his head to initiate a charge towards the Spider-Man.

Spider-Man rushed forward to greet Rhino, jumping up into the air at the last second well above even Alecksei's reach. As the brute charged underneath, Peter lifted his wrists to fire several webs towards Rhino's horn. As soon as the Spider landed, he yanked back on the webs with all his might to pull Alecksei's head back and slow down his charge. "Predictable is a pretty big word for ya, Alecksei. You break out of prison to finally finish the eighth grade?"

The Rhino turned around as he slowed down, ripping the webbing off the horn protruding from his forehead and giving it a pull in return. Pete tried to quickly disconnect the webs, but was uncharacteristically slow on the draw. He was pulled forward a few yards, only to be grabbed by the throat mid-air. Spider-Man was choke-slammed into the pavement, asphalt cratering underneath as the Rhino leaned in close. "We have spent the last year preparing for this, Pauk."

Rhino began to lift Spider-Man up, but Peter responded by quickly flicking his wrist upwards to fire a tangle of webbing over Alecksei's eyes. The villain grunted and let Spider-Man go, desperately trying to remove the webbing before it got into his eyes. Pete did a backwards handspring once freed to give him some distance, before rushing forward and firing a webline past Rhino to launch a flying kick into the supervillain's face. The foot impacted against Alecksei's jaw, jostling his head a little as the Spider flew past Rhino. "We? You working with someone now, or do I need to take you to the Asylum once I'm done with you?"

Rhino roared in response, turning around to charge Spider-Man again. The latter of these two, however, anticipated this. It was a dance they had danced a dozen times by now. Spider-Man rushed towards Rhino and slid along the asphalt under the big guy, turning to deliver a glancing blow to the side of Rhino's knee with a quick punch. Peter bounced back up to his feet while shaking his sore hand, and the big guy collapsed as his leg gave out. Spider-Man followed up by firing a few blasts from his webshooters at Rhino's downed leg, just enough to force Alecksei to struggle against the restraints for a few moments to try and get to his feet. Pete turned away from Rhino and quickly rushed towards the nearest building, jumping up to run perpendicular up the wall for a few moments. Just before reaching the roof he pushed off the wall, pirouetting in midair over Alecksei. Spider-Man began to extend his arms out, intending to fire off two weblines to pull himself towards his adversary for a powerful kick.

As Peter was setting up his brutal attack, he felt a tingling sensation crawl up his spine. He was confused and turned his gaze to his right out of pure instinct, only to see a familiar set of green-tipped wings rocketing towards him. He had no time to react before Vibranium slammed into his ribcage and knocked him flailing through the air. Peter clutched his side just as a large metal claw wrapped around his torso and dug into his flesh through his suit. The Vulture took off with great speed further into Manhattan while Peter struggled against the claws digging into him. Adrian Toomes looked down through his advanced flight helmet towards his prey. "Why don't we go for a little ride, just like old times."

Peter let his head fall back to look towards where Vulture was flying, and saw a familiar set of four mechanical tentacles pulling a man up the side of the Empire State Building. Spider-Man wiggled his fingers between the vibranium talons and his suit to get the leverage to pull himself free, firing a quick webline to pull himself towards a nearby rooftop. Peter tucked and rolled into a classic three-point landing as he looked up towards his two adversaries as they circled the nearby landmark. "Great... Rhino's working with the rest of the animals..." Peter quickly unzipped his pocket to quickly shoot off a text.

---

I've been mad for fucking years,

absolutely years,

Been over the edge for yonks.

Been working me buns off for bands.

I've always been mad,

I know I've been mad,

like most of us have.

Like you have to explain why you're mad,

even if you're not mad.

Hmmmm-hnnnh-hnnnnh-hnnn

Hnnh-hehh-hehh-hehh-hehhh

Hehh-heaa-haaa-haaa


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

---

"Dr. Jeremiah Arkham recording, session 29," The thin man with sunken cheeks, thick coke-bottle glasses, and a supremely unattractive bowl cut stated into his tape recorder over the sound of muffled screams from down the hall. "Patient #42540 has been properly restrained, and after last session's incident, I have recommended he be under mild sedation for the duration of this session."

The old analog device was a relic, much like many of the implements of psychiatric care that Dr. Arkham used. Every year, millions of dollars were funded into his family namesake's hospital, with the latest and most advanced medicine and therapy available to the troubled citizens of Gotham City. Combined with generous donations from the Wayne Foundation, the Elizabeth Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled had made great efforts to shed the place's ghoulish reputation.

Efforts that were, sadly, futile in the eyes of many. For some, Jeremiah included, it would always be "Arkham Asylum." It would always be a home of monsters, a place of madness, a place where men like him did battle with the most vicious demons the human mind could conjure.

And when fighting demons, sometimes one had to rely on the Old Testament.

"How are we feeling today?" Dr. Arkham asked as he paced back and forth in front of the gaunt, pale figure strapped and chained to the chair in the center of the small, brightly-lit room.

The thin man in restraints lolled his head to one side, his eyes glazed over and distant-looking. They had been careful about administering the right amount of sedative, not so much that he would lose consciousness, but enough to prevent him from making any sudden moves, and hopefully enough that his faculties would be dimmed enough to be pliable.

"Can you understand me, Patient #42540?" the doctor asked. "If you do not have it in you to speak, a gesture of some kind would work."

Slowly, shakily, the gaunt man's lips peeled back into a grin.

_{"I'd...give yyyyyou...a gesture..."} he slurred in his drugged stupor, _{"b-but....m'hands...aren't frrrrree."}

He began to shudder in a fit of laughter, but this was quickly silenced when a heavily-armed security guard struck him hard in the side of the head.

"That was unnecessary," Dr. Arkham said, his disapproving glare focused first on the guard, and then to the restrained man, "Both of you."

Many people would find this sort of treatment of a patient unethical, inhumane, even torturous. And for an average patient, Dr. Arkham would agree. But Patient #42540 was far from an average patient. This was a man whose actions over the years were so vile that the hospital offered post-traumatic counseling just for those who read his file. After what had become of Doctor Quinzell some years ago, it was hospital policy that no doctor should tend to him without extensive peer review and strict time limits, and no one at all be allowed in the same room with him without at least one armed guard with a weapon trained on him at all times.

Patient #42540 had a name once, but whoever that person was, he was long gone. In his place was an alias, a persona that many refused to even name, as if it were speaking the name of the Devil himself.

Jeremiah Arkham, however, refused to name the alias for different reasons. He refused to be mystified by the notoriety and monstrous glamour that surrounded his patient.

In Dr. Arkham's care, he would not be "The Joker." He was, for all the danger and all the precautions, a sick man who needed healing.

"When we last left off," Jeremiah began, "you mentioned 'getting some new material.' Might I assume this means you are attempting a new approach to your....performative activities?"

Under the alias of the Joker, Patient #42540 had committed crimes on both personal and colossal scales, sometimes turning half of Gotham into a war zone, sometimes taking great care and effort to ruin the life of a single person. However, apart from his fixation on the Batman and his cadre of vigilantes, there never seemed to be an underlying motivation behind the Joker's actions, beyond attention and spectacle. Crime was a performance to him, and the Batman was his target audience.

"He asked you a question, freak," the guard who had struck him snarled.

"Please," Dr. Arkham chided the guard, "Insulting him won't do any good. Besides, I believe he enjoys getting a rise out of security personnel. Treating him with hostility is what he wants."

At that, the man in straps and chains let out a snort.

"Oh yeah," he sneered, his head rolling dizzily as he spoke, "I just llllllove getting beaten up and insulted by...by wwwweekend warriors like Gregory here, wh-who don't even have the ssssstones to be a rrreal cop. Can't get enough of it."

At the mention of his name, the guard brought his weapon to bear, a compact H&K MP-5 submachine gun, the red dot of its laser sight dancing across the patient's forehead.

"Stand down," Dr. Arkham ordered sharply, "though make no mistake, Patient #42540, we will be discussing how you came to know that particular piece of information."

The patient gave Gregory a pair of big watery puppy-dog eyes and as innocent of a smile as he could manage, and the guard lowered his gun.

"Much better. Now, as to the matter of g--"

"Getting some new material, yes," the patient answered, still hazy from the cocktail of drugs. "It's.....'s all a matter of...keeping the act frrrresh, y'know? Only ssso many times you can...can tell th' same jokes...'fore they get worn out. Sometimes you'vvvve gotta....gotta retire the old gags."

Dr. Arkham raised an eyebrow.

"This would be why you've been killing your old gang?"

A long pause hung in the air between them, as the patient's head hung down.

"HEY! He asked you--"

"I heard him, I heard him," the patient spat, an edge of annoyance in his voice. "Tell me, Doc...you're thhh' exp'rt....wwwwhadda you think about 'em? Always....always good to have notes afffft'r a show."

Dr. Arkham considered the question, then decided to humor him.

"The first was, I think, an obvious choice," Dr. Arkham remarked. "Gerald 'Gaggy' Gagsworthy, one of your first associates. Found dead in his trailer, having laughed himself to death thanks to your signature laughing venom."

"Oh, haha, well, you know," he gave as much of a shrug as his restraints would allow, "what better place to begin than the beginning? Using my first gag...on my first stooge...was an appropriate touch."

"And then Moses and Samuel Horwitz, and Lawrence Fine," the doctor continued, "all three killed in rapid succession. The first via eye-gouging, the second with his forehead caved in by a swinging wooden plank, the third with his own fist smashed up through his nose. These three...I'm afraid I don't understand the methods here."

The patient looked up, gaping with disbelief.

"Really? I mean.....isss so obvious!" he said. "I mean, they're......ahhh, nevermind. Fffolks these days have....nnnooo appreciation f'r the classssics."

"I see," Dr. Arkham said curtly. "Three more after that, though if I may say so, they began to feel a bit routine. Mr. Henshaw, his throat sliced by a razor playing card. Mr. Rocco, burned with acid, no doubt from a squirting flower. Mr. Murphy, electrocuted, burns on his palm suggesting an electric joy-buzzer."

"Ahhhh," the patient sighed, "The old reliables."

"The one that confuses me is Mr. Wallace," said the doctor, "an insurance salesman in Springdale, Ohio. Killed by an explosive whoopie cushion hidden under the driver's seat of his car. Seems like a rather large departure, given he was never a member of your gang."

The patient raised an eyebrow. "Wallace? Who's--oh! You mean Charlie!" he laughed, then smiled as his eyes lit up with fond recollection. "Charlie Collins, good 'ol Chucko! He, ah, cursed me out....on the freeway once, and to make up for it...I had him do the occassssional favor for me. Oh, he tried to rrrun....even joined Witnesssss Protection...changed his name, but--well, a guy's gotta have a hobby. Fun guy, ol' Charlie. Even....got one over on me once, ha!"

His warm smile started to fade to sadness.

"Shame about him," he sighed, "But, like I said....gotta let the old stuff go. Even....the ones that were m' fav'rites."

"So that's why you've been killing them," Dr. Arkham concluded, "to erase your past, so to speak. Sever ties with the old Joker act in order to create something new. I suppose the next question is: how?"

The light of Gregory's laser sight briefly caught the patient in the eye, causing him to flinch and squint, as Dr. Arkham paced.

"I know you have a history of slipping about when no one's looking," he said, his composure giving way to frustration. "You have a knack for escape artistry that would make Houdini blush. But we've had you under constant surveillance. Our guards inspect every millimeter of your cell on a daily basis. How on Earth did you manage to pull off these killings from here?"

The patient's head hung low, and Dr. Arkham glared at him in exasperation for a moment.

Then he began to laugh.

"Hnnnnh-hnnnn-hnnnn-hnnnnh," he chortled, Hnnnhnhnhnhnhaaaa ha ha ha ha ha.....mmmmmayyyybe.....maybe I should answer your questionnnnn....with another question, doc."

The patient raised his head, and with a piercing glare, stared Dr. Arkham in the eye.

"Whyyyyyy.......did the chicken.....cross the road?"

".....why did th--"

"TOGETTOTHEOTHERSIDE!!! COME ON, DOC!!!" He blurted in sudden anger, straining against his restraints. "That's the oldest one in the book! Everyone knows that one! And nobody thinks it's funny!"

Sucking in deep breaths to calm himself the patient continued.

"And that's because...." he explained, "It's not really a joke. It's an anti-joke. It's only funny because it's not meant to be funny. You give the setup, but instead of delivering a clever or interesting punchline, you just give a disappointing logical conclusion."

"So....these killings...." Dr. Arkham attempted to piece together what he was saying, "they're...they're your attempt at anti-jokes?"

"Ohhhh, no, no, nononononono," he shook his head. "But this one is. *Ahem.* How....am I going to get out of these restraints, and take Gregory's gun?"

Dr. Arkham stared for a moment, before Gregory suddenly turned, slamming the butt of his submachine gun into the doctor's nose. With a wet crunch and a spray of blood, Dr. Arkham collapsed in a heap.

"Simple: he's going to undo my restraints and then give the gun to me," the Joker said with a sudden bright, satisfied smile as Gregory began calmly undoing the straps that held him down.

"NNnnnnnffffgggghhh!!!" Jeremiah sputtered as blood from his crushed nose drained into his mouth. "Y----you chh--can't do this! How--"

"How am I suddenly shaking off the effects of the sedative so easily?" the Joker interrupted him, holding up his now freed arms so Gregory could unlock his handcuffs. "Another disappointingly logical anti-joke: I've been faking it. The orderly who administered the shot injected me with harmless saline fluid."

"B-b-but--"

"B-b-b-but what, Doc?" he mocked the bleeding doctor. "You hand-picked your security detail to watch me, so they can't possibly be corrupted, right? That's what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

Jeremiah was too stunned to answer.

"Well, again, prepare to be disappointed," he said, stretching his arms as Gregory now worked on the straps on his legs. "Some of them I had to blackmail, sure. Some are under the impression that I've got their loved ones held hostage-- joke's on them, haha, everyone knows I don't take hostages. And some, like good old Gregory here, are just believers in the cause. Down with the system, we live in a society, and all that jazz."

"It's all a big joke, sir," Gregory stated with the conviction of a true believer.

"Shut up, Gregory," the Joker chided. "Most of them, though, have a big and obvious lever to pull. When you've lived a life of crime as long as I have, doc, you wouldn't believe the amount of money I have to burn. All I had to do to get more than half the people here to look the other way as I walked out, was to name the right price."

"You....you don't--"

"I do," the pale man nodded as he stood from the chair, giving a long stretch before holding out his hand to Gregory, who in turn placed the submachine gun in his outstretched fingers just as the Joker had said he would. "Now then..."

"Wait, wait, please Joker NO--"



Gregory crumpled to the ground, a hole drilled through his forehead.

"That was for shining the laser in my eye, Gregory," he scolded the corpse on the floor. "Seriously, you can blind someone with one of those if you're not careful. Now then, Doc..."

With alarming speed and a surprisingly strong grip, the thin pale man grabbed Dr. Arkham by the arm and threw him down hard into the restraint chair.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he reassured the terrified doctor as he strapped Jeremiah down. "In fact, I'm gonna answer your big question. And I hate to tell ya, it's gonna be another disappointingly logical anti-joke."

As Arkham trembled and squirmed, the Joker leaned close.

"How did I kill half of my old gang from inside my cell here?"

The Joker's ghastly smile dropped. For the first time he could recall, he was truly, genuinely angry. The kind of seething, indignant moral outrage that fueled men to do crazy things like dress up as bats.

"I didn't."

---

San Agustin, New Mexico

The Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence, commonly known as SETI, effectively died on the planet Earth in their year of 2010, as the Dominator mothership crashed flaming into the Atlantic Ocean for all the world to see. Up until that point, only a rare few on Earth knew the truth of life on other worlds. After that, it became common knowledge. The impact this revelation had on society would take multiple dissertations to fully encapsulate, but it had one unique, very measurable, social impact: every UFO watcher, crank "abductee," Roswell truther, and hopeful kid with a telescope were all now without a hobby (or for some, income stream). On the other hand, every astronomer and radio engineer that had spent months or years of their lives listening fruitlessly to the stars, or monitoring satellites for radio signals were now busier than ever. After the Dominators' attack, S.H.I.E.L.D. bought up every listening post, radio telescope, and satellite they could get their hands on, put their people in charge, and bent them all toward the preemptive detection of otherworldly threats.

Such was the case with S.H.I.E.L.D. Sentient World Observation and Response Monitoring Station 01, formerly known as the Karl G. Jansky Very Large Array, in the middle of the desert plains of New Mexico. As remote as one could get in the middle of the United States, it was three hours by car to the nearest town, and so most of the station's operators lived in the on-site quarters, rotating out every three months. Could be worse, most figured; could be at Station 06 in the South Pole. Sure, they didn't have the funding of the R&D department, the fancy toys of the Strategic Response Unit, nor the glitz and glamor of the Metahuman Relations Unit, but the Sentient World Observation and Response Division took pride in their work, knowing how important their job was to safeguarding humanity.

Dr. Erik Selvig was one such enthusiast-turned-guardian of world peace. Professor of Astrophysics at the University of Minnesota ten years before, it took him a long while to adjust to the New Mexico heat, but he endured it gladly. His enduring fascination- bordering on obsession- had been the concept of wormholes, both as natural phenomena and as a potential means of transport through or between universes. When word spread through the astronomical community of S.H.I.E.L.D. acquiring long-range sensory equipment used for SETI to detect alien attacks, he volunteered his expertise immediately. Since then it had been his enormous pleasure to serve as the foremost expert within S.H.I.E.L.D. on the inter-dimensional travel, wormholes, and related phenomenon. It was not long after he began working for S.H.I.E.L.D. that they placed him here, on watch for multi-universal aliens, dimensional travelers, and other such uninvited guests. He loved his work, and wouldn't give it up for the world. He even received special permission to buy some of the nearby land, had a house built, and decided to retire there. Just him, and the desert sky.

At the present moment, Dr. Selvig was in his "office," reading the newspaper. The cover of the Daily Planet was, as usual, split between the inspiring heroism of Superman, and the daring political machinations of Calvin Ellis, progressive America's newest golden boy. Erik scoffed at the young president's latest naive maneuver, "They'll never confirm Glastonberry." He sniffed, adjusted on the toilet seat, and folded the paper to read the piece on Superman. The Man of Steel was a long-enduring object of fascination for scientists of across many disciplines. Erik himself wondered if there was any truth to the rumor that Superman's power was drawn from the Sun, and why that might be the case. Some sort of advanced animal photosynthesis? It was a subject of much conjecture during coffee and lunch breaks.

A knock on his stall door broke him from reading the paper. "Professor, we need you in observation deck one." A tense, female voice told him.

There was only one of his colleagues that called him Professor. There was also only one that would barge into the men's room to get his attention. "Jane, I appreciate the personal touch, but could you give me a minute?"

"One minute. Hurry. I'm not kidding. This is big." She didn't sound like she was kidding. She practically ran out the door, and a minute later Dr. Selvig was following her.

She had lingered behind, but he was slow to catch up, hopping on one foot to kick off the toilet paper stuck to his heel. "What's going on, what's happening?"

"We had an in-atmosphere detection." Dr. Jane Foster told him as they hurried back to the station's main observation deck. Jane had been Erik's TA, and he had mentored her greatly through her doctoral program. She had then gone on to teach at Culver University. Where Erik had volunteered to join S.W.O.R.D., Jane had been headhunted.

"Christ, how did they get past the atmospheric sensors?" Erik was huffing and puffing to keep up with her. "Do we have a -hoof- heading they came from?"

"He's not from space. Well, not any space nearby us. Class K wormhole, spat him out right over San Fransisco. We got the whole thing on video."

"You're kidding." Erik pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on as he entered the observation deck. It was a far grander name than the room deserved, as it was largely made up of banks of computers, monitors, and printouts, with a large monitor at the far end of the room. At the present moment it was playing a short video on loop. A surveillance feed of a city street, in the upper-right corner of the video an anomaly popped into existence in the sky. In the camera's grainy resolution, it just looked like an explosion of color punching out of the sky. Then a moment later, a distinctly humanoid silhouette descended in freefall from the anomaly, which vanishes from sight, as does the apparent visitor behind a building, out of sight of the camera. The video looped, and Erik watched it, mesmerized.

"Got it off a bank, you wouldn't believe our luck." Jane said, leading Erik over to some data feeds for him to look over. His head never turned away from the looping seven-second video. "At first we just got a gamma micro-burst on the satellite grid. Then as we're isolating the wavelength, atmosphere sensors go off, full Einstein-Rosen event horizon stabilizes, not even fifty meters off the ground. Only lasted two point eight seconds, you saw in the footage. Locals thought it was a firework. We tracked it down to San Fran and managed to get the video off of a bank five blocks away."

Erik stopped her, "Hang on a sec, locals? You're in touch with local law enforcement already?"

Jane was practically manic, she was so excited, barely stopping to breathe. "Yeah, we enhanced the video enough to get a basic description, and gave it to the SFPD. Male, Caucasian, twenties or thirties, between six-and-a-half and seven feet tall, at least three-hundred pounds, and long blond hair. We've got them on orders to find him, but just to observe, not approach."

"All that from about, what ten pixels?" Erik was incredulous. Jane smiled at him; winded, but exhilarated. "My question is: why haven't you initiated a Code R?"

"Dimensional Intruder alert?" Now Jane was incredulous. "Don't you think that's overkill?"

"It's protocol. We have an alien walking around San Fransisco. We don't know where he's from or why he's here."

"Alright." Jane conceded the point, and sat down at her console to type the emergency command into the system.

The effect was instantaneous. The lights turned from buzzing white florescent to danger-red, and an automated voice sounded on repeat, "Alert. Dimensional intruder detected. All duty personnel, report to your emergency station. Alert. Dimensional intruder detected. All duty-"

"Will someone shut that the hell off?" Shouted Major Abigail Brand, stamping into the room in a state of obvious agitation. The commander of S.W.O.R.D. was twenty-eight, a green-haired half-alien, and was hell on wheels. The security alarm was deactivated, silencing the automated message and returning the lights to normal. Abigail sighed in relief. "Thank you. You know when that alarm is tripped, the first person to know is Maria Hill. She's gonna be up my ass in sixty seconds, so we have that long to figure out what the hell is going on."

"We got a live one." Was the most Erik could offer, going over the data that he had been ignoring a moment before.

"I need a live feed on the main monitor now. Get me satellites 6A through 6J in position over San Fransisco. I want thermal, radiation sensors, and bio-scan." The S.W.O.R.D. commander wasted no time barking orders, before turning back to her teams of hurriedly-conferring scientists and technicians. "Okay people, what have you got for me?"

"Energy signature of the bridge doesn't have any matches on record. As far as we know, he's new in town." Erik said, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "He might not be a total stranger though. A class K wormhole with these readings is something we've seen before, with some of Wonder Woman's enemies."

"You're telling me we're dealing with a Greek God?" Abigail seemed somehow discomforted by the idea. Meanwhile, the main monitor flashed between satellite imagery of San Fransisco and static. "Son of a- Who do I have to kill to get a decent connection around here? And where is my thermal?"

Shrinking back from the shouting soldier, Erik replied, "It's just a guess, we don't have enough data to cross reference to be sure." This was true, but not due to a lack of inter-dimensional travelers. In his "enthusiast" days, Erik estimated that Earth was host to over five-hundred cross-dimensional incursions in an average year. If that estimate was accurate, S.W.O.R.D. detected less than three percent of those incursions. "It's very probably magic, though."

"Magic, of course. Well, what is our magic man doing, does anyone have eyes on him? I saw the APB, he's a big boy, he ought to stand out in a crowd."

"Not yet," Jane answered, "But SFPD haven't picked up any unusual chatter. If he's doing anything, he's not making any waves."

Abigail sighed, rapping her knuckles against the nearest desk as she watched a fuzzy feed of the bird's eye view over the block that their visitor had been dropped into. "Shit, well, we don't want to leave him alone too long. Get whoever you can to head over and check it out. Scratch that, get someone competent. No repeats of last time, capiche? Besides that... If things are quiet, we can hope they'll stay quiet. Who knows, maybe he's just a tourist."

---

San Fransisco, California

Thor was hopelessly lost. Both in a spiritual, emotional sense as well as a very literal one. Thor had an excellent sense of direction, as befit an experienced hunter and sailor, but the directions his brother had given him were confusing, and seemingly contradictory. Additionally, Thor found that in city streets and buildings all tended to look alike, further exacerbating his confusion. He was able to generally orient himself based on a few landmarks, a large red bridge chief among them, but was otherwise having a miserable time trying to find his way around.

Midgard was very different to how Thor remembered it. That was what Loki had told him just after he had broken the news of his exile to his brother. He was right about that, it was indeed very different. Thor realized in retrospect that his brother had used the truth to lure him in, as he often did. Loki visited Midgard all the time, he had told Thor, surreptitiously, without father knowing. Thor would be eaten alive if he went down without his beloved elder brother's help, which Loki was all too happy to provide. And help he did indeed. He gave the exiled prince a glamour so that his manner of dress would fit in among the Midgardians, and to hide his axe from their sight. Thor had been so overjoyed to have the support of someone in his family after the ordeal he had just been through, that he didn't question his brother's motives. Not even as Loki handed him a thick wad of Midgardian paper currency, and directions to accommodations he recommended. Thor asked if he could still hunt and fight with the Norsemen, but Loki told him they were now called "Social Democrats" and weren't fun anymore, and Thor believed that too, though he didn't understand what it meant.

Thor found out very quickly that the money Loki had given him was actually a bunch of worthless, colorful paper. He had tried to give some as alms to a beggar, and the man had thrown the pink strips back at him, insulted. Thor found out immediately after that nothing was free on Midgard, not even directions, and so he continued to wander, lost in body and mind. A dark cloud hung over the exiled Prince Thor, almost literally; overcast skies began to roll in over the bay. He wasn't sure what was hurting him most at that moment: his father throwing him away, his mother letting it happen, or all of it being his own fault to begin with. The fact that his bother couldn't put aside his love of mischief long enough to help Thor in his hour of need wasn't sitting well with him, either.

Just as he was about to give up trying to find the probably imaginary hotel Loki had sent him to look for, something caught the corner of Thor's eye. He picked his head up and caught sight of a brilliant flag, emblazoned with the rainbow colors of the Bifrost . Had that been one of the infuriatingly vague landmarks Loki had told him to look for? Thor had forgotten. Still, he crossed the street to investigate further, leaping clear over the oncoming traffic. Thor found that buildings on both sides of the street were overflowing with rainbow flags, all in various designs and colors. Even the people on the street seemed particularly colorful, and was reminded for a homesick moment of the vibrancy of Asgard.

Just as he was about to slip back into his depression, he caught sight of something familiar. A ways up the street, stood in front of a building with yet another rainbow flag, were a pair of men smoking. However, they were both stout in build, arrayed in metal and leather, with heavy beards, and thick body hair. Thor recognized vikings anywhere, and picked up his pace to join them.

The vikings recognized Thor approaching, and waved as he came closer. One, smoking a cigarette, called out, "Why hello big fella, where's the fire?"

"No fire, just a fellow warrior in need of guidance. A-and maybe a little money." The smoking viking looked at Thor, looked at his companion, and then looked back at Thor, clearly looking him up and down suspiciously.

"Suit's too nice to be panhandling... Did you get robbed?"

"Sort of, yes. It's a long story." Thor said, with real weariness in his voice. The two vikings shared another glance.

"They take your phone, did you call the police?"

"Ah, well, I would rather not get involved with all of that today. Too much hassle. I just want to get back to my hotel."

The other man spoke up, "Oh, your hotel, of course! Are you a tourist? I should have known from your accent. No, no, let me guess. Sweden? No, wait, Iceland!"

Thor smiled nervously, "Something like that, yes."

"Why don't you come in, have a drink, and we can get you all sorted out. Sound alright friend?" The man stamped out his cigarette under a spurred, leather boot, and took Thor's arm, leading him back inside the establishment.

Thor sighed, and let them lead him inside. He could use the drink. "Give me the biggest horn you have, and fill it with mead 'til it's spilling over." Inside was predictably a bar; dark, smoky, loud, with thrumming music playing. The place was filled with men with similar appearances to the two Thor had met outside, dressed in various arrangements of leather, chains, and hirsute skin. Thor was beginning to think these vikings were a little on the odd side, but they were friendly and had libations, so he wasn't about to complain.

"We don't have craft beers, but I like where your head's at." The man he had been speaking to rounded the bar and washed his hands, before pulling out a heavy, glass mug from underneath.

Thor sat down at the bar, the steel stool creaking loudly under his weight. "Fine, give me whatever's on tap, and a lot of it."

"Pabst it is."

"The inconsistency with the blood spatter. The angle of the bullets. Obvious misdirection by themselves, but visually indistinct when hidden behind a sheen of shattered protective glass. A trick that only a few would know... likely, they would be on the level of an ex-spy with a record as long as Fury's."

"You and I both know that there aren't any living spies with a record as long as Fury's. Which can only mean one thing."



"Nick orchestrated this himself."

Steve hesitated for a moment. "Damn it Nick." He rubbed his left hand up over his mouth, brushing against the stubble that was in danger of becoming a beard if he didn't find the time to shave. "You know, I thought Jack Fury was frustrating but this-" Steve pointed towards the phone. "This wins."

What could Fury be thinking? Staging his own kidnapping. Had any aspect of the attack been genuine or was it all fake? Was the trail he was following fake? Just once he wished he came away from meeting The Batman without having more questions than he started with. Alternatively he'd just like to have a member of the family on retainer... other than the one that Waller had dumped in his lap. That one could prove trouble.

"Alright, so if this was staged something bigger is going on than just Winter Soldier sightings and that Nick has to go off-grid in order to achieve his goal. This makes things much harder, now I have to find him without ARGUS or anyone else knowing, find out what he's doing and do it in a way that makes it look like we don't know he's alive." As if he didn't have enough of a workload to be contending with. Now the one thing that seemed simple, Finding Fury was infinitely more complicated than it was before.

"Right. I need to take this back, relay what I can to Romanoff and figure out what's next-" His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket, groaning as he did so. There was always something else. Fury better have a damn good reason for skipping town. "-right I have to get back to the carrier. I have Vegas to deal with now." He clicked his homing beacon, sending the signal to the waiting quinjet. Steve walked towards the edge of the building, though stopped and turned as he had a thought. "Before you disappear into the night however, how's Grayson doing?"