New York City
January 1937

Dian Belmont knew she shouldn’t be here. The city morgue this time of night was no place for a girl like her. But... she just had to see it for herself. She had never really figured out why she was like this. Maybe it was being the only child raised by an NYPD detective? Her mother had died at an early age, so it was just her and her father for most of her life. Whereas some widowers turned their girls into tomboys, Larry Belmont had turned his daughter into a certified crime addict.

She loved reading the crime stuff in the papers, and would always race to the newsstands to get the latest issues of Black Mask and Thrilling Detective. Those stories, both real and fictional, of brave detectives, slimy criminals, and deadly femme fatales could only satisfy her needs so much. It was why she was here tonight. She just had to see the bodies for herself.

Her father had been home for only about an hour, long enough to only enjoy dinner really, before being called back out into the streets. It seemed as if there was another victim of the poisoner. This marked the fourth person to die of very violent and mysterious circumstances. Like all the others he had dropped dead in the street. The only thing that let the police know it was connected to the other three was the burning. Each of the four victims seemed to melt from the inside out. The smell of burning hair and fat wafted through the area within a four block range.

Or at least… that’s what her father had told her. Or, more accurately, what she had heard her father being told as she eavesdropped on his phone conversation. That sort of gruesome death, she had to see for herself. Was it morbid curiosity? Yes, she fully admitted that. But perhaps, there was something else. Dian thought of herself as above average in intelligence. She had been described once as "pretty smart for a broad" and that just made her more determined than ever to prove herself. Maybe she could see something all the old flatfoots with their tired eyes couldn’t? She knew it was probably a lost cause, but she had to try. If she could stop the madness before a fifth victim then it would be worth it.

Dian slowly made her way down the tile floors of the city morgue. This time if night the place was nearly deserted. She knew a few older sergeants on the way to collecting pensions acted as security for the place, but their prowess had been found lacking when Dian quietly walked past the sleeping cop at the desk. There was really no need to walk that softly, though. He had been snoring loudly and in a very deep sleep. The only other soul in the building at night was the night attendant, but Dian’s father had often complained about the man spending most of his time stashed away in some supply closet with a bottle of whiskey. He seemed he was still celebrating the repeal of the 18th amendment four years on.

The storage area where the bodies were kept was cool and dark. Dian flicked on her flashlight. She could see her breath steam from her mouth. It seemed to be as cold in here as it was outside in the bitter January cold. Dian turned a corner and let out a scream at the sight before her.



On instinct, the masked man pulled some kind of weapon and shot her with a cloud of gas. She coughed and gasped for air as he ran past her. Dian leaned against one of the walls and began to slowly slide down. She suddenly felt tired, lethargic. Sleepy. Her head rested against the cold tile floor as sleep overtook her.

---

New York City
Now

Ramone Gutierrez limped down the hallway of his brownstone, one hand against the wall while the other hand gripped his gun. He was too afraid to put weight on his left leg. He knew it was broken in at least two places. Blood dripped down the open wound on his forehead and made it hard to see. And the wounds on his chest oozed blood onto the floor. It was slick and slow going as he tried to make his way downt he hall in barefeet.

He had been getting ready for bed when the bedroom door flew open and a man came in. The son of a bitch had a knife in one hand and used it like he knew what the fuck he was doing. Gutierrez managed to get to his gun, but not before taking at least a half dozen stab wounds to the torso, neck, and face. The sight of the gun made the fucker retreat. His retreating move had been delivering a crushing kick to Gutierrez's leg. He heard the bone snap, felt the pain so intense he almost vomited right then and there. He fell back on the bed screaming in pain while the attacker disappeared further into the house.

Gutierrez looked through his nightstand for his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. He still had a landline down the hall that he could use to call 911, and then Manny and the rest of the crew. If he could get to the phone then he would be safe. Gutierrez slipped against his own blood and managed to catch himself before he put any more weight on his broken leg. When he was sure he was steady, he looked up and saw the attacker in the hallway. It was dim but he could see the glint of a giant hunting knife in the man's hand. Gutierrez raised his gun at the same time the man flicked his wrist. Suddenly a great searing pain bloomed through Gutierrez's body. He looked down and saw the knife embedded in his chest all the way to the hilt. The shock of it made him put weight on his bad leg and slip on the blood.

_“Thunk”

The pain sent Gutierrez down to the ground, flat on his back. The fall knocked his breath from him and he gasped before coughing, phlegm and blood spraying from his mouth. Gutierrez could feel the knife in his chest bob up and down with every rapid breath. The attacker stood over him and looked down. He couldn’t see anything with that… fucking mask of his. The man yanked the knife from Gutierrez's chest, causing pain to shoot through his body as blood poured from the wound.

_{“Sllllorp.. Drip. Drip. Drip."}

The masked man threw the knife over his shoulder and reached for something on his hip. Gutierrez begged for his life as he saw the gun in the masked man’s hand.



_“Bang.”

---

Thor ran his a hand through his long hair, wearily. This had been a very long day so far, and it was far from over. This old man clearly wasn't understanding what Thor was saying, or was choosing not to. He was either a fool, suicidal, or both, and Thor didn't appreciate his callow disregard for the formidable threat that the Allfather posed to his rebellious world. Furthermore, he wasn't even the leader of the Midgardians, which left Thor wondering why he was wasting his time to begin with. As the old man moved to leave the room, Thor's earlier feeling that this was some kind of trap resurfaced. With a single, fluid motion, he swiped his axe from the floor and flung it across the room at the old man. It was not truly aimed at him, however, as the axe passed a scant inch from his head and wedged itself in the doorframe, barring it. The material of the doorway and the room itself seemed to be different, and the axe dug in deep.

"If you don't wish to be conquered, then listen to me now. This is the dialogue, these are the negotiations. If you aren't going to take me seriously, then I can't help you. The Allfather won't care about your presidents and ministers; when Odin comes they'll be the first ones on the gallows, feeding the crows. He doesn't care a single lick if you're united or not, he'll send you all to Hel just the same." He sat back down, inviting the old man to join him again.

"I know your Gods of Olympus; they are similar to us, but very different as well. We've had an accord for as long as Asgard has claimed your world as one of its Nine Realms, because we all know that a war between Gods would reduce your planet to a smoking ruin. That's the destiny that you're flirting with at the moment. Odin isn't some space-trash that comes knocking every so often to loot your primitive world. He's the God of War. We don't have alien invasions on Asgard because aliens know better than to invite their race's extinction by trifling with him." He looked the old man in the eye, doing his best to convey his genuine sincerity. "Whether you believe me or not will make no difference once the ships arrive. I've seen them already, all of Asgard prepares for war." While Thor wasn't sure that the ships he had seen being loaded with supplies and soldiers were destined for Midgard, he didn't discount the possibility. "It could be days, maybe weeks, months, even years, but when they come it will be the blackest day in the history of your world. For Odin it will be Wednesday."

Thor sighed, leaning back in his chair. This is what he had been reduced to already; trying to talk the Midgardians out of suicide on a planetary scale. "To be completely honest, I'm surprised that I haven't heard about these aliens sooner. We should have been here, defending our territory from cosmic rabble. You have my sincere apology that we did not come, but I am suspecting there was a reason for this. The Allfather is also the God of Wisdom, he takes no action without tremendous forethought." Thor took a moment, collecting his thoughts, before looking to the old man with as much sympathy as he could muster. "Perhaps this is all part of his plan, allowing your world to become lax in its tithes and obligations. Perhaps not. What I know is that whenever I traveled to one of the Realms with my father, he arrived expecting a world in compliance, and a sacrifice in his honor. If he is given those things when he arrives, or you can give him the appearance of compliance... Hopefully we can avoid scouring your world." Thor held out his empty hands, a gesture meant to covey his sincerity and lack of desire to see Midgard wiped clean of human life. "I like your world. Honest! You haven't been a very gracious host since I arrived, what with the threats and this obvious cage, but I don't hold that against all of your people."

Finding Fury - Black Widow Tie In #3
Location - Novi Grad, Sokovia.

---

The town square was busy today, on the paved ground there was plenty of tables and seats set out along with some makeshift shelters. Families were relaxing, some busy workers were taking a quick breather from their shift to get something to eat or just to have a breather. And then there was just people going about whatever they had planned for today, shopping, going to the cinema, there was a few obvious tourists but not many. Sokovia had seen much better times, it had always been a poor country but in the time of the Soviet Union, as artificial as it may have been it had some resemblance of a burgeoning industry, one that sadly withered away after the fall of the Eastern Bloc. Even worse after that it became somewhat of a hotbed for corruption and a warzone for any faction that was looking to make a powergrab, after all having a small nation under your thumb and at your mercy was a rather resplendent prize.

Natasha sat silently at a table nursing a glass of lemonade, she was wearing a casual black tracksuit outfit, her long red hair tied up into a bun. A pair of dark sunglasses rested on the bridge of her nose and she casually scrolled through her phone as she waited.

Alexei noisily approached the table in his plain white shirt and dark blue jeans. With two large glasses of beer, both for him, in hand he sat himself down at the table. "Oh Natalya, you best get yourself a proper drink now while you still can."

"I'll take that to mean we are finally getting a move on?" Natasha would routinely scan the surrounding area, taking a good cautious look at all the people that would pass by, getting as good as a read she could from them. From the moment she had sat down at the town square she knew that at least several groups had been watching her. Although many were likely not for reasons that were pertinent to the mission.

"Of course. Although the middle of the day may not be the best time for this no?"

"Whether it is the middle of the day or the dead of night it is all the same to me."

"Yes... I believe you. I have gotten better at the covert and quiet operations over the years Natalya, but I also know that any advantage cannot hurt to have."

"Then we can make our way in tonight. We know how many men they have on guard, we know the routes of their patrols, and I am sure we will have confirmation on who they are as soon as we get through."

"Hmmph, my money is still on Hydra but these days it is hard to say huh? Still, it strikes me as slightly odd that they seem to have such a light presence here."

"Perhaps that is by design? I can think of a myriad of reasons for wanting to have a low a profile as possible. Two of them being the Avengers and the Justice League to start."

"I see your point. But still, I feel a little insulted, like they do not see us as a threat to even keep an eye on us."

"Don't worry. We have had eyes on us since the quinjet dropped us off.

Alexei looking a little shocked tried to mask his reaction and did his best to continue to act natural. "Seriously? Usually I could tell something like that."

"It might do you good to save the drinking for later Alexei."

With a grin Alexei retorted. "Come now, that would only throw me off."

"And for what it's worth, I wouldn't feel bad about not noticing it. If I am being honest, I can't tell who they are or where they are. Only that every now and then they are there." Natalya gives a serious look to Alexei.

"So it's like that huh?" He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times.

Natalya leisurely finishes off her glass of lemonade, Alexei does not touch his beers. Leaving the glasses on the table, one empty and two full the pair stand up from their table and make their way through the town square towards a car that was handed over to them by S.H.I.E.L.D on their arrival. On the drive back to their temporary lodgings in the city they went on several detours, just to do some due diligence in throwing off any potential tails. Although Natasha knew that it would be useless if whoever she had been feeling watch them had been doing so.

S.T.A.R. Labs
Central City Branch

"Nothing? Really?" I ask with frustration as Dr. Wells and his team go over their results, having thoroughly scanned Mercury Square after the Rogues' attack.

"Nothing yet, Flash," Dr. Harrison Wells, the founder of S.T.A.R. Labs and director of the Central City campus, corrects me. "We're just as concerned about this as you are, but the attack went over a fairly wide area, and going over it all is going to take time. It may not be your style, but you're going to have to--"

"--take it slow, right, right," I say, chafing at the words. "It's just...there's really no trace of them left? Nothing to go on? Not even a sliver?"

"We're working on it, red," Cisco Ramon answers from his desk, an edge of annoyance in his voice. "There's, like, a billion different things they could've done here."

"We have some working theories on how the Rogues pulled off the attack," Caitlin Snow reassures me as she reads data from her tablet. "Right now we're running simulations to see if any of our theoretical models line up with the data we've got on hand."

"Right, I gotcha," I nod, pacing back and forth with frustration.

Logically, I know they're basically doing the same thing I do at the CCPD. Forensics isn't a clear-cut field with easy answers, and you have to take your time slowly but surely sifting through bad data before you can reach a conclusion. Eddie Thorne gives me all kinds of hell for taking my time going over crime scene data, but it's always better to be slow and right than fast and wrong.

Barry Allen knows this, of course. The Flash, on the other hand, is supposed to be able to act faster than anyone alive. And until we have a lead to go on, there's nothing to do but wait.

"Any way I can make myself useful?" I ask, hoping there's something I can do to speed things up.

"At the moment, I think we're doing about all that can be done," Dr. Wells answers, "at least, until we have more data to work with."

"Of course, 'more data' means 'another Rogue attack,'" Caitlin chimes in, removing the sugar-coating that the doctor had put on his statement.

"Well, yes," he admits, "but hopefully we'll be able to crack it before then. Until then, I suggest you take the advice you gave your protégé: lay low for a while, don't make yourself a target. And if they do launch another attack, don't engage it."

"Makes sense," I agree, "I'm not exactly up for hanging around to get my butt handed to me a second time. On the other hand, I can't exactly stay put if there are people who need my help."

"What about the League?" Cisco asks. "I mean, I know you cape-and-tights types are all weird about territory, but I can't imagine the Rogues can keep up an attack if, say, Superman or Wonder Woman shows up to break you out."

"Maybe," I consider it, "I do need to let them know what's up. If I have to go help out with a League-level emergency, and then suddenly we have to deal with cold rays and boomerangs on top of whatever's going on, they'll need to know--"



As if on cue, a razor-edged boomerang emerges from thin air, inches away from my face.

"EVERYBODYGETDOWN!" I shout, sidestepping the weapon.

As Cisco and Caitlin hit the floor, the boomerang slices into a computer bank, sparks and smoke spraying from the now ruined machinery.



A jet of Heatwave's plasma erupts from the floor beneath a server rack, incinerating it.

"The data!" Dr. Wells exclaims. "They're destroying all of our--"



A bolt of Weather Wizard's lightning dances throughout S.T.A.R. Labs' mainframe, frying row after row of equipment.

Alarms sound throughout the facility, but after I take a few seconds to get everyone a safe distance from the building, there's no one left inside.

Dr. Wells, Cisco, Caitlin, and I look down from a hillside about half a mile from the campus, looking at the smoke billowing from the main building.

"Holy crap," Cisco mutters, "They just wrecked everything..."

"It's going to take weeks to replace all of that equipment," Dr. Wells groans, "But the data, that's..."

"That's gone for good now," Caitlin laments. "Any evidence our sensors picked up, the Rogues just wiped it out."

"...so now we're not even at square one," I say. "We've got no leads, and nothing to chase leads with."

Dr. Wells nods.

"...well, while we get this under control," he says, "it might be best if you don't stay in one location for long. However they're doing this, it's doubtful they can continue to follow you if you keep moving. Until we get a handle on this, I'd advise staying far from Central City."

"I can't just--"



An explosion from inside the empty S.T.A.R. Labs building interrupts me, and along the hillside, I hear the other employees scream in startled fear.

Maybe the Doc's right. If I stick to my familiar stomping grounds, Snart and his crew know where to find me, and I'll be putting more people at risk.

With a tinge of regret, I nod.

"Okay," I decide. "Maybe a road trip will do me some good. If there's trouble back home I can't guarantee I'll stay away, but until then, I'll keep some distance."

Overhead, a CCPN news helicopter flies towards the scene of the explosion. Knowing her, there's a pretty good chance that Iris is on that chopper.

Iris...

"I'll, uh, I'll need to say some goodbyes before I go," I say, more to myself than anyone.

"Better make them quick," Caitlin remarks, which gets a chuckle out of me.

"Hah! Remember who you're talking to, Cate. Quick is what I'm all about."

---

---

---

A voice.

A woman's voice.

Warm. Familiar somehow. Tinged as it was with the faintest hint of what might have once been French.

"Rory."

"What? Leave me alone. It's too early."

"Rory Regan," the voice insisted sternly. "Wake up!"

"Why?" Rory hissed back, pulling her bedsheet closer.

"There's evil in the city."

"There's always evil in this city," Rory groaned back, burying her head against her pillow.

"No, not like this, not evil like this, greater forces are at work here now. Wake up! This is no time for sleeping!"

Rory lurched to life with a cold shiver. A thin layer of sweat tugged the sleep from her eyes as she held the pillow in her hands like a weapon. She lived alone. She lived alone above her thrift shop. There shouldn't have been anyone in her apartment. There shouldn't be a voice telling her to wake up.

She could feel the threads tautening. She could feel the familiar pull. She knew it was waiting. She knew it was waiting for her. Souls tugged at her awareness. Souls bound to the suit, chained to her will. The suit of souls lay crumpled in a pile on the floor. She could never quite place it. It was always changing. Yesterday it had been a knee length skirt. Brilliant rags stitched together with an expert hand. Today. Today it was a periwinkle blouse. An elegant patchwork of blue, with a fluffy crepe and lace gown.

Tomorrow?

Who knew?

Who knew what the suit of souls would be tomorrow?

Who knew who she would be?

Who knew what she would be?

---

Ragwoman let the suit of souls guide her through the narrow streets. The suit didn't need to speak to her. The fabric had weaved through her soul. It was a part of her. Or was she a part of it? Another soul ensnared by the suit of souls? It didn't matter. Evil was evil. And she was Ragwoman. Evil had to be stopped. Evil had to be punished. And the evil souls Ragwoman encountered had to be absorbed into the suit of souls.

The tugging soul lined string brought Ragwoman to the Warehouse District. Lurking in the darkness of an alley, her eyes were drawn towards a remodeled warehouse building.

The Callan Contemporary.

A fancy art gallery in the Warehouse District. Ragwoman sneered beneath her mask. Of course evil was hiding behind a heavy venire of tasteful class.

---

Tendrils of fabric flared out from the soul of suits.

Seeking.

Testing.

Judging.

In the darkness of the gallery she saw two figures. One figure loomed over the other, which seemed to be writhing on the floor.

A faint pain coursed through Ragwoman and the suit of souls seemed to recoil. A symphony of angry voices rose up in righteous anger. There was nothing. No souls. Not even the faintest hint of any souls in the two creatures she saw.

It was wrong.

The fabric of the suit twitched with anger at the wrongness of it all. It was evil. It had to be evil. Evil, the suit wordlessly told her, as a symphony of voices began to rise, souls clamoring for violent justice.

Eric let the vamp he was holding slide down to the floor, head lolling on the ground in meek surrender. His hand fidgeted on the handle of his sliver claymore strapped on his back as his mind continued to scream and his skin prickled at what he saw. He remembered when he was tracking down a group of Anchorites down in the Mid-West, creeping in cornfields where rows upon rows of scarecrows loomed and swayed in the wind. He was reminded of one of those straw men as he observed the newcomer. Their costume, their skin, whatever the hell they were wearing at the moment was like looking at a patchwork quilt, a blanket that had been passed on from child to child across generations.

His head throbbed as he continued to hear the voices screaming in his ear. Man, woman, child, old, young. It was as if someone had mixed together the soundtracks from a dozen rock bands to make some horrific abomination.

His head turned to the vampire, still lying insensate on the ground and then, to the hooded stranger.

Like Jamal said, it was better to be safe than sorry.

His left hand shot towards his belt, unclipping another mixture of holy water, silver nitrate and a dozen other ingredients that Whistler included. It was a broad spectrum measure so that he didn’t have to twiddle his thumbs making stupid decisions that would kill him in the heat of battle.

He’d have to get up close first, though. He grabbed a stake from his bandolier with his right hand and then, began sprinting towards the stranger, thrusting the wooden apparatus forward at where their heart was.

The voices screamed as Blade violently crashed into Ragwoman. His aim was true and Ragwoman crumbled from the blow as the stake smashed into her ribcage. Ragwoman shuddered, shivering on the floor in a fit, her hands clawing at her chest before she slumped over.

Well, that was easy. Eric was somewhat miffed as he watched the stranger fold like a piece of paper. He knelt down and examined the still body closer. It was evidently human with no abnormal proportions that would suggest otherwise. The only thing to do now was to find out who the hell they were. Eric began pawing around their face, trying to remove their mask.

"That hurt, asshole," Ragwoman said, grabbing hold of the vampire hunter's hands with an inhumanely strong grip. Shoving Blade backwards as she staggered to her feet, Ragwoman wrenched his trench coat with her left hand and swung her fight fist squarely at Blade’s boxlike jawline. The heavy blow echoed through the gallery and sent Blade crashing to the ground. A brave soul, perhaps seeking redemption, had swallowed up the mortal blow, vanishing in a chorus of laughter as Ragwoman loomed over the halfbreed vampire.

Stars danced in his eyes as the sucker punch got him good in the chin. He shook his head, slightly punch drunk. Eric slowly picked the cracked shades off his face, scowling up at her. He spat out a drop of blood.

" Motherfucker!," Unveiling the canister in his right hand, he threw it against the stranger’s chest, the contents breaking open and spilling all over them.

Ragwoman screeched as foul smelling liquid covered her, desperately brushing her suit as if it would somehow remove whatever it was that the trench coat wearing psychopath had thrown at her. She wanted to vomit. She smelled like cat piss and garlic. She was done playing around. She was done observing. She needed a shower...and a dry cleaner.

Pointing a rag clothed finger at Blade, her voice rose in a cacophony of sound, interwoven with arcane energies, "Your tricks will not save you from judgment, villain."

" Wait a second." Eric’s eyes squinted in disbelief " Villain? What in the - " He then thumbed over his back towards the still comatose vampire and the disemboweled remains of his companion. " - I was in the process of disposing of some villains over there till you came swaggering in with that goofy ass costume."

He then pointed towards the soaked patch of where Whistler’s concoction made contact. " And how the hell are you not screaming in pain right now?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. " I swear to god, if she gave me holy water blessed by Protestants instead of Catholics to annoy me……."

"First of all, goofy ass costume? How dare you. Second of all, holy water? What the fuck did you think that would do? Melt me? I’m not a witch, Dracula."

"You have a lot of opinions for a psycho staking random strangers," Ragwoman continued, her voice rising as she ranted. "Besides, you’re missing something. Something is off, something is wrong about you. Beyond your apparent interest in stabbing people that is."

" I sometimes shoot them as well." Eric sourly muttered before clasping both of his hands in front of himself and sighing. How the hell would Jamal do this?

" I know this might sound stupid but….name’s Blade. That guy and ….." Eric motioned towards the sprayed blood everywhere " two parts of another guy over there are two idiots who happened to stumble upon me while I was investigating the area. Things got messy, then, you entered the equation. I thought you were a fuckin’ demon with all that nastiness pouring off your aura, lady."

" Now that I’ve given my side of the story" Eric pointed towards Ragwoman. " - who the hell are you?"

"Ragwoman," Ragwoman said, flipping her cloak dramatically over her shoulder. "Defender of the weak, savior of the oppressed, and punisher of evil, you know, the usual stuff."

"Not a demon, definitely not a demon, despite whatever my aura may look like to you," she added with a shrug. "I’m here to stop some big bad evil. Trouble is I’m not quite sure what it is yet. Or where it is for that matter. You sure you’re not evil? Maybe you’re the reason I’m here?"

Great. It seemed like the Big Empty was filling to the brim with more weirdos by the day. A extrajudicial vigilante, though, was acceptable in terms of all the crap Eric had dealt with in his years of hunting. He crossed his arms, deciding on whether or not to bring her in. He considered the risks and benefits.

On the one hand, this person was an unknown variable in the supernatural ball game. A stranger. Someone out of left field who Eric had no context on. Danger was sewn into every fabric of her being and he didn’t want any part of it.

On the other hand, allies were hard to come by, and he’d be damned if he took help for Van Helsing or any of her stuck up armchair lounging brood again. He took a deep breath and then began with a question.

" How much do you know about vampires?"

"They’ve got pointy teeth, drink blood, don’t tan well, hate holy water, and have a distinct lack of anything resembling a soul," Ragwoman replied. "Or so I’ve heard…I’m not really a vampire hunter, I’m just your friendly neighborhood mystic vigilante."

"Not to be rude, but you look kinda like your napping friend over there," Ragwoman concluded, nodding beneath her hood in the direction of the knocked out vampire.

Eric paused to digest her answer before nodding shortly. " Close enough."

There was a moment of silence before he crouched down and hoisted the unconscious vampire on his shoulder like a bag of flour.

" If you want to find out more ‘bout the murders that have been happening around these parts, you best follow me. Otherwise, you could also stick out of my business, but you don’t seem the type." He ripped the stake out of the vampire he was currently holding with a wet pop and inserted it onto one of his bandoliers. " So, what’s it going to be, Rags?"

"Well, Blade, this is my city, warts, vampire cabals, spooky evil, and all. So you’re stuck with me. However, lead on Mr. Vampire Hunter, let’s get to the bottom of this mystery and save the Big Easy. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it," Ragwoman snarked back, her voice shifting into a multitude as the souls in her suit clamored to be heard.

" Ain’t that the truth." He shifted slightly to ease the weight on his shoulder before turning his back. " So long as you don’t try and chop my head, I’ll do the same for you. Now, come on. I think Whistler’s got something back at that base to wash off all that crap I got on you."

A warehouse full of the damned.

Emaciated men and women stripped of their clothes, as newborns do not enter this world with more than their first skin. The Neonates manufactured and packaged the Bliss for the Juvenile street dealers, and did it for no recompense beyond the Bliss they could consume, the paltry food rations to keep them as lean as their god, and the accommodation of the Den.

It was certainly rare amongst drug operations for the allowance of the workers to get high off the supply - but profit was not the primary motivation. They sold cheap to new local customers, as could often becomre customary, but not for the simple purpose of profit motivation behind getting them hooked. At least not for the money. And they were always hiring. And always growing.

This warehouse was but one of three dozen in this city itself. The year before they had two dozen, not all in the same locations. New York was, after all, a city of heroes, and any time anyone came close they would close up and move. They had the resources behind them to do that easily enough. Who could be more adaptable than they? Whilst one day they would bask in the sun, it would not be beneath them to flatten themselves out and hide in the rocks and crags until their season would come. After all, they followed a perfect one.

The Yearling called the Neonates to order. Kept them focused on the task at hand. Bliss for the Kali-Yuga! Bliss for Kobra! Bliss for the Lord Naga, his generosity that allowed the bliss to overflow unto them!

Lanceheads were scattered here and thereabouts. Unlike the Neonates they were of course fully clothed. Their task called for it. As they had been tasked with protection and maintaining order, for in order for the day of Kali Yuga to come - Freedom in its Holy Ultimate Chaos - there must be moments of order to bring that day to pass. The Lord Naga understood this even if it were a fact too complicated for most OTHER Neonates, Juveniles and even some slower, more jaded Yearlings to understand... The bigger picture. But YOU understand, yes? The same greater wisdom that allows you your Bliss. The same greater wisdom that protects and houses you. The means to the greater end that our All Knowing Lord Naga will one day bring to pass, for the betterment of all who have the wisdom to follow the serpentine path.

But as the Lanceheads were assembled for the daily briefing, they failed to notice the SkyCycle that passed silently overhead. Nor the purple masked figure overlooking the warehouse from the clear plastic sheeting of the skylight which kept the working environment warm and well-lit for the naked Neonates...

"Well, there's something you don't see everyday..." Hawkeye muttered at the strange naked assembly, and their foreman in his scaly leather jacket.

---

H A W K E Y E
H A W K E Y E

_{SEASON ONE Sensation & Wonder}

---

Hawkeye had stumbled on the place by luck. He was going to shake down some junkie street dealer for the location of his supplier, but reconsidered and tailed him after realising he was probably going to be no more forthcoming than the last half dozen he'd questioned. Following him from a distance he stumbled upon the handoff point. Observing a few handoffs he was able to tail a bagman to a second handoff point... a long story short, the countless tails eventually brought him to this warehouse.

It had been long and tedious, basically policework, and not at all why he'd got into the capes and cowls business which regularly saw him firing a weapon from the paleolithic era at gods and monsters.

He reached into his quiver for a fletching. Explosive arrows were out, he didn't know the chemical makeup of the drug in question and if it were flammable... well, he wasn't looking to roast a warehouse full of poor, starving, desperate drugden workers. It also wouldn't get him any answers. That ruled out flare-arrows, rocket arrows and, for that matter, acid arrows as well as well. Such was his poor grasp of chemistry and the composition of Bliss they were working with.

He drew back and released. A Putty arrow, hit one of the largest drug tables, expanding on impact and ruining the product. Two more putty arrows took care of the rest.

Naked neonates scattered, many headed for the door. A single bola arrow wrapped up the frontrunner, and he fell blocking the door.

Then the stacatto of semi-automatic rifle fire burst to life. Predictable, as always. He pulled back from the lifted plastic of the skylight after letting loose a smoke bomb arrow. Time for Position B. There's a word for a sharpshooter who only plans to stay static from a singular primary firing position - A corpse.

Clint ran across the roof to his secondary position; a lifted sheet of corrugated iron which provided a new vista over the warehouse beneath him. Men and women coughing, some lay prone. Perhaps passing out from too much excitement - which would seem unusual, if not for how starved they appeared to be. He counted six armed guards, with various weapons. With no knowledge of their level of training he decided to target them in accordance of their weapon's threat level. Two men with AR-15s were dropped in rapid succession with stun arrows. A woman with an uzi responded by firing at his initial position by the skylight. They didn't seem to realize he'd relocated yet. He downed her with another stun arrow.

One of the naked drug cooks picked up an AR-15 and started desperately spraying the roof with no clear target in mind. Clint cursed himself for leaving it in play, pulling back to avoid any stray lucky shots, before drawing an electro-arrow and firing it into the barrel of the gun. The drug cook spasmed briefly from the shock before dropping the weapon. He fired another into the trigger-guard of the other fallen AR-15 to prevent it from happening again.

"He's over there!" Calls came from below.

Clint didn't hang around to wait and see their response. Position C. He'd removed three heavily armed guards from the field, and a wild card he'd sloppily allowed into play. Three more remained if he played this right.

As he took position he now saw a fourth threat. The foreman had retreated to an office somewhere and returned with a sidearm. Clint watched how he handled it, the nerves, and recognised the awkward desperation of a man who was required to have a weapon for his position, but no real training or mind for how to use it. Hawkeye mentally prioritised him last, the guards were clearly the bigger threat as they had some level of organised training with the arms they carried.

A soldier would have set a tunnel focus on mission goals. Eliminate the three guards, disarm and interrogate the foreman in the leather jacket.

Hawkeye was nobody's soldier. And nobody would ever question his creativity, nor his skills.

The SkyCycle tore through the roof, with a purple archer firing a bevy of arrows crouching from atop its seat, with a wide grin displaying the enjoyment he gained from such a bombastic move. A sonic arrow disoriented two guards on his left, one heavy-set and a smaller one armed with a Glock. Another stun arrow took down a guard to his right. Another putty arrow eliminated his weapon from the field. He flipped over the seat and let fly a bola arrow towards the two guards. The heavy balls from the bola crashed through the jaw of the first and ricocheted into the second, knocking out the first and incapacitating the second.

Not what they were designed for... but hey, creativity is what keeps this hero stuff interesting.

Small calibre gunfire rang out. The foreman ducked back behind the cover of a supporting beam. Clint turned and smirked, drawing a fletching with a very specific arrow, eyeballing some geometric calculations and letting it loose.

"Drop the bow! I've got a gun, archer! You're outmatched!" The foreman called out, the shakiness of his voice proof that he did not even believe it himself.

He got the shock of his life when he heard a compound bow clatter to the floor, and stepped out with his sidearm drawn...

...to receive the second shock of his life. The boomerang arrow smacking the handgun out of his hands and across the floor.

Clint's smirk never left his face. He stepped forward and scooped his bow back up, approaching the man in his shimmering scaly leather jacket.

"No! Get back!" The foreman called out, backpedalling away from the Justice Leaguer. "You can't! Don't!"

"Relax. Ol' Hawkeye only has a few questions for you..."

And those were the words that doomed the man.

As Clint approached he watched in horror as the foreman's mouth started to froth and foam. Clint ran towards him, with the first signs of genuine fear in his eyes. The fear for another's well-being.

"Aww Hell, poison?! This isn't bad enough to go and poison yourself..."

He ran up and shoved his fingers down the man's mouth to try and get him to vomit... but with his final efforts the man bit his fingers to keep his secrets. His loyalties.

Desperately, Clint grabbed him from behind and attempted some haphazard form of the Heimlich manouever, only to be stopped by a handgun emptying its clip into the foreman, rendering the drug boss limp in his arms.

"No!" Clint looked up and saw the handgun in the hands of a young woman; naked, starved and wired from the drug du jour. She kept dry-firing at the foreman, and Clint raised a hand to the girl to try and calm her.

"It's Ok! Everything's going to be OK. I'm sure he put you through... all manner of Hell. Stripped you naked. Did-- God knows what to you. It's going to be alright. He can't hurt you anymore."

The young girl gave only a quizzical look to Hawkeye, wide-eyed and still on another plain of existence. And in an instant she dropped the gun, and turned and ran.

Not to the exit. Clint would have understood that. He would have been prepared, a simple net arrow would have wrapped things up nicely. But in a direction he didn't fully comprehend until too late. Towards one of the fallen guards...



But he was too late. The young girl had thrown herself onto the electro-arrow. Sparks flew, and whilst it would act more as a non-lethal taser shock to a person of average to high-level physique... the starved drug-workers of this facility were in nowhere near that kind of shape. She lay and twitched until there was no life left in her form, and the muscles spasmed still even afterwards.

Clint ran his hand over his masked head in despair.

---

"Lord Naga," The herald messenger called out into the darkness of their leader's quarters. "It seems we have lost one of our many warehouses in the New York region. A Justice Leaguer--"

"In New York?" Kobra queried, from whereabouts unseen. "Ahhh... the Archer." He answered his own question.

"Yes, my Lord Naga! Hawkeye stumbled upon it's whereabouts and brutally--"

"The Yearling?"

"Perished, my Lord. By his own hand as is your will. As is the way. Hawkeye was left helpless trying to steal our secrets from a corpse. Your methods are most wise."

"And the Lancssseheadssss. They sssshould not talk. Have bail provided by the regular channelssss."

"Yes, my Lord Naga. But what of the Archer?"

Kobra pondered this for a moment.

"He issss not the Batman. Nor doessss he know anything. To move againsssst him for the moment would be to give him a tail to follow back to itssss head. For now we do nothing. Let him be the fool who launchessss an arrow and givessss ussss a fletching to follow back to his possssition. Sssshould he act sssso brazenly we sssshall move not with but one sssstrike, but with the full forcssse of the Ssssosssiety." He said, referring to the Serpent Society, the group's most elite strike force.

"A ssssmall error on hissss part, sssshall see him looking for an esssscape from a pit of ssssnakes."

He hesitated, basking in his sychophantic Herald's revelry for his Holy words of divine wisdom.

"...where none sssshall be pressssent, and all hope losssst."

S1- SENSATION & WONDER

WOLVERINE #1 - Make It Right

Salem Center, New York

---

Whole place smells like grease an’ old sweat, an’ I can tell ‘Sako can’t stand it. Her face is all twisted up into a half-scowl, her nose is scrunched so hard it looks like it’s trying to escape to her forehead. I can smell her sweat through the shimmerin’ psionic armor wrapped around her body, can see the pit stains running all the way down her shirt and the perspiration watercolor all over her face. I’ve been runnin’ her hard, the way she needs.

‘Sako goes by Armor, an’ the way she tells it, she wants to be an X-Man more than anything, just like damn near all the ankle biters livin’ in an’ around the ol’ X-Mansion. I figure most of ‘em don’t got what it takes -- for every little miss Power Pack there’s some meathead punk who thinks he can be an X-Man ‘cause he can punch good -- but ‘Sako always knew better.

She came in older n’ most kids on campus. In my book, she was the best older kid, the only one with more going on in her life than some cell-phone, and the only one who didn’t get any ideas about “borrowing” my beer. And she always put on one hell of a show in the Danger Room. When the rest were cryin’ over scraped knees and lettin’ everything I taught ‘em about fightin’ fall to the wayside, she was in the meat of it, smashin’ through hardlight constructs and workin’ her tail off to keep herself in tiptop, an’ to keep the rest of the munchkins around her from becomin’ Danger Room chow. She was good as anyone, even better n’ a few o’ the active X-Men at the time. But this was before Chuck got it in his dome that we could even consider young’ns as X-Men, so all she’d get for her efforts was a pat on the back n’ a reminder to study for whatever book learnin’ Charlie had in store for her.

Charlie wanted her to stay at the Institute for college, but me an’ Scotty sat her down ta’ tell her she deserves to see the world before she’s asked to protect it. We sent her off a few years ago, to some big money dump that made me roll my eyes, but made ‘Sako’s glimmer. Never heard much about it from her, though. Mosta’ the time her summers back here amounted to the same four words she’d say every time she walked through those doors: “You. Me. Danger Room.”

This is our third summer at it, an’ she’s really startin’ ta’ give me a run for my money. I leave for an Avengers joint for a week, an’ I come back to find out she’s been out-scorin’ me, on my Danger Room courses. Fer my money, that alone more’n makes her X-Man material, but Scotty, Cyclops, is still wafflin’ about it, in his infinite wisdom as glorious leader of the X-Men. Ol’ one-eye keeps givin’ me some rag about wantin’ her to finish school, or pump up her score in team exercises, but more n’ more I figure what’s botherin’ Cyke is the amount of time she spends with me. Doesn’t help that I started bringin’ her to my personal training room.

Y’see, while ago the Prof installed some fancy Shi’ar alien gizmos to ‘upgrade’ the Danger Room, tore most o’ the old one out. Now instead of cheesy robots, metal armatures, and surprise pits in the floor, it’s all virtual reality. Hardlight trainin’ dummies an’ photorealistic backgrounds, but for all that it never smelled right, never felt right. Gettin’ to slash through real metal, feelin’ the flecks of steel stab into your knuckles, tastin’ iron in the air, is a helluva lot better than wipin’ some dopey construct.

On account o’ that simple fact, me an’ Colossus dragged as much of the old Danger Room’s guts out inna’ woods to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I figure it’s gotta be ten times as dangerous as the one under the mansion now, and ten times the fun.

Cyclops about exploded when he found out I’d been bringin’ her. Bad enough that I trained her, he says, bad enough that that I taught her how to maul her way through Danger Room trials, but God Forbid I get her used to doin’ real damage with her powers. Says if we keep goin’ like this, somebody’s gonna end up dead. I told him to tattle to Xavier if he had a problem, and ta’ remember to apply his asshole ointment. Why shouldn’t I teach her? I’m the best there is at what I do.

‘Sako’s in my Danger Room with me now, throttlin’ a lobster-clawed robot that’s lookin’ for purchase on her armor. My claws are popped an’ I’m making mincemeat out of as many bots as I can get my mitts on, but they’re just keeping me busy so I can’t bail her out. We’re both knee deep in cut ribbons of battle plate an’ oil but they just keep comin’, pourin’ out of the walls like fire ants.

‘Sako’s claws are popped, too. They’re new this summer, pinkish psychic protrusions comin’ from her armor’s knuckles. They ain’t near as sharp as mine, but I’m dead chuffed to watch ‘em slash through lobster bots like rice paper. She’s a fighter after my own heart. Tenacious, tough as nails, an’ -- she’s dancin’ through the crowd of bots now, gettin’ closer to me. Her claws are a flurry around her, cuttin’ open chest cavities and separatin’ robo heads from bodies with abandon, oil flowin’ over her claws like blood -- now that I reach for it, only word that comes to mind fer’ her is deadly. I’m the best there is at what I do, but I’m reminded that what I do best isn’t very nice.

But these are just robots. Rippin’ an’ tearin’ gears an’ wires don’t make you a killer any more n’ playin’ virtual NHL will make you Wayne Gretsky. I shove one bot aside and spear my claws through another’s eyesockets. Cyclops knows it don’t turn you into what I am… But I know it don’t hurt, neither.

|Logan, your attention is requested.| Chuck’s psychic presence flares in my head, callin’ out to me from beyond.

|What’s the sitch, baldie?| I think, watching ‘Sako leap backwards and slam an elbow drop into robot’s noggin.

|It appears an acquaintance of yours is back in town.| Charlie’s thought comes to me with more n’ just the words, but the feelin’s, the mem’ries. The lead smell o’ bullets minglin’ with the iron of blood, petroleum gun lubricant sticky on calloused fingers, a white symbol emblazoned in the minds of damn near every criminal in the city. Most of all, he touches on a promise in my head, an oath I swore long ago to an old friend, a man as determined as ‘Sako. An’ ‘Sako’s as vicious as him, I think with a shudder. I can’t help myself from sayin’ it as I think it:

”Frank Castle’s back?”

She-Hulk - Gamma World Tie In #4
Location - Gamma Dome, Las Vegas

---

She-Hulk had to smile a little. When Spider-Man stepped through the dome of gamma radiation in his protective suit to stand beside her and her cousin who was trying his best to not let the Hulk break out just yet. It had to be said that the webslinger looked a bit out of place, but as an Avenger she had been sent on several missions with Spider-Man, there was no doubt in her mind that no matter what threat they were faced with, Spider-Man's presence would be missed if he was absent. His sense of humour alone helped with morale in otherwise dire circumstances. Plus his strength, skill, and wits were nothing to scoff at. In fact between him and her cousin she felt a bit like an idiot.

"Sounds like as good an idea as any to me Spidey." She-Hulk responded to Spider-Mans suggestion that they head for higher ground to get a better look at what they were dealing with.

Although that might be easier for some... She-Hulk thought a bit how nice it must have been to have as much freedom of movement as Spider-Man, he could just crawl up a building all smooth and graceful like. If she tried to do that... Well either that building is getting a mess all up its side or there is going to be some potholes in the ground. Either way, an annoying amount of property damage. Probably not the thing she should be thinking about but that stuff does add up...

Bruce spoke up to agree with Spider-Man, reaffirming that higher ground was in fact a good idea and that the goal was to get to the tower. With as little conflict as possible. With that being said, of course it had to have a wrench thrown in it almost immediately. Well at least one could take comfort knowing that in life no matter how little or how simple you want to plan, as soon as you do, life is bound to divert from it.

She-Hulk recognised the voice of the gamma mutate that stepped into view, she felt that Bruce was being too nice by calling him by his name, the guy was a creep and just all around bad news. Abomination suited him. These days one might call that too far but you gotta insult someone sometimes right? And these are bad bad folks.

That wink and stupid comment flared her temper more than she would ever admit. Girlfriend. Girlfriend?!?! Sister can be flattering at least but that's just gross.

She-Hulk gave an enthusiastic and determined nod at the orders from Bruce, as much as she would like to clobber Blonsky herself there was more important matters that they needed to attend to and they couldn't all get stuck here. Likely that's the Abominations entire purpose showing up here and now.

"Alright webhead let's get going and do our part. Big guy make sure to smash him real good alright?!" She said as she broke into a run in the direction of the tower. Keeping her eyes forward she was trying her best to discern what was lying ahead of her, keeping the words of her cousin in her head. Taking the quickest and most peaceful route... Yeah, fingers crossed. It's getting off to a swell start.

Steve sat back down as Thor continued to speak, and he just... laughed. A good hearty chuckle. He hit the palm of his hand down on the table as he did so. Wiping his face clear he waved his hand towards Thor. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I realise this isn't a joking matter. Let me just recap before we continue." Steve sat up straight and looked at Thor directly in the eyes. "You drop in out of nowhere, go to a bar. Say you're here to take charge of Earth. Then you come to speak to me, basically say we're worthless and waiting to be ruled by yourself. Tell me if we don't bow to you then your father is going to come and force us to submit, then you complain about my lack of hospitality?"

This was nearing the point of failed diplomacy. When the name Thor had actually been dropped Steve had been hopeful, in all the myth and legends that he had the archivists dig while Thor was on his journey to the Helicarrier had painted Thor in a very positive light. A friend to humanity, an ally. If he was who he claimed to be his demeanour was leaving a lot to be desired.

"You know I wanted to believe you were one of the good ones, instead, you come and threaten our freedom and our very lives. To be completely honest you don't sound like the kind of King, or God, we want trying to rule our world. Why is it that you're here, really? Is it just to come and threaten us into submission? If you're a being of reason, you should understand how unreasonable your request is. If you want to protect this planet, how about we talk about that, instead? Why are you here?"

Steve had originally hoped to have Diana come in and talk some sense into him, he technically shouldn't have been using her as an asset with her... colourful relationship with S.H.I.E.L.D but when it came down to talking about gods he was way out of his depth, he still went to church on a Sunday if he could make it and nothing in the bible seemed to match the picture Thor was trying to paint. Now? He couldn't risk putting her in the same room it would likely just escalate things further and he was trying to avoid a fight.

On any sort of map or realtor directory the Queensland neighborhood was called Lane Hill, but everyone called the six square block area “Little Lagos.” African immigrants from all over the massive continent settled the neighborhood starting in the early 20th century. Back then it was one of the few places on the American eastern seaboard Africans could find refuge among those with a similar background. And while it was truly a pan-African mix of nationalities, the higher than average concentration of Nigerians gave it the nickname of Little Lagos.

Ever since the early 90’s a new subgroup of immigrants had found their way to Little Lagos: Wakandans. Citizens of the secretive little nation had fled to America for many different reasons. Most of them were members of Wakanda’s lowest caste and sought a chance at improving their lot in life, some were attending Metropolis University on student visas. Some of those students might go back home after their studies were complete, but plenty more would stay. But the biggest percentage of Wakandas who called Little Lagos home were the dissidents. They arrived on American soil seeking political asylum after committing the ultimate sin of disagreeing with the government.

Odwa was one of those dissidents. These days he spent twelve hours driving an Uber around the city, but once upon a time he was a very powerful man inside the borders of Wakanda. He was good at his job. Too good, it turned out. A decision was made that Odwa was too dangerous to be kept alive. He'd used every bit of his resources and influence to get out of Wakanda alive, one step of his hunters. He’d reached America with nothing but the clothes on his back, but he’d made it here alive and under the protection of the most powerful nation on the planet.

And now he was here. And where was here, exactly? A small two bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a walk-up building. Odwa sat in a recliner eating his frozen dinner while he watched television. He enjoyed watching the old American sit-coms of the 1970’s, one of the many cultural things that never made its way to Wakanda. Odwa finished his Salisbury steak and started on the mashed potatoes as the next episode started. The upbeat theme song blared through the TV's small speakers. From a rooftop across the street, an unseen figure watched Odwa intently.



“Come and knock on our door... (Come and knock on our door)
We've been waiting for you.... (We've been waiting for you)
Where the kisses are hers and hers and his,
Three's company too.”

---

The Presidential Suite of the Waldorf Astoria was aptly named. Every president since Herbert Hoover stayed on the 35th floor of the hotel. Calvin’s security detail and entourage took over the suite, the entire 35th floor, and both the floor above and below it. Calvin stood at the window that overlooked Lexington Avenue below. He could hear the heartbeat of a sniper placed on the roof of the building across the street. His guardian angel, a Secret Service sharpshooter that could drop any person from a mile away. Again, great protection for any other president besides him. He heard static from somewhere across the great cacophony of noise that was New York City.

“Eyes on target. Black SUV, coming up Park Ave. Parking outside Waldorf Astoria. Standby.”

That wasn't just his security, but something else. Agents talking in short, clipped sentences about a target on the move. It shouldn't be too much of a surprise, thought Calvin. The UN General Assembly was meeting today. Calvin wouldn’t be the only head of state present in the city, and he definitely wouldn’t be the only person under surveillance.

“What’s up?” Pete asked.

“Nothing,” Calvin said, shaking his head. “Just lost in thought. Maggie, where are we on the UN agenda?”

Secretary of State Maggie Sawyer peered over her reading glasses at the notebook in front of her. Maggie, along with Pete, Calvin, and the always present Secret Service agents, were the only ones in the room.

“Most of the Security Council want to vote on some kind of resolution and action on the Myanmar coup. But we’re getting pushback from China and Russia.”

“Like always,” said Calvin. “And all it takes is one veto from one of them to stop any resolution dead in its tracks. What else?”

“The secretary-general is trying to push through some kind of worldwide agreement on rolling back fossil fuel usage and slowing climate change.”

Calvin nodded and didn’t add anything else. That was the issue with the UN. They could make resolutions and pledges, but they were generally toothless as an organization to enforce anything. There were no levers of power for them to access. So the secretary-general and general assembly could adopt as many resolutions as it wanted, it still wouldn’t stop places like China and even the United States from its continued pollution. It was like trying to use a hall monitor to stop a bank robbery.

“And those are probably the bullet points for you,” said Maggie. “The rest of their agenda is developing economic growth in third world countries, expanding healthcare and internet access, stuff Ambassador Brand can handle--”

“Mr. President,” Secret Service Agent Ross came through the door. “You… uhh, have a visitor, sir.”

“Who?”

Before Ross could answer, he saw the two breathtakingly beautiful dark-skinned women in red dresses. Despite their beauty and high heels, Calvin knew the Dora Milaje were without a doubt two of the three deadliest humans in this room. Their king was the deadliest. They flanked him on both sides. He, of course, wore a simple black outfit. Black pants, black shoes, and a black tunic. Fitting attire for the Black Panther.

“President Ellis,” T’Challa, King of Wakanda, said with a slight bow. He introduced himself before continuing. “I am so sorry for the intrusion, but I wished to stop by to introduce myself and talk over some things. Is that okay?”

Calvin glanced towards Maggie and Pete. They both seemed as confused by his sudden appearance as Calvin was. But while Calvin Ellis didn’t know T’Challa, Superman was well acquainted. T’Challa very rarely did irrational and unpredictable things. And there was an additional wrinkle. Calvin could hear the continued squawk of walkie-talkies and surveillance chatter from somewhere else.

“I’ve got eyes on him. He’s… with the president? What should we do? I mean... what can we do but wait?”

Whoever these people were, they were watching T’Challa. And they were Americans.

“Guys,” Calvin said. “Can you give us the room? That’s everyone, both American and Wakandan bodyguards.”

Calvin noticed the hesitation with both his Secret Service agents and T’Challa’s escorts, but eventually everyone complied. Calvin waited until the doors to the suite were closed before speaking.

“I didn’t think you usually made an appearance at the UN,” said Calvin.

“I normally don’t,” said T’Challa. “But part of my ongoing pledge to open Wakanda up includes things like this, I’m afraid. But I’m not here to discuss government business, old friend.”

“Is it to do with the Americans watching your every move?” asked Calvin.

“Yes,” T’Challa nodded. “I believe the Black Panther has been framed for murder, Calvin. I need your help to clear my name.”

February 2013, Moscow Symphony Orchestra... the opening of Tchaikovsky's sixth symphony. A violent and explosive beginning... sixth floor, red door.

Tony Masters seamlessly floated down the narrow hallway and through the now open doorway in his memory palace as the music grew louder and louder. As he entered in, he felt a loss of control over his perception. He was back in his body once again, younger certainly. He was wearing a suit, the faint sound of the music floating in through the vent vent in the bathroom. Masters looked at his own reflection in the mirror as he screwed the silencer onto his pistol. A familiar voice came in over his earpiece.

"Turgenov has taken the bait, and is in motion to answer the call. You've got to move now. I would recommend putting that memory of yours to use... give him a classic Romanoff takedown."

Masters watched himself smile in his reflection as he paused, waiting for the footsteps outside the bathroom to grow louder. Masters waited until he could hear the frantic man softly speaking Russian stomp past the door before quickly stepping into the hallway. What he wasn't expecting was the blonde woman in a cocktail dress that was trailing his target. The woman had her hand in her purse as her eyes met Masters' for only a moment. In a match of pure instinct, the two agents aimed their sidearms at each other. Before the barrels of their respective guns could hover over the chest of their targets, the two lifted their off hand and swiftly disarmed each other. With their guns swapped, the two matched stance and speed as they aimed their weapons.

"Ah, American. CIA or SHIELD?"

"FSB or Red Room?"

The memory froze in place as Taskmaster felt questions swarm his mind. What was I even looking for? Red Room? That's Widow's past... or was it SHIELD? Who was SHIELD?



The music stopped, and a new song kicked in after a moment. Tony turned his head as he was back in the palace, and saw that the end of the hallway didn't appear to be the same sort of door that the rest of the rooms in the mansion were. It seemed to be a bay door opening downward, and Taskmaster began running towards it. The opening on the other side was silvery white, and Taskmaster realized it was the moon as he jumped out the back of the AC-130, closing his eyes as he made himself as narrow as possible as he dove head first towards the ground. He heard a feminine voice in his ear barking out his distance from the ground every few seconds. Tony realized as he fell into the darkness of the clouds below that he didn't even know why he was here anymore. Or who he was... who was he?

As he felt the air rush past him, he remembered an airport... maybe? Planes flying back and forth. Theatrics. Prop planes and jets. Golden and black parachutes. Was that him? No, couldn't be. He was on the ground. But he saw the moves through binoculars. The muscle memory... of course.

He was the Taskmaster.

_{Location: Berlin - Germany}

Reflections #1.01: 99 Luftballons

---

Right this moment, Tony Masters had a goal: land. His HUD highlighted a rooftop location, and Taskmaster readjusted himself accordingly to dive towards it. The voice in his ear kept repeating his height, but she dared not to scream for him to open his chute. She knew that he wasn't really listening. He was running on autopilot. At the last conceivable moment he pulled his parachute and immediately pulled his chute out into a tight aerial spin to lower his momentum, responding with two more in succession. The rooftop rapidly approached, and Taskmaster leveled out at the last second to pull just out above the designated spot. As soon as his boots touched the ground, Taskmaster pulled his black parachute in tight and removed the harness to stow the material out of eyesight from the street below. Within a moment, Taskmaster lifted a finger towards his ear. "Operative has touched down. Awaiting instructions."

"1 minute until shift change. Target is a terminal with encrypted data, exact location unknown."

Taskmaster walked to the edge of the Berlin rooftop to eye the warehouse across the street. He readjusted his Armored gloves, his eyes scanning over the scene from behind a skeletal face mask. Thirteen guards manning the side lot, covering the only entrance or exit into the warehouse... no, safe house. Taskmaster tapped the side of his helmet, magnifying his vision to focus on the neck of one of the street Thugs. His HUD highlighted over the fringes of the tattoo peaking over the collar of the Thug's jacket, and then provided a secondary image showing the symbol the tattoo was based on: a dark circle with a multi-headed Serpent in the center. Taskmaster nodded in recognition as the term "Hydra" appeared over the image. Flashes of instant recognition fired in Taskmaster's synapses as his muscles worked on their own. He removed a compressed bow from his belt and pumped his arm to expand it to its full size. He produced an arrow from a small holster on his right calf and tapped the knock against a small grapple on his belt. After attaching one end to the wall next to the roof access door behind him, Taskmaster fired the line arrow down towards the opposite rooftop. "Line set. Why am I stealing from my former employers?"

"I don't know, TM. You created this contract."

Taskmaster didn't have time to ponder the revelation as a small clicking sound in his ear signified the minute had passed. He collapsed the bow with one hand as another produced a small metal handle that attached to the zip line. Within a moment the Mercenary was sailing through the air as his free hand grasped onto three bat-shaped shuriken between his knuckles. With a flick of the wrist, the projectiles aimed true to impact against the flood lights in the parking lot to plunge the area into darkness as the moon's light was obscured by heavy cloud cover.

The thugs lifted their guns at the sudden change in light, and the Taskmaster drank in their fear from the shadows of the rooftop. He pressed a small button on the side if his mask to switch to night vision. He tapped his left wrist guard to reveal a small wrist mounted bow, knocking two small arrows and letting them loose to strike two separate Thugs in the northwest corner. They wouldn't be able to reveal much as they were busy choking on steel and their own blood, but they did helplessly fire their automatic weapons into the air. The Thugs turned their attention away from Taskmaster's location in response, giving the Mercenary an opportunity to jump down into the shadows of the parking lot.

Taskmaster produced a knife from his belt and moved swiftly, his footsteps silent and mirroring the movements of his scared prey... a little trick from the League of Shadows. One quick slice along the jugular and two stabs in the chest to puncture the left and right lung. The first thug didn't have any breath or energy to scream for help by the time Taskmaster had moved on to his best friend only a few paces away. The rest of the guards didn't notice something was wrong until seven in total were down for the count. With half their number gone, the remaining guards in the center of the parking lot recoiled at the sight of their adversary and raised their weapons. Taskmaster pulled his shield over his shoulder into his arm to intercept the hail of gunfire, rushing forward. He charged into one of the guards to catapult him backwards into a secondary guard while pulling out his sword into his main hand. Bullets were caught by the shield as the Taskmaster cut through the guards still standing, tearing through blood and flesh like paper. Once they were dispatched, Taskmaster twisted in the air to launch his shield back towards the guards he had charged into, who were getting back to their feet. The disk bounced off one of their skulls into the head of the other, and the sickening crunch confirmed their deaths as the Taskmaster caught his returning shield. He slung it over his shoulder as he reached a finger up to his ear. "Perimeter secure. That's got to be a record."

"Not even close, Operative. Stay on target."

Taskmaster nodded as he slung the shield back into place on his back and flicked the blood off his sword before sheathing it. He knelt down next to one of the dead guards, his visor scanning his face as he pulled his hood back. Lights on the mask began to shift and create a holographic image of the deceased guard. Taskmaster rolled a finger over his left gauntlet as footage of his observation of the parking lot rewound. With a few quick taps, he isolated the voice of the guard speaking to his comrades. After a couple of taps, Taskmaster plucked the guard's rifle from his dead hands and stalked towards the entrance. He slammed the butt of the rifle into the metal door, and an slit opened as the inside guard peeked out.

"Hail Hydra." Taskmaster's voice modulated inside the helmet and shifted into a recreation of the guard's voice in German.

"Hail Hydra. What was with the shooting?"

"Franz got scared shitless by a bat. I need to piss, mind letting me in?"

"Do it quick, before the officers get back."

Taskmaster nodded, and the door opened. He slipped inside and quickly bashed the hard end of the rifle into the guard's temple as the disguise faded and Taskmaster stood in front of five guards lounging about at the security checkpoint. Everyone stood still for a moment as Taskmaster's eyes darted around around room. Five vs one was hardly fair for the five when the one had the training of the Punisher... and had his hands on a loaded gun. As the Hydra guards reached for their weapons, Taskmaster swung the rifle in an arc while pressing down on the trigger. Blood sprayed against the back wall as the guards all fell limp. Taskmaster tossed the weapon aside as he tapped a small button on his gauntlet. "What is my objective here..."

Almost as if in response, text scrolled along the side of his HUD. <Objective: Copy SHIELD intercept files to ghost drive from terminal on sublevel 3. Delete all evidence.>

Taskmaster nodded, unholstering the sidearm from his side as he pushed deeper into the facility.

"Whatever you say... me."

---

BLOODLETTING 1.2.2

The cafe was located within the heart of the Big Apple. Its popularity was more of a matter of convenience and reliability rather than of any credit to its product. People filtered in and out of the hovel like rats from one sinking ship to the next. Eric’s nostrils flared as the overpowering scent of brewed kettle coffee suffused the air with an overpowering electrical aroma. He took a deep draught and felt it flow down through his spine and down into his waist. It would have been a good place for him to take his mind off hunting for once. Maybe, he’d invite King down here for breakfast the next time in town.

Unfortunately, his present company was a blind century-old arthritic martial-arts master. Stick had been annoyingly silent ever since he showed up mysteriously out of nowhere at the graveyard. He bore the same stony-faced countenance that combined with his mummified features, made him almost look like a taxidermy.

“ Ahem.”

Both of their heads turned left to a glossy-haired waiter who had dark circles underneath her eyes. A toothpick was pinched between her lips alongside a permanent look of irritation that seemed glued on her face. She took out a notebook and clicked a ballpoint pen.

“ What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

“ Double espresso,” Blade said.

“Hmmm, lemme think.” Stick’s features had crinkled up into a loose impression of a smile as his voice took on the tone of a stereotypical grandfather. “ How’s about a can of Pepsi?”

The waitress droned out their orders and waited for their confirmations before moving onto the next table with barely veiled fatigue. Blade pushed down his shades and gave an amused look at Stick.

“ What?” Stick eased his head slightly in his direction. “ You expect me to order something like tea, cause I look like some old mystical grifter?”

“ No, I expected you to give me answers.”

“ Conversations like this can’t be rushed, Brooks.”

The waiter arrived a moment later, sliding a can of Pepsi towards Stick and a hot cup of steaming coffee in Eric’s direction.

“ Ah, thank you.” Stick nodded his thanks.

The next minutes were then spent observing Stick doing a pantomime impression of a blind person, waving his hands around to try and grab onto the can. Guess he had appearances to keep up. Eric knew Stick was anything but a helpless, crippled old man. He knew he had nothing to be wary of but if a member of the Chaste was ‘round these parts, something bad was coming this way.

“ Jamal was one old tough son of a bitch. We lost a good soldier today.”

“ He wasn’t a part of your war, Stick.”

“ Might as well have been.” Stick cracked open the can with one thumb, the hiss of carbonation piercing the busy air in the cafe. “ Anyone who hunts down the dark is a part of our fight.” He then gave a little chuckle. “ He must have went down kicking and screaming, didn’t he?”

The table then groaned, the bolts shuddering under Eric’s grip. It knocked him out of his stupor and he looked down at the grooves he dug into the corner of the table with his fingers. He took a deep breath and then, said with an unnerving calm. Stick, however, remained cool and impassive throughout, taking another sip of his Pepsi.

“ Cut the shit, Stick. Why are you here?”

“ I’ll cut to the chase.” Stick’s lips puckered as if he was swallowing a lime before speaking. “ I need your help with a problem. A vampire problem.”

That was two firsts for Eric. The fact that Stick needed help and that Stick was involved in the supernatural side of things in New York made his stomach turn.

“ So, why pick me?” Eric stirred his espresso absentmindedly with a spoon. “ There’s better hunters out there than me.”

“ Don’t sell yourself short, Brooks. Your hunting’s not what I recruited you for. It’s - “ Stick tapped his forehead two times. “ - your knowledge. Sure, every hunter I’ve met knows how to stake and how to kill but Jamal didn’t teach you just to be a mindless killer. He taught you to think.” Eric watched as Stick fished a hand inside his ratty trench coat. “ Which brings me to this.”

It fell onto the surface of the table, rattling from the impact, before lying still. The metal was whorled with faint waves etched onto the surface and had been shaped into a circlet with an open five fingered hand in the middle. He reached out to touch it and felt his skin begin to warm up upon touching it.

It was blessed sliver, but blessed sliver didn’t usually elicit that type of reaction. There was only one answer.

It had to be made of heirloom silver.

Back in the days of the old magic, when hedge wizards were few and far between and the Masters of the Mystic Arts were still burgeoning, the only way to kill vampires was to use sliver that had been inherited down for generations from father to son, mother to daughter and so forth. The vampire clans long ago had tried to hoard all the heirloom silver in the world to try and stave off their extinction. Rumor was they had enough buried away to crash the global economy. The rest had been reforged into jewelry, artworks, useless knick knacks that wouldn’t pose a threat to them.

The number of heirloom silver artifacts he’d seen in the hands of Van Helsing and the rest of her ilk was less than five and they were all weapons of some sort.

“ Where’d you find this?, He peered back up at Stick.

“ I found it off a Hand ninja. Funny thing about the guy was that he was stronger than the rest. Heart didn’t beat but the rest of him was like a block of iron.” Stick paused for a moment to rub his knuckles. “ Had to chop off his head to make sure he stopped trying to break my rib-cage.”

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. There was no need to vocalise the unspoken connection that both of them made in an instant. A millennia old cult of ninjas getting their hands on the supernatural formula for the most virulent bloodsuckers ever made by dark magic was a recipe for disaster.

“ So…” Stick grumbled. “ How’d you suppose they made - “

“ No.” Eric interrupted. “ Not made. No one’s ever made one ritualistically since Dracula. You have to be Embraced and to get Embraced, you have to contact a clan.”

“ So, which clan is it? I assume it’s gotta be the biggest one in town.”

“ No, it couldn’t be.” Eric shook his head, still staring intently at the pendant. “ The biggest ones in town like stability. Why share power around when they can have it all to themselves? No, it’s gotta be a smaller clan. Someone looking to shake things up.”

“ All right. So, who do you think it is?”

Eric steepled his fingers together, ruminating on the possible candidates. It would have to be a clan with at least a measure of influence but not an old one that was mired in tradition and superstition. Allying with the group like the Hand would take more than a handful of vampires but not enough for an army. Lastly, they’d have to be open-minded to working with mortals which was rare considering that most vampires had a superiority complex. So, there was only one vampire lord who had the political muscle and resources available to convince lesser clans that allying with the Hand was a good idea.

It was the perfect one he needed after a long day of grieving and sucking up to other hunters.

Eric set the pendant down on the table and there was a smile on his face that cut through his cheeks.

“ Let’s see if we can’t find Deacon Frost.”

If there was one thing that Eric O’Grady was good at, it was making the wrong decision. His life had been full of such occurrences, from deciding to order burritos the night before his childhood friend’s Bar Mitzvah, to stealing a prototype Ant-Man suit, and to agreeing to sign up with the Avengers. The former had meant he had missed the big event, leading to Chris McCarthy getting with his teenage crush, Veronica King, before he had even gotten the chance to ask her out himself. The latter had resulted in his untimely death as his body was brutally pummeled. Both events were equally impactful to Eric’s life, and where the robotic copy of his mind drifted to whenever he found himself contemplating his choices.

It was where the mind of the Life Model Decoy of Eric drifted to now as he found himself shrunk down inside the wiring of this apartment’s security system. This current job was probably one of the riskiest he had undertaken since donning the Ant-Man suit all those years ago. And honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure if it was worth it.

He moved quickly, yanking wire after wire from where they found themselves soldered. The creator of his suit would probably have controlled a swarm of crazy ants to do this job for him – also known as Paratrechina longicornis apparently, according to the Wikipedia entry Eric had glanced at a long time ago - however, despite having ‘Ant’ in his name, Eric was never a fan of using the critters. The bastards creeped him out. Besides, the helmet needed to send out his brainwaves to work and given that Eric was now a walking tin can in a skin suit, brainwaves were rather hard to come by. On the bright side, the walking tin can aspect of his new “life” did come in handy every now and then, with Eric having downloaded the schematics of the security system into his mind a few hours prior.

With a solitary beep, the green LED lights of the security system's control panel flashed red momentarily, before fading. He was in.

A smile forming beneath his mask, the Black Ant squeezed his way out of the cheap plastic coating and out into the apartment proper, looking down upon the monstrous room now at his disposal.

Well, monstrous for his currently reduced size. It was actually a fairly mediocre room, with a small kitchenette spreading around one half, whilst the other was filled with a dingey couch opposite a flatscreen TV. The couch was currently occupied by a middle-aged man, who, given the snores, was currently fast asleep.

Pot-bellied and balding, Billy Koenig, was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. He had been one of Eric’s supervisors during his time at the organization. A stickler for the rules, and a massive pain in Eric’s ass. From what he had been told, since his departure, Koenig had risen through the ranks, now finding himself working directly under the Director himself. It was a decent role, but if an apartment like this was the reward for years of service at one of the most important intelligence companies in the world, Eric was glad he had dipped from that life.

That was one good decision at least.

Leaping down into the room, the Black Ant shifted back to his full size, his eyes fixated on his former boss through the lenses of his visor, as his hand moved to one of the pouches on his utility belt.

He wasn’t here to kill the man, not that Eric would’ve been against such a job. No, instead he was here to rob him. Well, rob parts of him, to be precise.

Removing a small metal device from one of his pouches, he leaned over the sleeping man, his body moving as silently as he could will it to. Steadying his hand, he moved it to Koenig’s face, where as carefully as he could, he lifted one of his eyelids. Ignoring the disturbing nature of the blank pupil before him, he clicked a button on the device in his other hand, spurring it into life. The tip of it spun, as the numerous cameras within each of its stems began to flicker.

Scanning Koenig’s optical biometrics took longer than Eric would’ve liked, with the mercenary expecting the man to wake from his slumber at any second. Finally, however, he was done, with the device shutting down as quickly as it had started, with Eric let the eyelid close.

Now all he needed was the Agent’s fingerprints and he could leave the way he came.

He reached back into his pouches, where he began to rummage for the fingerprint reader he had bought. His hands moved back and forth within the pocket, before quickly moving to the next, and the next, with each search becoming more and more frantic. That was when the realization hit him.

He had forgotten it.

“Shit.” He mouthed the word silently under his helmet as the Black Ant stood back in disbelief.

How could he be so stupid? Why hadn’t he doubled checked his equipment? He shook his head disappointedly as he racked his brain for an idea, or even for just an excuse for when he returned to base empty-handed.

Landing his eyes on Koenig’s knife block on the kitchen counter, Eric O’Grady let out a sigh, before stepping towards them.

Another item to the list of bad decisions.

---

Baggage, your passports ready,
And follow the green line to customs and then to immigration
BA two-one-five to Rome, Prado, Naples...



Live for today,

....that's me!

---

"Don't let them get too--"







"--backup! I repeat, we need--"







"God, I love it when a plan falls apart," the Joker mused to himself as he adjusted the fit of his jacket-- a little tight in the shoulders these days, "even when that plan's my own."

Stepping out from the washroom into the halls of general population, the air rang with the sounds of glorious chaos. Primal screams, threats and challenges, the sound of fists smacking against faces. The rattling of teeth as they scattered across bare concrete. Shrieks of pain and horror. The deafening roar of gunfire, some bullets made of rubber, others most definitely not.

Normally, the Joker would relish in this, drink in the mayhem the way other connoisseurs might take in a fine wine or the strains of Mozart. However, today he really did have to get going.

Someone had been picking off members of his old gang, including some of his very favorite henchmen over the years. And that someone needed to be taught a lesson: no one, no one, plays with the Joker's toys. And that was a lesson he wouldn't be able to teach until he got off of the island and back out into the big wide world.

"--around the corner, think that was the Joker! We can't let him--"

"Oop, gotta go!" the Clown Prince said to himself, breaking out into a sprint as the tromp of heavy boots approached. "Can't stand around daydreaming all day!"

"--ohshitthat'shim, hey, HEY! FREEZE!"



Fire from a guard's submachine gun kicked up sprays of concrete and tile shards, bullets whizzing past the thin white madman as he made a beeline for a crush of bodies in front of him, inmates and guards already engaged in a violent melee.

"Hot stuff, comin' through, scuze me, outtatheway!" he shouted into the din, elbowing his way past a few, wriggling like a snake between others, and trampling over those already on the floor. Stars and colors exploded in his vision as a stray fist caught his nose, causing his eyes to water and his head to swim for a moment. When he regained his senses, a big guy with bible verses tattooed across his face was holding a knife to his throat.

"After all my sins," the big man muttered to himself, "God delivers unto me a demon to slay."

"I-- *ngh!*--don't know about all that," said the Joker as he strained to get one hand into the breast of his jacket. "I've always been told it's in bad taste to make jokes about God and religion. But hey, it's always been a blasphemy!"

"....what's that supposed to mean?"

The clown rolled his eyes. "Blasphemy, but it sounds like 'it's been a blast for--' you know what? Never mind, I've got to get going."

With one hand in his jacket, the Joker squeezed the small rubber pump sewn into the inside, connected to the flower in his lapel. A fluorescent green fluid sprayed out, catching the big man in the eyes. A split second later, the hiss of acid burns was followed by blood-curdling screams, and the Joker casually freed himself of the big man's grip, relieving him of his knife.

"I really need to work on my puns," he muttered to himself, carving his way through the rest of the melee as the guard with the submachine gun let out another burst.

Ducking and winding his way through the building, he began making his way down and to the southeastern end of the island, where the helipad was sure to be receiving backup from the GCPD's SWAT teams any second. Sure enough, the heavy rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades from up above confirmed his suspicions, and he grinned.

---

"He's making for the helicopter. Good, that's just what we had in mind. Unlock the southeastern gate, but keep all the doors in that wing sealed. The GCPD will have to take their time breaching each one, and he'll slip right through in the air vents."

"...wait....you want him to escape? I thought you wanted him dead."

"Are you questioning me?"

"O-o-of course not, my Lady! I j-j-just--"

"Believe me, I absolutely want him dead. More than anyone else in the world. But he can't die yet. First, he has to suffer. And he has to know why..."

---

"Beg your pardon," the Joker shouted over the roar of the helicopter blades as he climbed into the cabin, "But do you know if this one's headed to Sheboygan?"

The pilot turned in alarm, but before he could draw his pistol or radio for help, the Joker lunged forward, plunging the knife he had acquired earlier into the side of the pilot's neck. Dragging the dying man out of his seat, the clown sat down at the controls.

"Let's see, let's see," he muttered to himself, "rudder, pitch, throttle, seat warmer--hey, do you know how to play some tunes on this thing?"

The pilot let out a bloody gurgle as his body convulsed for a final time.

"Ahhh, I'm sure I'll figure it out," he said with a chuckle before opening up the throttle, "and awayyy we go!"

The helicopter rose high into the air, leaving Arkham Asylum behind, and leaving the GCPD officers stranded in the madhouse.

"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA, OOOHOHOHOHOOOO!" the Joker laughed to himself triumphantly, now truly free and clear. "Ohhhh, that was too easy!"

"Indeed it was," a voice crackled over the chopper's radio. "Far too easy. I facilitated nearly every step of your escape. Diverted guards from your location, kept the more dangerous inmates busy, even made sure this helicopter would be there to whisk you away to freedom. You're very welcome for that, by the way."

"Oh?" the madman asked with a raised eyebrow. "And who might you be, that you're so willing to help out a poor old clown down on his luck?"

"All in good time," the voice answered, "But for now...you can refer to me as 'Lady Arkham.'"

The Joker stifled a laugh. "That's a bit of a presumptuous name, don't ya think?"

"Oh, trust me, no one's more deserving of the title. I know the asylum inside and out, better than anyone. Even you."

"I wouldn't bet on that, sweetie," the Joker bristled at the newcomer's boast. "I've spent more time in that place than anyone."

"More than almost anyone, Joker," the voice responded. "But I'd rather not tip my hand just yet. You've still got quite a bit of game to play if you want to know who I am, why I helped you escape....and why I've been killing your henchmen."

The Joker's hackles raised. "I don't know or particularly care who you are, honey. But since you seem to be new to the Gotham City super-criminal scene, let me give you a free fact about me. I don't play other people's games. I have something of a thing when it comes to people expecting me to play by the rules. You'd know that about if you spent a fraction of the time in the looney-bin that you claim, 'Lady Arkham.'"

"Oh, I do know that," the voice said, a sinister edge growing in its tone. "I also know that you have a 'cousin' named Melvin, who works at a tuna canning plant in Maine, to whom you send $5,000 every month despite having never contacted him. I know that you only have seven of your original teeth left, due to multiple violent encounters with the Batman and his associates. I know that you talk in your sleep, and often mutter about a woman named Jeannie."

The Joker's smile was gone now, his lip curled into a scowl.

"And I know that, somehow, despite all logic and reason, you're going to find a way to survive this crash."

"Crash?" he asked. ".....what c--"



With a shower of sparks and a groan of twisting metal, a small explosive detonated in the helicopter's tail rudder, sending the aircraft spiraling out of control.



"Heh," the Joker chuckled to himself as he struggled in vain to control the chopper, "I just had to ask, didn't I?"

Warning alarms and klaxons blared as the helicopter careened towards the Gotham city skyline.

His head swam, his stomach lurched into his throat....

....and just before he closed his eyes, he saw the shape of a skyscraper filling his vision.

"This," he muttered, "is really gonna hurt...."

The restaurant hummed with activity, despite the rainy Tuesday night that lay just beyond its subtle front door. Hidden away, those that frequented the diner called it Boston’s best-kept secret, a hidden gem among hidden gems; yet for such an apparently undiscovered locale, it was scarce that a table ever stood empty. Busboys hastily cleared plates and cutlery from finished meals just as soon as patrons departed, not wasting a single second; there were always more hungry customers, eagerly waiting to sate their appetites. Waiters weaved across the floor, the foods they carried so deliciously fragrant that you could practically see the smell coming off the plates like some '60's Hanna-Barbera cartoon. Delicacies both exotic and banal in their origins were welcomed with equal enthusiasm, and the building was filled to the brim with an unbridled passion for the culinary arts.

It made Daryl very uncomfortable as the spirit railed against him, even more uncomfortable than the low ceiling that had him hunched over and his neck at an awkward angle as his towering frame struggled to fit through the door. His belly rolled and rumbled, and let out a churning growl. Cpt. Ben Daimio raised a single eyebrow in a look of disapproval that felt all-the-more withering coupled with the permanent, artificial sneer afforded to him by the rippling scars across the left half of his face. The captain put a hand to his earpiece as Daryl looked away, filled with shame.

"Are we sure that bringing the spiritual incarnation of famine to Chicago's premier non-human eatery was the best tactical decision?" He asked, and if Daryl still had blood he was sure his cheeks would be blooming from embarrassment. All the Wendigo wanted was to eat the world; all Daryl wanted was for the world to eat him.
Daimio's earpiece crackled as Kate Corrigan picked up the receiver to respond.
"Don't be insensitive. His rehabilitation has taken huge strides in the last few years, and he's been cleared for field duty. This was the perfect assignment; Daryl's well-equipped to maintain composure here, and when he does, he'll have proved to himself that he's in full control of his curse."
Daimio just grunted in non-committal reply, but Daryl swelled inside. No one believed in him like Kate. Not even Daryl. She was right, though, as she often was - if he could suppress the Wendigo in here, with carcasses and cuisines alike being ferried beneath his nose, then he would demonstrate with finality the control he had trained so long for.

The maître d' approached, regarding Daimio and Daryl with nothing less than amicable professionalism. On the table directly behind him, a Domovoi clapped in delight as it was served a large pot of Borscht, submerged in which Daryl could see were lumps of charcoal. The maître d' was a neat gentleman, his suit pressed and strictly creased. His skin was pale and almost ethereal, his hair ashen-white and slicked back tidily, and his eyes an eerie, cosmic lavender. He paused in front of them, and then a welcoming smile erupted across his face in what Daryl recognised as a well-practiced professional technique.

"Gentlemen, how curious to see the authorities this afternoon. May I take your names?"
Daryl looked at Daimio, who did not look back but instead stared straight at the maître d' without meeting his eyes.
"No. But you may be taught how to refer to us." Daimio replied, and Daryl noticed the most subtle tightening of the maître d's lips even through his unfaltering smile. "Captain, and Agent." Daimio continued, gesturing to himself and Daryl respectively. There was a pause, and then the maître d’ gave a slight, courteous nod in response. Apparently satisfied, Daimio carried on. “We’d like to be granted audience with the highest authority in relation to the operation of this establishment, and speak face-to-face as equal parties.”

At this request, the veneer broke, and they were met with a patronising scoff.
“Your organisation knows not who it asks after.”
Daimio wore his own polite smile now.
“My organisation knows very well what we desire - and how to get it.” He reached into the back pocket on his jeans and produced a gold coin, placing it pointedly on the host stand. “We understand you’ve been receiving trouble from a Dullahan. They despise gold as much as you do iron. Place this by your door and your intrusions will cease.” Daimio put a finger on the coin and slid it purposefully across the wooden stand. “It is our gift to you.”

At the word ‘gift’, the gentleman’s nostrils flared and a benign sneer became a malignant snarl. He snatched the gold coin up with equal amounts of eagerness and reluctance, and tucked it away beneath his jacket. He beckoned tightly, and as he led them through the restaurant - Daryl’s head low and swinging nervously, trying to avoid the candles that flickered on the chandeliers - Daimio looked rather pleased with himself, in a particular vindictive kind of way.

Three flights of stairs up - glorious, widely-set, tall stairs that Daryl climbed 6 at a time with a wonderfully straight spine - and Daryl once again ducked his head as they squeezed into a plush, ornately-decorated office. There was a woman at the end of the room, who shared the snow-pale skin and galaxy-purple eyes, but her hair was a shimmering, rich gold, flowing down her body and stopping just before her hips. She turned, and her beauty stunned Daryl; there was a moment wherein the man he had been was deeply moved just to look upon her, and then the coldness of the Wendigo swept over and turned it into just more Hunger. Her violet gaze locked with his black pits, and then moved up and down his body with a look of tempered consideration. Daryl swallowed.

“You smell like a kelpie drenched in brine.” She remarked, and Daryl broke away to look down at the floor and his crooked, awkward was-feet. She looked at the maître d’ who had led them here, and he avoided her eyes.
“Why did you bring them here?” She asked, and he almost flinched beneath her demand - but produced the coin Daimio had given him downstairs, holding it out clearly between two fingers.
“They did me a favour.” He said, with a weary sorrow in his voice; the woman sighed and turned around to look out the window in the back wall of her office.
“Go home.” She said, and the maître d’ left. There was a pregnant pause, but it was only when the woman began to speak again that Daimio interrupted her with:
“We’ve come to strike a bargain.”

And at that, Daryl could smell the most peculiar mix of ecstatic curiosity and apoplectic fury erupt into the room. He had to give her credit though; for all the stench of it in the air, she did nothing to show it past taking a seat at the desk and carefully producing a leather-bound ledger with yellowing pages.
“As the approaching party, state your desire. Then we will see if you can afford it.”

Daryl and Daimio shared a glance, and Daimio nodded. Daryl sat on the floor in front of the desk, his legs splayed to the side but his head still grazing the ceiling. A deep groan came from within him, a grumble moving up from his chest into his throat.
“Nnn…n-nAme…f-firST.” He said with a voice like a winter storm through dead trees , pointing a singular claw at the woman. She regarded him carefully, and Daryl could see pin-prick goosebumps of fear flash on her shoulders, but she steadied herself and was once again composed.
“You may know me as Shailagh.” She answered, and Daryl did. He pointed to himself, and then Daimio, replying:
“DaaA-ryl. Ben.”
And then he extended his open hand, proffering it across Shailagh’s desk. “EEeequals…”

Shailagh looked at Daimio, who offered no reaction, and after another long pause, Shailagh took Daryl’s hand and they shook. Equals. Daimio nodded, and approached the desk as Daryl took back his hand.

“We need information.” He began, and this elicited the patronising scoff that Daryl was beginning to feel was instinctual for faeries.
“Information is an expensive thing. It’s the most expensive thing.”
“We are prepared to meet the cost.”
“Humans are prone to over-promising and under-delivering. We do not let debts lie unpaid.”
“That’s as may be; but we will hear your price nonetheless.”

Shailagh considered this, and for all the tension in the room she looked faintly amused. It was rare the fae dealt with humans that knew how to deal with them. The change of pace was almost refreshing. She nodded, and Daimio forged on; he produced a thin file, and flicked through it. Daryl noticed Shailagh subtly crane her neck in an attempt to see what was contained.

"Eleven months ago, a woman died in her apartment in Boston. A tragic case, especially as she was pregnant, and the child was lost, but standard fair for the police. No man in the picture. No signs of forced entry. No wounds on the woman. No evidence of foul play. Coroner chalked it up to a freak accident. Case closed. Papers didn't run it. Probably because she was an immigrant."

Shailagh sat quietly, listening carefully. No questions had yet been asked. Daimio removed a photo print from the file and tossed it onto the desk. It depicted viscera that poked the Wendigo something fierce, but Daryl recognised it as a corpse.

"Eight months ago, a man's body is found on the streets. Gutted. Organs missing. Eyes gone. Body torn open. Police put it down to 'gang violence'. Case closed. Papers didn't run it."

Daryl watched Shailagh carefully, but if she had any thoughts or held any secret emotions, she didn't show it.

"Six months ago, same thing." Daimio continued, throwing a second photo to the desk. "Five months ago." A third picture. "Three months. One month. Last week." Three more photos. Daimio came to a stop, and Shailagh took the photos in hand, fanning them out like playing cards. "No media buzz on a single one. Nothing mainstream, anyway. And one detail - the same detail - has been redacted from every single police report."

A low, subtle rumble emanated from Daryl's depths. Shailagh raised an eyebrow. Daimio ignored it.

"Nothing happens in this borough without the Boston Fae knowing about it. And if the Boston Fae know about it, you know about it. So, here's what we want:" and at this, Shailagh finally became animated, "we want to know where in Boston grows the highest density in concentration of Plumeria flowers."

Shailagh paused. She pursed her lips. She looked from the photos, to Daimio, to Daryl, and back at the photos. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Daimio's file, its blank covers still as unreadable as they had been minutes ago. She looked at the photos again, before turning them over and leaving them face-down on the surface of her desk. Finally, she stood up, walking once again to the back of the room to look out the large window that comprised most of the far wall. On the desk, her ledger rustled, old pages crinkling in an unfelt breeze, before settling on a blank page. Atop it became scribed in dark ink their names; beneath Daryl and Daimio's, more words appeared: "KNOWLEDGE ON THE GROWTH OF PLUMERIA FLOWERS IN BOSTON", and beneath Shailagh's: "SINGULAR POSSESSION OF THE WENDIGO SPIRIT". At the bottom of the page, the final etching was a line upon which each party would sign. Daryl and Daimio read the words upside-down from their side of the desk. Daryl felt a sliver of something colder than any winter the Wendigo had experienced pierce through his gut. Daimio merely blinked.

"You ask more than what you offer. This is not fair bargain."
Shailagh rounded on them both with a speed neither could have expected. There was perhaps the notion of a single step forward, and she had crossed the room before either agent could blink; the room seemed to swell with her fury, but was just as quickly dispelled, replaced with a tranquillity that felt all the more eerie for the tension it had replaced.
"You intrude on Fae territory, give freely favours to Fae, plea to bargain for Fae knowledge. Yet you are not Fae. Consider the cost in part taxation for outsiders."

Daryl rumbled.
"Weeeee...shOOk. Equals..." He said, and Shailagh pivoted to look at him. Scar bedamned, Daimio smirked. "Knowl-edge fffor kn-nowlEDGE."

Shailagh locked gaze with Daryl for an uncomfortable length of time. Something black and evil sparkled in Daryl's eyes. Something dubious and cunning sparkled in Shailagh's. Behind them both, on the desk, the wording in the book beneath her name changed to: "KNOWLEDGE ON THE CONTAINMENT AND CONTROL OF THE WENDIGO SPIRIT". There was the slightest nod between them, and Daryl raised a heavy arm to touch a single claw on the line; from the tip, spider-web frost spilled out in the shape of crude lettering, spelling his name. It settled onto the page quickly as ever-ice. A signature befitting the Wendigo. The quill beside the book lifted, and scrawled simultaneously an elegant cursive on the opposite line. As soon as Daryl lifted his hand from the paper, the quill fell to the desk and the book slammed shut.

"I found our meeting to be one of great curiosity, Mr. Tynon. Beneath Trinity Church." Shailagh said. Daryl loomed over her. Daimio stepped forward to shake her hand.
"Our colleagues will share our research with you." He said, already putting his hand to his ear to speak to Corrigan as he turned to leave. Daryl lingered briefly. Neither he nor Shailagh had broken their gaze.
"UN-til...nEXt time." He said, awkwardly, and then followed Daimio out of the building.

---

--
"You'll need to see your tutor about your literature class, Cindy."
Cindy sighed loudly at her mother's comment, though she didn't bother lifting her head from her desk.
"Your mother's right. That B+ is unacceptable considering your education."
Her father added, his tone now laced with that frustrating sternness, but it was the scolding snaps that came after that made Cindy grit her teeth. She hated that, but she didn't bother protesting, knowing exactly what her father wanted. She composed herself and lifted her head to look at her parents projected on their video call.

She still felt bitter about her parents taking her brother, leaving her here. Sure Hal-Mae was probably the only family member Cindy could actually stand at the moment, but there was still a feeling of abandonment here. No amount of promotions or prestigious schools should have been an excuse. Nah, fuck how her parents rationalized it because this was abandonment.

"You're going to see the tutor, right?"
Her father often followed up his strict, authoritarian demands with a condescending question that made it seem like she was her brother.
"Yes. I know. I will." Cindy snapped, she felt like she had enough of this weekly called. It was always about school that they wanted to talk about. Never topics such as: What did you do this weekend?, Why don't you make any friends?, or classics like How are you feeling? Maybe, just once, can she get that question?

She was done with this today. "Okay. I have to go study. Bye." Cindy closed the call on her laptop before her parents had a chance to respond, and then she dropped her head onto her desk. Was this all she really had to look forward to anymore? School? Misery clawed at her in the back of her mind, like it was trying to pull her in and consume her whole. She didn't have tears for it anymore, just an emptiness now.

Cindy hissed in a frustrated breath, but darted up to her feet and across the room to throw on her oversized hoodie. She was going out to do about the only thing she felt made her special. She just had to convince her grandmother to let her out, first.

---

Cindy took a steep breath of the outside air and let the sounds of Chinatown fill her ears.
She took a glance behind her at her building, the blue lighted sign Nowon Restaurant was beginning to lose that homely feeling. It was her grandfather's place before he passed. Hal-Mae sold it on the conditions she be allowed to keep her apartment and all that. This place use to be home growing up here but now, it was beginning to feel like the other buildings. Her grandmother was always such a gentle person, and that's why she was so great compared to her parents. There was a part of her that felt bad for lying about going out to meet a friend or get dinner, but she wasn't very good to talk to. She'd just always take her parents' side, no matter the complaint. In a way, Cindy felt like this was a way to get even if she could just be excused to go out, right?

With her hood drawn up, she made her way through the peddlers and people making her way east towards the waterfront of East River. On the way, she picked up a skewer of pork and scarfed it down quickly. That way she wasn't exactly lying to Hal-Mae about going out. She pressed on, her destination taking her well out of Chinatown.

She'd eventually make it to where she wanted to go. A vacant waterfront warehouse. It took a bit of patience to get in without anyone noticing, considering she had to conspicuously hop a fence, but after that it was easy. She just had to get to the roof on a two story building. Easy.

Cindy moved around to the side of the building and glanced up the vertical wall face before her. There was no ladder, exterior placements to climb off, it was just a smooth vertical wall. Cindy approached, reaching up to smack the wall with her right hand letting it stick firmly as she pulled her entire body up. Her left then reached out and gripped above her right, and so on. She scaled up to the roof using her wall-climbing ability without any issue. She turned and sat on the edge of the building, looking out across the river towards Brooklyn.

It was here that she always thought of Spider-Man just before entering her little practice ground for her spider powers. Why did she have them? She speculated maybe he gave them to her somehow, or maybe they were related! Her long-lost brother that her parents destroyed any evidence of existing so Cindy wouldn't follow. She wanted a chance to ask him one day, maybe to help him, too. One day, if she ever worked up the courage to just throw her old life away. If she could. She doubted that she was hero material, believing someone like Spider-Man was a flawless person. Probably had great parents, too. Well if he wasn't related to her.

Time to get to work. She had a whole warehouse to herself to fling webs, climb walls, and leap around. It was nice to cut loose. Her parents would have killed her if they ever find out, but she was doing it the right way.

Nobody had to know, after all.

Well, maybe Spider-Man but who knows what he was doing right now.