T H E ‘ E M B A S S Y ‘

---

^{Four Months Ago | Manhattan, New York}

“OK… so it says here that you’re a mutant…” Ted started, flicking through the résumé and pausing to look for the name of this new prospect

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“What, no-- No! No problem at all. I’m best friends with mutants. My girlfriend’s a mutant…” Ted stammered.

“Ah-huh.” Came the flat reply.

“Part of why I put this team together. Was to show that mutants and humans can collaborate and work together effectively without any kind of issues or problems at all. No problem. What I was saying though, is that it says you’re a mutant but then underneath ‘Powers and Abilities’ it mentions—” He tried to get the interview back on track.

“I have a beak.”



“Yes. I can see that. But— does it come in useful at all? Like are you able to use it for—”

“Sometimes I open bottles or cans with it…”

“I think what my compatriot is asking is, does it make you adept at all in a fight? Can you just let someone have it with that thing, or..?” Booster asked, shadow-boxing from his seat.

“What? No. It’s on my face. I’d literally be smashing my face into things. That’s not fun.”

“OK. Flight? Can you fly, or?”

“Well, I have got extremely lightweight bones…”

“Uh-huh.” Ted said rocking forward.

“And I used to wear a suit that would kind of help me glide a bit.”

“OK.”

“But that was kind of just the suit. I mean I have some feathers growing—but they’re kind of growing through patchy underneath these clothes. Charles Xavier said one day I might be able to fly though. Without the suit. It seems that’s how my body is growing...”

“Ah, references. Yes. That's good...” Added Booster, flicking forward through the résumé to that part.

“But not yet.”

“No.”

“And you can’t fight?”

“No. In fact, I’m pretty uniquely terrible there. Hollow bones aren’t the best for throwing a punch.”

The three sat in silence for a moment at that response. Ted trying to think about how to address the uncomfortable truth.

“Sooo… how exactly do you plan to be effective out in the field? I mean superheroics isn’t exactly the most forgiving field of endeavour to be learning self defence on the fly.”

“Whoa—whoa—Superheroics? I’m just here to get a job.”

“A job?” Booster queried.

“What exactly do you think we do here?”

“Yeah, I get that. I mean I’m not stupid or anything. But you’re not only hiring mutants to put them on the front line or anything are you? I mean, there’s gotta be other jobs around here that you’d be willing to take on a mutant for… or are we only any good when we’re out there putting our lives on the line for—”

“Whoah!” Exclaimed Ted immediately on the defense, immediately thrusting a palm out as if to stop that line of discussion.. “No! We’re not like that at all!”

Booster watched on, slightly amused at his friend’s response.

“I mean, I can push a broom. This is a big place, I’m sure there’s plenty of stuff around here that needs doing on a day to day basis.”

“That IS true.” Ted considered.

“I mean there seems to only be the two of you here…”

“Alright, hold it right there. We’re not the only two.”

“The others are out at the moment. On patrol or other assigned duties.” Said Booster.

“Then why are you two here doing this?”

“Well, I’m here because I’m supposed to squeeze some sleep in before I have other duties elsewhere in my other life. My other job.”

“And him?”

“I didn’t feel like going out. Patrol’s boring.” Booster explained, stretching out in full recline on the lounge..

“Well, wouldn’t it be good to have someone else here on payroll taking care of the mundane daily operations, making sure the pantry stays full and all the rooms stay clean, who can call you all in if there’s some kind of attack on your headquarters here? So someone like him doesn’t have to stay back to protect the homestead?” The young mutant pointed at Booster. "Because it seems like a waste of manpower.”

“The whole complex has an automated defense system that I designed myself. And he wasn’t joking.” Ted corrected, with a sigh. “He just genuinely didn’t feel like going out, and doesn’t do it if he thinks I’m skipping out on something he’d find boring.”

He turned to Booster and scowled. "It’s not something I thought he’d be so open and honest about with members of the public who he’s only just met though...”

“But you make a good point." Ted got to his feet looking back to the young applicant, signifying the end of the meeting. The potential new candidate also got to his feet and shook Ted’s hand.

“We’ll go through your references. Make sure everything in here checks out, and we might get back to you about-- that kind of position.”

The newcomer shook both heroes hands and then walked out the door.

"Man, he figured you out in seconds and played you like a fiddle." Booster derisively said of Ted.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?? Feh nyeh nyeah no, we duh--duh--don't mistreat mutants, we aren't bigots." Booster delivered an offensive imitation of his friend.

"What? We don't."

"I KNOW we don't. But all anyone has to do is throw up the mere suggestion of you being an anti-mutant bigot and you turn into this stammering wet puddle of awkward liberalness. It's pitiful. AND, if anything, it looks like you're overcompensating."

"That's ridiculous... you don't really think he thinks we have something to hide, do you?" Ted looked concerned.

Booster let out a deep sigh. "Ughhhhhhh, Ted! Why do you care?"

"Beeeeeecause I don't want to come across as a bigot?" He replied, thinking that adequately explained his motivations.

"Fiiine. Then just confirm with his references and hire the guy."

Ted looked at the résumé in his hand and clucked his tongue in his cheek before dropping it on the coffee table.

"Naaaah. I think I'll just tell him he's fine and we'll start him this Monday."

"What? Whyyyyyyyyohmygod! You DO have a problem with mutants! I knew it!" Booster exclaimed, pointing at Ted in an "Ah-Ha!" gesture as if he'd caught him in a lie.

"What--? No. It's not that. You know I don't have any problem with mutants. It's-- Charles Xavier. He's not just "a mutant", I've heard the guy's a telepath..."

"So..?"

"Well, some of us, Booster, value what's between our ears very much. I don't care where he got his powers from. If they came from some other means, a pill, whatever, I'd still be just as unnerved. It's too much power for anyone to have. The thought of it makes me uncomfortable."

"How do you figure? You don't have any problem with Superman. He's waaaay powerful."

"Alright, let me put it this way. If Superman decided for whatever reason, that he wanted to walk up and punt you or me into the sun, he could probably do it--"

"Exactly!"

"--BUT everyone would see him do it, because he's one of the most recognizable individuals on the planet. And if they didn't SEE him do it, there's so few people capable of doing that here on Earth that they'd check for alibis to the people capable, investigate, and there'd be consequences for those actions. A TELEPATH on the other hand, could potentially just give you or me a stroke, and then immediately erase the memory of you from the mind of every person who ever knew you. They could potentially undo your existence. THAT'S the power of the mind, Booster."

"Whoah, that's dark... You've been thinking about this."

"No. Not really. Isn't that much just obvious to people in general?"

"So, you're just going to give this kid the job without checking his references because you think, what, this Charles Xavier guy's going to kill you?

"Well, no. I mean, I hardly think the guy's going to kill me. I mean he's the pre-eminent name in mutant rights. Heh, if he was going to misuse those powers and really drive mutant rights through he could just plant the suggestion in everyone's heads. So if he doesn't want the heat from misusing his powers over something as meaningful as that, I hardly think he's going to use them to kill some guy he's never met before... let alone someone who runs a superhero team devoted to proving that humans and mutants can co-exist."

"Then what are you scared of?"

"I don't know... I have a board meeting later. Public speaking... Imposter syndrome. I don't really like these things in the first place, and just coming back from talking with a telepath it'll be in the back of my mind. 'Maybe Xavier put some hex on me... maybe he's Manchurian Candidate'd me. Maybe he's going to make me drop my pants in the middle of the meeting'..."

"Wow, really?"

Ted jumped up on the coffee table and started, strutting around making wings. "'Maybe he'll make me run around clucking like a chicken' or something dumb like that... in front of the board."

"Alright, I'm starting to see what it's like being on this side of these ridiculous discussions and I'm not comfortable with it..."

Ted was in full swing now, jumping from the coffee table to the sofa and crowing like a rooster. "Buk-- bukk-- BUKKAAAW! BUK-- BUK-- BUK--!"

Then the door started to crack open.



Ted looked from Booster to the young mutant. "That-- wasn't about you..?"

"Ah-huh... I left my backpack."

He slowly trudged across the living room and picked up his backpack, before slowly walking back to the door.

"So... see you when you start on Monday?"

The young mutant turned around, a stoic expression across his beak. "Regular hero salary." He flatly replied.

"I-- I think we can work something like that out." He reassured.

"I wasn't asking." He opened the door and walked out.

"OK! Oh-kay!" Ted said as he jumped off the lounge and raced towards the door, calling out after him. "So we'll see you Monday, right?! Barnell?! RIGHT?!?"

Booster just stood back with his hands on his hips in judgement. "--Tch-- Like I said. Pitiful." Shaking his head at his friend's display.

---

R A V E N ' S P E R C H

---

^{2002 | Oh, are you kidding me??? Still, New Jersey...}

Ted sat on the park bench, with a full length tan trenchcoat mostly covering his colourful superhero attire, and the hat from the set of Karl LaFrey and the Plunderers of the Ark of the Covenant perched upon his head.

Skeets floated gently beside him, and the three kids were still gathered around him.

"So how exactly does this work? Will they show up on the hour? You wrote an exact time and date on the car, right?" Jughandle asked.

"I did. But the one who's going to be coming isn't exactly-- perfectly reliable-- so just being in the ballpark wouldn't be out of the question for him. He's--"

"Kind of a screw up?"

"..."

Ted just sighed before deciding not to answer the question.

"So thanks again for the coat, by the way." He flapped open the trenchcoat on one side indicating the new clothes.

"That's fine. My parents own an antique store with a vintage and secondhand clothing section attached. It comes in pretty handy since-- well, I kind of go through clothes pretty fast." Mize replied.

"In fact--" Fateball added, holding up the tail of his own coat and showing him the significant deteriation, tattered holes, and signs of extreme wear on the back of what he was wearing.

"Aww man... I just grabbed these yesterday!" Mize complained.

The trio waited as seconds of silence passed before Jughandle suddenly and abruptly broke it by speaking up.

"Ugh. I've gotta go. My Dad's calling me home."

"Phone on vibrate?" Ted asked.

"Phone?"

"JESSE! Stop messing around with that vagrant and get your butt home, Mister!"

"Ah." The Blue Beetle uttered in understanding.

"Sorry." He said, calling back over his shoulder as he ran off. "I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow!"

"I hope not!" Ted yelled back at the absent-mindedly optimistic youth, his brow furrowed.

"We should probably get going too." Fateball said, grabbing Mize. "Our parents aren't as hardassed as Jesse's, but they'll still be expecting us for dinner. We'll check on you later."

"Yeah, sure."

"Seeya, man." "Bye."

They left him in peace, and in the sudden complete silence Ted could not only finally hear himself think, but his stomach grumble.

He sighed and pulled the trenchcoat tight across himself. A bitter wind swept through the park.

---

---

"Alright. This time when we go back, I leave a specific note marked FOR BOOSTER in an envelope marked to not open it until the year I'm gone..."

Ted looked like Hell. He'd grown a beard, albeit patchy. The others had offered to let him use their bathroom and laundry, but the wiring in his suit made it clearly "Dry Clean only" and the chemicals he used to personally clean his Blue Beetle suit were stuck in his home in the future. As such his body clung to the funk of a man who was trapped in a spandex-nomex-PVC jumpsuit.

"Why don't you just mail a letter not to be sent until that date, like they did in Back to the Future?"

"...well because, obviously--"

Ted thought about it further. "..."

"...oh my God I just got out movie referenced!"

"Umm..." Fateball nervously wasn't sure how to broach this next subject. Jughandle nudged her forward and smiled reassuringly.

_{"SHIT! WHY WASN'T THIS THE FIRST THING I DID!?! SHIT!!!"}

"I just send a letter! I've been travelling to Boston, risking running into my younger self and screwing up the whole timespace continuum for NO REASON! SHIT! Get me a pen!"

"Well if it makes you feel any better, it wouldn't have mattered even if you had..."

"What do you mean? It couldn't hurt to try, I mean, sure maybe they think it's some kind of prank and don't-- wait a minute. What are you talking about?"

Fateball looked back sheepishly, and dropped her head, not making eye contact.

"What did you do?"

She produced the fateball from her bowling bag.

"No... No, we said we weren't going to do that!"

"Does Blue Beetle's letter ever get delivered to his friends?" She looked down and held up the fateball for the others to see. "'Outlook not so good.'" She read out.

"Hey! Stop that! We said we weren't going to do--!" He got to his feet and ran over to her grabbing her wrists.

"It'd been weeks, Blue. Weeks. I already did it."

"No..."

She repeated her question so he could see the answer for himself.

"Do we ever get a message back to Blue Beetle's friends in the future, for them to come and rescue him."

Ted looked down at the fateball in her hands.



Ted slumped into a quiet depression.

---

---

"Sir, I don't think this is a good idea..." Skeets chimed in a somewhat panicked state.

"Well, I think it's a fantastic idea and I don't think now is the best time for your pessimism." Ted said, zooming in his left lens and prepping his new bargain-bin quality tools.

"I've worked with fine circuitry before, and I can't imagine 25th Century circuitry is any less finicky, so it would seem this isn't a good time for shaky hands or lack of confidence."

"Couldn't be more straight forward an idea. We cannibalize some of your temporal circuitry, find a way to expand the field... exponentially. Then we ride you back to our friends in the present day, where I fix you up."

"Such an action is almost certain to short out those fundamental circuits. And the components required to repair me won't exist for several hundred years." Skeets quickly replied.

"'Several'. Pfft. Now you're just being hyperbolic, three or four centuries. It's barely more than a few. ...Centuries."

Skeets red light blinked at Ted, as if judging him.

"Alright, I guess it is technically 'several'. But that's still no reason to be a big whiner about it!"

"Sir..." The red light blinked again.

"Alright, alright! Fine. We'll ride you to the 25th Century. Repair you. Buy whatever redundant components we need to fix you up again back in our time. THEN we go home." Ted folded his arms sullenly. "Chronal crybaby."

"Does RadioShack even exist in the 25th Century?" Jughandle asked, referring to where Ted had just bought his new tools.

"Of course it does, Juggy. Some companies like RadioShack, Blockbuster, Sharper Image... Some businesses are just forever. They're too big to fail."

Ted sucked his teeth, sighed and turned to Mize. "I don't care if she has that ball. Don't ever take stock tips from her."

"Is this really the best place to be doing this?" Mize asked.

"What are you talking about, it's a beautiful day. RadioShack was right there. I've got myself some new tools. I'm feeling reinvigorated. Excited to possibly be going home. Where's better?"

"Well it is kind of breezy... And there are birds. What if you're in the middle of doing your thing and a bird flies over and craps in--"

"Yes, alright. Renewed confidence aside, I suppose I am starting to come to terms with the reason they don't do open surgery outside..."

"Sir. Please don't let him anywhere near me when you--- well, you know..."

"Skeets, why are you being so dramatic? This isn't surgery. You're not going to die. I know what I'm doing."

"I suppose I'm just nervous because Mize rapidly degrades matter on a molecular level and I won't be protected by my chronal plating, which is also what protects me from the effects of time travel due to shear..."

"Well, it's alright Skeets, I'll make sure Mize keepes his distance whilst we--"

"...And your use of the word 'cannibalize'. As well as your use of 'find a way'..."

"Ok. That's fair--"

"...As well as your intention to tamper with my innerworkings using cheap tools from RadioShack."

"Well--"

"As well as the seemingly baseless overconfidence in your abilities to figure out technology from the 25th Century, whilst ignoring the obvious comparison of it being akin to someone from the age of the French Revolution figuring out how your Bug works whilst they barely have an understanding of basic muskets and the nature of the orbits of the earth, moon, planets and sun."

"Are you finished?"

"Are you still planning on tinkering with my innerworkings?"

"Of course."

"Then no, I'm not finished... As well as the fact that--"

This was going nowhere fact. Ted was growing weary of complaints, complications and obstacles between himself and his trip home back to friends, family and loved ones.

"--audacity to consider doing this outside, open to the elements where any squirrel might run off with a stray--"

"Look, Skeets. You're not really being fair. Sure, I'm from the 21st Century and the technology that was used in your creation came from the 25th Century. But I'm not just any 21st Century schlub. I happen to be one of the best engineers and scientists of my time. And sure, my own technology might baffle and bewilder the average man from that era, what if it were a Galileo or Sir Isaac Newton who were trying to figure it all out--"

"You did not just compare yourself to Sir Isaac Newton..."

"WHERE LOGIC, thank you very much Skeets, is key. I may only be a twenty-first Century man, but I am a THINKING Twenty-first century man. Am I not? And the most important thing would be to observe and consider things rationally before making any potential moves. Would you accept that? So let's take it slow. Have a look under the plating and see if maybe this is at least a problem that can be reasoned out."

Skeets carefully flickered his red light in consideration, and began to float less eratically.

"Weeeeeell..."

"Fair..?"

Skeets drifted back and floated into Ted's arms. "Fair."

---

---

Skeets's casing has been opened up on a picnic bench, whilst Jughandle looks on over Ted's shoulder. Far off in the distance Mize stands sullenly, forced to be away from the action because of his powerset, whilst Fateball talks him down from his disappointment. Ted's left eye looks huge from the magnifaction of that single lens on his cowl.

"Whoa..." Uttered Jughandle.

Skeets flickered nervously.

"It's alright, Skeets, calm down. You're in expert hands nowww-- What the Hell is that..?" Ted poked gently at a crystalline component with a screwdriver that was clearly invented sometime in the distant future.

Skeets suddenly closed up, flashed his lights and flew away erratically.

"NOPE-NOPE-NOPE-NOPE-NOPE-NOPE-NO^{PE-NOPE-NOPE-Nope-Nope-nope-nope..."}

The pair watched as Skeets flew across the park in a panicked serpentine fashion, narrowly avoiding trees and a frisbee.

"I probably could have handled that better..."

"We'd better catch him before he gets out of sight, or gets himself in trouble. He's pretty quick. Guys!"

Fateball and Mize suddenly snapped to attention and, recognising the situation, began chasing after the fleeing robot.

Ted quickly boxed his new tools and took off in pursuit as well.

The four chased the floating robot this way and that throughout the park, before they came to an impasse. Skeets floated above a lake in the park and amplified his mechanical voice through a small loudspeaker which was produced from somewhere within. Whilst the other four stood on the bank several metres away, watching on, panting from the chase.

"That's enough! I think it's time we faced some hard facts. I have been more than cordial until now, but we are clearly still experiencing difficulties in understanding--"

"Wait, Skeets-- Look over there!"

"Wow. Sir. That is really insulting. I'm a robot powered by a 25th Century artificial intelligence, and you think I'm going to fall for 'Look over there'..."

"No, Skeets. You're floating over a lake. I can't reach you anyway, just-- Look!"

"Over the course of our mutual adventures you have employed a 'Look over there!' tactic against no fewer than 46.4% of our antagonists. Including an incident when the Mayor of New York City wished to discuss property damage, at which time you slipped through a crowd and tapped Maxwell Lord on the shoulder so that he would look up and act as a diversion--"

_{"Is that true? Do you really try and make 'Look over there' work as a superhero tactic..?"} Fateball whispered.

_{"Well, now I'm embarrassed to say..."} Ted whispered in reply. She shook her head in judgement.

_{"It's not my fault, I just go with what works..."}

"--it's one thing when you're trying that kind of fatuous 'move' against the likes of Blockbuster or the Condiment King--"

<sub>"The Condiment King..?"

"Don't ask, it was a very sticky situation..."</sub>

"--but to think you'd try and use such a transparent, idiotic ploy against me. I'm not sure if it says more about you or me."

"Look, you're 25th Century tech, floating higher than I could jump, over a lake I couldn't cross without swimming! I couldn't get at you if I wanted to! Just look! Over at the RadioShack!"

Harlem
1936

A light rainstorm fell on Harlem that scorching hot summer night. Instead of breaking the heat, the rain just increased the humidity. Cage could see steam wafting off the pavement from inside the car. He pulled a handkerchief out of his dress’ shirt’s breast pocket and dabbed sweat from his bald head. Jeff, sitting in the driver’s seat, perused over a racing sheet. The rain futzed with their radio, but the sounds of big band music filtered through the static. Glen Miller and his orchestra were playing at the Rainbow Room and NBC was broadcasting it out across the city and the country.

“I think your tip may be bullshit,” Cage grunted.

“Turk just likes to take his time is all,” came Jeff’s response.

Cage had been working with Sergeant Jefferson Pierce for five years now. The two men were the only black plainclothes officers among the NYPD’s sworn officers. And, naturally, they were assigned to work Harlem from the 32nd Precinct. Jeff was the only black sergeant inside the organization, just one of two black men to attain any kind of rank. Cage knew that Jeff had earned those sergeant stripes and then some. He’d had twice as much service time as Cage, and had put up with at least twice as much shit from within and without the NYPD.

“Speak of the devil,” said Cage.

The skinny form of Turk Barrett came out of Ms. Sadie’s, pulling the collar of his blazer up against the rain. Cage started to open the door, but stopped when Jeff put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet. From the way Turk is walking he just lost a lot of money. Five gets you ten he’s going back to find work.”

Jeff tossed the racing form into the backseat and started the Ford. They gave Turk a long leash as he walked down 110th Street in the rain. Cage lit up a cigarette despite Jeff’s dirty look. Cage cracked a window to temper his partner’s passive aggressive waving.

“Think he’s going to the Cotton Club or to Harlem’s Paradise?” Jeff asked Cage.

“Depends on how much money he lost gambling,” Cage replied. ”If he lost a lot, he’ll go to the Cotton Club and pick up a package. If he lost everything, then he’ll go to Harlem’s Paradise and put himself at Stokes’ mercy.”

Jeff nodded slightly at the younger cops’ logic. If Cage didn’t know any better he may have seen a flash of pride on the man’s face. Cage felt even better as they saw Turk approach the Cotton Club. Harlem’s preeminent nightclub and, despite its location, was white’s only for the most part. You had to be somebody rich and famous if you were black and wanted to pass through the doors. NYPD were also pretty sure it operated as a front for organized crime, with heroin being sold out the back. How else could you explain “dishwasher” Turk Barrett being able to afford such nice suits and such hefty gambling debts.

“What’d I tell you?” Cage said as he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window.

Turk ducked into a side alley beside the club. Jeff parked the Ford and put it in park.

“Alright,” said Jeff. “When he comes out, we put him against the wall and shake him down. Try to sweat him and see if we can roll him up. From there we-”

Jeff’s words were cut off by the sound of gunshots. Gunshots coming from the back of the Cotton Club. Cage and Jeff jumped out the car with their own guns drawn. And that’s when hell broke loose.

---

The gun felt heavy in Turk's hands. It always did any time he held in it his rough, calloused hands. He rarely pulled it out. He wasn't like these other two-bit gangsters always flashing iron whenever they got a chance. For Turk, the gun was a weapon of last resort. He usually used his fists and legs and the occasional switchblade to get his work done. If Turk pulled a gun then people were going to die.

The two dead bodies on the kitchen floor were proof of that. Turk had walked into the back entrance of the Cotton Club and found manager Paulie Legs and his bodyguard Momo talking business. Momo flashed a cool look towards like always, but was off guard. Like Momo, Turk was the hired help around here. There was no reason to be on guard. It was easy enough for Turk to pull out his snubnose and blast away at the two men. He killed Momo first with two shots to the chest and neck. What was going on dawned on Paulie just in time to get a bullet in the forehead. The contents of Paulie's brains splattered against a set of pots and pans hanging above the kitchen's prep area.

Turk quickly tucked the gun back into his waistband and started to rifle through Paulie's pockets. The Cotton Club always closed on Sundays so there would be limited staff here, but plenty of them were around to hear the gunshots and come running. Turk found Paulie's keys and hurried through the kitchen towards the manager's office. He unlocked the office and stepped inside, locking the door behind him. The digs were standard, a couple of chairs and a desk with a door behind the desk leading outside. But in the corner was a safe nearly as tall as Turk and at least a ton heavier. On Paulie's keys was the skeleton key for the safe. Turk slipped it in and popped the safe open.

He nearly licked his lips at the sight of all the heroin. Six packaged pounds of pure, uncut heroin from Turkey, appropriately enough. More than enough to pay off Turk's debts and buy him a new life. Turk found a paper bag in the office and started to put the heroin inside. He stopped when he heard the door to the office rattle.

"NYPD! Open up!"

Fuck

Turk stood and grabbed the bag as the door began to shake on its frame. One of the benefits of the manager's office was it had access to the side alley. Turk ran towards the back door as the door behind him buckled and came off its hinges.

"Stop!"

Turk didn't bother to look back as he bolted out the back door and ran like hell down the alley.

---

Kansas City
November, 1977

“You’re dead.”

Mick McKiernan squinted through his swollen eye at the man in the black turtleneck. His back was turned to Mick as he was busy tossing duffle bags out the window. Mick knew that each bag contained roughly fifty thousand dollars in cash broken down into small, untraceable bills. The three men had came through the door like a fucking whirlwind, the two smaller guys with shotguns while the big guy carried a nightstick like it was a goddamn club. Mick was sure he'd crack Manny's skull with that fucking thing. The blow to Mick's face had sent him to the floor, a shotgun butt into the back of the head keeping him down for a few minutes.

“You and your friends are fucking dead,” he added, hoping to get a rise out the big guy.

Mick saw the man bristle at the threat. He stopped tossing the bags out the second story window and instead turned to look at Mick. Mick flinched under the man’s gaze. He had a face that looked as if it had been sculpted out of clay, raw a sharp edges. Mick had been mobbed up for over forty years and had seen his share of tough faces and mean mugs. But this guy’s face? He’d never forget the sight for as long as he lived.

The big man grabbed Mick by his lapels with two huge hands. The tiptoes of Mick’s shoes slid across the hardwood floor as the man held him up over his head.

“Is that a threat,” he said coolly. The big hands began to find their way around Mick's neck. He gasped for air at the big man showed his teeth and throttled him. “Or a promise?”

---

Chicago
Three Days Later

Quarry slid into the booth just as Broker finished his soup. The fat, middle aged man with pea soup on his tie and a thick mustache looked more at home at a Rotary Club meeting than overseeing any sort of criminal enterprise. He always reminded Quarry of Captain Kangaroo, the children's TV host. Looks were always deceiving, thought Quarry. Broker was without a doubt the most dangerous man he knew. And considering his past and present associates, that was really saying something.

“How was the drive down from Wisconsin?” Broker asked.

Quarry shrugged. He didn’t want to show his annoyance. When he wasn’t working, Quarry had a little farmhouse on Lake Du Bay he called home. It was a solitary life and he loved the quiet and he worked hard to keep his home a secret. A small hint of a smile played on Broker’s lips as he lit up a cigar. Quarry remembered the same smile on Broker’s lips years ago, when Quarry had just gotten off for murdering his soon to be ex-wife’s boyfriend. It was a scandalous story that was in all the tabloids. A Marine returns home from ‘Nam, finds his missus in bed with another man, and just snaps. It attracted all kinds of attention. Death threats, love letters, and the occasional crackpot. Quarry originally thought Broker was one of the crazies when he pulled up to his house in that big Lincoln.

“You killed for country and honor, for revenge, and hell… even pussy,” Broker had said that day. “How would you like to kill for money?”

“I want to personally thank you for that mess you cleaned up in Miami,” Broker said, exhaling smoke above his head. “Those goddamn Cubans, they mix politics and drug running up and before you know it they’re getting high on coke and seeing communist around every corner.”

“Buddy died over their bullshit,” said Quarry. “I wasn’t about to let them walk away from it alive.”

Broker nodded and puffed on his cigar. Quarry was not sure just how deep the criminal iceberg was with Broker, but he knew at the very least he had a small squad of men at his disposal like Quarry. They were all professionals who were trained – most by the US Armed Forces – who eliminated problems the Broker and any of his cohorts may need dealt with. They operated all over North America, killing as needed and were paid handsomely for their services. Quarry's house and car were paid for and his nest egg a small fortune. Despite his wealth, he had no doubt the Broker got the lion’s share of his earnings as the go-between.

“Buddy was a good one,” said Broker. “I’m working on getting you another partner. But this job I got line up should be easy enough that it can be done solo.”

“Where am I headed?”

“Kansas City,” said Broker. “At least at first. Two nights ago three guys went into an underground casino on the outskirts of the city. They were pros too. I don’t know the tally for sure, but they got away with at least six figures. No shots fired, no dead bodies, just a few casino employees beaten up.”

Quarry let out a low whistle. To go into a place like that, a place no doubt on high alert for any kind of robberies, and to walk away unscathed meant a few things to Quarry: The guys who went in were damn good pros. And…. they had to have an inside man.

“Where do I come in?” he asked Broker.

“They don’t realize how bad they fucked up,” Broker said with a humorless smile. “The casino is known as an independent holding, but they have a silent partner. Mikey Talarico, capo in the Chicago Outfit.”

Quarry frowned slightly at the news. The mob was involved? He knew Broker sometimes did contact work for the Italians, but it was rare.

“What?” Broker asked.

“They got their own guys,” said Quarry. “Their own trigger men, button men, whatever you wanna call it. Why pay us for it?”

“To keep up the illusion of it being an independent joint,” said Broker. “Independent hitters take out independent thieves of an independent casino. Keeps things neat.”

“I guess,” Quarry said with a shrug. It still seemed convoluted to him. But at the end of the day he was just a bullet, Broker and the people above him did the aiming and firing. “Do we know anything about the thieves?” he asked.

“The guy running the show that night has a rep,” said Broker. “He got ID'd by a few casino employees. His looks are... one of a kind. He’s kind of a walking miracle in that he’s a lifelong independent thief who has yet to have spent major time in the joint or ended up in a shallow grave. Big mean guy. Maybe you heard of him? Parker.”

“Parker what?” asked Quarry.

“Just Parker. Like Quarry. Just Quarry.”

“Never heard of him,” said Quarry. "But I'll help him with an easy transition into retirement."

---

Baldwin, Missouri
November, 1977

Quarry was listening to some soul station while he drove the little rental car down the back country road. Glady Knight and the Pips sang about a midnight train to Georgia over the static as Quarry bounced over another pothole. Broker told him the underground casino was in Kansas City, but upon his arrival in town Quarry discovered it was in the Podunk backwoods of Baldwin, some 45 miles outside the city. After a drive out to Baldwin, he’d stopped at a service station and asked for directions to the Barn. The old man working the pumps rattled off directions like he’d done it for decades. He probably had, thought Quarry. An out of towner asking directions to the Barn was probably nothing new for him.

The Barn lived up to its name, thought Quarry. He pulled into the gravel parking lot. A giant red barn that stretched back across an empty field. An unlit neon sign bedside the road advertised it as “Missouri’s Best Watering Hole.” Quarry’s car was just one of a half dozen or so in the parking lot. He checked his watch and saw it was just before five. The place was technically open, but he would be one of the first customers of the day. A place like this didn’t really heat up until after dark, when that neon sign came on and the people from Kansas City came down to party.

---

Mick McKiernan looked at Quarry warily. Or maybe Quarry was just projecting thanks to McKiernan’s black eyes. Several days had passed since the assault, but his eyes were still black and purple. Otherwise the middle aged man looked to be in good health. Overweight and at that age where muscle begins to turn to fat, though the suit and tie he wore still seemed to fit well enough. Quarry figured he was an ex-cop before becoming security for the Barn. Someone in the Outfit had called ahead and told McKiernan to expect a “guy of theirs” to come in and look around. McKiernan, even if he wasn’t an ex-cop, had to know who Quarry was and what he would do to the thieves.

The two men sat at the bar in the lounge area. Only a few people were set up at the bar, one or two in the lounge chairs and couches stretched across the room. A bandstand on the far wall held musical instruments and a baby grand piano. Over their shoulder were double doors that looked like they were made of some sort of metal. He guessed through those doors was the casino portion of the Barn. As rustic as it looked on the outside, the inside of the Barn was well designed in a sort of retro aesthetic that to Quarry looked like it was early 30’s. He could see why the place was popular. If it were closer to actual civilization it may have been an even bigger operation.

“So there were three guys,” asked Quarry. “What’d they look like?”

“The two with shotguns, one was a tall redhead with bad acne and one was a short guy with dark hair and a fucking weasel face. Weasel-face was a lefty, the redhead was right-handed.”

Quarry lit up a cigarette. He at least had the observation skills of a cop.

“And the leader?”

McKiernan laughed bitterly as Quarry exhaled smoke.

“His face was gruesome. Like those old Boris Karloff movies, and he was big. Six foot five at least.”

“Someone told me that one of your guys here recognized the big guy, and said he went by Parker.”

McKiernan nodded. “Yeah. Raul, our piano player. He’s bounced around places like this over the years. Said he was in New Orleans back in ‘68 and big ugly was part of a crew that robbed a riverboat he was working on.”

“Ten years,” said Quarry. “That’s a hell of a long time to be an active thief like that.”

McKiernan pointed a finger at Quarry. “I worked Kansas City PD for thirty years, half of that time I was a robbery cop. These days most robbers are goddamn junkies. But these guys were real pros, a throwback to the guys back in the day. You gotta be a pro to stay alive and out of jail for that long.”

Quarry nodded and took another drag off his cigarette.

“They came in on a Sunday night, right? How much did they end up taking?”

McKiernan glanced at Quarry before his eyes darted out across the lounge. He sighed.

“We got a local bank we drop off to, but it’s closed on weekends. They took all the take from Friday and Saturday nights, along with what we had so far on Sunday. Based on receipts we’re talking somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty thousand.”

Quarry let out a low whistle. Fifty grand split for the three men. Or maybe less if there was a silent partner. Even still not a bad haul at all. Hell he was only getting paid twelve grand a body for this job.

“Anybody call out the night of the robbery or act unusual?” he asked.

McKiernan looked Quarry in the eyes and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m not going down that road.”

“I just need you to answer the question,” said Quarry. “I’ll form my own conclusions. It’s my job.”

“No, okay,” McKiernan spat. “Or at least not from my back of the house people, the ones who would have helped those fucks get in. Front of the house – the cocktail waitresses and bartenders and cooks – they come and go like nothing. But back of the house, the security people, I hand picked them. They’ve been here at the Barn since I started five years ago. All ex-law enforcement. They know the real people who own this place, the ones you’re working for, and they know double crossing them is the worst decisions they could ever make because it brings fuckers like you out of the woodwork.”

Quarry let the silence between them linger. He actually admired McKiernan’s loyalty. It seemed to be a rare trait these days for any sort of manager or boss to go to bat for their employees. But even still, McKiernan had a job to do.

“Can I please get the names of the security people who worked that night?” he asked. “Along with a full list of all employees, front of the house and back, and their schedules?”

McKiernan glowered at Quarry. He slowly slid off his stool and made his way towards a door on the other side of the room. Quarry knew he couldn’t say no to him. He’d been given explicit instructions by the Outfit boys to let Quarry have full access to the place. The taking his sweet time was as much of a fuck you as he could safely muster. He came back five minutes later with four pages of names and work schedules. Quarry took them and said his thanks. McKiernan stared at him as he looked over the names. Quarry could feel his eyes on him but didn’t bother to look up.

“Were you Army or Marines?” McKiernan finally asked.

Quarry looked up at the older man. He saw a softening around McKiernan’s eyes.

"You carry yourself like ex-military. I know with that fucking long hair and mustache you ain't ex-cop."

“Marine,” Quarry said softly. “Three tours as an STA.”

“Scout sniper,” McKiernan nodded. “Tough work.”

“It was Vietnam,” he replied. “It was all ‘tough work’.”

McKiernan rolled up his right sleeve to show off a USMC tattoo on his forearm. ”I fought the Japs in the Pacific. You know, you boys got a raw deal over there and back home.”

“Yeah,” said Quarry. “Nobody ever spit on me and called me a baby killer… but I’m doing this kind of work now for a reason. Uncle Sam flicked the killer switch, and didn’t really give a damn about turning it off.”

Quarry looked up at McKiernan.

"Is Baldwin where I can find the closest payphone?"

---

It was a little after two in the morning when Quarry saw Mick McKiernan’s Cadillac pull out of the Barn parking lot and onto the rural route. Quarry finally sat up in the front seat of his car and stretched his back. He started his car and waited thirty seconds before pulling on to the road. McKiernan's Caddy had a half mile head start by the time Quarry started after him.

After getting the list of names of Barn employees, he’d gone into town to find a payphone. Quarry called in some favors from one of the many people inside Broker’s information network. The voice on the other end of the static filled line couldn’t tell him anything about Parker, but when he asked about McKiernan himself he got loads of information. The man had been KCPD for sure, but eight years ago got run out for corruption. That didn’t surprise Quarry. He was sure all the guys at the Barn had been ex-cops formerly on the take. But with McKiernan his scam was charging protection and passage to independent thieves who wished to operate in Kansas City. He’d been fingered by Peter and Baxter Edgemont, two brothers who had paid McKiernan and still gotten arrested.

The scandal that followed was covered in the papers. McKiernan resigned and eventually went to trial, where a deadlock jury couldn't find him guilty or not guilty. That state cut its losses after the mistrial and didn't retry McKiernan again. Quarry asked his source to dig deeper on the two brothers and, sure enough, one article described Pete Edgemont as tall, redheaded, and with a pockmarked face. Bax Edgemont, meanwhile, was short and “rotund.” Quarry was sure the papers had struggled on if they should describe his weasel face or not. So Parker’s two partners were the two men who had ruined McKiernan’s career… and he hadn’t thought to mention that to Quarry? After his phone call, Quarry had gotten a burger for dinner and drove back to the Barn, hiding his car in the now almost full parking lot. He settled in and watched the door and waited. According to the schedules McKiernan would be there until a little after two.

Quarry rounded a corner that came to a long stretch of road. He could see McKiernan’s car still in the distance. Close tails were impossible on these backroads so he had to trust Mick was headed back to Kansas City for the night. If he darted down a side road or took another path while Quarry was out of view then he’d lose him. It took Quarry a few miles to realize they weren’t heading towards Kansas City, but instead further east. He felt his skin prickle at the thought. His info on McKiernan said he lived in Independence, Missouri, just outside KC proper. Where in the hell were they going?

After what felt like thirty miles he saw McKiernan’s car pull down a side road. Quarry killed his lights and slowly drove down the road in the dark. He squinted as he came up on where McKiernan had turned. It looked like a gravel road. In the dark there was no way to tell how far it stretched, but he could just make out a light not too far away. Quarry pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. He grabbed his pistol out of the glovebox, along with his leather gloves, and quietly got out of his car. He closed the door softly and started down the gravel road.

Even in the darkness he could see some kind of house down the end of the road. There were a few lights, just enough to see the outline of cars that came into view as he approached the house. He could see McKiernan’s caddy parked there along with a burnt orange Ford pickup. He crept up to the pickup and glanced in. He saw a heavy wooden nightstick resting on the pickup’s seat.

He turned towards the house and continued to slowly walk towards it. As he approached he could hear voices, McKiernan’s among them. Crosstalk with a few different people. One of the voices was gruff. That had to be Parker. Quarry got on his stomach and slowly crawled to a window. He slowly lifted his head to look inside.

There was McKiernan along with the Edgemont brothers. McKiernan had one hand on his hip while his other hand gestured towards a coffee table where three duffle bags rested. The two brothers sat on a couch facing the bags while Parker, in all his gruesome glory, stood closest to it while he faced McKiernan and talked, his arms crossed.

Quarry had to figure a way to get inside, take down all four of them, and get away with the money. Maybe it would be as simple as just waiting outside and picking them off one by one? He did have a sniper rifle in the car. He could just camp at a distance and blow them all away. He didn’t see any guns in the room, but the two shotguns McKiernan said the Edgemont brothers used were nowhere to be seen in the pickup. And there was no way in hell guys like McKiernan or Parker did anything without a gun nearby.

“We need to split it up now!” Quarry heard McKiernan say through the windows. “These are serious people we took off and they’ve already sent a guy to find us all out. The sooner we take the money and get out of here the better we’ll be.”

Parker said something Quarry couldn’t make out, but whatever it was it pissed McKiernan off. He started towards the big man. One of the Edgemont brothers shouted something as Quarry looked to his right and saw the two brothers staring at him through the window, Bax pointing with a stubby finger. He saw Parker turn around and look. His eyes, as cold as an icebox in December, fell on Quarry.

And that was when McKiernan pulled his gun and all hell broke loose.

The simple trick to getting a bullet around impact resistant glass in broad daylight is to walk passed it and throw it as quickly as humanly possible or even quicker if you've got the arm for it. Unfortunately for everyone in attendance that day, they were joined by one man who could do exactly that. So it didn't matter that the state of New York gave Wilson Fisk three heaping helpings of life in prison. He was still getting the death penalty.

"Everyone get down!"

New York's finest flushed into the courtroom like bacon grease sizzling down a drain pipe but The Kingpin's brains were already over easy on the sun baked maple floor. Weapons were drawn but they dared not shoot a single bullet. The last thing they wanted was to be the guy who shot the judge when it came time to ask for their promotion.

Every guard behind Bullseye lay crumpled and dying against the marble walls, reduced to a series of red smears on a failing paper. As the courtroom filled with the fetid tang of shivers and helplessness, the boys in blue collapsed in on themselves like a house of cards built in a pig pen.

"Hey, Foggy!" the marksman mocks through the sobs, "Shouldn't Daredevil be here by now? What's the matter? He hasn't gone yellow again, has he?"

Go away, you psychopath! Foggy imagined shouting. But his short nails only clipped shorter as they sought for the seams in the floorboards to offer him asylum. He held his breath as still as his ribs cradled his heart while biting back the wretched taint of unease.

"Eh, I'm just fuckin' with you. If you ever need someone to do your nephew's birthday party, though, gimme a ring. The economy these days is something else. No such thing as too many sources of income."

And like that, he left the way he'd came, through the backdoor with a trail of bloody footprints. Nelson sat idle until he was photographed, drug out of the room, and badgered for a statement.

"Do you think that supervillain interference with due process should be a major concern for ongoing trials in the city of New York?" a reporter asked, camera crew crowding in.

"I'm sorry, I've had a very long afternoon and need some time to myself."

Some kid with a branding deal cut in, asking "What would you say to Bullseye if he were in front of you right now?"

"Look, Bullseye is nothing special. The only thing that's going to kill me today is sleep deprivation." As Foggy Nelson slinks across the street, briefcase in hand, he thanks heaven for the sheets of rain that came to power wash the paparazzi out of his personal space.

"Hey Nelson!" a pair of lung-shaped cigarette ashtrays roared through the downpour. "Wait up a minute." Ben Urich trotted up with a terrier's gait. "What happened in there? He called you out."

"I guess he was just hoping that our friend would come out and play."

"For your sake, I'm glad he didn't. You know how that guy likes to toy with his food."

Standing in the now destroyed city of K'un-Lun, Davos waited for his enemy to arrive. A year ago Davos' sister Sparrow stole the molten heart of the dragon Shou-Lao after he sought to steal the dragon's power for himself. Davos had trained his whole life to wield the mighty chi of the immortal dragon but with only one fist successfully submerged within the sacred container he now sought to get the other half of what was rightfully his. Unable to pursue his sister to Earth after her quick get away, slipping through the portal that only opened once a year, Davos was forced to watch and manipulate those on the other side to get his birthright. This wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for that McDojo rich-boy cockroach Danny Rand.

Like a mosquito Danny Rand bumbled his way into Davos' sister's life and 'unintentionally' claimed the other half of the Iron Fist. Despite Danny's overall inexperience, he and Sparrow had managed to fend off everything he threw their way while retracing the steps of the last Iron Fist and getting stronger himself. Now things were going to come to a head. With some training, research and shear force of will Davos had managed to rip Sparrow back to K'un-Lun as bait to lure the disillusioned hero Danny Rand straight to him.

The still air slowly began to pick up it's pace as the already gray sky darkened and became just that much more sinister, a energy that Davos hadn't felt in 364 days and 11 hours permeated the air like a subtle static charge before lightning strikes. And then just like lightning... he struck.

Unrefined but emboldened by the chi of a dragon, Danny's fist broke through the threshold between worlds and flew at Davos' head. Davos expected some of the banter Danny seemed to love but none the less the more skilled fighter managed to leap tot he side and out of harms way. Space seemed to warp in on itself as Danny fully arrived, quickly recover from his miss and now standing in short, bobbing stance.

"Never thought I'd get to hit you in person but boy am I going to enjoy this. First things first though; where's Sparrow?"

There it was. An unsuccessful sucker punch followed up by some boasting perfectly summed up this weightless shadow of the mighty Iron Fist Moniker. Davos, like he had thousands of times before, got into a long and sturdy stance, keeping his closed fists close to his waist for the moment. Much less flashy than Danny's Hollywood-style kung-phooey, Davos knew he could take the imposter using his own take on the K'un-Lun style.

"You don't need to worry about that now Danny Rand. Right now all you need to worry about is keeping that arm of yours. Now are you done talking or are you ready to fight?"

"Oh let's dance Silver Salamander."

With another leap, Danny threw a Chi empowered fist Davos' way. With no element of surprise this time, Davos' was able to deflect the blow much easier and follow it up with an elbow to the head, knocking Danny to the ground. A quick stomp followed but Danny managed to weasel away and spring back to his feet. Staring each other down once more, Danny wiped the blood from his now crimson nose as both combatants waited for the other to strike.

Once more Danny took the lead with a quick, powered jab that seemed especially sloppy to Davos though the reason became clear as the half-assed punch drew the attention while the other, unpowered fist of Danny Rand shot up to strike Davos in the cheek. Keeping up the moment, Danny threw jab after jab and pushed back the still reeling Davos who was slow to get his wits back. Davos was no stranger to physical pain but the shock and blow to his ego over being hit by the American buffoon had his focus shattered, if only for a moment. Soon Danny's blows stopped hitting their marks as Davos' arms swiped them away and his forward momentum slowed to a stall. Soon Davos stood enraged, blocking jab after jab until finally thrusting an open palm with great force into Rand's chest, knocking him back and off balance. With a single follow up blow, Davos head-butted Rand to the ground, rage getting the better of him.

"You think just because you have a little bit of power and a basic grasp of martial arts, that you can beat me? I have spent my life training for this. I was going to be K'un-Lun's stalwart defender but you and that girl Sparrow had to meddle. A lifetime of training for this role and now I'm degraded to playing a game of tag with a talentless hack who thought who was worthy of the Iron Fist just because he learned a little history!" Davos yelled at the dazed Danny Rand.

"Hack... maybe... but talentless?" Danny said through tired breathes as his fist started to glow "that's crossing the li-!"

Danny's perfectly channeled chi strike, a skill that had alluded him his whole journey until now, had been blocked in the palm of Davos' own powered up hand.

"No triumphent comeback this time Danny Rand." Davos commented before his hand twisted into an odd shape. The gesture on it's own was odd but what happened next was of real concern to Danny. Whatever strength that Danny had left was being drained from him, not just the chi of his Iron Fist but also his own life force, all of it flowing into Davos.

Danny couldn't even muster banter or a last word before Davos finished the process, leaving the body of Danny Randto slump to the ground. Davos looked to his once mundane right arm as it began to shimmer and glow like his left. All that training and now he had the power to really put it use! With the power of a dragon within him all Davos could feel was... regret. But not his.

The K'un-Lun resident knew he should feel good, after all he now had the power to conquer all 7 of the Heavenly cities in for his home but his once solid goals now felt like they were being shown to him in a new light. Probing his mind and spirit Danny found the source to be the Chi of the bombastic Danny Rand. Some part of him was now a part of Davos, wether he liked it or not the once ruthless warrior had a spiritual hitchhiker. Danny was dead, his body was right there before Davos but his memories, values and experiences now lived within Davos and wether he liked it or not Davos was a changed man. The Iron Fist stood solemnly over the body of Danny Rand for what felt like an eternity as a clam internal struggle took place within him.

New York
1936

A light rainstorm fell on Harlem that scorching hot summer night. Instead of breaking the heat, the rain just increased the humidity. Luke Cage could see steam wafting off the pavement from inside the car. He pulled a handkerchief out of his dress’ shirt’s breast pocket and dabbed sweat from his bald head. Marcus, sitting in the driver’s seat, perused over a racing sheet. The rain futzed with their radio, but the sounds of big band music filtered through the static. Glen Miller and his orchestra were playing at the Rainbow Room and NBC was broadcasting it out across the city and the country.

“I think your tip may be bullshit,” Cage grunted.

“Turk just likes to take his time is all,” came Marcus’ response.

Cage had been working with Sergeant Marcus Stone for five years now. The two men were the only black plainclothes officers among the NYPD’s sworn officers. And, naturally, they were assigned to work Harlem from the 32nd Precinct. Stone was the only black sergeant inside the organization, just one of two black men to attain any kind of rank. Cage knew that Stone had earned those sergeant stripes and then some. He’d had twice as much service time as Cage, not to mention the things he'd seen in France. Cage had tried to ask him once or twice about the Great War. And every time Stone changed the subject.

“Speak of the devil,” said Cage.

The skinny form of Turk Barrett came out of Ms. Sadie’s, pulling the collar of his blazer up against the rain. Cage started to open the door but stopped when Stone put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet. From the way Turk is walking he just lost a lot of money. Five gets you ten he’s going back to find work.”

Stone tossed the racing form into the backseat and started the Ford. They gave Turk a long leash as he walked down 110th Street in the rain. Cage lit up a cigarette despite Stone’s dirty look. Cage cracked a window to temper his partner’s passive aggressive waving.

“Think he’s going to the Cotton Club or to Harlem’s Paradise?” Stone asked Cage.

“Depends on how much money he lost gambling,” Cage replied.”If he lost a lot, he’ll go to the Cotton Club and pick up a package. If he lost everything, then he’ll go to Harlem’s Paradise and put himself at Stokes’ mercy.”

Stone nodded slightly at the younger cops’ logic. If Cage didn’t know any better he may have seen a flash of pride on the man’s face. Cage felt even better as they saw Turk approach the Cotton Club. They knew he was heading towards the club’s back door. Harlem’s premier nightclub was white’s only for the most part. You had to be somebody rich and famous if you were black and wanted to pass through the doors. NYPD were also pretty sure it operated as a front for organized crime, with heroin being sold out the back. How else could you explain “dishwasher” Turk Barrett being able to afford such nice suits and such hefty gambling debts.

“What’d I tell you?” Cage said as he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window.

Turk ducked into a side alley beside the club. Stone parked the Ford and put it in park.

“Alright,” said Stone. “When he comes out, we put him against the wall and shake him down. Try to sweat him and see if we can roll him up. From there we-”

Stone’s words were cut off by the sound of gunshots. Four soft pops coming from the back of the Cotton Club. Cage and Stone jumped out of the car with their own guns drawn. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

---

Hell’s Kitchen

Blake Tower got out the backseat of the taxi and quickly paid his fare. He watched the yellow Desoto speed off into the night as he opened up the umbrella in the pouring rain. Even though he had a short distance to travel he wanted to stay as dry as possible. His tailored suits were far too expensive to get soaking wet.

Tower tipped back the brim of fedora as he entered the shabby little lobby and crossed the scuffed parquet floors towards the building directory. He found the listing he needed on the third floor and started the climb up. There on the third floor landing was the door with frosted over glass and faded gold letters: Nelson & Murdock: Attorneys At Law. The door opened before Tower could attempt a knock. Foggy Nelson stood in the doorway to greet him, his face peeking out of the threshold to make sure Tower was alone before he waved him inside.

“Thank you for seeing me with such short notice,” Tower said as they walked through the office’s small reception area. The desk where a receptionist usually sat was empty. Tower expected that this time of night. Foggy took his raincoat and hat before hanging it up on the stand by the front door.

“We’re night owls,” replied Foggy. “Or at least he is.”

Tower followed Foggy into the back office. He saw, amidst the bookshelves crammed with files and law books, framed newspaper clippings touting the firm’s headline victories over the years.

POTTER WALKS!
Deadlocked Jury Means Mistrial Declared in Potter Murder Trial

I DID IT!
Blind Lawyer Makes Prosecution Witness Breakdown and Confess in Court

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS SIX ACQUITTED
Puerto Rican Gang Found Not Guilty by Jury

Sitting behind one of the two desks that occupied the center of the room was Matt Murdock. Like Foggy, his suit coat had been stripped off and he wore a white, sweat stained dress shirt with a red necktie slightly loosened around his neck. His red opaque glasses glinted in the dim lighting as he tilted his head towards Tower.

“If New York’s most expensive defense attorney cold calls you at your home,” said Murdock. “You tend to open up your social calendar.”

Foggy motioned towards one of the free chairs facing the twin desks as he leaned against the side of his desk and crossed his arms.

“I’m the best,” said Tower. “Not just the most expensive.”

“No,” said Foggy. “We’re the best.”

“You’re just the most connected,” added Murdock.

“A good lawyer knows the law,” said Tower. “A great lawyer knows the judge.”

“And if you can’t talk about what you need from us over the telephone,” said Foggy, an eyebrow raised. “It must mean even those great connections are coming up short.”

Tower leaned back in his chair and adjusted his bowtie slightly as he cleared his throat.

“Are you gentlemen familiar with Rand Industries?”

“They sponsor Jack Benny’s show,” said Foggy. “I hear him and Rochester talk about them at least twice an episode.”

Tower spread his hands slightly as he spoke. “They do more than that. Petroleum, chemicals, car tires, radios, weapons. You name it, they make it. One of the biggest companies in the world. Their owner, Wendell Rand, is the Rockefeller of the 20th century. He’s a client and a close personal friend.”

“And what kind of trouble is he in?” Murdock asked. He laced his fingers together and tilted his head away from Tower. He figured it was Murdock’s way of concentrating on Tower’s words. "And why can't you get him out of it?"

“It’s not him,” said Tower. “It’s his boy, Danny. He was arrested for murder tonight. Wendell is doing everything he can to keep it off the radio, but I’m almost certain the news will hit the morning edition of all the papers.”

Tower saw Murdock lean forward in his chair and place his elbows on the desk. It almost looked as if he was looking straight into Tower’s eyes through his sunglasses. Tower felt a shudder go across his body at the feelings.

“And where do we come in?” asked Murdock. “Surely, you have enough paralegals to help with legal filings.”

“Young Danny is refusing my firm’s help for legal representation,” said Tower. “He’s requesting the two of you specfically.”

Murdock remained stoic while Foggy let a soft grin seep on to his face. Tower knew enough about the two of them to know here would be a debate. These two men were among the best defense attorneys in New York State... but they were among the rarest breed of lawyer, those with unflinching integrity. For all their famous cases, it had done little to line their pockets. Tower reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“I have a very generous retainer check,” said Tower, passing it to Foggy. “It’s made out to Nelson & Murdock. If you accept it, I’ll need at least one of you gentlemen to accompany me to the 32nd Precinct.”

---

NYPD 32nd Precinct

Frank Castle smoked a cigarette and looked in on the interrogation room from the two-way mirror. The tight little corridor ran the length of the three-two's five interrogation rooms, it provided observers the chance to look in on multiple interrogations at one time. Currently their doer had his head down on the bolted down metal table. He’d lawyered up not long after Stone and Cage hauled him in. Normally that didn’t stop the detectives from working over a suspect for a little bit until that lawyer came. But word had come down from on high to treat him with kid gloves. To Frank that meant the kid was politically juiced somewhere down the line.

He moved down the corridor to the next room over. Henderson and Matthews were in there with Stone and Cage, going over their statements. All of them had stripped their jackets and ties off, their dress shirts soaked with sweet and their sleeves rolled up off the wrist. Cage had an ashtray beside him as he chain smoked one butt after the other. Stone was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“One more time for us,” said Matthews. “Just from the top.”

“We were following a suspected drug dealer,” said Stone. “From a gambling house to the Cotton Club. We saw him go into the club’s side alley–”

“Damn shame it was them,” a voice said behind Frank’s back.

He turned and saw Sergeant Russo standing there watching. Even on a hot Thursday night he was dressed for church. Russo didn’t dress much like a cop, an expensive seersucker suit draped over his body with a colorful pocket square tucked into his breast pocket. Frank would bet ten that Russo had a hat somewhere matching the suit’s color.

“They brought in the big guns,” Frank said, expelling smoke as he talked. “If Billy the Beaut from downtown homicide is here, this case must be an important one.”

Russo winked at Frank and looked back at their dozing suspect before turning back towards Cage and Stone.

“Christ, crime of the century and a couple of spooks get the collar?”

Castle let the comment pass. He didn’t know much about Cage and Stone, the two colored men stuck to themselves for the most part. That wasn't too surprising. In the NYPD the micks stuck together, the Italians stuck together, and the few oddball white Americans like Castle were kind of left on their own. So no wonder Cage and Stone had a brotherhood inside the brotherhood. He'd worked concurrent with them for four years now, enough to know they seemed to be straight shooters and hard workers. They took care of the parts of Harlem most white cops didn’t venture into unless they wanted to blow off some steam.

“What do you mean, crime of the century?" Frank asked Russp. “Sleeping beauty in there has to be a somebody, right?”

“Probably confused you when the captain told you not to give him the rubber hose treatment?” Russo said with a smile. “He ain’t anybody, Frank. But his father? The old man makes more money in a minute than you do all year.”

Frank let out a low whistle.

“Rich kid plugs six people at a world famous nightclub,” Frank mumbled. “Christ.”

The door leading to the corridor opened and Lieutenant Hannigan popped his head in.

“Need you boys to clear out,” he said in his soft Irish brogue. “Our suspect's lawyers are here.”

---

Matt sat down on the cold metal chair on the other side of where Danny Rand sat. Tower and Foggy had accompanied him uptown to Harlem, but they waited outside while Matt went in to talk to their new client. He needed as little distractions as possible. He heard Danny sit upright at the sight of Matt. He'd heard soft snoring through the door. How the hell was he able to sleep at a time like this?

“Mr. Rand,” said Matt. “I’m Matt Murdock, but I suspect you already know that.”

“Big fan,” said Rand. “You and Mr. Nelson did some incredible work with the Washington Heights Six. Those poor boys, you know that trial went international? I saw it in the papers in Shanghai, you and Mr. Nelson were in a newsreel at a Hong Kong theater.”

“Good to know," Matt said softly. "I had a debate with my partner on the ride here. It was on whether or not we take your case. If you’re a fan, then you know you are not our usual clientele.”

“Nelson and Murdock: The Saints of Lost Causes."

Matt could feel his face flush. Some writer at the Daily Bugle coined the term during the Melvin Potter case. Foggy loved it, but he didn't have to hear the cold derision in Father Kavanaugh's tone every time Matt went to confession. St. Matthew, he would say. What can I do for you, my son?

"Not a fan of the nickname," said Matt. "We're not Clarence Darrow."

"But even Clarence Darrow defended Leopold and Loeb,” said Rand.

“That doesn’t help your case,” Matt said with a slight frown. “But after some debate, I agreed to represent you if you can answer one simple question for me: Did you do it?”

Matt could hear the cacophony of the city all around him, from the police officer relieving himself three floors above them, to the scuffle of a lady’s shoes two blocks away. He drowned it all out and focused on Danny Rand as he answered his question.

“No. I am completely innocent.”

And Danny Rand’s heart stayed at its consistent rhythm, his forehead already damp with sweat from the heat stayed the same. There was no sounds of micro-movements – those soft almost indecipherable squirms everyone made when they lied. Danny Rand was telling the truth. He was innocent, or at least he thought he was.

“Mr. Rand,” said Matt. “You just hired yourself Nelson & Murdock.”