It’s the same nightmare every night.

The impressions change but the thread is woven the same.

A castle in ruin. A bloodied blade in my hand.

A kingdom on fire. A knight lost to time.

---

SHINING KNIGHT: FRAGMENT I

PIETY 1.2

---

The air is cold enough that he can see his breath coagulating in the frigid wind. Puffs of pale white issue from his mouth with each exhale. He’s faced more merciless winters but those are with the assistance of hearths the size of hallways. He has nothing except the warmth of his own blood as his arms circle around his torso in a deathly grip. It’s only an hour before the shelter opens back up and already, his skin is numb and his fingers feel like thick boiled leather.

Justin sighs and looks up from under the shadow of the Thames to his fellow companions. Flanagan was busy stroking the back of one of his rats. The rodent was arching its spine with every affectionate poke that his friend gave. Another one was taking a long drag of his pipe, fiddling with the end to stuff more tobacco in . The rest were in various states of languid napping and restless sightseeing, awaiting the moment for when the homeless shelter would open their gates and let them in.

A soft bark rang out to the air and Justin turned his head to see a dog imp towards him. One of his paws is hung up, twitching, as he moves on his three legs. His long, matted fur glistens with damp rain as a trail of water drips behind his wagging tail. Justin tries to ignore it until he feels the brush of a wet nose against his arms.

“Go away,” Justin murmurs in annoyance, pushing away the dog’s jaw. The dog whined in complaint before continuing to prod him incessantly as if it had mistook him for its master. Justin stood up, his shadow looming over the mutt. “ I said, go away - “

“ I will not, ser knight,” The dog said.

Justin stumbled onto the ground in shock, his back landing onto the slick concrete hard. The absurdity of seeing a talking dog overwhelmed any sense of pain that he had to a dull ache in the back of his mind. The dog was no longer limping and it had seemed to grow three sizes in full. Its eyes glowed with sinister green hues and the fur seemed to writhe in the shadows as if it was a second living skin.

“ I charge thee upon the laws of the Pentecost.” The dog spoke again in a commanding tone. “ You have forgotten your oaths. Finish it or risk damnation, ser. ”

Breathing fast, Justin narrowed his eyes and summoned the strength to look at the dog’s eyes. Damned Gurt dogs. He thought them all extinct and domesticated by the Age of the Gunpowder. Justin snorted before shrugging his shoulders and looking away from the supernatural creature who could rip his throat out in an instance.

“ No.”

“ That was not an offer - “

“ And so?” Justin’s head whipped back as he spat out his next words sarcastically. “ Do you see any court here? Any king to arbitrate my punishment if I don’t abide? There is no oath to honor in this age. They are dead and so will you and I, foul spirit. Go back to the netherrealms from whence your master dwells and tell him to go fuck himself.”

The Gurt hound tilted its head down, considering Justin’s words, before speaking once more.

“ Perhaps what you say is true, but what matters is that your knightley oaths remain unfulfilled.”

“ What if I choose not to obey them?”

“ Then, -” The dog paused for effect. “ you invite a punishment on your soul of your own will.”

“ What would you have me do?,” Justin replied, the ebbing tide of the Thames echoing off the underside of the bridge.

“ Start by listening more carefully, ser knight, and the path will be made clear.”

The Gurt hound then walked into the shadows and melded with it, sinking into the darkness until its shape was no longer visible. The sound of rabid howling was left in its wake, haunting Justin’s memory until he would return back to the shelter.

1.02

"Enough small talk," Johnny Warlock said, nodding to himself and then to Laura. Laura sniffled, using her napkin to rub away the fresh streaks of mascara from her face. The noise from the restaurant faded into the background. She buried her anger in shaky breaths. She held onto the edge of the table, her fingers squeezing the cheap plastic until her knuckles turned even whiter than before.

"I need you to get rid of something," Johnny said, looking up from his desert with a magnanimous smile. He didn't seem angry. Not anymore. He didn't even seem bothered by their previous argument. He never did. She considered for a moment how quickly he would react. If he could really stop her. Some other time she decided.

He watched her with smug grin, and for a moment she wondered if he could read her mind,"There's a small shop in Gotham Village. Enchantment Emporium. You can't miss it. Dingy. Full of old books. Reeks of magic. You'll spot it in a heartbeat."

Laura frowned. She never liked the jobs Johnny gave her. He was always scheming. He was always planning something bigger. Playing some game she couldn't follow...he wouldn't let her follow. He was going to get her into trouble. More trouble. Worse trouble, if that was somehow possible.

"There's a special item there. A small box, mint condition. Midnight black. Impossible looking, but somehow real. Oak, solid oak. It's old, but real fancy looking, and smooth as a mirror. Has some swirly letters carved onto the lid and a heavy silver lock keeping it shut. It's what you might call one of a kind."

Johnny paused, rubbing his chin, before expounding,"Don't read the letters. Don't speak the letters. And don't, don't so much as try to open the box. It won't end well."

"You want the box?" Laura impatiently interrupted. She could sense another lecture in his voice. Another pointless story. More forced affection and more words designed to hurt.

"No," he said with a chuckle. "I need that box gone. Turned to ashes, preferably, but as long as it's gone, I won't complain."

"The book shop too?"

"Nah, better not. Better keep things quiet. And it's not just a book shop. Pay attention. It's a magic shop," Johnny chastised, thumping a fist onto the table. Laura flinched, turning to look out the window.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Johnny raise a hand, signalling for the bill.

He coughed sternly and she turned back towards him,"Honestly, I don't care what you do to the shop, the shopkeeper or any unfortunate customers who happen to be inside. Just make sure that the box is toast. And if you can, try to keep things discreet. We're flying under the radar on this one. The less anyone knows the better."

"That's a lot of instructions for a box," Laura countered. "Who's got it? Who's the shop belong too? What's this really about?"

Johnny raised his fingers, counting loudly, "One, you don't ask questions. Two, you don't ask questions. Three, you don't ask questions. Four, you don't ask questions. Five..."

"I don't ask questions," Laura finished, grimacing. She knew she'd almost gone too far.

"Good, I'm glad we agree. But I'll give you something. Some nobody has got it. Someone you don't have to worry about."

"Then surely you can send someone else to get it," she said, trying to look kind, trying to look apologetic.

"Not gonna happen. Nice try though. This one's for you and for you alone. Your debt, your job."

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Laura seethed. She'd had enough of his bullshit. She didn't care. "This job stinks and you fucking know it."

She didn't have time to move before his hand struck her. She heard the loud smack and then she could feel it, burning across her cheek. No one in the restaurant looked at her. No one looked at them. Cowards she thought. Just like her.

"That was dumb. Don't be difficult, Laura," Johnny sighed, pushing away his empty plate. He rubbed his hand, it had been hard slap. "If I knew more, then you'd know more. All I know is that whoever is holding the box isn't a problem. Shouldn't be a problem. And if they are, well, you know how to handle problems, don't you?"

"Sure," she said wiping away tears.

"But, you never know, now do ya? Things haven't exactly been predictable lately. There's a lot of new pieces on the board right now and just as many new players. I'm still trying to map out the moves."

The waitress floated by dropping off the check. Laura reached for her wallet, but Johnny waved her off, dropping several neatly folded bills onto the table, "Nah, don't worry about it, I got this. You can pay me back some other time."

He laughed at his own joke, tossing his jacket over his shoulders as he stood up. She wanted to kill him, but she knew better. He meant well, she reasoned. It was just the way he was. It was the way they all were. She needed him. She owed him. She didn't have any other options. He pulled her into a hug as she stood up. She didn't bother trying to escape. She didn't squirm back this time. He patted the back of her head softly, affectionately.

"Some spending money," Johnny Warlock said with a wink as he pulled away, slipping a wad of cash into her hand. She didn't look at it. She didn't need to count it. Three thousand dollars. Same as always. The money felt dirty. She felt dirty. She closed her eyes and nodded and when she opened them he was gone.

She wanted to scream.

---

Gotham Village had changed. It was full of people. It was warm. It was pretty. And it was clean. She hated it. She hated all of them. They seemed happy and it only made her angrier. Gentrification had finally taken over. Crime was down. And long time residents had been scattered to the winds, pushed to other still unfashionable parts of town. Maybe she would burn down a coffee shop on the way home, she thought. It was the least she could do for old Gotham. Someone had to remember. Someone had to remind them.

Letting out a low curse, she took a breath and finally opened the door. Fading rays of sunlight followed her into the quaint shop, the jingle of an ornate silver bell announcing her arrival.

"Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome to the Enchantment Emporium, what can I do for you on this fine day, Miss?" A figure said emerging from the shadows behind the counter. She could feel eyes moving slowly over her.

"I've come for the box," she said with a smile, staring back at the figure. His three piece suit looked expensive. It looked dated. The cape was a bit much and the bow tie left her smirking. The top hat he wore was even more ridiculous and reminded her of a stage magician. Paired with monocle that flickered from the shadows, she quickly became convinced that she was dealing with an absolute idiot.

"Why, we have all manner of boxes here," the man began, nervous, but still polite. "You have the eye of a discerning customer and the bearings of one initiated in the arcane arts. I see it in you. I can feel it in my very bones. What sort of box might you be looking for, Miss? A dimensional portal permitting storage, perhaps? Something with which to store a summoned servant? Suitable confines for a dangerous prisoner?"

"No," Laura said, shaking her head. "You know what box I am here for. You knew the moment I opened that door."

"Regretfully, I must confess I have no idea what you mean," the figure answered a touch too quickly.

"Allow me to refresh your memory," Laura said waving a hand. A flash of magic enveloped her and when the illusion faded, gone was Laura Fell, and there was the Warlock's Daughter. Garbed in red and adorned with a belt of skulls.

The figure faded, retreating back into the darkness, letting out a shrill, alarmed scream. She could hear the anger and the menace lurking beneath his panic, "No, no, no! You aren't supposed to be here. GET OUT! GET OUT! LEAVE!"

Lurching back into view, the shopkeeper raised his arms wide as if to block her view of the shelves behind him. In the dim light, she realized he had no face. His top hat and monocle simply floated in the air. She could feel a current, bristling with electricity weaving through the empty space between them. The metallic taste of powerful magic ran across her tongue. It tasted like blood, she thought with a grim smile.

"And yet," the Warlock's Daughter mused, taking one slow step forward and then another, "Here I am."

Cold enveloped her. Cold as cold as the icy embrace of the grave she had once suffered. She swallowed her fear. She buried her memories. She saw the cane pointed at her. She heard a whisper and then a translucent bolt of fire burst towards her. She had been ready. She had been waiting. She was ready. And she dodged the ethereal flames that exploded around her easily in a glimmer of pale magic as she shifted across the room.

Darting forward, the Warlock's Daughter was a blur of motion as she struck back. Her fingers were claws, baleful orange daggers of arcane energy that raked towards the figure, and cut through the counter in a shower of splinters. A decayed face appeared as the apparition roared in pain, stumbling backwards, and blindly striking towards her with his walking stick. His form flickered, disappearing and then reappearing as he scrambled away from her. Deep scores burned with arcane energy across the crumbling figure. Johnny hadn't said anything about a ghost. She wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't sure a ghost could even be killed. If it was a ghost.

Something pulled at her. Something distracted her. She could feel it, almost as if it was reaching out to her. It cut through the wards, it tugged at the seams of the enchanted wood that surrounded it. Shrugging, the Warlock's Daughter stepped over the whimpering figure, shoving a bookshelf to the side to reveal a safe. She didn't touch it, she knew better. She didn't need to feel the bite of whatever spell had been used to trap the safe. She whispered words. She whispered inhuman words. Dead words. Lost words. Words better left unsaid. The metal groaned and shrieked in protest, bending as the door to the safe began to melt.

Smiling at last, Warlock's Daughter raised a hand towards the now open safe. The prone figure shouted at her, his voice rising in terror as she touched the box hidden within the safe, "No, stop! You can't take it. You mustn't! Please, put it back. I have to keep it. It can't leave this shop, not even this room! She told me to watch it. She told me to guard it! You don't understand!"

She ignored him. She didn't care. The box was perfectly smooth. It was smaller than she had imagined, no bigger than a paperback book. Oak, just like Johnny Warlock said. It was old, very old. The wood felt warm against her skin as she studied it, almost alive, if she would have believed it. She ran a finger over the writing carved across the top of the box. She couldn't recognize it. She couldn't even place it. She decided it was best not to try. Maybe Johnny Warlock was right.

Holding the box in the palm of her left hand, she kindled a flame of magic in her right hand and prepared to destroy the box. She heard the ghost protesting. She heard him screaming at her. But he was far away. She felt an ember in her heart. A growing flame of hatred. She wasn't going to listen to Johnny Warlock. She wasn't his lap dog. He wanted the box destroyed, that much was clear. But why? What was he worried about? What was he planning? She had to know. Whatever was inside the box was her leverage. It was her way out. Maybe. If it was important enough. And if not, then she could always destroy it later.

She felt the figure tugging at her leg and kicked him away, surprised at the sudden weight of his form. She heard him, she listened to his ravings anew, "She said no one knew about it. No one! No one except me. I didn't tell anyone. Tell me! How? How did you know? Did she betray me?"

Anger and madness had taken hold of his voice. She could hear the unmistakable tenor of desperation. It didn't make sense. There was something wrong, She could feel it. Why did he care? Why was he so afraid? What was he hiding?

"Who? Who, left it here? Who asked you to guard it?" She could see the fear in his long dead eyes. He looked away, sputtering as he tried to rise.

She raised a hand, summoning a flame of arcane energy that she raised as if to throw right at him, "Who? I won't ask you again."

His words were gibberish, angry shouting in what she surmised was French.

"A name. A name in English would be good...before I lose my grip."

"Zatanna," he said, an anxious laugh escaping as he spoke the name, his features recoiling in a sudden flush of unwelcome emotion.

"Great," the Warlock's Daughter replied, extinguishing the magical flame and pang of worry she felt in her stomach with a snap of her fingers. She raised the box towards him,"What's inside? Why is it so important to her?"

"I- I don't know. She didn't say. She just told me to guard it."

"Why?"

"W- Why what?"

"Why would you watch the box? Nothing better to do with your spectral time? No scores to settle? No hobbies? No kids to scare?" Warlock's Daughter began, juggling the box insolently between her hands, pretending that she was going to drop it as the ghost winced. She frowned, catching the box in a hand, and cutting the pleading phantom off just as he tried to reply. She had seen enough,"She must have hit you with one hell of a spell. Those are some nasty chains she's got you wrapped in."

"What do you want me to tell her? What am I supposed to say? She won't be happy, she won't be happy at all if she learns you took the box," the wraith wailed from the floor.

"Tell her I burned it. Tell everyone that asks that I burned it. Tell anyone anything different and I'll be sure to burn you instead."

Standing up, Warlock's Daughter grabbed a chunk of wood and then set it ablaze. She watched the wood curl and then fall to pieces as it slowly turned to soot, "See, it's gone, nothing more than ashes now."

"What about me?" the shopkeeper asked, nodding towards the pile of ashes.

"What about you? Who are you? What are you?"

"Why...I'm the Gentleman Ghost," he said, unmistakable pride taking hold in his voice. She'd never heard of him. She'd never even heard of a ghost giving themself a name like that before. It was strange, but she wasn't one to judge.

She scoffed, "Not much of a gentleman, as far I can tell anyways. What's your name? Your real name."

The half visible figure hesitated, his eyes spinning around the room, looking for an escape, any escape.

"Name. I asked you for your name," she said, sending a wave of magic surging into the bookshelf next to him, turning it into a pile of broken sticks.

"James, James!" he shouted back, almost as if he was in pain. "James Craddock, if you please."

"Well, Jim, if I may call you that," she said, squatting next to him and flashing a smile. "Looks like quite the pickle you've got yourself in. Pissing off a powerful sorcerer hardly seems like a good idea. Especially if you aren't smart or fast enough to run away. You really should've had a different plan, whatever your plan was."

"Duly noted," he muttered angrily in reply.

Warlock's Daughter paused, rubbing her fingers together thoughtfully, scraping off the fresh layer of ash. She he felt some sympathy for the ghost. He was trapped. He was another trapped soul. Just like her. Forced to do something because someone else compelled him to. Meddling wizards and warlocks. A common theme. An unfortunately common theme in her very personal opinion.

Making a choice, Warlock's Daughter closed her eyes and focused. She saw the heavy chains that bound the ghost. She saw the patterns woven into the surfaces of the emporium. She channeled her anger, she sharped her emotions into a fine, bristling point, and struck the arcane links in a fell motion. When she opened her eyes, she could feel that the air in the room had changed. The pressure was gone and the chill had faded.

"That's it? I'm free?" Craddock asked incredulously, standing suddenly in front of her, restored, untouched, and shining brightly with a grim light.

"Sure, why not? Just don't make me regret it," Warlock's Daughter said, tucking the box beneath an arm.

The Gentleman Ghost laughed, his voice growing into a loud booming laughter as he bowed low. He looked different. He was different. He was stronger. He was free and some strange magic now coursed through him. She might have made a mistake, she realized. She had thought him weaker. A middling spirit at best. Done was done. She had no intentions of changing her mind. He was someone else's problem. She had other concerns.

"My most gracious thanks! I will not forget this unexpected kindness. I will see you soon enough, I am sure." the Gentleman Ghost said, his face positively beaming with joy.

His voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere all at once as he faded into nothingness, laughing once again,"Until then, I bid you a most fond adieu, mademoiselle!"

"Whatever," the Warlock's Daughter said, standing suddenly alone. She shivered as Laura Fell returned.

Walking into the newly arrived night, Laura tried to shake the feeling that she had gone too far. She'd never met Zatanna. She didn't plan to. She'd heard of her though. Who hadn't? She wasn't going to tell Johnny Warlock anything. She'd keep them all in the dark. Let them struggle. Let them gnash their teeth in anger. Let them rage.

She laughed quietly to herself as her anger faded. She felt better. She felt happy. She felt better. She felt calm. The night was young still, she thought, beginning to hum to herself.

Fuck the Warlock.

Fuck the Magician.

And fuck Gotham City.

3854 Hoffman Avenue - NYC // 2245HRS

Rain poured down from the heavens creating rivers from the sidewalk onto the road. Cars rushed by, oblivious to the man standing in the alley. The rain seemed reluctant to land on him, or perhaps it was convinced to not have an effect on him. The man's cloak appeared to billow off its own accord, tugging on him slightly to alert him to another individual approaching, their footsteps muffled by the rain. "I appreciate you calling me in on this Detective Kraye."

The man shrugged. "If the F.B.I wants to be brought in on this and save me a pile of paperwork be my guest. I already have a bunch of cases on my desk." He raised his travel mug and took a sip of coffee. Sighing in relief as the warm bitter liquid did its magic. Raising an eyebrow he looked back at the man standing looking over the body. "Picked a bad day to forget your coat, want me to grab you one? You're soaked through."

His face hidden in shadow Strange smiled slightly as he absent-mindedly fondled the glittering charm hanging from his neck, disguising his true appearance. "Nothing a warm shower won't fix. I'll be fine thankyou, the case comes first."

Detective Kraye pulled his phone out his pocket with nothing more than a muttered 'well okay then' "Vics name is-" -tt-tt-tt- Kraye clicked his tongue as he scrolled down through his file. "-Alfred Rask, 45 out of Brooklyn. Unmarried, no kids. No listed address." Kraye knelt down, looking over the body. Tattered robes lay strewn all around the body, bloody and torn. "Going from his clothes I'd say unemployed, a drifter. Hippy probably."

"-And in your profession do you happen to guess when it comes to life and guess?" The detective turned, a look of scorn on his face.

"I might not be a Special Agent but I've seen my fair share of victims, and my fair share of murders. I've seen it all."

Stephen Strange leaned down, making a show of patting down the body. During which his right hand rubbed a symbol from the victim's wrist. "Well I think I have all I need here." Standing up he turned to walk away, Kraye turned.

"What, that's it? You don't need no photos or sketch? Or the body? Are you even taking the case?"

Strange smirked as he put his hands out in front of him, sparks flew between his fingers as if he were playing with sprinklers. "Don't be ridiculous Detective. There is no body, and there is no case."

There was a blinding flash of light, as Kraye looked up at the sky swearing. The thunderstorm had come on all of a sudden, and he was caught out here on foot patrol without so much as a jacket.

---

177A Bleecker Street - NYC // 2300HRS

Stephen Strange was surrounded by books and incantations, in the centre of his study surrounded by all the chaos was a symbol hastily drawn on a piece o paper. The same symbol that had been on the dead body of Alfred Rask. The police would never find out his cause of death. It would be ruled a murder, then once all the leads went cold the case would be forgotten about and abandoned. One of many within the NYPDs archives. Stephen had combed through their cold cases on occasion shortly after becoming Sorcerer Supreme, and had solved a few. It was surprising how many leads went cold without magical intervention.

He couldn't afford the time for that anymore, it took all of his time and focus to maintain the secrecy of their society from the world, keep the various Sanctums united and to protect the world from other dimensional threats. Even this murder wouldn't have been one he'd have usually bothered with, not anymore, if not for the fact that this was the fifth death in five days that bore the same symbol and the same aura of darkness. Magicians, like artists, quite often liked to 'sign' their work. Someone was doing this now, he just had to put a Sorcerer to the signature and that was the issue he was having. If he could only decipher this one-

Knock-Knock-Knock

Stephen groaned, waving his hand the door opened revealing his trusty assistant Wong. The only one who would ever interrupt him in the middle of his work, and by the sounds of fine china being carried on a tray the only one who would bring him tea. Stephen brought his hands down to his side, the books that were floating around the room lowered themselves to the floor. As he lowered his hands toward the ground his torso raised into the air, allowing him to unfold his legs from their crossed position.

"You would do well not to neglect your duties Stephen."

Stephen walked over, and accepted a poured cup of tea. Sipping it gently. Tea was good for the aura. Or so Ahri'ahn had claimed. "The benefit of being the Sorcerer Supreme is that I can pick and choose what I work on, is it not? It kind of makes me in charge."

Wong shook his head. "At times you remain arrogant. There are people in this sanctum whose entire purpose is to investigate breaches in the occult. Leave this to them."

"Five deaths so far, and not a single lead, and yet each body is signed. I have made this my responsibility-"

"-and in doing so you are neglecting the Master of the Chinese and Japanese Sanctums who have come to seek the counsel of the Sorcerer Supreme."

"You could always-"

"No. There is tradition, it must be you. Five minutes. They'll be expecting you."

---

In downtown Star City, a black SUV rolled to a stop and parked in front of Weisinger, Papp, & Associates Tax Consulting and Accounting. Its tinted windows seemed to draw in the gaze of the afternoon sun and cast it back out in a brilliant, cascading display. Inside the vehicle sat four men in matching dark outfits, seeming to scoff at the summer heat that radiated against the vehicle.

In the passenger seat, a man of middling height and thin frame glanced at one of four wristwatches, a pair on each arm, and slowly counted down from three out loud.

"Mark," the word was soft but firm as it passed his lips. In rehearsed synchronization, all four gentlemen pressed a single button on the identical silver watches adorning their left wrists.

The group of men stepped out of the SUV. Four sets of heavy boots created a dull rhythm as they marched together side-by-side across the unusually empty street. They moved with purpose, the firearms each held at the ready. The first among them to reach the marble steps leading to a wide, three-story building slowed down. The individual removed what appeared to be modeling clay from a satchel bag he wore and placed it in ten-foot intervals from the base of the stairs in a semi-circle stretching across the road.

Continuing past him, the other three reached the entrance of the centuries-old structure. The thin man from earlier strode straight through double-wide glass doors, his remaining two cohorts at his heel. A staccato of gunfire erupted from the Heckler & Koch G36 he had aimed at the ceiling. The echoes of the shots were immediately drowned out by the screams of panicked civilians as the Puckett National Bank became under assault.




A series of angry honks called out, joining the growing cacophony of frustrated drivers. The residents of Star City had become stuck in a sudden traffic jam affecting all of the lower downtown major arteries leading further into the city. Ten minutes previously, the roadways had been flowing well and quickly, but now for reasons unknown to any of the increasingly upset citizens movement had crawled to a literal stop.




"We're go in thirty."

The four balaclavas-adorned bank robbers stood at the exit to Puckett National. One had his automatic rifle trained on the dozen prone and sobbing hostages across the lobby. Two of the others carried large, black duffles. The fourth, the only one to have spoken during the entire ordeal, held a finger to his right ear, eyes firmly locked on his left wrist.

"Ready for extraction," he said into the earpiece. Lowering his right hand to his left wrist, he raised his voice for the benefit of his compatriots. "Three. Two. One. Mark."

Once again, four matching wristwatches, gold this time, were pressed in perfect synchronization.

As if on cue, the wail of police sirens began to penetrate the thick walls of the bank.

The four men strode out of the building, back down the front steps, and took a sharp right walking away from the SUV they had arrived in. The sirens grew louder, reverberating between the multi-storied, marble buildings on either side of the road. From ahead of the men, a similar black SUV, equally tinted, emerged from a side street and idled up to them. As the foursome entered the vehicle, the screeching of tires could be heard as a patrol car raced down the street towards them.

The thinner member of the group looked to another who nodded and quickly removed a thin, black device from a clip on his belt. On the apparatus, a dull green LED flashed to yellow, then red as the individual pressed his thumb against the single visible button in a series of five rapid clicks. Then it audibly toned after a final, three-second-long depression.

The street behind them exploded in chaos as their first SUV detonated, followed shortly after by the street itself bursting in over half a dozen brief but violent little balls of fire. All of this happened just as the police car hurrying its way passed over. The rear of the vehicle erupted upwards, nearly being shorn off, as the momentum of the blasts carried the car end over end, careening down the street before abruptly wrapping around a telephone pole.

The four men clad in black hopped into the waiting SUV, paying no mind to the wreckage fifty yards behind them. As they drove off towards lower downtown, a single word was spoken between them.

"Mark."

"Sooo....on the Number Four, the Big Belly Double-Triple Cheeseburger....does that come with cheese?"

".....it's a cheeseburger."

".....so no?"

The withering glare that Rachel Roth gave the fat balding man on the other side of the counter could have curdled milk, but its effects were completely lost on him, as he scratched underneath the folds of his substantial gut that drooped out from the bottom of his shirt.

Amid all the bright primary colors and phony smiles from the crew of the Big Belly Burger, Rachel was something of an odd duck, a "bird of a different feather," her manager once described her in a mangled metaphor. With pale white skin and deep purple hair, it would be easy to assume she applied layers of makeup and coloring to match the classic goth style, but in truth she looked that way for as long as she could remember. Her looks weren't the only thing that set her apart from the everyday crowd; there was also her charming disposition, which had about the same effect on other teenagers as a citronella candle had on mosquitoes.

And of course, there was the fact that she was only half-human, and that her father was some kind of demon who had sired her to bring about Hell on Earth, but Rachel had learned to deal with one horrible fate at a time. And for the moment, the horrific fate she was dealing with was the dinner rush.

She had working part-time here for about six months, and conversations like this were tragically common. Whether it was asking questions easily answered by the big gaudy signs festooned around the counter, ordering items that the restaurant has never carried in its decades of existence, trying to use coupons from other restaurants, or demanding special treatment because they brought their kids on a Sunday afternoon, there seemed to be a never-ending litany of mundane torments afflicted on her by the general public.

When Jean-Paul Sartre said 'hell is other people,' he must have been thinking about the service industry.

"Oh, right, right," he nodded with what must have been a painfully rare moment of clarity. "So, what kind of cheeses do you have?"

"Calling it 'cheese' would be generous," Rachel began, "But according to the packaging at least, we have American, Swiss, cheddar, and 'fiesta.'"

The fat man nodded absently, before declaring "I'll take mine with Pepper Jack."

Once again, the pale, purple-haired girl fixed him with a glare that could strip the paint off a car, then reiterated, "We have American, Swiss, ch--"

"Friend Rachel!" Kori exclaimed as she practically erupted from the break room, a soda cup filled to the brim with mustard in her hand and a bright yellow smudge on her lips, "I have the most glorious of news! I believe I now have the solution to our worries!"

Even if she didn't have orange skin, long red hair that shined so brightly it seemed to be on fire, and bright green eyes whose whites were actually just slightly less bright green, Koriand'r--operating under the extremely creative alias 'Kori Anders'-- would have still stuck out like a sore thumb. That was partly due to the fact that physically, she was flawless in a way that would give beauticians and supermodels an aneurysm. Mostly, however, it was because her personality was a chaotic mix between a cliché sci-fi android asking what love is and a hyperactive puppy.

If she came off as if she was from a different planet, that would be because she was. Kori had crash-landed on Earth a year ago, and gotten herself inextricably tangled up in Rachel's life. From there, they had stumbled backwards into a career as low-level super-heroes protecting the people of Jump City, and things only got more complicated. Kori had moved in with Rachel into the loft above her foster parents' garage, which the two used as a makeshift base of operations for their vigilante activities. While the foster family was happy to take Kori in, they also asked that the two of them start paying rent to help make ends meet, and to cover any equipment or expenses they might need while fighting villains and evading cultists.

Thus, they found their way to the Big Belly Burger, the only honest paycheck they could find that wouldn't look too closely at their applications. For a few weeks, having a pair of super-heroes working at the counter brought in big business, but the novelty quickly wore off, and by now they were no more special than any other pimple-faced high schooler while on the clock. If the blow to their general dignity wasn't enough, it also took up a significant amount of time they could be spending on more important matters. If they ever hoped to find a way to transport Kori home, or take on the various cults of Rachel's demonic father, or deal with the sinister organization HIVE that wanted them as brainwashed weapons, or get ahead on any number of other threats and crises....then sooner or later they were going to have to find a better way to make rent than peddling greasy junk food to slack-jawed morons.

Rachel raised an eyebrow, turning to her friend and ignoring the fat guy at the counter, and the twenty other people in line behind him. "A solution to our problems? You've discovered the secret to overthrowing the stranglehold of the corrupt and exploitative ruling class in order to bring about a worker's paradise?"

"No, but I have learned of an exciting business opportunity!" she beamed. "During my allotted fifteen-minute breaking of the room of baths, I was speaking to our co-worker Trevor..."

"The one who keeps trying to take pictures of your butt when he thinks you're not looking?"

"Yes, the same!" Kori nodded enthusiastically, her cup of mustard sloshing over. "He suggested that we engage in the starting of a small business, and said that we could make the fortunes! According to the Trevor, we would be perfect for selling ventilation equipment!"

"...ventilation equipment?"

"Uhhh, excuse me," the fat man at the counter muttered, "I'd still like to order a--"

"One second," Rachel dismissed him before turning back to Kori. "Trevor thinks we should sell ventilation equipment?"

"Oh yes, he was very enthusiastic about it! He said we should sell exclusively ventilation equipment!"

"Wait," Rachel's expression soured. "...'exclusively ventilation equipment?' What did he say, exactly?"

"His words with exactness were 'you two could make tons doing Only Fans!'"

"Of course," Rachel gave a deflated sigh. "First off, no, we are absolutely not doing that. Second of all, that has nothing to do with air conditioning."

"Then I have the confusion," Kori puzzled. "If 'only fans' does not mean selling equipment for conditioning of the air, then what is it?"

"It's...." Rachel stopped herself, looked back to the line of people, then back at her expectant friend, "it's...just come here, it's--"

Rachel whispered the answer into Kori's ear, and the orange-skinned girl went pale with shock.

"....oh," she managed, before her expression brightened. "Oh, that is even easier than selling ventilation equipment! We--"

"Absolutely not."

"Hey, can I please--"

"Number four with Pepper Jack that this restaurant chain has never carried, got it," she turned back to the register. "Will that be for here or to go?"

"Oh. My. God, it's true!"

A tittering laugh rang out through the dining room, and all eyes turned to the smirking blonde that stood in the doorway, flanked by a half-dozen teenage girls and boys fawning over her.

"Oh good," Rachel muttered, "my evening wasn't going badly enough."

"Kitten," Kori narrowed her eyes. Kitten van Cleer was the daughter of Cameron van Cleer, a millionaire playboy who was touted as the "Bruce Wayne of the West Coast." Growing up the lap of luxury, Kitten was equal parts spoiled and rotten, able to buy the affection and adulation of everyone around her-- or more accurately, have her dad buy it for her. She'd been used to getting her way, right up until last spring, when every boy in school voted "that crazy hot orange girl" as junior prom queen instead of her. Since then, Kitten had devoted her time and considerable resources to making Kori miserable.

"You know, normally I wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this," Kitten began as she approached the counter, "but when I heard the heroes of Jump City had to resort to flipping burgers for a living? Well, I just had to see it. How the mighty have fallen, hm?" On cue, her nameless entourage laughed.

"You made the big mistake," Kori said indignantly, "for we are not engaging in the flipping of burgers! We are presiding over the registers of cash this evening. Friend Ralphus is the one who flips the burgers!"

Looking through the order window, a hideously obese wiry-haired old man gave them a big friendly wave hello, smiling wide through half a dozen missing teeth, before turning his attention back to the dozens of patties sizzling on the griddle.

"Well, it's nice to know you've found some friends your speed," Kitten said condescendingly, drawing another big laugh from her sycophants. "What are you two even doing here? Don't you super-types all have, like, secret underground headquarters or space stations or whatever?"

"Ours is under construction," Rachel said flatly, refusing to be antagonized. "Anyway, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go to the back of the line. There are people waiting to order."

"Yeah, like me!" the balding man chimed in. "I want a--"

"This doesn't concern you, sir."

"Oh, I'm not ordering anything," Kitten stated, giving the restaurant and everyone in it a contemptuous glare. "All the food here makes you fat."

"Ah, a good idea!" Starfire nodded. "If I were you, I would avoid any more fattening foods as well!"

Kitten stared cold death at Kori, while Rachel suppressed a grin.

"Anyway," she resumed, "I came by to let you know that my Daddy is booking a party cruise on Friday night for my birthday. Absolutely everyone is going to be there."

Kori tilted her head to one side in puzzlement. "And you wish for us to attend, even though you have the hatred for us?"

Kitten burst out laughing, which prompted the same from her crowd of hangers-on.

"Ah-hahaha ohmygod noooo," she answered. "This is an un-vitation for you two. I wanted to make it nice and official that you freak shows aren't allowed anywhere near my party or my Daddy's boat!"

"I'm devastated," Rachel deadpanned. "How ever shall I live with the disappointment?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," Kitten said in a patronizing tone. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know about the good time you'll be missing," Kitten said as she began to turn back towards the door, before looking over her shoulder. "Oh, and that I personally invited Frankie Crandall to come."

"You would not dare!" Kori blurted. Frankie Crandall was elected Junior Prom King the same year that Kori had ousted Kitten as Queen, and Kori had been head-over-heels for him ever since. "The Franklin would never tarnish our love by g'narff-blorking with you!"

"Calm down, nobody said anything about "g'narf-blorking,'" she said with a mocking playfulness. "We're all just going to dance to some music, maybe help ourselves to the wet bar that Daddy will conveniently leave unlocked...and who knows what'll happen after that.....nothing to worry your little tangerine head about. Frankie did seem awfully excited about coming, though. And when I say he's looking forward to coming, I mean--"

"Don't be gross, there's kids here," Rachel cut her off.

"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about," Kitten feigned innocence. "Your mind must really be in the gutter. The same place you get your clothes, I imagine."

Rachel rolled her eyes as Kitten's bunch of lackeys all had a good laugh.

"Well, I'll leave you to toiling away as wage-slaves," she waved, before turning once again. "Actually, now that you've reminded me, if Frankie isn't willing to play, I did just have a nice tutoring session with that cute goth boy from our creative-writing class. What was his name again? Mal...Malcolm? Malomar? Malachite?"

"Malchior?" Rachel asked with a slight gasp, the break in her composure just enough to give her away. Malchior was the only person at Jump City High that Rachel could stand talking to for more than a few seconds. Apart from Kori, of course. On most days.

Kitten smiled evilly. "That's his name! He's been such a good tutor, and I've been such an attentive student. Maybe at the party I'll take some time to thank him for all his hard work. Until then, enjoy yourselves, losers!"

As Kitten strutted out of the Big Belly Burger, her pack of suck-ups in tow, Rachel seethed and fought the urge to open a portal to the darkest pit of hell under Kitten's feet. Meanwhile, Kori clenched her drinking cup of mustard so hard it burst, splattering the two girls and the fat balding man in globs of bright yellow sauce.

"Hey! This is not acceptable! I demand to see your manager!" the balding man bellowed.

_{"Damn it, she's good,"} Rachel muttered.

---

As the snotty rich girl strode out of the Big Belly Burger, three figures watched from a van in the parking lot.

"Excellent, contact with the targets has been made. Phase one begins...."

"I still don't see why we don't just run in and smash them now that we know where they work!"

"Don't be dense! I want payback against those two just as bad as you...especially against that wannabe witch girl....but we've gotta play this smart."

"Quite right. Our last attempt demonstrated that they can overwhelm our efforts in a direct assault. Such raw power, when turned to our purposes, will be unstoppable...."

"So....what do we do now?"

"Now that the bait has been laid, we set the trap. We weaken the targets so they cannot escape...."

"And then we finally have them...."

B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R

Shuri stood on the top floor of the palace and looked down below as her country burned. Today marked the third day of violent rioting across the capital city of Birnin Zana. The military, royal constabulary, and even the Dora Milaje were all out in force to put down the riots and bring order back to Wakanda. It wasn’t working. The Kimoyo Beads on her wrist showed a real-time map of the chaos going on across the city and the rest of the country. So far there were plenty of injuries and hospitalizations on both sides. She was just thankful there were no deaths yet, but it was only a matter of time before that line was crossed. If that happened then the flames of unrest would be fanned into an open inferno of revolution.

“We have come to a decision,” a deep voice said behind her.

She didn’t turn to face her brother. She already knew what he would say. He loved Wakanda so much he would anything to keep it safe. Even at his won expense. Deep down she knew exactly what the king and tribal leaders had decided on. Shuri was on the verge of tears and she feared if she turned to look at him the dam would break.

“I… am abdicating the throne. You will take over as regent while you and the tribal leaders work with Achebe and his faction to create an actual constitution for the country. This will stop the violence for now. But the future of our country and family is unknown. It will be your place to write it. Not mine.”

Shuri felt the tears beginning to roll down her face. His large hands gently touched her shoulders. Together they watched the riots below in silence.

“This is like some nightmare,” she finally spoke. “Ever since that awful man Achebe came out of nowhere with his awful allegations against Utata–”

“There is something at work here, sister,” he said. “Something hidden and sinister. At this point is simply an intuition, something I cannot prove yet. Give me time and room to operate.”

“Are you leaving Wakanda?”

“I must,” he said softly. “Even with the Dora Milaje I am not safe here.”

“Where will you go?”

The silence told her that he had no intention of even hinting where he would go. It made sense, Shuri reasoned. The walls tended to have ears in the royal palace. The less people who knew his moves the better.

“I leave tonight. Take care of mother. I will return one day, sister. And I will reveal the truth and reclaim what is ours. I promise you that.”

“Safe travels,” she said. “My king.”

---

“We got a major motherfucking problem.”

Sampson Mitchell didn’t look up from the bowl of Fruity Pebbles he was making. As West Brooklyn’s foremost drug trafficker he was used to major motherfucking problems. Every day there was a new crisis or calamity that was the end of the world to these young boys. Sampson was pushing forty which was damn near ancient in the drug game. You didn't get there by being stupid and irrational. He’d seen it all and done it all. Nothing at this point could phase him.

“What’s the problem?” Sampson said after adding milk to his cereal. He looked up from the bowl at his bodyguard Trey with his eyebrows raised. “Well?”

“A car load of stick up boys hit the collection car. We capped one of them, but three of them got away.”

Sampson did a rough calculation. Even if it had been a slow night that car would be loaded with over forty thousand dollars.

“They get away with the money?” he asked after taking his first spoonful of Fruity Pebbles.

“Nah… but it got weird.”

“What do you mean?”

Trey pulled a phone out of his pocket. Sampson did not own or talk on the phone as a matter of routine. Trey took that risk. All calls and texts ran through him. He pulled up a text chain. Sampson saw someone had sent a video. Trey pressed play and put it on the table in front of Sampson.

“Oh, fuck,” Sampson said as he watched. “Yeah… we got a big fucking problem.”

---

Charlie Chinwe peaked over the hood of the car for any potential shooters. Instead he saw a blur of motion rush by him towards the wrecked Yukon that held Sampson’s soldiers and a lot of cash. Charlie heard the burst of automatic fire followed by the sound of ripping metal. There was a scream and a loud thump. Another burst of gunfire and broken glass. And… silence.

Charlie looked at O and TT who were also hunkered behind the car. Somewhere far off was a police siren. That wasn’t good news at all. They had to get out of there as fast as possible. Charlie heard movement on the other side of the car, followed by an impact on the car’s roof. The three stick-up boys looked up and saw him squatting on top of the car.



“Run,” said the Black Panther. “One of the men took a video of me and sent it to someone before I could incapacitate him. They will be sending reinforcements on top of the police. Run.”

The three young men stared up at him, too shocked to speak or even move.

“I said, RUN!”

He popped the vibranium claws in his gloves as he yelled. That did it. Charlie turned and ran as fast as he could down the street. He didn’t see where O or TT went, but he didn’t give a damn at this moment. He wanted to be as far away from guns, drugs, cops, and the goddamn Black Panther as possible.

T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N

Screams echoed around Garfield Lynns, bouncing off the walls of the corridor as he made his way to the doors at the end of the hall. He was underground, beneath the renovated old Sionis place. At one time a grand high-rise town-house, it had burned down a few years ago when Lynns was a fire-bug teen in the Gotham Narrows; in the last year, Roman Sionis, the surviving heir miraculously unscathed by the fire, had resurfaced after time spent recovering from his tragedy, and had had his old family home rebuilt and renovated. On the surface, it was near-identical to its pre-blaze glory, but there were a select few - a handful, no more than 7 or 8 men - who knew of a hidden bunker beneath the residence, secreted away from the public eye. Roman Sionis lived in the house above. It was Black Mask who inhabited the bunker.
"Watch yerself, kid. Boss got his tools out. Real edgy tonight."
Garfield nodded nervously at the advice of the hired muscle on the door, and then pushed through the doors to Black Mask's personal play room.

The smell hit him first; copper and rust, but behind that the distinct ammonia of piss, and behind that the salt and stink of sweat. The source of this olfactory miasma was plainly apparent; some poor wretch, strapped to an upright gurney in the middle of the room, skin slick with blood from cuts and gouges across his figure. Bloodied and gored tools lay strewn across the floor in the immediate vicinity, and a selection of smaller implements on a mobile cabinet. Black Mask hovered over him, his own arms stained crimson, and with a chill that ran through his bones Lynns could see he was gripping onto a pair of pliers that were stuffed in his victim's mouth.

Without warning, Black Mask yanked, and there was a wet 'pop' as a molar came forcibly loose. The victim gave a guttural grunt of agony and breathed heavy, exhausted from pain. Black Mask dropped the tooth into his open palm, holding it up for inspection. Satisfied with some invisible criteria, he set the pliers down and moved his other hand up to his palm, and then, carefully and deliberately, flicked the tooth. It struck the bound man square on the forehead, leaving behind a little imprint of saliva and blood. The man's body shuddered as he broke down sobbing, tears streaking through the bloodstained skin of his face. Above the weeping, Lynns could hear Black Mask chuckling to himself, darkly amused.

This was the worst part of Black Mask's torture sessions; not the carefully planned tour of agony from top to tail, nor the creative methods of sadism employed. It was the pettiness of it.

Lynns waited patiently, quietly, wincing slightly at the sight of the victim's condition, wincing more that he knew this was still early in the night for what Black Mask usually had planned. Sionis turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Lynns in his peripheral, and slapped a torn piece of duct tape over his victim's mouth as he gave him a fond pat on the shoulder and turned away to address his new guest, gesturing back to the door. Lynns nodded politely and stepped outside, holding the door for Black Mask to follow behind.
"I got a job for ya, kid. Needs doing tonight." Black Mask said. His eyes, dark and steely, bore holes in Lynns from behind the skull-plate mask. Lynns had heard a rumour Sionis had hewn it from the ebony stone of his father's sarcophagus. Others said it had been whittled from blackened, charred chunks of wood from the ashes of the fire that had left Sionis an orphan. Whatever stories were attached to that mask only distracted from the evil that lurked behind it. Maybe that's what Sionis wanted.

"Shitstain back there I'm workin' on thought protection money was optional. Fuck got his lofty ideals in the empty skulls of his neighbours, and now they think since Falcone and Maroni got themselves strung up by the Bat like the pair of washed-up old men they are, they don't gotta listen to authority no more."
Lynns nodded along, trying his best to appear deferential. Despite the harsh fluorescent lighting of the bunker corridor, Sionis' pupils were a yawning abyss, dilated beyond reason. They flicked about wildly beneath the mask, and there was a shake to his voice that betrayed his otherwise even tone. Lynns knew it was what he was doing in that room to that man that had Sionis...Lynns had no other word for it. Black Mask was high.
"Burn his place to the ground. Then they'll see what they're paying for." Sionis said, producing a small piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket. Lynns opened it up and read the address, committing it to memory; having done so, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and dangled the paper over the flame until the ashes drifted to the floor. Sionis had already turned, but stopped to turn back to Lynns as he held the door open. Lynns could see the 'shitstain' barely clinging to consciousness in the room.

"Oh, I should mention - when we picked this guy up, wifey and the kids were still home, above the shop." He said loudly, loud enough that the victim roused and thrashed when his family were mentioned.
Lynns nodded. "You want me to arrange them to clear out before I torch?"
Lynns wasn't sure how he could tell, but beneath the mask Sionis smiled a sickening, wide-toothed grin.
"I want you to seal the doors." He answered. His victim screamed, wild-eyed and muffled through the tape; as Garfield Lynns walked away, he could hear the screams through the closed door, and hear them twist in suffering as Black Mask went back to work.

-

The shop stood on the edge of the Narrows, a garage used for quick swap auto-parts and the occasional chop job, where no-names could bring joy-rides to have plates sheered off and parts stripped, a quick buck paid out to the hooligan for a profit to be made on the flip. Above the workshop was a dead-end flat, the kind that had a feature-piece microwave instead of an oven, and needed a camping stove to replace the hob that had never been installed. But it came with the property, and meant you didn't have to double up on your city zone tax.

You did still have to pay your street dues, though, thought Garfield Lynns as he approached. Gloved, masked, his heavy jacket zipped up and goggles in place, he cut an intimidating figure as he crossed the dark street, barely-lit by dingy, burnt-out street lights that splashed a grimy yellow across the brickwork; but in truth, he was a bundle of nerves, jittery and anxious. The job from Black Mask was a big step-up for him, and it paid, it paid, money Garfield thought he'd never see in his life. But though he'd torched before - extensively, prolifically, his fires well known, and this was why Sionis had sought him out - he'd never killed. His fires had been on abandoned property, out-of-hours units, defunct warehouses; all carefully selected to produce the grandest blazes will the smallest collateral damage. That was how he stayed 'low-priority' on the lists you didn't want to be at the top of. Tonight would change everything for Garfield Lynns. There was no backing out now, no backing out since the moment Black Mask had asked his men to ask around about where to find Lynns. Just get the job done and get out and try not to think about the woman and children asleep upstairs. Just hope they died of smoke inhalation before the flames reached their beds.

The jerry-can of gasoline in one hand sloshed as he set it down, looking for the doors. There were three ways out of the property from the ground floor - a front and back door, and the garage shutters themselves. The doors were simple; the key had been 'acquired' from its owner and passed to Lynns before he'd set out, and it slid smoothly into the locks and clicked them shut without trouble; after the fire had been set, it would be too thick with smoke to see where the spare key was, and the flames would prevent passage to the doors anyway. The garage door was trickier, but far from an impasse. It was already locked, bolted to the ground; Garfield however poked around the building, finding and cracking open the fusebox before severing all the wiring. With power to the building cut, the few standby lights in the garage flickered off, and the electric motor that lifted the shutters up was useless.

The only way off the property now was from the roof, which Garfield tossed around in his head while he set to work with the jerry-can and hobbyist's assortment of accelerants. Knowing what he knew about fires and burns, and thinking of the patches of mottled skin that speckled his arms and legs, he eventually decided on roof.

He stepped back, mentally reviewing everything he'd prepared, and then nodded. The fire had him now, thoughts of the family above were ejected in favour of anticipation of the blaze; he always got this way as he prepared, every new splash of gasoline or carefully stuffed roll of newspaper letting him map out the path of the flames before he set them, an inferno amuse-bouche. It worked up inside him and made his hands shake. He was excited, on a level he'd not been by previous fires. He didn't think about it, but he knew why. And then it was time.

Lynns used a match to flick on his blowtorch, an old-school kerosene tool, something he'd picked up for cheap in a military surplus store; the match sizzled against his tongue as he put the light out, and then, listening to the low roaring hiss of the torch, hefted the molotov he'd prepared in his other hand. He knelt to set light to the various trails he'd made around the garage, each one a dragon's tail leading back into the building, pilot lights feeding the beast within - and then, with practiced aim and a strong arm, lobbed the molotov square through the second-story window. Flames belched out the window as the grenade exploded within and began the fire on the top floor.

The screams started not long after.

11:45 AM

"'If Justice personified is blind, then Injustice personified most certainly is. That personification is a blind man. This blind man sits by the phone day and night in a darkened room. He waits for the call from some of the city's most dangerous and corrupt individuals. He talks about the lofty ideals and notions of justice in the courtroom, but one look at the last name on his client's list -- Campisi, Manfredi, De La Rosa, Blackwood -- and you know that Matt Murdock's talk is just that.' It goes on and on like that for another two pages. Bunch of talk about the mistrial with De La Rosa, then the stuff about the Crusaders... and then a last saying you should be disbarred."

"So, usual Daily Bugle boilerplate," I said to Karen. "Remind me to sue them for libel when I get the chance."

"Yes, sir."

That paper has attacked me so much over the past year that I could barely notice Karen's pulse rise anymore when she reads their editorials. They're not the only place that likes to attack me. Papers, websites, TV stations, social media, even other lawyers and politicians all have an anti-Murdock stance of some sort... at least, the politicians and media organizations not in the pockets of my clients.

"That's all, Karen. You can go."

Karen Page, a paralegal and my only staff member, quickly and quietly left the room while I leaned back in my chair. Karen was the gatekeeper when it came to any time with me. I only worked by referral, my card nothing but a phone number. That phone number rang here to Karen's desk. From there she would do the Murdock test: Either you had enough cash to cover my fees or your case was unique enough to grant me exposure. If you didn't have one of those two things, then Karen would refer to her rolodex full of other lawyers happy to take the case. If you did pass that test then she passed you along to me and we would have a meeting either at my office or at whatever lockup you happened to find yourself in. Hopefully said meeting would be in my office if only for the scenery.

My office sits on the fortieth floor of an impressive Midtown skyscraper. They say it has one hell of a view of Lower Manhattan. Guess I'll take their word for it. The rent alone for this office would bankrupt most law firms. Someone once asked why I paid so much for the space when I could have gotten another one on the same floor without a view for a hundred thousand dollars cheaper. I didn't dignify them with a response. In this business, what I do on the books and off of them, you show strength by your decisions. A blind man wasting a hundred grand on a view he'll never see is part of my strength. It's part of my power. I bought the office because I could.

"Phone call for you," Karen's voice chirped out of the speaker on my desk. "It's... Uncle Angelo..."

---

6 PM

"Matt, my boy," Don Campisi said cheerfully.

His old and withered hands felt like sandpaper scrapping against the skin of my hands. He patted the back of my hand and put the other hand on my elbow to guide me across the lawn. He thought of it as a favor. The truth was I could get around the yard better than he could. I've never laid eyes on the man but I can describe the old mob boss perfectly. Short, squat, with wisps of white hair on his pale scalp. Large eyeglasses so thick his eyes look alien. To the world at large Angelo Campisi looks like a doddering old grandfather. To think that's what he is would be to sorely underestimate the man.

"I'm so glad you made it out," he said once we were both sitting in lawn chairs. "I know it's a hell of a drive out of the city, especially for you."

"Well, I didn't hear any moaning under the car when I stopped, so I guess I did alright."

"If you hit 'em just right, you won't hear any moaning at all!"

Campisi laughed at his own joke before moving on to small talk. He had to tell me all about his kids that I didn't care about. I nodded at the right times and said the right things. One of Campisi's men came out and dropped off two impossibly strong coffees. Just the smell of it gave me the jitters. Campisi picked one up with shaking hands and took a long sip. After that he finally got down to it.

"I want you advice on something, Matty. You know Joey Bags? Works with that crew out in Long Island Ciy? He and Paulie came to me a few nights ago with an idea on a score. Those fucking biker pricks you repped last year, what were they?"

"The Crusaders."

Officially, the Crusaders Motorcycle Club is simply a group of motorcycle enthusiast. In reality they are the worst of the outlaw motorcycle gangs in America. They run guns, drugs, whores, and create general mayhem and destruction everywhere they go. They are also without a doubt my most reliable clients.

"They got a club over in Bensonhurst," said Campisi. "Joey Bags and Paulie are gonna have a sit down with them tonight. They want to use these Cruasder fucks to mule coke and dope across the country. They're always going on these cross country rides to Piss-ant, Florida or somewheres out in California. They don't go on the interstate and they can make drops and deliveries to our people in Miami, Kansas City, or wherever. Instead of a fucking pick-up truck carrying two hundred pounds, fifty bikers carrying six pounds a piece make drops over the course of a week. "

My mob lawyer hat was on. I needed to play through the motions to get what I wanted at the end.

"Could be risk involved. One of these bikers could try to rip you off, get a wild hair up his ass and decide to take off for parts unknown while stealing from you and his club."

"He does that he's dead," Campisi said coolly. "And not just by our people. His own people. Those biker fucks, they don't play around if you betray them."

I knew that all too well. I represented their president on a murder charge last year. One of their members was talking to the ATF. He suddenly had an accident that cut his tongue out, or at least that's what I made the jury believe.

"I think it'll work," I said with a nod. "What's your exposure?"

Campisi shrugged and took another sip from his coffee. "Paulie and Joey are meeting with the top guys and that's it. If the rank and file get pinched and want to flip they'll rat out the guys in their club and they will stand tall. No way it gets back to them or me."

"I'm just hurt and offended I wasn't consulted on this. Blackwood is my client, after all."

Campisi put his dried up hand on the back of my hand. I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. "It's Paulie's show, you know how he is with you. Thinks cause you're a mick you can't be trusted."

I didn't say it, but I thought that maybe Paulie was on to something. Maybe he was the only member of the Campisi Family with a bit of sense.

---

11:20 PM

I had twenty grand in my jacket pocket when I went in St. Patrick's. The twenty grand was partially my cut on the forthcoming deal with the Crusaders, as well as my retainer for doing the don's legal work. Going into churches always made me think about my mother. Maggie Murdock was like a ghost. She left New York in the mid-90's and never looked back. I had no idea where she was or where she had been. I often wondered what she was doing if she were still alive. I thought many times over the years about hiring a PI to track her down. In the end I never found the strength to pull the trigger. I'm not sure what terrorizes me more: the fact that she may be dead, or the fact that she may be alive.

The twenty grand in my jacket didn't feel that big. It was just two hundred one hundred dollar bills bundled into twenty neat thousand dollar packets. The cash felt light enough when I took it out of my jacket and stuck it in the poor box. They say all the good Catholics tithe ten percent. By that logic I had to be a great one. Before I left I asked a priest to light a candle for my mother. I knew why I never wanted to meet my mom. If I never found her she would always be that devout catholic woman I heard about over the years. She could never be corrupted like my dad was. She was frozen in time as a good woman. A good woman who would never have to witness what her son had become. I made a final prayer and prepared myself to go to work.

---

2:14 AM

"We don't fuck with drugs we don't make," Arthur Blackwood, president of the Crusaders Motorcycle Club, said with a scowl. "We're not errand boys. You want mules go to Washington Heights and get some project niggers. Why the hell should we stick out neck out for you? Because you say you'll pay?"

The two mobsters looked at each other as they leaned against the hood of the Cadillac. Paulie D'agistino, the underboss of the Campisi Crime Family, rubbed his chin while Joseph Baggato "Joey Bags" stuck his hands in his pants pockets and shrugged.

"That," Joey Bags started. "And, we both know your club is going under. The days of the outlaw biker gang ain't what they used to be. You're hurting for money. The ATF busts your balls day and night about that little weapons trafficking business you got. Fact of the matter is you need this. You're already making these fucking rides anyway, why not get paid while you're at it? Say yes."

Blackwood looked behind him, where three of his fellow bikers sat parked on their motorcycles in the back alley lot. Blackwood shuffled his feet and exhaled before finally nodding.

"Fine," he said.

Suddenly a sharp whistling noise filled the air. A spinning object flew from the shadows and decked a biker in the forehead. Paulie and Joey pulled pistols from their waistbands at almost the same time the Crusaders did. The two sides looked across the lot for any indication of who the thrower was.

"The hell was that?" Paulie asked, looking at Blackwood. "You trying to pull something on me?"

"Me? What about you?! You're a goddamn informant or something?!"

Out of the shadows a blur of motion slammed into Joey Bags and knocked him to the ground. Both sides opened fire in a torrent of fire and lead. Blackwood fell to the ground as bullets fired above him. The figure jumped away microseconds ahead of the shots. The figure swung back into the shadows and up onto the roof of the warehouse.

He spent an hour getting ready. From the laying out of clothes on his bed, to the shower, to the shave. He stood sideways, in profile, in the face of the bathroom mirror on the fuzzy bathroom rug. Sucked in, smiled, winked...let the air and his gut out. It could've been worse, he thought to himself. New boot cut dark blue jeans. tailored with a widening waist to fit since the clowns at Calvin Klein didn't sell a reasonable size, dry-cleaned cerulean shaded button up that he tucked in, pulled out...turned his body left, right, and tucked it in again. A deep, introspective sigh followed a long stare of his brown eyes at his image in the bathroom mirror.

"...definitely out, yeah. It's cooler."

The navy blue blazer was a little tight in the shoulders, but not enough to really be noticeable, as he checked in the mirror. Bringing his arms forward, relaxing them, forward, relaxed...a quick, self-affirming nod, and his wide hips bobbed back and forth as the music beat in his head filled his heart as he wet his comb and slicked his light brown hair. Outside the shade of the start of a second chin, he smiled big and finger-gunned himself in the mirror, because he was looking pretty slick, even if he said so himself. And he did:

"Lookin' pretty slick, Donnie."

He had a whistle on his lips from his apartment building on the outskirts of downtown to the year old silver Corvette with the custom plate: 'BRDCRTFD.' It wasn't the longest drive from his building to the Uptown Ritz-Carlton, but that didn't stop him from blasting the slick jams of Foreigner and singing at the top of his lungs as he cruised into Uptown: "I'M A DIRTY WHITE BOOOOOOOOOOOOOY!"

At the hotel valet, there was a little hitch in his step as he got of the car and tossed the key FOB. There a wince and a quick recovery as the key went past the valet, who just watched it fly by. "Heh, sorry, hoss." He was quick to bend and get it, and even quicker to start the beat in his head again as he bobbed his head and surveyed the scene of the Ritz-Carlton. Some olds, some biz bros, and...he smiled, giving a head's up nod to a fox in a red dress. Her face twisted at the sight, and he felt himself tense, but chuckled it off, "Married chicks, oops."

There was no ring on the woman's hand.

"Nice car."

"Thanks," was the instinctive response as he headed in for the steak house, before he turned his head and saw the person who had said it. He stopped, his smile becoming more of a Brad Pitt half-smile, in his head. Red dress had been a fox, the woman who stood next to the door, waiting on something or someone, was something else entirely: she was super model hot. Wavy brown hair that shined in the overhead light, the dress she wore was tight...like, tight, a cool chick's kind of black leather jacket on over it from the waist up, those kind of hot high heels that were all straps and a diamond buckle, dangly glittery earrings, whatever kind the woman called those. She looked like she didn't wear makeup. Maybe a little, but not a lot, or anything. "You know, it's just my ride. I was gonna go Porsche, but...American-made kinda guy." His brain corrected immediately, "American-made man, type."

"C8 Z06?"

He...blinked, "Uh, yeah."

The hottest grin he'd ever seen spread across her lips. "6,300 rpm, LT6 engine, double overhead camshaft, flat-plane crank...hell of a machine. Not too much for you?"

It took him a second, but just barely, his brows slanting as his features matched the expression of his words, "Shhiiiiit, no way, American-made man."

Her eyes twinkled, her mouth full of perfect white teeth starting to curl into a smile along the corners. Her dental hygiene looked immaculate. She was totally into him, the car definitely worked, he told himself. "The custom plate?"

"Oh? Hell yeah, Board Certified. I'm, uh..." He lowered the volume of his voice, as not to flaunt it, "I'm a Doctor. A Dental Doctor." She laughed, because he was putting on his humorous charm.

"Good luck in there, Board Certified."

"You know it," he said, even though, he wasn't sure why he said it as he walked in. Probably should have said something else? Like...I'll talk to YOU later. Maybe, see you later for a ride, honey. Instead he floated towards the elevator, and floated out to the steakhouse entrance, ready to get his date started. He got there first, grabbing the table, sending Heather a text through the dating app, and ordering himself a drink. One drink, some fancy bread to start with, a table with a line of sight on the hostess podium for when Heather came in.

Two drinks. Another basket of bread. Two more texts through the dating app, none answered. "Way to go, Donnie." He ordered a steak, medium rare, not even sure why? Did he even like medium rare? Wasn't that just what they all ordered in the movies? He soured more than the third drink, the whiskey sour, and paid the bill, ignoring the overly nice waiter, who was just being nice because how lousy Donnie's night had become. The energy and the music were gone, his shoulders slumped, and he was pretty sure he'd have pit stains the next day. The refuge was the hotel bar, and the fourth whiskey.

"Hey Board Certified."

His heart leapt out of his chest at the very smell of her; like wildflowers, but sweeter, softer. Warmer. He forced energy and a smile on his face, "Oh, hey. I just came for a drink after my, uh, business dinner. Y'know, Doctor things." The look of her, the purse in her hand, fact she had been walking for the door... "You headed home? Night's just getting started. Could go for a ride?"

Her grin made him feel like he was on fire. In a good way. "Yeah? How many drinks is that for you, Doc?"

He forced himself to laugh, "Hey, I can handle my whiskey, little lady." Little lady? What the hell was that, Donnie?" But...she was considering it? She watched him for what felt to him like an eternity, obviously considering the ride. "Could be fun, yeah?"

Her eyes looked up, bounced to the left, then the right, as she considered. "Better idea. I'm headed up to my room, but I'm definitely looking for a ride."

What? "What?" He swallowed, hard, "I mean, yeah, let's have a..." What would Bond say? "...nightcap."

He paid the bill for the fourth whiskey, and downed it, quick, worrying anew about the pit stains he knew were there. They were half-way into the finer details of his being a five star reviewed Dental Doctor on Google when she slid the key in and out of the lock to her suite door, opening it to allow him in. He floated in and turned the corner to the main room, before just...blinking.

"What the fu...?" The man wore black tactical pants, boots, and a long sleeve shirt as he sat in the chair across the main sitting room of the suite, the gun across his lap the most obvious thing that he saw.

"Donald Trask?"

He turned to look at the woman he never even got the name of, only to be met with blackness as something hard as steel hit the back of his head from behind, the last thing he remembered seeing was the carpeted floor of the suite rushing up to fill his vision before it all went dark.

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d

Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,

Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,

---

SHINING KNIGHT: FRAGMENT I

PIETY 1.3


“ Trouble a stranger for a game of chess?”

Justin looked up from the sports section he was reading and rolled his eyes. Of course, it had to be him. The man before him cast no shadow. His cheeks were sunken around his chiseled face with a smirk tilting the edges of his tightly pinched lips upwards. A navy blue trench-coat with gold trimmings cloaked most of his body and the brim of his blue bowler shadowed his eyes.

“ You. ” Justin gently folded the paper before setting it down on the bench he was sitting on. “I can’t remember the last time we conversed. Help me recollect. Was it when you were idling by during the Salem Witch Burnings when I arrived on the shores of the New World for the first time or during the Battle of the Somme when I was drowning under German artillery fire? It’s often hard to see you under all your facade of impartial cowardice that you call neutrality.

The man snapped his fingers and Justin’s paper flashed into flames. Wisps of smoke danced up as it curled upon itself into an ashen pile. Justin rubbed the ashes absentmindedly between his fingers whilst giving a rank look of annoyance at the man.

“ That cost fifty pence. ”

“ You’ll find that what I have to offer is more stimulating than the tabloid rag you were reading. ” The man’s accent was rich with a sonorous baritone that reverbated the air around his head. A chess board appeared in his hand out of nowhere and he shook it invitingly at Justin. Justin shook his head in disbelief before motioning over towards an empty picnic table for the both of them. The Stranger waved his hand and the litter simply faded away like a drop of water on a summer’s day. Justin’s skin shivered. It was a simple miracle that was only a small sliver of what he knew this unassuming looking man could do. Both of them sat down opposite to one another whilst bystanders walked around them, enjoying a walk in the sunny day.

“ I haven’t played in centuries since the Crusades.” Justin said while helping set up the board. “ I might have forgotten the basics.”

“ You’ve forgotten more than just that.” The man’s words made Justin briefly bristle in anger as he moved his pawn first. “ I’ve watched you for centuries, Justin of the Hebrides. You’ve changed in the last sixty years and not for the better I’m afraid.”

“ The world’s changed.” Justin said bitterly. He thumbed his pawn forward haphazardly, considering moving his knight before settling on the bishop, moving it amateurly close to the other side of the board. “ It’s as simple as that. I’m just being less naive about it now than I was before.”

“ If that’s what sheltering yourself away from the world is now.” The stranger continued to make headway into Justin’s side of the board, slowly plucking material off piece by piece. “ Pray tell, what exactly is your plan? You’ve been living as a homeless man in the Thames for the last fifty years and you’ve never taken the opportunity to kill yourself. You’re waiting.”

“ I’m waiting to die. ” Justin grumbled bitterly, moving his queen into open view of the stranger’s pieces. “ Or maybe Justin Inse Ghall died when Camelot fell. It feels like the last nine centuries were me just pretending that every problem was a dragon that could be slain. I feel like a jester on Arthur’s court.”

The stranger seemed to consider Justin’s open bait, his lip curled in contempt, before flicking his king over.

“ You forfeit?,” Justin’s brow arched in confusion as the stranger stood up, adjusting his lapels tightly.

“ There is no meaningful victory to be gained here.” The stranger spat out his next words in disgust like he had eaten a lemon. “ I came here to converse with a warrior of yore, a defender of justice, a good man that once fought for all. Where is the Shining Knight who ventured with Percy of Scandia to retrieve the Ebony Blade? Where is the Shining Knight who defended Jerusalem from the Crusades? Where is the Shining Knight who was a beacon of light for all in the cruel and unjust world? I now see that I was mistaken. Perhaps, you weren’t as brave as I thought you were. You hide here while the world screams for help. That’s all you’ve been doing. Hiding and rotting away in your past to avoid the present.”

Justin flipped the picnic table over to the side, planks of wood crashing on the sodden dirt. The stranger was unfazed as Justin stabbed his finger into his chest several times.

“ The world doesn’t deserve help!,” Justin hurtled the sentence out in one ragged breath. “ I was born in simpler times where thieves were sentenced by kings and everyone spoke to everyone face to face. Now, thieves rule as kings and whispers have become the new way of conversation. I’m an old relic of the past, nothing more!”

The stranger didn’t speak as he gently removed Justin’s finger from his chest and placed his hand on his shoulder. “ You’re wrong. The world has much to learn from the Shining Knight and you must learn to gain what you have lost.”

“ How?,” Justin shook his head, hopelessness on his face “ I can’t even use a bastard sword, much less an epe-”

“I’m not talking about your skills.” The stranger traced a line over Justin’s chest, eventually stopping at his heart. “ I’m talking about your faith.”

“ What do you expect me to do?”

The next words out of the stranger’s mouth seemed to slow down time to a crawl, the sound of Justin’s heart beating in his ear.

“ Find the lake to find yourself again.”

1.02: Out of the shadows, into the fire

As Bruce Banner made his way to the hangar of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, he became aware of just how large this complex was. Truth be told Bruce didn’t even know where this facility was located. As both Bruce and the Hulk, neither of them had the clearance to know the location of this base.

In fact before today he had only been to the sleeping quarters, cafeteria and laboratory. From what Bruce could tell, it was a similar situation for Dr. Langkowski. In fact it was only the base commander and senior agents that had the clearance for knowing where the hell they were.

But Bruce was alright with that. He assumed that the facility was remote, meaning it was away from civilization, a good thing to have when the threat of a rampaging Hulk was possible. However, this was going to be Bruce’s first excursion from the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, so he was anxious at the thought of being back in the open.

But the fellow scientists at S.H.I.E.L.D. had thought of this. They devised a device that wrapped around the wrist and monitored his vital signs. Thus they could remotely see if his blood pressure or breathing were at a level where the Hulk would be coming out.

“Nervous, huh,” came a voice from behind Bruce.

The gamma powered scientist turned to see the familiar face of Rick Jones. Bruce wondered if he was being that obvious with his body language. But then again Rick knew him very well, just as he knew the Hulk very well.

“It’s the first time I’ve been out of the base in months. I’ve almost forgot what direct sunlight is like,” chuckled Bruce, “So are you to see me off?”

“Nah. I’m coming along,” stated Rick, “All that time in the pilot simulator is about to pay off.”

“So you’re piloting the Quinjet?” asked Bruce.

“Well, I’m co-piloting it,” explained Rick, “I’ll be working with someone who has years of experience.”

“Would you two hurry it up!” shouted Walter Langkowski from the other side of the tunnel, “The trail is getting cold!”

Remembering the importance of locating this gamma radiation experiment Bruce ran toward the hangar, Rick Jones right on his heels. Soon both of them were within the hangar, in which sat several pristine Quinjets. While the public mostly recognized it as the choice vehicle of the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D. had been using Quinjets for several years now.

Standing outside one of the Quinjets were two men, clad in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms. Rick immediately recognized one and headed over to shake his hand.

“Agent Klaus, good to see you again,” said Rick as he shook his hand, “And it’s good to actually be flying.”

“Actually, you’ll remain in the cargo hold until such time that I open the cockpit,” explained Agent Klaus, “While it’s not ideal, it is S.H.I.E.L.D. policy for junior agents and other support crew to not know the location of this base. But Agent Jones, I will let you into the co-pilots seat once we’re a lot closer to the destination.”

“And what is the destination?” asked Bruce. He had been told it was in California, but not given specifics.

“Just outside a small town called Ferndale, on the northern California coast,” explained the other agent as he extended a hand to Bruce, “Agent Payne. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“About me or the Hulk?” asked Bruce as he shook the man’s hand.

“Well, truthfully both,” Agent Payne replied, “But I have been told of what an asset you are for the S.H.I.E.L.D. science division.”

“Well, while these pleasantries are nice, we do have an incident to investigate,” stated Walter.

“Of course,” said Agent Klaus.

The five men then loaded into the Quinjet. True enough to his word, Agent Klaus alone went into the cockpit, leaving the others in the cargo hold. Once everyone was strapped in, the Quinjet began to rise off the ground. While there were no windows for him to look out, Bruce could hear the sound of the ceiling opening, allowing the vehicle to enter the sky.

“Man these things are really smooth to control,” said Rick to himself, “Can’t wait to actually control it myself.”

Bruce didn’t say anything for most of the trip, nor did Walter or Agent Payne. For Bruce at least it was because of a mix of exhilaration of freedom of being off base, and anxiety at this possible gamma radiation release. The mix caused his stomach to turn, almost as if the Hulk was punching his organs from within.

After a decent amount of time, the door to the cockpit opened, Agent Klaus poking his head out and saying, “Alright, you have clearance to leave the cargo hold.”

Rick literally jumped out of his seat and rushed to the cockpit, Bruce and Walter following after him a little bit more slowly. Looking out the front window of the Quinjet, Bruce could see they were above a vast desert.

“It’s Nevada,” stated Rick as he sat down in the co-pilot’s seat, “At least that’s what the computer says.”

The young agent proved himself to be a competent pilot, navigating the Quinjet to northern California. Once they were near the location, Agent Klaus took main control of the Quinjet. The senior pilot expertly placed the vehicle down near a forest.

“Alright, everybody out,” announced Agent Klaus.

The five men then exited the Quinjet, Walter saying, “According to our sensors, the gamma radiation was somewhere within ten miles of here. So maybe we should begin lookin-”

What Walter was saying was cut out by the sound of a single shot. Bruce’s head whipped around at the noise, just in time to see Agent Klaus collapse to the ground.

“Take cover!” shouted Agent Payne as he pulled out his gun.

Rick dived on top of Bruce, making a shield with his body. The chaos of the situation began to affect Bruce, his blood pressure rising and his eyes gaining a green tinge.

“Now is probably not the time for the big guy,” Rick whispered into Bruce’s ear.

Bruce agreed, but didn’t think the Hulk thought the same way. So he began to practice the deep breathing that Dr. Samson had shown him. It seemed to help a little bit, that was until another shot rang out, a loud shout of pain becoming audible.

Weeks ago:

Riding the Metropolis monorails during the noon rush-hour was just as busy as always, meaning, that there was no room to be comfortable. If you were lucky to get a seat you had someone's briefcase being gently pushed into your personal space, that or someone was gingerly trying to spare you from their buttox being smashed into you during the hard turns. But if you were forced to stand and use the grips to steady yourself you had to decide if you wanted to be polite and not crash into the other passengers, or you could simply go limp, as was the case with the man standing in front of Scott Mason. He was either asleep or simply didn't care.

Scott didn't care either, he was busy using the man's backside as a makeshift easel. Glancing back and forth from the wall-mounted TV and his sketch, he happily continued his work on an olympian figure.

"You look happy, something nice happen to you?" A stranger next to him asked.

Scott grinned as he replied. "Oh yeah, I'm going to be a comic artist for DC!"

"DC? The comic company?"

"Mhm."

"Good job, kiddo."

"Thanks, man." Scott continued to smile, it was a good morning, and a good ride over. He was always a little hesitant to ride the public rail, usually it's crowded outside the really dead hours, but having casual conversations like that were nice. His sketch was almost complete, but it was time to go, so he hastily stuffed it into his own briefcase.

"Attention, next stop: Downtown Main Street." The trains automated voice sounded.

That was the end of that. He spent the next half-hour walking, downtown was a big place after all. Scott didn't get lost though, he had spent many days personally e-mailing and visiting their production building. If there's a will there's a way, right? Except, he never made it.

Before he moved to metropolis his sister, Alexis, told him not to. She had said that places like Metropolis and Gotham were too dangerous, too many 'incidents' as the news called them. But he put his faith in Metropolis, it had Superman after all. Except, he hadn't been seen in awhile, and it had been even longer since he had seen his hero.

As it so happens, most civilians don't actually see or know what happened. Many interviews of victims quote them as saying some variation of: "All I know is Superman rescued me." Or "I just ran." Then the everyday person just has to rely on any follow up from the heroes, the police, or the news, but not everything gets into the papers.

Only ten minutes away from his destination, an explosion rocked the block, the parking garage he was standing next to had been damaged somehow. Its walls crumbled and large chunks of cement began to fall. He could easily escape, as well as many of the adults nearby, but one of the smaller hunks had fallen on a kid and knocked him out.

Out of naivete and instinct, Scott rushed to his side, and tried to rush the both of them out. However, something was now stopping his leg, he had only time to fall forward before he realized he wasn't getting out. His last conscious action was to cover the boy with his own body, maybe being a shield might spare at least him.

What could I have done?

What should I have done?

Those were his last thoughts before complete blackness surrounded him.

---

Much Earlier:

"Alan, are you still worrying?" An white-haired woman with dozens of wrinkles asked a similar looking man sitting next to her. The both of them were leaning close to each other on an faded looking maroon couch. Paintings of old days and friends adorned their spacious walls.

"No, Molly, just curious is all." The old man, Alan Scott, watched the television. Just more reports from the international news, sometimes they would feature a story from the Daily Planet and Gotham Gazette. He watched quietly, rubbing a certain green piece on his other hand.

Molly placed a hand gently over his. "It looks to be more than just curiosity."

Alan shook his head. "I can't go out anymore, not like that. Superheroes is an young man's game." He laughed softly. "Ohh, I don't think I'd be able to sling it as well anymore." The both of them smiled and just sat in the moment, even as the news reported some problem across the globe.

"Then lets give it a rest for today." Molly said, shutting off the TV. Alan chuckled again.

"I think that's what I've been doing for thirty years." Alan said, after a few moments Molly got up to leave, the smell of eggs and sausage began to fill the air in her place. But in the quiet that followed, a new voice spoke up.

"Alan Scott. Thoust are not forced to fight for eternity. Thine battle is over, I may relinquish thou from this responsibility." This voice was deep, but not in a scary way, hearing it once brought Alan strength during hard times.

Alan nodded, and took off his ring. "It might be for the best. Please, find someone else, someone who can continue in my footsteps as the next Green Lantern."

_{Location: Salem.}

Interaction: none

_{Issue #1.1: The happiest place on earth - the fairy king descends}

Cast: Control Freak, Oberoth'm'gozz, W.A.N.D.

---

Two weeks later.

A secret gathering of the cultist leaders has been called upon to address the new threat in their community.

This underground society works in the shadows. Their faces and names are unknown to the world, pulling the strings in Salem and everything the light touches. They have different agendas, different points of view, different magic systems they impose upon their followers, and different foreign gods they worship, and now share one common enemy as of late: The witch boy.

"We should be hunting witches not the other way around!"

"This is sacrilege! He's a menace! This offspring of an imp must be dealt with!"

"The book of the beast must be protected at all cost!"

"Patience brothers, and sisters.. We mustn't be too hasty about this. We haven't known the identity of this miscreant just yet but we have hired someone with a solution to neutralize this situation, restoring the good name of our organization." One leader settled the dispute and proposed an answer.

"That's right, I'm here to solve all of your problems..Not gonna lie, after seeing the video, your men took a huge L on this one....." A fat untidy manchild steps forward the light.

"Can you do it? can you put this rogue occultist into one of your pocket dimensions?" Ignoring the zoomer lingo, A mysterious voice sternly asked the obese tech-wiz kid.

"Can you do it? tch.. Hell yeah, I can do it! I'm your guy.. err.. You know my rates right? gotta pay me in half.. the new Kingdom Hearts is dropping real soon and I'm gonna need that dough.." He smiled with confidence, addressing the men inside these huge monitors in front of him.

Enter Control Freak -- A freelance, overweight, nuisance of a "supervillain" that can alter reality with a flick of his remote on a smaller scale.

He was tasked by the cult of Salem to contain the "Bloody Oak" massacre, Cleaning up the mess Klarion has made, containing the situation, and buying them time to recuperate their numbers in Massachusetts.

Klarion did a massive blow in their operation in this city. The little imp's shenanigan sends a huge ripple to their community and exposes what they truly are. This holier than thou religious group's name was tainted. The faith of their countless followers was wavered and stirred.

It's time to fix this with a little dose of a happy pill.

The cultist agrees to this unorthodox scheme, which in the end, will benefit them for the greater good.

A new reality breaks and tears asunder towards the unsuspecting town.
Imprisoning them in this temporal bubble with one lesser Eldritch horror thrown into the mix for good measure.

This old fashioned town will know the true meaning of "Joy"

---

The climate drastically changes overnight. A bizarre yet ancient thaumaturgy is at work reshaping the town.

it's 5:00 am.

The witch boy yawns and lazily gets off his bed. It's another school day and another daily routine getting there. This is his life now. A mischievous powerful being of sorcery now reduced to nothing more than a normal high-schooler to hide his true identity from the world.

A misfit on the run; both wanted in the human world and the realm of the supernatural. How humiliating to go through this act...

Everything was going mundane except that didn't last long.

Klarion felt a chill in his body, the feeling of discomfort, the sense of dread like he was being cursed or something.

"Do you feel it too, Teekl?" He asks his feline companion.

*meow* The cat simply purred, climbing on Klarion's shoulder and agreeing with his master.

Still half asleep, He looks in front of the mirror and rubs his eyes, only to find a mysterious magical dirt right beneath them. It's coarse, rough, and rich with potent magic from a faraway land.

"Pixie dust?" He asked himself. "I thought these were extinct when those buggers got wiped off the face of the earth during the Arthurian period."

Unaffected by its charm, The witch boy shrugs. He didn't ponder on it too much on how and why it got there. Klarion steps outside his house and looks around to see if everything is normal.

The sun is shining bright and everyone has this creepy smile on their faces everywhere he turns, all dress up in their sunday suits like it was the 70's.

It was peaceful.

It was unsettling.

"Hiya neighbor, What a b-Ae-u-tiful morning" Ned greeted with a giddy manner. His grin bares all teeth and was strangely unnerving like it was plastered to his face. His eyes were squinted, stretch hard from side to side, almost like a slit in comparison. He was extremely elated.

"Uhh, are you having a stroke? what happen to your face?" Klarion retorted bluntly. His neighbor's greeting was returned with an insult.

"Silly friend, this is always been my face.. now, why don't you turn that frown upside down? ya?" Ned eerily said while watering the plants, without losing that creepy smile and maintaining his eye contact lock with Klarion.

Teekl pops out of Klarion's backpack and hisses at Ned on his way out. Even the cat knows something is strange with Klarion's neighbor.

Upon walking to school, He meets people on the way there, eerily smiling like a mindless zombie and saying phrases like: "Be happy.." "Remember to smile.." Which is more ominous than it sounds rather than a simple greeting.

*Meow*

"I know Teekl, something is up. Humans aren't this festive going to work early in the morning. Especially on mondays."

Klarion and Teekl's minds link and share a vision to see the unseen.
Upon their clairvoyance to see the unknown, They discover the whole town of Salem is infested by true fairies, feeding off happiness to the unsuspecting civilians of this town.

These fairies look like miniature eldritch horrors' heads attached to a fly's body and are unseen to the normal human eye. and there's a swarm of them, latching to each person.

"Karp, forget school, I need to get out of here!"

---

_{Location: Devil's oak
Time: 10:00 am}

Klarion figures that in order to call upon the old gods, sacrifice(s) must be made to please them.

The witch boy went to the Devil's oak to see if he can find some clues, the same place he massacre those cultists last week. Ah brings back fond memories.

To his surprise, The cult's rotting bodies were still there, infested with maggots and rearrange into a circle. It appears this like some sort of a summoning ritual. Someone has been busy. His hunch was correct. This place was the gateway for those winged horrors.

"Ha!I knew it, move over Batman.. there's a new detective in town" Klarion bragged with a smirk on his face while petting Teekl in his arm.

"How cliche, returning to the scene of the crime.." from out of nowhere, A click of a shotgun's hammer was heard right behind the Witch boy's back.

"Freeze, witch boy.. you're under arrest!"

"Oh?" Klarion said coyly.

"I'm Pandora Peters of the Wizard Alchemy Necromancy Department or W.A.N.D.. we're here to neutralize supernatural threats such as yourself!"

"Have not the fear, human laborers!" shouted Koriand'r over the din of twisting metal and rushing water. "In your time of needing, salvation has made the arrival!"

Swooping down into the well of muck, Starfire took hold of a steel I-beam, one weighing over half a ton, and with a strained grunt lifted it off of the legs of a pinned worker who had been submerged almost over his head before being freed.

"This has to be the worst job we've ever done," Rachel muttered as she held out her hands, emitting tendrils of shadow that snatched picked more terrified workers out from the swirling cesspools where they had been drowning, snagged by loose cables and falling debris. A wave of sludge crashed against the side of the pool, splashing across her deep blue cloak and black tights. "The worst by far."

The Jump City Sewage Treatment Plant was falling apart in a spectacular fashion, with dozens of workers trapped in danger of particularly revolting deaths. Exits had been blocked by toppled equipment, safety gear suffered freak accident failures, and loose tools and pieces of industrial scrap quickly became potentially lethal shrapnel. Rachel and Kori had caught news of the incident over the police scanner, and were on the scene to try and keep the emergency from becoming a catastrophe.

Around them, old rusted metal groaned from pipes that had inexplicably clogged all at once. Then, with a series of pops and pings, screws and rivets burst loose from the immense water pressure, whizzing and ricocheting through the plant like bullets.

"Everyone down!" Raven yelled as she stretched out her ethereal essence-- what she had deemed her 'Soul Self'-- to snatch the speeding bits of metal out of the air, or throw up black shields to protect workers as they hit the deck. She had learned that her...unusual...circumstances of birth allowed her to do things that other people couldn't, projecting her soul into the physical world to do any number of things. Telekinesis was just the shallow end of her abilities, but it was one she had to use most often when doing 'cape and tights stuff.'

As Raven reached out with her spiritual powers to contain as much of the disaster as she could, Kori glanced over at her pale-skinned partner from the far side of the plant and could not help but feel a swell of admiration. In her daily life, Rachel Roth was dreary, dour, and put up a wall of cold contempt for people around her as a defense for her shyness and fear. When she adopted the persona of Raven, however, she was powerful beyond her own imagination, and had the courage and the confidence to use that power to become an incredible force for good. Others looked at Rachel and saw only the darkness of her regalia, the shadows she projected. Kori, however, saw past that darkness to the shining light within.

Kori felt herself distracted for a moment, musing if her friend could ever be aware of how beautiful she truly was. Then a pressurized tank ruptured behind the orange-haired alien girl and doused her with a few thousand gallons of raw sewage.

"Help!" cried a panicked foreman, trapped high up on a walkway that was beginning to buckle and collapse around him. "For the love of God, help me!"

"There is no need to make the panic," Starfire consoled the screaming man as she rose from the muck and scooped him up into her arms. "You shall be of the safeness and sounding momentarily!"

Kori plucked the frightened man from the falling structure, gingerly placing him on the ground before taking to the air again, her hands glowing with clouds of neon green plasma. Slinging the bolts of emerald fire into the mounds of twisted steel and crumbled concrete, she blasted clear a path for the workers to begin to escape, then flew back into the maelstrom of debris and sludge to save the others trapped inside.

"The structural integrity of this place is beyond the point of failure!" Starfire called out to her partner. "We must get the rest to--"

"Look out!" Raven interrupted her, engulfing an enormous gantry in shadow and catching the massive structure before it would have slammed into Starfire from behind. All around them, walls and supports began to crumble, and more sewage flooded the entire plant.

Throwing out her hands, Raven spilled forth more shadows, her Soul Self seeping into as much of the surrounding area as she could to hold it all together. While her mystic abilities cost Rachel very little in terms of physical exertion, the mental strain of projecting herself this far over so much was tough to bear.

"Can't...hold it for long!" Raven said through gritted teeth. "Get....everyone....out!"

As Raven struggled to keep the crumbling plant together, she saw her friend flitting through the disaster, bobbing and weaving between collapsing structures, swooping and diving with otherworldly grace, picking up the endangered workers one by one and two by and placing them on the path to safety. At first glance, it would be all too easy to dismiss Kori as an empty-headed cuckoo, a bubbly ditz who ate weird things, didn't understand personal space, and threw herself at every attractive person who paid her the slightest attention. Rachel knew, though, that most of the time, she was simply out of her element. When she was Starfire, the alien warrior princess and champion of the people, she was a sight to behold. Starfire moved through battles and calamity with a deftness that made it all seem trivial, making as full use of her body and her powers the way a master musician would their favorite instrument.

It was impossible to watch her in action and not be entranced.

Which, unfortunately, had the effect of distracting Rachel long enough to miss a final rupturing pipe, that splashed her directly in the face with a jet of sewer water.

"Acckk---blegghhh! Pfffbbbtt!" Raven sputtered and spat, trying to shake herself off as she was now drenched head to toe in substances she'd rather not think about. Her Soul Self began to falter, and she could feel the thousands of tons of metal and concrete begin to twist and shatter despite her efforts. Any much longer, and her powers would fail entirely, leaving her to be buried or drowned--probably whichever was worse....

Somewhere in the back of her head, Rachel was begging for another shift at the Big Belly Burger, answering stupid questions from mouth-breathing customers. On the other hand, being doused with offal and refuse was still only slightly less unpleasant than talking with Kitten van Cleer....

"Friend Raven!" Starfire called out as she flew towards her. "The civilians have arrived at the safety! We must now evacuate ourselves!"

"....right..." she said with a sigh of exhausted relief, retracting her Soul Self and letting the section of the plant finally implode on itself. Starfire took one arm around Raven's waist and took them both into the air, keeping the other hand free to blast away any last bits of rubble that impeded their way.

As they rose hundreds of feet into the air over the chaos and wreckage, Kori and Rachel looked over the scene with a mixture of triumph, relief, and guilt. They had managed to keep everyone alive, but half of the sewage treatment plant was in ruins, which was going to be a major hardship for the people of Jump City.

"Well....that..." Rachel panted, "....was awful."

"We have saved many lives tonight, friend Rachel," Kori said, comforting the pale girl as globs of sludge dripped off of them. "This is a night we should remember with the pride! Next, we must report our actions to the Chief Gomez, and provide helping to the investigations into how this was made to happen."

"Maybe later," Rachel brushed her off, wringing out a sickening brown-gray liquid from her cloak. "Before we do any of that, I think I'm going to take a shower and lie down for a while."

"I am in need of the washing as well," Kori admitted. "We should--"

"For the last time," Rachel interrupted as they flew away into the night sky, "The shower is for one person at a time..."

---

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Oh, relax, I was just rehearsing. All they'll find is a freak coincidence. A grease-ball clogging up a pump here, some faults in the foundation there. The place was begging to fall apart anyway. All it needed was just a little bit of bad luck. Besides, the plan is to keep them exhausted, right?"

"Yeah, but I thought we were supposed to do it in little ways, right? That was way too big!"

"Quite correct. If the alien and the witch girl are not to detect our presence, we must be more subtle in our attempts to weaken them."

"Fine, no more pyrotechnics. Not until Friday, anyway."

"Right. On Friday, that's when we put on the real show!"

"Yes. Until then, keep them on their toes, keep them from recuperating. But don't let them catch on....not until it's too late for them to stop it...."

11:23 AM

“That fucking meeting was a disaster, Matty. I think we got a fucking rat.”

The disgusting sound of Joey eating pasta was enough to make me happy I was blind. I imagined the sight was just as horrible as the sound. The place was practically deserted even though it was approaching the lunchtime rush. Joey or one of the guys in his crew was probably a silent partner in the business and were able to clear it out with a snap of their finger. That explained why the only people in the restaurant with us were Joey’s two goons watching both me and the towering one-man wrecking crew that was my own personal bodyguard and driver, Melvin Potter.

Once upon a time Melvin had been an up and coming boxer. He was just a teenager when he started to learn at the feet of a past his prime palooka named Jack Murdock. His boxing career got derailed when he accidentally crippled an opponent. He transitioned to mixed martial arts back in the days when the sport was little more than human cockfighting and just as corrupt as any boxing match. He was on the path to washing out of fighting and becoming a mob legbreaker when I stepped in and offered him a job. Now he doesn’t have to break legs for a living. These days it’s just for fun.

“What do you mean?" I asked Joey. "Did the cops raid you?”

“I mean that fucking finocchio with the horns showed up. He tore through us like we were goddamn toilet paper. Cops came afterwards. Me and Paulie and our guys got away, but I heard Blackwood got two of his bikers nabbed on gun charges. This Devil motherfucker fucked up two of my guys, three of the bikers, and even me. You can’t see what my face looks like but it’s bad.”

I knew firsthand how bad Joey’s fast was. Last night I drove my left elbow into his cheek with a force so hard it knocked him flat on his ass. I thought at the time I’d broken his orbital bone, but I guess not. I could tell from the way he moved he was wearing sunglasses, so everything north of the nose must have been one giant bruise he was hiding. I didn’t smile like I wanted to.

“This is the third time he’s involved himself in the crime world,” I said.

“Yeah word on the street is the cocksucker took over the drug trade in Washington Heights and Harlem.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Over the previous six months I had managed to dismantle both Turk Barrett’s criminal empire north of 110th Street and the Puerto Rican Army, a street gang that ran the projects in Washington Heights. It wasn’t true that The Devil had taken over their operations, but there was a power in letting the lie play out on its own. It established my alter-ego as more than just some costumed crime fighter. He was a crook in his own right, something far more feared than a vigilante. Layers, inside of layers, inside of layers.

“And you think someone tipped him off to the meeting?” I asked.

“How else would he show up?” Joey Bags thrusted a fat fist forward and gestured with his fork. I felt small spatters of tomato sauce hit the lapels of my tailored designer suit. “The only people knew about the meet was me, Paulie, the Don himself, and Blackwood and his fucking rednecks.”

“Well, if you think the leak didn’t come from you, it had to be Blackwood or one of his people.”

I was quick to shift blame to the bikers. The fact I wasn’t on Joey’s list of people meant the old man hadn’t told Joey or Paulie about our little consultation the day before. The fork clattered on Joey’s empty plate and he stretched back in his chair. I could hear the pasta already churning in his stomach, a sound that made me rapidly lose desire for my own lunch.

“Those fucking cranked up hillbillies,” he spat. “We ought march into Queens and wipe ‘em off the fucking map.”

“A gang war over mere speculation isn’t very smart,” I said. “Especially since the Crusaders pack military surplus hardware. Just do the obvious thing, Joey, and tell Blackwood you’re putting your deal on ice for the time being. He'll probably be quick to agree and put distance between you and him. If you’re having these thoughts, can you imagine what he’s thinking about you?”

Joey sucked his teeth and thought my idea over. Joey was the smartest guy inside the Campisi Crime Family. That wasn’t much of a complement in the grand scheme of things, but I knew Paulie didn’t wipe his ass without first consulting Joey Bags’ opinion on the matter. The quickest way to sideline this drug trafficking scheme was to spook Joey to the point of him telling Paulie to kill it.

“That might be best,” he finally conceded. “I’ll talk to Paulie and firmly suggest that it’s the best move to make some distance from ourselves and Blackwood for the time being. He'll see the light.”

“Speaking of,” I said as I stood and grabbed my walking stick. “If Blackwood had men arrested he'll probably want me to defend them.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Joey said with a laugh. “Pass the news on to Blackwood for me, will you? Always a pleasure, Matty.”

I nodded without saying another word and started to make my way towards the exit. Melvin came to my side and led the way. He’d been with me long enough to not take my arm and try to guide me like most would. He knew exactly what I was capable of. I thought about Joey's warm farewell. While Paulie was indifferent towards me at best, Joey Bags and I were always on good terms. That boded well for the future. With Angelo's advanced age it meant very soon there would be a day when Paulie was boss and my access would be far diminished. Guys like Joey would help me with that information pipeline to continue my real mission.

Melvin opened the door to the restaurant for me and I stepped out onto the sidewalk and came to a stop. Even over the continuous cornucopia of noise that was New York City, I heard something familiar from down the block. It was a heartbeat I hadn’t heard in a long time. A very long time. Then came the screeching tires down the block. Melvin stepped in front of me as the car skidded to a stop in front of us. He began to go for the gun tucked into the small of his back but I put my hand against his arm.

"It's the law," I whispered to him. "Keep your gun well hidden."

“Mr. Murdock,” a calm voice said as a man stepped out of the car. “Special Agent Wambaugh, FBI.”

I heard him pull his badge out to flash… right in the face of a blind man. Typical FBI.

“Melvin?” I asked with the tilt of my head.

“Yeah, it’s a legit badge. Heh, says his first name is Gayle. Isn't that a girls name?”

“I need you to come with me,” Wambaugh said as he coughed. I could feel the air temperature change around Wambaugh's face as it flushed in embarrassment. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“But I already know your boss," I said before turning to Melvin. “Just wait in he car. I’ll be back in about a half hour.”

I climbed into the back of the unmarked FBI car and sat right next to the man in the backseat. I knew him better than I knew anyone else in this world. He was my oldest friend. The man who I spent almost every waking moment of college and law school with. And these days he was the man who now spent his days actively seeking to bring down me and every client in my contacts.

“Mr. Murdock,” said Foggy Nelson. “You got some sauce on your jacket. That's a nice suit. Looks like it’ll be an expensive stain.”

“Thank you, Foggy,” I said. I placed a gentle hand on his arm. "And from the feel of things you're still buying off the rack. Jos A. Bank still doing the deal where if you buy one suit, you get sixteen for free?"

“Let’s keep this formal please,” he said tightly.

“Very well then," I said with a slight smirk and a bow of my head. "So, Assistant United States Attorney Franklin Nelson... how can I help you?”

---

2:15 PM

Yussel Goren had never seen so much blood in his life. It seemed to coat the floor and walls of the small Brooklyn apartment. It covered his hands and arms. The thighs of his navy blue pants were a deep crimson now due to the blood. Neta was face down in the carpet. Her blood pooled out from the spot where she had fallen and it was oozing out through the rest of the room.

Yussel stumbled forward. He took his yarmulke off with his blood-stained hands and stuttered out some words in Yiddish. He fell to his knees and began to weep. His free hand found a bloody knife buried in the carpet. He held it up and looked at it just as the door to the apartment burst open.

"NYPD," the heavyset uniformed officer said. He pulled his gun out and aimed it at the weeping Yussel. "Drop the weapon!"

O L D F R I E N D S
O L D F R I E N D S

FIVE YEARS AGO // ALASKA

Thor puffed out his chest slightly. "I will return you to your home, free. On my word as God of Thunder, you will no longer be an outcast."

Screwbeard smirked. "It's a start."

The stench was enough to try and encourage Thor's innards to regurgitate the days meals as he stood at the edge of the canyon. He reached back and grabbed the handle of Jarnbjorn, slinging it over his shoulder and into his two hands. Steeling himself for the coming confrontation he jumped down, catching himself landing on one knee, his other leg bent to absorb the blow. The stench of piss, shit and rotten flesh assaulted his senses. It had been bad enough struggling to avoid gagging at the top, down here it was near a thousand times worse.

Looking up he found himself surrounded by five, giant, lumbering, orange-skinned trolls. Thick bushy hair poured out of their heads and armpits. One of them even had a large amount protruding out the top of their boot.

"What's this? A God, why?" The first of their number stood up.

"A God, come all this way to die?" The rest followed suit, drawing their weapons as they did so.

Thor eyed them warily, axe in hand. Curling his fingers across the shaft slightly, keeping his grip loose, his entire body sat ready like a wound-up coil. One of the trolls sniffed at Thor, a low chuckle coming from deep in the trolls throat.

"This one bears the stink of Odin. He's one of Odin's brats. Odinson".

"I am Thor, God of Thunder and protector of this realm. You will leave this realm, or face justice."

"What does an Asgardian know of justice?"

Thor adjusted his stance slightly, adjusting to face the leader. He was too late when he heard the shuffling of feet behind him. Dropping jarnbjorn he dropped to his knees below the incoming sword. It glistened unnaturally as it passed over Thors head, he grimace slightly. Dwarven weapons. While low Thor swept with his legs, knocking one of the trolls down. He reached out with his hand, then realised his mistake. Jarnbjorn didn't return to his hand. Thunder boomed overhead. He stumbled past another blow, and as a third troll swept down with a mace, Thor grabbed the shaft of the weapon, using it to lift himself off the ground he brought his feet up the stomach of the troll and kicked, sending the troll one way and himself now with the mace in the other direction.

Throwing the mace at an incoming attacker Thor managed to return to his axe, raising it just in time to block the sword on the weapon, twisting it he struck the troll with the pommel. Dazing him and allowing himself to get some distance. Only to find himself backed into a corner. The trolls chuckled as they closed in on him in a semi-circle. Thor raised his axe high over his shoulder, bringing it straight down towards his closest attacker.

When the troll went to block the obvious attack, Thor flicked his left wrist up, bringing the axe down in a curve. The lock of surprise was stained on the trolls face as the axe buried itself into its side, twisting his body, Thor turned away from the troll. Axe stained red with blood as there was a thump as the troll fell to the ground.

Swinging in a wide arc with the axe aimed at the troll on the other sides torso, he attempted a similar trick. Adjusting course at the last minute. The same trick didn't work twice, taking his right hand off the axe he caught the wrist of another troll as he attempted to stab into Thors side, squeezing and twisting hard the troll dropped his weapon to the ground as Thor brought his axe up and around with his free hand. Misjudging the weight he slammed the shaft of his weapon into his shoulder.

Thor mentally chastised himself as he let go of the trolls wrist, now grabbing his axe with his two hands he lunged in a stab as the central troll pushed forward. The sharpened pommel caught the troll in the throat, blood spurted out catching Thor in the face. Pulling the weapon out to the side, the troll's head flopped lazily. Followed by the rest of his body.

Panic struck the faces of the remaining three.

---

PRESENT DAY // OSLO // NORWAY

What little light remained from the beasts eyes started to fade. "One you have faced before Odinson, and when he returns home. He shall teach you the meaning of pain." Before Thor could get another word in edgeways the beasts head lopped to the side, eyes vacant. Letting it drop it turned to ash and dust. Thor exclaimed in frustration, kicking a pebble that when assisted by God Strength and lightning went careering through a nearby wall.

Thor had remained at the museum for much the rest of the day, answering the questions of the local authorities, Kripos and surprisingly quickly. S.H.I.E.L.D agents. There was some large scale S.H.I.E.L.D operation going on out at sea. Thor wasn't surprised they hadn't asked for his help, the one issue he had with the agency was how secretive it could be on occasion. It was full of men and women with agendas. Much the same as various courts amongst the nine realms, including Odins own court.

Thor had no mind for such games. He would always help people, consequences be damned.

Once the interviews were concluded he made sure to take time to console the families that came to the museum in the hopes of finding loved ones alive and well. Thor tried the best he could to reassure them, yet many mortals regarded death with such finality. He always struggled to relate to them in their most vulnerable moments.

Eventually, he managed to slip away, after all, he had more pressing issues at hand. Finding himself back at what S.H.I.E.L.D called him his 'safe house' on the edge of the city he walked in as the door as it detected his presence through various mortal magics allowing him entry. He collapsed onto his sofa, letting loose a deep breath.

Closing his eyes for a second he could already hear the footsteps coming from through the back of the small apartment. "Thor we have a problem."

"I am aware."

Thor opened his eyes, gazing into the hazel eyes of Agent Roz Solomon. A trusted friend and agent. Who had been his S.H.I.E.L.D liaison after, as a joke she had posted online to invite him to her graduation. To which he had shown up.

"I've been looking at the time-stamps of the activity at the museum, and the energy started to build up at the exact time S.H.I.E.L.D reported success out to sea-"

"Success with?"

Roz grimaced slightly. "You know I'm not at liberty to divulge everything, but I think it's the first place we should look."

More blasted secrets. Even when their secrets left a price paid in blood, S.H.I.E.L.D still held onto them.

"Nay, first I must consult Selvig. The one who spoke said I had faced his master before."

"Surely if that was true, you'd remember him?"

"Do you remember every fly you've swatted?"

She winced. "Fair point."

Thor sighed as he stood up, looming over the mortal woman. "I did not mean to be so harsh, I just-"

"I understand." They lingered for a moment staring at each other before she cleared her throat. "I should, I'll go. I'll meet you out at the S.H.I.E.L.D site when you're ready?"

Thor nodded, neglecting to watch as she turned and walked away.