TUESDAY

"Franklin!" Kori exclaimed with a bright cheerful smile, gracefully weaving between classmates in the crowded hallway of Jump City High, her feet not even bothering to touch the ground. A few months ago, this would have sent students running in panic and confusion, but by now the super-powered alien girl was old news. While Kori certainly still drew plenty of attention, it was now of the more mundane variety: guys ogling her body as she passed, girls whispering salacious gossip or muttering jealously about her looks, and more than a few doing vice versa.

"Oh, uh, hey Kori," Frankie Crandall said with an uneasy chuckle as the orange-skinned beauty floated towards him. "Uhhh, what's up?"

"A relative direction signifying an increase in altitude," Kori answered, tilting her head to one side. "I was led to believe that Earth children were taught what the 'up' was at much younger ages. Should I explain the 'down' as well?"

Frankie stared at her blankly for a moment, blinked a few times as if to restart his brain, then shook his head. "Ah, no no, I was just saying, y'know, how are you doing?"

"Doing what?"

"No, I just..." Frankie sputtered for a moment, then shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"Then I shall have the worries no more," Kori smiled, before taking the boy in a tight hug and nuzzling her cheek against his. "I am with the great happiness to see you."

"Oh, yeah, uhhh....me too," Frankie said, growing increasingly aware of how many people were staring at him.

Frankie Crandall was the Senior Class President, as well as the first-string QB of Jump City High's football team, the Titans. He'd come from a rich family, was the alpha-male of his group of friends, and he'd had nearly every girl of any kind of social status in their school drooling over him. Throughout his junior year, he'd used his charm, his Abercrombie & Fitch looks, and his influence to get to at least second base with sixteen female students....and two teachers. It was no surprise, then, that when Junior Prom came around, he was the shoo-in to become Prom King, and his opposite number, Kitten van Cleer, would be Prom Queen. And they'd go into Senior Year as an unbeatable power-couple who would have their way with anyone and everyone.

Except Kitten wasn't voted Queen. In a surprise democratic uprising from the normies and nerds, Kitten lost out to a new student, Kori Anders, or "that hot alien superhero girl" as many of the ballots had said. While Kitten was humiliated by her freak loss (or in her words, her loss to a freak), Frankie didn't think it was all that bad. If dating a rich girl would cement his reputation, imagine being the first guy at Jump City High to go all the way with a superhero....

"I have been doing much thought," Kori said, her emerald eyes twinkling, "Of activities in which we can participate on the ending of this week. We can read the poetry together, or make the walking together in the park, or perhaps go to the theater of moving pictures! We could view the latest film, the Top of Gun!"

That was how he'd thought at first, but over the past few months, it had started to get old. For starters, as much as she fawned over him, gave him gifts (usually weirdo alien gifts that he didn't understand), there was no connection there; they were literally from two different worlds. Worse, his rep didn't get nearly the boost as he'd wanted, since almost nobody saw him as the alpha male anymore, the king of the Titans; now he was just "Starfire's boyfriend." And while Kori was very affectionate and tended to be quite 'hands-on' when displaying that affection, she always stopped just short of doing anything really fun. And it didn't help that any time he tried to convince her to go a little further, that goth emo sidekick of hers would interrupt and ruin the mood.

He had to admit, the drawbacks of dating an alien were really starting to outweigh the benefits....

"That sounds, uh, sounds great, Kori," Frankie said as he tried to free himself from Kori's embrace, "But, uhh, I kinda...already have plans this weekend? You know, the uh, the big party Friday night? The one that Kitten's throwing? On her dad's cruise ship? You're, uh, you're coming, right?"

Kori blinked in surprise as she released the hug. "Oh, no, I was....uninvited."

"Oh, that's...aw man, I'm sorry," Frankie tried poorly to conceal the relief in his voice. "I mean, I was really hoping you'd get to come, but I mean....you've probably got superhero stuff to do that night anyway, right?"

"That...is a possibility," Kori nodded as her feet finally touched the ground. "But if I do not have the super-heroism to perform, then perhaps we could--"

"I mean, I kinda already told Chaz and Kyler that I'd see them there," Frankie said with a pained expression as he backed away. "And I mean, Kitten said there was gonna be a big surprise for everyone there, so....you understand, right?"

Kori's eyes started to well with tears. "You are...you are giving me the dumping?"

"Well, that is, I mean, it's just.....we're two different people, right? I mean, like, I'm a guy, and you're from outer space, and it's like, whaaaat? You know what I mean?" Frankie began to stammer, before a slim blonde girl nudged her way through the crowd and slipped an arm around his waist.

"What he means," Kitten van Cleer said with a triumphant sneer, "is that he wants to spend some time with some real people, instead of fooling around with the space-princess freak-show."

The crowd surrounding them erupted into ooohs and aahs; the un-crowned queen of Jump City High was making her play for the throne.



"Isn't that right, Frankie-poo?"

"Kitten," Kori growled, her eyes glowing and fists beginning to charge with green plasma. "I knew this subversion of our love was your doing! What have you done to him?!"

Kitten's tittering laugh was like nails on a chalkboard to Kori. "Oh, it's not anything I did to him. It's all the things I'm going to do with him this Friday, while you're spending your night pulling cats out of trees or fishing people out of vats of poop."

The blonde leaned towards Kori and pretended to sniff the air. "Ew, and speaking of which, you still smell like the sewage plant."

"That is untrue!" Kori shouted with outrage. "I have cleansed any and all residual sewage from my body and made certain I no longer have the smelling from it!"

"Ohhh, I'm sorry," Kitten mockingly apologized. "My mistake; that must be how you always smell."

This brought a chorus of laughs from Kitten's followers as Kori seethed with rage. "You....you are nothing more than a malfing g'norz'plaft!"

Kitten put a hand to her forehead and acted wounded. "Oh noooo, a g'norz-whatever, how can I recover from such a horrible insult?"

Sheepishly, Frankie tried to back away from the two feuding girls and lose himself in the crowd, but made the mistake of making eye contact with the humiliated Kori.

"Franklin," she pleaded, "How can you do this? Why would you bring the dishonoring on yourself by coupling with this doer of evil?"

"I, uhh, well, you know," Frankie shrugged. "It's, uh, it's not you....it's me."

Again, Kitten laughed, making Kori's blood boil.

"Oh, he's kidding," she said, hooking her arm around Frankie's and pulling him close, "it's totally you."

As the two turned and left, Kitten's entourage of suck-ups and hangers-on let out a chorus of cheers, jeers, and laughter, leaving the red-haired alien girl stammering.



"I...I do not understand..." she said quietly, as her eyes welled with tears.

Starfire was a hero, a champion of Tamaran and a protector of the people of Earth. She was all but unbeatable on the battlefield, and a tireless foe of the forces of evil.

Kori Anders, though, was a misfit, the weird foreign girl who kept finding out the hard way that she didn't belong. She had trusted someone, had loved him, and that someone had tossed her love aside for someone as vicious and vindictive as Kitten van Cleer.

She had failed, just like she had failed on her home planet.

Once again, evil had triumphed, and she had been powerless to stop it.

---

"Azerath......Metreon....Zinthos...." Rachel chanted the mantra quietly in the far corner of the Jump City High library, her legs crossed in a lotus position as she levitated a couple of feet off of the ground.

Orbiting around her like moons were three books, their pages spread open and turning as their knowledge passed in and out of her mind.

The first was an old worn hardcover copy of Magick: Liber ABA, the seminal work of the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley. Technically, given her half-demon nature, Rachel didn't need spells and incantations to perform supernatural acts, but she found that they were a useful framing device. Much like how one can better express complex and nuanced emotions through the rhyme and meter of a poem, or the lyrics and melody of a song, Rachel often found that working with the subtle and dangerous workings of otherworldly powers was best done by framing it with sigils and runes and magic words.

The second was a more modern paperback, called Time Loops: Precognition, Retrocausation, and the Unconscious. It was mostly new-age pseudo-science attempting to put some air of credibility onto what amounted to spoon-bending and parlor tricks, but Raven found it useful to frame her thinking. When she was younger, she would have terrible nightmares, only to see them come true on the news a few days later. It was only recently that she learned that she had the gift and curse of precognition, her half-demon soul able to project into time as well as space. Her visions were still...messy, however, too cryptic and obtuse to be useful.

"Azerath......Metreon....Zinthos...."

As she chanted, the pages turned, channeling more knowledge into the purple-haired girl's mind. Rachel was hoping that by combining the older framework of traditional occultist magic with the quasi-rational mindset of the pseudo-scientists, she could get clearer, more accurate--and most importantly, more actionable-- information out of her premonitions. These two books together, she hoped, could help Raven and Starfire save lives.

The third book, which circled around her in a faster, more urgent orbit, was her Algebra II textbook. She had a test next period and hadn't had the time to study last night.

"Azerath......Metr--AAAAAHHH!"



Rachel dropped to the floor, the three books thudding on the floor around her as she clutched her head.

She'd been trying to focus her precognitive abilities, to get more out of her premonitions.

She had effectively gone fishing in the proverbial deep waters, and something just bit.

Images flooded into her mind, all at once.

Fire.

Shock.

Burning.

Crushing.

Gouging.

Cutting.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Drowning in it.

Drowning.

Lungs filling with salt water.

Familiar faces, their skin peeling away.

Screams from all sides.

Hell?

No. Not hell.

Yo can't die in hell.

And people are dying.

Dying all around you.

Death surrounds you.

Engulfs you.

Takes you.

Takes h--

"NO!" Rachel shouted, and the library trembled, spilling books from their shelves.

Dozens of students looked up from their studies and stared at the pale-skinned witch girl. While she never really cared for the opinions of her classmates, she also didn't care for being looked at like a circus act.

"I'll, ah, I'll clean up in a second," she muttered, before hurrying out of the library and heading for the nearest bathroom. A few students whispered to each other under their breath, drawing some derisive laughs. Superhero or not, most of them had never really stopped thinking of her as a weirdo, a freak. Little episodes like this certainly didn't help.

In the girls' room, Rachel stood in front of the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed a handful of cold water on her face to try and bring herself back to reality. As her heart rate slowed and her breathing returned to normal, Rachel slowly felt the panic subside....

....leaving only the certain, awful dread that now sat heavy in her heart.



"Something evil is coming," she finally spoke, her premonition now a prophecy. "No....a lot of somethings. All those people, they're all going to die..."

She looked herself in the mirror, and steeled her nerve. "....unless I do something about it."

Rachel Roth may have been a freak, a weird little goth loser whose only friend was the equally weird space-girl who didn't know any better.

But Raven was a superhero. Raven could stand up to the forces of hell itself and send them packing.

And if something evil, or a lot of somethings, were really coming, then she would be there to stop it.

Shout my name! (Part 3)

---

"The hell is this?" Scott complained loudly. But before either of them could elaborate on further, the door was blown back, flames and plumes of smoke followed it in. The door, propelled by some unseen explosion, slammed into Scott and sent him reeling backwards in a full tumble, right over his bed. With great effort, a healthy amount of curses, and strained grunts, he pulled himself up.

Scott began to cough pre-emptively as the smoke quickly filled the room, the following embers touched his get-well bouquet, causing it to catch on fire. The smoke quickly flooded the room as the fires raged closer to his doorway. Still coughing, he quickly realized his throat was only mildly dry, the same as it was when he awoke. Was smoke actually safe to breathe?

'That doesn't sound right..'

As his eyes caught up to his thoughts he noticed a bright iridescent sheen over his body.

"Mine power would not be so impressive if mine partner could fall to mere breathlessness, no?" The Starheart said. "I've managed thine body this long, helping thou to breathe is no extra feat."

Scott nodded. "Thanks." He said, making a mental note to ask about his body in detail later. If this 'Starheart' was actually some weird alien attached to his spine this deal would quickly get worse, if that was true what would he do? No idea.

Just barely managing to make it to the door, he stares out into the hallway, using both arms to prop himself up in the doorway. Admittedly, it was a very sad state for a supposed 'superhero' to be in. Even with the support of this other being, his body was in no state to be fighting, his chest ached, his head pounded against his skull, and his leg throbbed like crazy. He briefly wondered just how long he was supposed to sleep.

'I'll just have to make this work.' He thought, clenching his teeth through labored breaths.

The fire raged, claiming the entire floor, it wouldn't be wrong to call it an inferno. Looking to the ceiling, several tiles were scorched black from the rising flames, the sprinklers had gone off, but some of them had been burnt off by something, and the remaining ones just weren't helping enough.

Scott brought his fist to his face, to speak into the ring. "Hey uh, Starheart, what can we do about this fire? Can we shoot water?"

"Water? I believe that is too advanced for thine current self. But remember this. Anything thine imagines, as long as thou believes, it shall become true. Willpower is thine trigger." It calmly explained.

Scott's brows furrowed and his mouth twisted. 'What a vague thing to say, no examples?' Even so, all he had was what the thing said, and it had to be enough. The green glow around him wasn't exactly sun-bright, but it was enough to bring the attention of the fire starter. At least, what he assumed started all this.

It looked somewhat like a person, but the skin was largely dark like the hardened rock of a volcano. One of the arms was missing, in its place was a geyser of flame, on its back was a giant hump that left behind a trail of some fiery substance.

As soon as it spotted him it groaned, continuing to mouth guttural sounds at him, even as it wobbled towards him. The head tilted towards him, various spots began to glow and move across the body like a flowing river, then a stream of red-orange 'something' slammed into his chest, blowing him back through the window of his old room.

Scotts' body was blasted right through the wall, his cape fluttered and snapped behind and over him as he shot through the air. He continued to wheel through the sky until he crashed into the ground with a hard thud, his breath left him as he gasped for air in between moans of pain. Murmurs of shock, awe, fear, and surprise surrounded him, as well as the authoritative shouting of what he assumed were police. Another moment for his eyes to adjust and he found his guess was correct, with one worrying detail, the police were also pointing their guns at him.

"Hands up, right now!" One shouted, a few others following with some variation. If he wasn't still reeling from that blast he was sure he'd be scared pantsless, Scott was a bonified newborn hero, a completely normal guy would absolutely be worried here. In his head, that was still him, his hesitation kept him on the ground for just a few seconds longer.

Scott grimaced as he braced himself to get up, before taking the hand of an officer who'd approached him. Half pushing off the ground, half pulling, Scott managed a somewhat graceful rise. But being seen tumbling head over heels was not the best look for his first fight.

"That outfit belong to you?" The man eyed him suspiciously, obviously he recognized this weird costume, which was more than Scott could say. Even though he was the one wearing it.

The officer was an old man, gray hair, bushy beard, and a fair belly, he looked very much like some police chief off his dad's old cop movies; his badge read 'Williams'. Everybody else pointing their guns at him put a sweat down his back, but Williams extending his hand instead of his piece went a long way in Scotts' mind, even as other officers questioned the both of them.

"Does now." He nodded.

"Think you can tell me exactly what's going on in there?" Williams gestured with his head towards the hospital. From the outside it looked like only the first two floors were on fire, with something melting down onto the first floor; his own room was on the second floor, and currently spewing out fire.

"Not so sure myself, but I'll take care of it." Scott said, taking a look around he found what he needed. Naturally, firetrucks had been called in, hospital fire alarms were no joke.

"Hey man, watch it!" One of them tried to fend him off, along with some of the nearby officers joining in to yell at him.

"Relax, this is a win-win, just keep the water on." Scott turned, hefted the hose in his hand, then considered his next move while staring upwards. 'I just need to believe. Is that right?' Taking a few deep breathes, Scott glared at the hole he made. Focusing images, his feelings, he suddenly found himself slowly rising, his feet hanging limply over the ground. He laughed after just rising a couple feet, then stifled it as best he could. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from smiling all the way up.

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

FIVE YEARS AGO // ALASKA

"What does an Asgardian know of justice?"

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.

Thor spat blood as he picked himself up off the ground, while two of the trolls had assailed him the third had thrown a boulder hitting him square in the face. Standing up, and steadying himself he looked around for his foes who appeared to be climbing their way out in leaps and bounds. "I say thee nay-" He threw Jarnbjorn at the nearest troll, it missed and lodged itself into the nearby wall. Swearing at himself he jumped up, working his way to grab the axe. Meanwhile, Trolls threw stones down at him as they continued to climb and get away.

Finally reaching the axe, Thor secured it on his back as he pushed his way up higher and higher. When he reached the top he saw the three Trolls running, pulling Jarnbjorn from his back he tossed it, it spun in the air in a curve. Striking one of the trolls in the back, he fell. Digging deep Thor pushed himself onwards, clouds rushed and billowed chasing after him as he ran for his axe. The other trolls didn't even turn for the third, huffing and panting as they continued to sprint away from the chasing Asgardian. Pulling his weapon from a trolls corpse Thor leapt up into the air, axe over his head he brought it down to the ground. Lightning struck it and lanced out from the ground, knocking one of the running trolls of his feet.

Thor ran straight passed him, he was down and thus no longer a threat. It wouldn't be honourable to add further injury, he would return for him shortly.

There was a rumbling ahead as a cloud of dust, snow and ice exploded. A ship emerged from the ice, the troll jumping onboard. Hail began to pour from the heavens above, the ship raised into the air. An Asgardian Skiff. It raised in the air before it spun and headed for the down troll, swinging his axe he missed, turning to try and head back fo the fallen troll who was unsteadily raising himself to his feet. Thor aimed for the skiff, throwing his axe, and spinning through the air. Missing the skiff entirely the axe spun off into the distance. Thor groaned in frustration as the troll aboard the skiff leaned down, clasping his hand round the arm of the troll on the ground. The two laughed as the skiff raised itself higher into the air, and up into the clouds. Thunder tolled and boomed, Thors eyes flashed blue as lightning crossed the sky in sheets and waves. After several moments passed a smoking chunk of debris fell from the clouds.

Thor sighed as he resigned himself to go find his axe, while he told himself he had warned the trolls. There had been no choice.

---

PRESENT DAY // TØNSBERG // NORWAY

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.

Tønsberg had a long-standing history with Asgard and the other eight realms upon the world tree. It had been host to invasion from Ice Giants, Trolls, Dark Elves and all manners of beings from the nine realms. Thor had called it home on many an occasion and now in the new age of heroes, it celebrated its history and connection to the Asgardian plane. What little it knew anyway. Still, new archaeological digs guided by Thor had led to new historical discoveries. While he did not primarily reside in Norway, he tended to go wherever the need took him, the city had claimed him as its own personal hero.

Walking through the streets he paused to allow several passing tourists to photograph him, he signed posters and boxes of toys. The mortals loved their material possessions, and their 'selfies'. It was always good to be fond of oneself however so he tended not to judge. There had been a time when he had been incredibly vain and arrogant. His father still was.

Excusing himself he finally made way to the research institute, passing through the doors and security with ease. After all, Thor was a familiar face here, nodding and smiling at friends and allies as he walked through the corridors he finally passed through the door that lead to Doctor Erik Selvig. Who as always was surrounded by artefacts, books, scrolls and screens. Upon hearing the door he looked up, practically jumping when he realised who it was. "Thor! I didn't expect you back so soon!"

The two approached one another, clasped hands and then pulled each other into a one-armed embrace. Releasing each other Thor smiled down at his friend. "Aye. My plan to get ahead of this year's droughts has been... delayed by events in Oslo."

Erik indicated to a nearby seat, Thor made his way and sat in it. He could feel it struggle below his weight, but it held true. "I saw that on the news. Terrible business, at least ten dead I hear."

Thor nodded. "It has been an age since I have faced a Draugr, and yet the leader spoke of another coming. One who I have faced before. I was hoping you had something more, if it is a villain I have faced before. I would like to know their name."

Selvig nodded along. "I took the liberty of pulling some files once I saw the news-" He indicated to the mess of papers surrounding him. "-just in case you came looking for my help." Thor smiled at his friend as Erik worked his way into the centre of the papers. "From what I can tell our Draugr friend from Oslo was from a particularly nasty group of Norsemen. They routinely went a-Viking but killed indiscriminately. Other Norse, men, women, children. Unlike other Norse Clans there seemed to be no form of system of honour, other than strength-"

Thor ground his teeth together. "I know the type well."

"And lo, a contradiction! It seems as though the spider has become trapped in his own web..."

Peter Parker groggily stirred, coming back to consciousness after what seemed like an eternity. His ears were ringing, his head was pounding, and his flesh seemed to be burning with the pain of what felt like a thousand cuts. He could barely form thoughts let alone words, faintly hearing a distant cackle - but one that was unmistakably malicious, coming in waves and echoing from all around him. His first thoughts drifted toward the idea that he was in the midst of a horrible dream, having entered the scene already tormented by an enemy made up by his own subconscious. Parker wasn't exactly a stranger to such nightmares coming on in frequent order, given that his penchant for self-loathing often manifested into some weird and, frankly, disturbing flights of fancy that would leave him sleepless for days. Some would take on the form of an old enemy, a newer enemy that had proved to be particularly challenging, or just some hybrid of friends and loved ones from his everyday life. Practically everyone who either hated him or someone that Peter personally felt he had let down. So really, anyone on a given day, depending on the overly somber nineteen-year-old's mood.

"Wake up, Spider-Man! You may have only pretended to be a man in life, but you're gonna learn what it means to be one in death."

But it only took him a couple of seconds to realize that this wasn't a dream. For one thing, as soon as the wave of numbing pain passed over him, he began to realized that his arms were heavily constricted and pinned behind his back. Even with his immense strength, he couldn't budge them. So he tried to move his legs - the problem was, even if he could, it was becoming apparent that they were too weak to do much of anything. Still, he felt the tightness of binds. And the absolute worst part is that no matter how lifeless he felt in the moment, there was one part of him that remained on at absolutely full blast, no matter how much he wished that it would turn off. As soon as Peter's head rose, with the drool - or was it blood? - dripping off of his chin, he began to wince in silent agony as it drove through his skull with the pressure of a thousand hammers.

His spider-sense was tingling. And it was telling him that he was in a whole world of trouble.

So it almost came as a relief with a strong, forceful hand swung out of the shadows, striking him so hard across the face that whatever remaining grogginess seemed to wear off in an instant. Peter blinked hard, trying to force his vision to unblur, but it was proving to be a difficult task. He'd had a concussion before, but this one felt so much worse. The best way to describe the feeling was as if he were a car horn, unable to turn itself off because of a blunt instrument that was locked in place, pushing it down so hard that it could do nothing but scream. And that scream was reverberating throughout his entire body.

"OH, GET WITH THE PROGRAM, SONNY!"

Then he found himself focused on the voice. While he'd heard it barking at him just moments earlier, it was still being drowned out by his extrasensory woes. But now he could hear it as clear as day, as if it were shouting directly into his ear. Half a moment of confusion passed before Peter's eyes went wide and his neck shot straight up, suddenly overwhelmed with a flurry of recollections that detailed the beats of hours prior. It started when Aunt May was taken to the hospital after one of her spells, and he'd been collecting his paycheck at the Bugle. He had rushed out of the building, trying and find a spot to change in an effort to beat the New York traffic, knowing that his way would get him there quicker.

But before he could make it out of sight, Peter had been surprised by the sudden stop of a black limousine infront of the street that led into the alley. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing the kindly face of a man over twice his age. A man that Peter knew very well, given that they had interacted plenty of times - especially after he'd moved into the city and began to share an apartment with his son.

Norman Osborn.

Just as the name etched itself across Peter's still-fractured memory, his entire body practically shot up after being forced by the same hand that had previously smacked him back to reality. Only this time, the visibly purple-clad glove had seized the back of Peter's head firmly in it's grip, momentarily yanking him out of what he had assumed to be a hastily retrieved chair in some dingy back alley. Peter felt some usually high emotions begin to swirl up inside of him, from fear that had morphed into panic to panic that had been turning into all-around desperation. But mostly all that he began to feel was rage, because the clear picture had finally sat in.

"O... Osborn..."

Peter had graciously accepted Norman's offer for a ride whenever explaining, poorly, the extremity of his situation. Not that he felt as if the elder Osborn's vehicle would be much faster than web-swinging, but the timing of the limousine's arrival had put him into an awkward position. What was he supposed to say, exactly? 'No thanks, Mr. Osborn! I realize that my aunt's life is in danger, but never fear! I've actually secretly been Spider-Man this whole time, so if you'll kindly just allow me to circumvent your offer in exchange for leaping into the alley to remove the clothes concealing my red and blue pajamas underneath, I'll be on my way!'

Needless to say, that wasn't happening. So away they went, with Osborn assuring a slightly embarrassed Peter that the ride was no trouble at all, fretting about the idea that the teenager would be forced to try and scout an Uber in the middle of downtown Manhattan. At first, it all seemed so innocuous. A friendly encounter turning into a favor in the middle of an emergency. Peter had actually breathed a sigh of relief to himself when it seemed that Osborn's limo driver, who he'd never seen directly, was an apparent master of the wheel and had gotten them onto the Queensboro Bridge in little to no time at all.

Maybe he'd get there in time. For once, Peter wouldn't be forced to put someone else's needs ahead of his or his family's. He'd be at the hospital on time, he'd know exactly what to tell the doctors as they admitted May for another overnight stay of observation, and by this time tomorrow, she'd be back at her house for a night of needless fussing over medications and the desire to fix her nephew a homecooked meal, even in her poor physical state. It all played throughout his mind like a routine that he'd undergone a thousand times. A rehearsal that, for once, he'd be able to see from beginning to end - instead of either darting in half a day later or darting out halfway into the night.

But then something began to feel off. His Spider-Sense wasn't necessarily buzzing, but it was the way Mr. Osborn acted. How he smiled at him, like a cat that had devoured the canary's entire family. It was the first clue that whatever conversation the two men were going to have would end up south. Osborn pivoted from the usual small-talk of how Peter was, how college was treating him, and whether he'd given any more thought to the job offer of interning at Oscorp Industries' research and development division, into some questions that began to feel a little bit too... personal.

He asked about Harry. Which was reasonable enough, as the son had decided to distance himself from the father. The two had gotten into a serious argument about two months prior, and while Harry had been scarce on the exact details, Peter had been given clear instructions from his friend not to allow Norman into their apartment for awhile. Peter didn't argue, thinking that it'd been a matter that he had no place trying to interfere with. So a worried father trying to inquire into the life of a son who wouldn't speak to him for some as-of-yet unexplained reason seemed completely harmless.

What wasn't harmless was when Norman shifted from Harry to another focal point of Peter's life: his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy. At first seeming only vaguely curious, Norman seemed to want to circle back to the subject of Gwen no matter how many times that Peter tried to change topics. While Harry and Gwen had known eachother for a long time, and thus had encountered Norman before as Peter, Harry, and Gwen were growing up, this particular conversation seemed to be veering entirely on trying to get Peter to tell him all sorts of details that didn't seem relevant. Where she lived, what she planned to do after college, whether she and Harry had ever been romantically involved in the past...

And then, noting the rudeness of his line of questioning, Norman seemed to back down.

Before asking a question that changed everything.

"Tell me, Peter..."

His lips curled up into a horrifying grin.

"Did Harry or Gwen ever know that you were Spider-Man?"

Shocked to his core as the words escaped Osborn's lips, Peter immediately looked to the doors in a panic. The lock had flipped downward automatically, sealing both of them in. Peter moved to try and pry it open, as his spider-sense had suddenly began to hum. Then it started buzzing even heavier as Norman leaped from his seat and grabbed both of Peter's arms, revealing a previously unknown superhuman strength of his own. Squeezing hard, Peter looked back in horror as he felt the web-shooters hidden underneath his sleeves begin to buckle under the pressure. Osborn began to chuckle, watching Peter try in vain to wriggle himself out of his grasp.

"No! No theatrics this time, boy! No sudden escape at the last perilous second, no nick-of-time rescue of some hapless bystander. Not now, when I've got you right where I want you. You're going to own up to all the things that you and your alter-ego have done to this city... done to me."

Norman's eyes flashed a vivid yellow color.

"All the lies that yooooou've told to save your own skiiiiin..."

Peter grit his teeth, trying his best to hide his astonishment.

"Done to... you? The city?! What are you talking about?!"

Norman's chuckling began to shift into something far worse as he forced Peter against the backseat of the car. Finally managing to rip one arm free, Peter immediately punched Osborn square in the face. First with a heavily practiced hit designed to minimize damage, for whenever he'd come across a random mugger who couldn't handle the full brunt of his power. Then with a much harder one, using the full force of his arachnid-based strength. Neither seemed to particularly phase Osborn as he began to openly cackle, triggering a recent memory in Peter's mind that seemed to align with the inhuman sounds Norman was making.

"Norman, you... you're not... Oh god, what's happening to you?"

Then the pigment of Osborn's skin started to change dramatically. At first a pale, almost sickly pink, the businessman's human visage began to twist into something more gruesome in appearance. His eyes already yellowed entirely, with the pupils dilating back into small black dots, the veins in Osborn's neck began to grow darker - as if his blood were infected with some horrible disease that was oncoming all at once. Then the skin shifted into a darker shade aswell, at first appearing as an extreme blush of red before shifting into vivid purple. Then blue. And finally settling on a very familiar shade of...

"Peeeeeter Parkeeeeer..."

Peter's jaw dropped as the final detail morphed into view, with Osborn's ears slowly drawing themselves back and upward, becoming more pointed by the second. His brow became more pronounced and his nose shifted up and slightly outward, as if his face were something made in the makeup trailers for the cheesy old B-movie monsters turned frighteningly real. And finally, his hair began to grow wilder, both at the top of his head and on his brow, completing a look that Peter instantly recognized as a fully completed transformation. Only he thought that it had been a mask at that time, and not a transformation at all...

"Spider-Maaaaan..."

It was more than apparent. In the span of a few moments, Norman Osborn had been fully transformed into the visage of an enemy that Spider-Man had encountered in the wild only a handful of times before. A deeply insane, extremely dangerous murderous persona that had made his preference for Trick Or Treat themed garb and technologically advanced hover-gliders clear.

"One fancying himself the hero. The other fancying himself a man. Two sides of the same pathetic coin!"

The Green Goblin grinned wide as he leaped back with superhuman agility, slamming his elbow into the side of the partition. Peter reflexively leaped into a crouching position on the backseat, hoping to gain leverage over his now revealed enemy before he could make another move. Unfortunately, just as he began to reach for the webbed mask and gloves underneath his jacket, The Goblin relaxed himself in his seat as the car began to hiss. Peter could tell what was happening, but reacted far too late to avoid catching a whiff of the gas that was quickly pouring into the locked vehicle.

Tapping the partition window with the back of his index finger, The Goblin laughed loudly and mockingly as the partition lowered, revealing a feature that Peter never would have guessed about the car - that it was fully automated, being driven by a highly advanced artificial intelligence that was undoubtedly created in one of Oscorp's labs.

"Oh, dear! He's getting lightheaded! Driver! Should we help the boy? Oh, should we?"

Peter tried desperately to fight the gas' effects, but he was already beginning to fade.

"Goblin..."

"Spider."

The Green Goblin leered back with a combination of triumph and hatred as Peter's vision began to blacken.

"I promise you one thing..."



"When it comes to suffering, you're about to get an intimate education."

177A Bleecker Street // NYC

”Perhaps we can figure out an alternative solution.” Stephen smiled at his friend, always trying to find the diplomatic solution, the middle ground, the solution that everybody could agree too.

Son of a bitch.

That was why she included Longwei. She learnt of Chinas interest in Yao and used that, his connection with Longwei and his renown for finding middle ground. Stephen had come into this meeting expecting a game of checkers, and yet she had come prepared for a game of chess.

Stephen smiled politely as Eri got up, bowed and then left the room. Longwei lingered as the door slowly closed behind the sorceress. Stephens' smile dropped. “What the hell was all that about Longwei?”

Wong, now the meeting had officially had ended and was no longer obliged to hold his tongue hissed a warning. ”Stephen!”

Longwei smiled and raised his hand to Wong. “No, it’s quite alright. Let him speak his mind now the politics are done.”

Stephen nodded. “I’ll admit to not following politics as well as I should have over the years, but how on Earth did it come to Japan and China teaming up to get what they wanted? Surely you could have approached me yourself?”

There was a groan of frustration out of Wong. ”This is what you get for not reading the briefing packets I made for you-”

”The politics of our communities do not always follow the Geo-politics of the world at large. China and Japan have enjoyed a relatively co-operative union since the revolution. Beforehand there were large swathes of magi community living in the open, Mao Zedong didn’t like anything he couldn’t control and moved to wipe them out. Yao used this as a way to remove political rivals and solidify his own power within China. Japans Magi Community is still home to many chinese refugees, many more travelled through Japan since it was far more stable and accepting of Magi than any of Chinas other neighbours.”

In the corner of the room Wong nodded along. “My family came through Japan to the US. Even I feel a debt of gratitude.”

Stephen sighed. “Even when magic is involved you can’t escape the world of politics.”

“Politics is universal.”

”So where do we go from here?”

It was Longweis turn to sigh, his gaze lost into the distance. ”That is up to you, afterall you are the Sorcerer Supreme-” He raised his hand before Stephen could interrupt. ”-However, you have agreed to the terms. Mistress Yoshida will expect you to honour them, failure to do so could result in creating division between Sanctuaries, which could result in their failing.”

”If you were so against the terms, why did you suggest them? Unlimited access to Yao, in private, at any time requested by any member of the Japanese Sanctuary- Stephen looked over to Wong. ”That was his wording?” Wong nodded.

”While I may privately agree with you, that allowing anyone to see and interact with Yao is dangerous, let alone Miss Yoshida, publically I need to do what is in the best interest of the members of my community. I wasn’t exaggerating when I say that many want to see him stand trial, but first a debt must be paid to our friends the Japanese. Silence fell.

”Not just to the Japanese.”

Stephen and Longwei turned to Wong as he spoke.

”Yoshida Eri is also gathering a large following in the United States, and has many political allies here. She is campaigning for a peaceful integration of the Magi and Non-Magi communities-” Wong looked directly at Stephen. ”-She is after your job Stephen.”

Stephen couldn’t help but let out a laugh. ”Well that part I knew, she’s conniving and she’s ambitious. Of Course she’d want to be at the top of the food chain.”

---

Dining at its finest. Glasses clinked among the low din of the busy restaurant. Guests had to wait atleast fifteen days to make a reservation, and even then they were lucky to get anything more than a tasting table. Let alone get it for any less than two-hundred and eighty dollars per head. For the experienced however, it was mere childsplay to get past the fool at the door. The security had been vigilant but was no more difficult to deal with. Walking to the middle of the room several eyes passed over him, just another waiter, a lowly member of staff nothing to be concerned with. Walking right up to a table the old hag who was sat at the table went to speak.

Without so much as any hesitation he jumped up onto the table, plates and glasses clanked and shattered as he unceremoniously kicked them off. Those at the table leapt back and a chorus of ”I say- What in the name- Never have I- and What does he think he’s doing” filled the air. He pulled a long thin wooden looking object out of his pocket. Raising it to his throat the tip of the wand illuminated with a blue light. His voice boomed throughout the restaurant. ”LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!” Raising his free hand into the air he spun around so everyone could get a good look at him.

“I hope you are all enjoying the expensive food, and even more expensive wine-” He winked in the direction of a rather large man whose face had become about as red as the glass of wine in front of him. “-I am here to provide tonights entertainment. Who would like to see a magic trick?”

The sun was shining in Gotham. There were old scars on the woman’s face and on her hands. They disappeared up the sleeve of her jacket and down the neck of her shirt, and cut through her black eyebrow. Cassandra always stood out from the crowd one way or the other. Anyone who saw her passing by would naturally wonder why. A question that was usually on her mind, as well. It looked like this was the place. A nice house, only a few streets away from the coast. Though from what had been said about her, the large windows and friendly welcome mat belied a veritable fortress.

Doctor Leslie Thompkins was a very busy woman. She had a lot of people to help. Cassandra felt guilty for taking up her time- there were people that needed Doctor Thompkin’s help much more than her. Deserved it more. Cassandra was kindly informed that this kind of self-talk was exactly the reason she should be contributing a single measly hour a week to visiting her. And she was one of the only Doctor’s in Gotham, the world, even, that could be trusted with the knowledge Cassandra was about to impart upon her. Because, apparently, this was a tell-all situation. Cassandra did not have very much experience with telling, let alone tell-alling.

Regardless, she knocked on the door, feeling her heart rate tick up. She had faced death as much as any superhero, and like many of them, she knew that social interactions were always the scariest part. That was just the truth. Anyone that said otherwise was either a liar or in the wrong profession.

The kindly older woman opened the door and smiled warmly at Cassandra. From what Bruce had told her of Leslie, she used to be a mortician. But that was some time ago, and apparently somewhere along the way she had taken a little more interest in seeing people alive rather than dead. But only a little. What type of person went to school for fun? A dangerous person, definitely.

“Cassandra.” She said. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you could make it.”

Uh huh. Okay, killer. Cassandra could see the resolve and strength of this woman behind her eyes. Battle hardened steel, the type of revealed strength only found when one dedicates herself to fighting humanity’s hardest battles. A trial by fire, entered voluntarily. somewhere Immediately, Cassandra felt small and stupid in comparison. Swords are lame after all, actually.

“Um. I’m here for the therapy thing.” Cass said, struggling to make eye contact. They say eyes are the window to the soul. For Cassandra they were more like an open door to the soul. Or simply a hole that was easy to fall into. The depths were often dizzying.

Cassandra wasn’t the only person who could read people.

“That’s what I’m here for.” Doctor Thompkins said. “I spent a few years in my off time learning how to do the therapy thing.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows quirked upward.

“Sorry, my Doctorate isn’t in therapy.” She grinned. “But beggars can’t be choosers, right?” Her teeth were shiny. Intrusively, she knew how and saw what would happen if she broke them. Cassandra blinked hard, pinching her nose.

“I’m sorry. I do not mean to judge. I’m just…” She trailed off.

“Don’t apologize. There’s no being sorry in this house. Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.”

Cassandra was silent as she was welcomed into Thompkin’s home. The tea was warm in her hands. It tasted great. Was the secret ingredient love? That kind of brotherly, sisterly love for all mankind? Probably. Cassandra wouldn’t doubt it. So here she was. In the therapy room. Like she had seen in the movies. A wise person sitting behind a desk, and a silly person about to pour their damn heart out.

Uuugh. Ugh! Maybe she’d get lucky and someone would try to assassinate Thompkins. Then after saving the Doctor’s life, Cassandra could say ‘see everything worked out in the end, I have superpowers! Okay, goodbye!’

But no dice. It didn’t happen. So Cassandra just sat there, staring at her murky brown reflection in the tea. Doctor Thompkins waited patiently. The room was quiet. Safe. Cassandra knew more than anyone what a safe place looked and felt like. Doctor Thompkins had just gone over in detail what to expect from the session, recapping how long it would be and how little pressure their was. This was Cassandra’s time. And of course Cassandra believed her, the Doctor was about as earnest and honest as a person could get. Didn’t make it any easier, though. One would think that people able to tell exactly how people were feeling and potentially even what they were thinking about would make talking easier.

“Have you ever visited a psychologist before, Cassandra?”

Cassandra shook her head. As soon as she did, she knew Doctor Thompkins was looking for something more than a nonverbal response.

“Your guardian told me about your abilities. You can read my body language, right?”

Cassandra nodded, shrugged. Kind of. It’s more than that.

“How do you feel about that ability of yours?”

A question she couldn’t shake or nod her head at. She supposed that she could just sit here and shrug the entire time if she wanted to be stubborn and petulant. And it was a good question. A very hard question to answer. Cassandra opened her mouth and expected words to come out, but nothing did.

“...I…” Cassandra said, false starting. “I feel…good about them. But also, bad.” She said, and then face palmed.

“It’s all right. There’s no wrong answers, no stupid answers, here.” Thompkins said, and she believed what she said. “Do you think you can elaborate on your feelings?”

“It is…hard.” Cassandra said. “Because my powers come from a bad place. The place where I came from.”

—

Snow-capped peaks, blood stained compounds. Far, far away from Gotham. Here was where shadows lurked, the darkest place in the world. Umbral tendrils slithered out from this cave and others like it, seeking out spots of light to snuff out.

The place where I was grown, where I was built, and allegedly, where I was born.

We figured out later I was with the League of Shadows. But at the time, it was just my home.

Within the dark recesses of this place, David Cain was constructing his magnum opus. The perfect weapon.

I wasn’t an assassin like the others. I wasn’t supposed to think. I was to be brought along. And at the right moment, one of my superiors would point me in the direction of our enemies. At least, that’s how it started. But that’s for later, I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

I was a curious little kid. They tried to keep two steps ahead of me but, nobody’s perfect. Every once in a while I would slip away. The rule was ‘no talking’. Nobody talk around Cassandra.

—

Cassandra had paused, feeling the Doctor’s question. She knew the Doctor was keen on simply letting her client speak, too, but… a few seconds of eye contact and Thompkin’s got the message.

“No talking?” Leslie Thompkins uncrossed her leg and leaned forward, holding her notebook. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“No talking.” Cassandra repeated. “Nobody talked around me, or to me. I never talked. I did not learn a language like you.”

“...I see. That must have been very difficult for you. You’ve come a long way, then.”
“Yes. I had help.” Cassandra smiles fondly.

“Please, continue.”

—

But I could eavesdrop. Overhear them. I didn’t know what they were saying, but I knew they were speaking. There was no love in that place. They were not supposed to care for each other. But every once in a while, some of them did.

The assassins spoke quietly in the corridor, clad in form fitting black clothing, faces concealed even within the parameters of their own base. Peering at them from gaps in the wood, her eyes were reflective like an animal in the underbrush. Fear gripped the hardened killer’s heart as they caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye. Turning to look, she was gone. Anger would come next, or perhaps doubt. Either way, resentment was growing. It was hard not to feel like one was always being watched. There was a ghost in this building. Rumors spread amongst the ranks of assassins. They had work to do. They couldn’t be distracted by this…mutated child David Cain was creating.

I liked listening to them talk. But soon even when they were sure I wasn’t around, they spoke barely above a whisper. I couldn’t hear the nonsense babble anymore. Sometimes it still all feels like nonsense babble. I don’t think in words. Whatever I say, it always sounds better in my head. But when I try to say it to you, or anyone, it…it…

—

“It…it gets more bad.” Cassandra said, and then set out to correct herself. “Badder. No- worse. It gets worse when I say it. When it is in my head, it is easy. Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright. I can understand you fine. Remember what I said about apologizing?”

“Yes, I do. Sorry.”

A skeptical look from Doctor Thompkins. Cassandra smiled. “That was a joke.” She clarified.

She took another sip of her tea and then glanced around. “How long do we have left?”

“Well, that was about…two minutes. So forty-eight minutes.” Doctor Thompkins said.

“Forty-eight-” Cassandra began, then shut her mouth. This was…going to be a long session.

Shout my name! (Part 4)

---

Scott wore a self-assured smile as he rose to the hospital's second floor, wherein his face quickly turned to a more stern look. The bed in his room had been consumed by fire, had he still been asleep, he would be dead now, pretty ominous. Actually, if that voice was right, he would have expired way earlier. The hose would probably make quick work of it, but he wasn't about to blow his load early.

He was so busy thinking about 'what could have been' he lost concentration, Scott dropped onto his feet, and he felt the floor shift slightly. Lessons were being learned, unfortunately he couldn't afford to learn as slowly as he had been, screams could be heard now from the other side of the second floor lobby, just across from his own room.

"Thou needs will-power, focus, otherwise thoust cannot fight." The Starheart suddenly said. Scott grimaced as he tugged the hose further in.

"I know that.." He grumbled.

The creature had just ripped a door off its frame, revealing several people hiding in the room within. Scott wasn't sure how fast he could fly, or how fast he could make himself move. Considering how he felt he really had no confidence in any sort of speed, so his mind switched to another strategy.

His teeth grinded together as he shot his fist out, latching a neon-green line around the creatures' good arm and his own fist, then pulled as hard as he could, spinning it right around, and lurching it to the side. The floor shifted again, a fiery liquid left the backside of the creature as it spun around, burning harder into the already wrecked flooring. The people in the room shouted out to him as the flames brushed at them.

Before today Scott never would have thought he could be one of those flashy superheroes, neither would he have thought about being a firefighter; yet, here he is, full filling both of those boyhood dreams. Letting the hose loose, Scott found himself struggling to control the stream, he grunted as he focused himself. His arms needed strength, so he needed better arms; channeling the same feeling from before, the need to save these strangers, to use this power, he fashioned his new arms. Large, mechanical gauntlets, with a blocky look that encapsulated him from his fingers to his elbows..

With his bolstered strength he focused the water stream back onto the creature, the water hissed loudly and a light steamy cloud covered the nearby area. Screeching and yelling followed the fiery form as it fell face-forward, where it burned further into the flooring and it fell somewhere into the first floor.

Scott spun the hose back around, doing his best to blast the nearby flames, stopping them from spreading any further. Except, he found he was at a loss considering the whole floor, just running around shooting water seemed like a poor idea.

'Whatever I want, right?' Scott thought to himself. Making sure the people he just saved were out of immediate danger, he brought his fist up towards a window at the end of a hallway, and imagined the wall being blown away. A burst of bright green energy shot out of his fist, shattering the wall outwards.

The nearby people let out a frightened scream, and he gave a thin smile. He wanted to look confidant, but the truth was he isn't; unfortunately for them, today's superhero was a complete newbie, but he did see this one time on a movie.

"You guys should hold your breath in a sec."

Scott went around for a few more moments doing the same thing, blasting holes in walls, then returned to the lobby. The people he just saved weren't going anywhere so he said nothing to them, it wasn't like he had a plan either, making it up on the fly was all he had.

Taking a deep breath in and out, he held his fist out, and put all his focus into his imagination. A green flame grew in the same hallways he had just visited, they grew and solidified into large propellers. However, after mere seconds of life, they all shattered into hundreds of fading embers as the remaining fires slapped against them, consuming his constructs whole.

Scott clutched at his chest, whispering a curse under his breath, as a sharp pain shot up his sides; then he tried again. The same fans emerged, growing from nothing mid-air, then vibrated into motion. His mind focused on the reality he desired, his constructs spun faster and faster, sucking all the smoke and air through the sides of the building, robbing the flames of their fuel to live.

Checking on the group from before, they looked more or less alright, a few were passed out, a cold sweat trickled down his back as he watched their still bodies. Scott breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up movement, a woman in scrubs coughed and wheezed, then gave him a thumbs up. He returned the gesture, before leaving to pursue the creature, dropping down the same hole it fell down.

Where he was suddenly blindsided, hit hard from behind, sending Scott flying into another room, leaving the hose dangling from the ceiling. Pain flooded his body, shooting up in random intervals. He grunted as he clutched at his body and tried to wipe the sweat off his brow so he could see, trying to pick himself up between heavy gasps.

"What gives, I thought you were protecting me!" Scott shouted as he rolled behind a wall.

"This is what a fight feels like, thou art the one using mine power. Keep thine spirits up, focus willpower, desire, into reality. If thine wants to live, to win, then demand it!" It responded passionately. Whether it was from those words, or his own feelings, he could feel a strength well up from within as he watched the flames around him rise.

Desires? Before he woke up in the hospital, Scott was on the way to his biggest and best job, he wanted a nice first day at work, he wanted to meet that cute recruiter again. Then he did something insanely stupid and woke up here, then he impulsively decided he wanted to save people. Right now, that meant beating the snot out of whatever this was.

The wall in front of him began to glow red hot as it melted down.

"Let us work together, young human!" The Starheart called to him.

"Alright!" Scott called back, which only excited the creature, causing the wall to burn up faster.

Scott emerged through burning debris and molten plaster, running diagonally with a bright-green shield covering one arm, hugging his body closely as he strafed around, struggling to keep speed as the pressure pounded on his shield. Keeping a firm image of the shield, Scott managed to keep it solid, as he got close enough, the same armored gauntlet from earlier ignited around his other arm, then enlarged to double the size of his own body. With a shout full of spirit, he lunged his giant arm towards it as hard as he could, letting loose a loud meaty thud as the creature stumbled backwards, giving a loud groan in response.

The areas underneath the hardened magma parts began to glow and move again, this time Scot could hear a low thrumming as it began to grow more active. Scott bashed it in the face with his shield arm, causing its fiery shot to go wild, hitting the wall behind him.

His breathing picked up as the fight continued on, with his focus on his current constructs he knew he needed something more decisive, he drew a blank on what he actually wanted, what would be powerful. His mind briefly wandered to the briefcase he had been carrying that fateful morning, the paintings he had drawn up on his easel at home. The portfolio he was supposed to show his new boss, for the job he probably lost.

So his mind lapsed slight, instead of a proper weapon like a bat or an axe, he conjured up that easel from home. Holding it by the legs with both hands, he angrily slammed it into the creature, shattering his construct into pieces, sending the creature flying through a wall, outside, leaving a trail of spiraling lava behind it that splashed outwards.

With whatever that was now on ice, figuratively, Scott took the time to help whomever needed it. From what he could see, and what a nurse could tell him, the hospital started evacuating before the creature actually got in. Apparently it was pretty easy to see on its way to the lobby, but a few people got stuck on the second and third floors when they ran out of time.

On its way up the monster used the stairs, which were completely melted down and burned up. So Scott took this as a chance for practice, making makeshift stairs and floors to help people get around. Luckily for those involved everyone made it out alive, which Scott found to be excellent news, if even one person died on his first day he wasn't quite sure how he'd take it. Few people were burned, aside from the fires, the monster went out of its way to grab anyone with a coat or scrubs on.

Weird, but something for the cops. Of whom, were already inside, thanks to the help of fire crews on standby; who also reminded him to untangle one of their hoses, awkward, but luckily the weird costume came with a mask and a huge cape, Scott Mason's pride was safe today.

"Wait!" One of the nurses called to him, interrupting him before one of the cops could question him, and before he could decide where he was going to run off to. "There was a coma patient on the second floor, I was trying to secure him before that thing showed up! Could you check on him?" She said, and Scott mentally thanked her. After all, he had clumsily forgotten. Just how was he going to pass off suddenly waking up and going home?

"I'll make sure he's ok." Scott said, and gave a two-fingered salute as he ascended through one of the holes in the ceiling. His room was pretty burnt, nothing paper survived, the wall-mounted television had fallen down, and the bed had been tipped over. It would have been a miracle for Mr. Mason to have survived.

"From now on, please continue as thou art. While thou art lacking, tis fine, as all thou need do is grow." The Starheart suddenly said.

"Huh?"

"There will be time for talk. For now, rest."

"W-wait, what are-" Scott's consciousness blacked out again, his body fell limp onto the burnt out cinders of a cabinet. But unlike the cold dark he felt before awakening at the hospital, this one was warm, like he knew he'd wake up again. That was a different kind of peace, a very welcome one he decided, before he truly re-entered a much needed sleep.

Issue #1.3: Taming the chaos

---

When we last saw Klarion, He was held at a gunpoint by an agent of W.A.N.D who introduce herself as Pandora Peters. An organization designed to eliminate supernatural threats.

With her straightforward and no-nonsense attitude, Pandora didn't hesitate to pull the trigger and let this moment slip away.

The witch boy is a threat to this world and must be dealt with.

BLAM!!!

The thunderous sound of a single gunshot shakes the very trees within the area, throwing the witch boy off his feet without having a chance to respond. His lifeless body hits face-first into the ground.

The black tattooed woman stands tall with a stoned face expression, unfazed by her actions; looking down on the fallen body of her victim.

It appears the rider's shotgun did the trick. DING DING the witch is dead.

"Sir, the target has been neutralized..." Pandora said in the comms.

"Partially yes, Excellent work, agent pandora. His soul has been delivered to the underworld as we speak." A British voice replied through the radio. The one who orchestrated it all.

"Proceed to phase two of the contingency plan, He is much of a loose canon, perhaps this is the only way to 'tame' his unpredictable actions." He added.

"Keep the cat alive while I go fetch the witch boy, We don't want him to lose his anchor to this world."

"Understood, Mr. Blood" Pandora briefly answered, looking down at the witch boy's pet.

*meow* The orange cat tilt his head.

Distraught and concerned, Teekl continuously phases around his fallen master, poking him with his snout, trying to wake up Klarion but to no avail.

The witch boy no longer walks the mortal realm.

---

Aggh, Karp.. My head hurts, What was in that gun? Did she just straight out blast me without any second thought? what a bitch..

Ugghh, where am i? why am I tied up? Oh right, this is the last place I want to be..

Hell.

The witch boy finds himself in the plane of the damned and is being auctioned into the high roller of the underworld.

This version of hell stems from the Judeo-christian archetype; Where its landscape is filled with fire and brimstone, a lake of boiling lava flowing from every corner, and all that jazz the biblical scriptures describing it.

A place where demons and fallen angels of all shapes and sizes reside and have built a civilization mirroring the human world. Where souls are its premium currency: sold, traded, and keeping the economy progressing. The rarer the individual is, the more precious its soul's value is. This part of hell is more civilized and tame than the others.

"Now demongents and demoness, Up next is something special to sink your fangs into, A wicked Wiccan soul who practices the dark arts, a brat who sins aplenty, and a decedent from a race of primordial witch people. The whole package i would say! Surely this being of chaos would be quite the catch to your collection.. May I present to you, Klarion the witch boy!" A devil dress in a plaid auctioneer suit exclaimed, presenting Klarion to the court as the spotlight shifted to the stage and into the bounded Witch boy.

"Lemme go, you ugly horned brutes, demons are supposed to serve witches and warlocks, not the other way around!" defiant till the end, Klarion continues to squirm in his shackles as he is being presented to the crowd.

Even with his hands tied, Klarion realizes that his magic has not been thwarted and saw this opportunity to escape. He gathered all of his energy to blast the demons around him with his magic in an attempt to flee.

"Ha! Know your place hellspawn, I'm leaving this dump.. See you, losers! Klarion maniacally laughs and freed himself from his shackles and began to levitate above them.

Before Klarion makes his untimely escape through the sky, He was intercepted by several flying imps rushing in from all sides, weighing him down, overpowering him by their numbers, and pinning him to the ground.

"Psst, Not cool kid, serve your eternal damnation and work with me here.. ye? you don't want to get the big boss get all riled up and have a leash over your rotten soul now wouldya?" The auctioneer whispered to the fallen witch boy.

"Dang It!" reluctantly admitting defeat, Klarion frowned and kept his piece, subdued by the enforcers of hell.

The demonic audience mumbled and chattered about what just happened. They were stunned and at the same time enticed by the unruly witch's capabilities to do magic that defies the laws of their realm. Truly a soul worthy of their collection.

"Sorry about that little show folks, Quite the fiesty little runt isn't he? surely a price like this would even match Lord Lucifer's caliber of monstrous pets.. Let's start the auction, bidding starts at fifty souls.. do i hear sixty?" The auctioneer said, official starting the bidding.

"sixty. do i hear seventy.."

"one hundred, a hundred offer for the fine gentlemen with the single horn"

"two hundred.. do i hear two fifty?"

"three hundred"

The denizens of hell competes for the possession of Klarion. Each offer gets higher than the other which puts a grin on the auctioneer's face. They must really want this teenage witch.

"five hundred.. do i hear 550.. 550?"

"One old god soul" A resounding offer breaks through the noise and caught everyone's attention.

"One soul for the witch boy's head, in exchange for one Old God dead," The demon prince said rhyming, raising his number high in a dignified manner.

All were dead silent as they cannot match the aristocrat's offer of a divine soul. It is clear that this auction has declare a definitive winner.

"A celestial soul you say? my, how generous of you to make this offer.. Going once, Going twice, Sold to the yellow-skinned demon prince.. Lord Etrigan!" The demon auctioneer yelled out and bangs his gavel repeatedly signaling the auction is now officially close.

The rhyming demon has legally won and has gained ownership of Klarion's soul.

Klarion's face grew pale by the second, still in disbelief.. trying to process what the hell just happened.

Did i just got sold like a piece of meat and is now in eternal servitude to my own worst enemy?

"Ughh.. this is so degrading.."

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

FIVE YEARS AGO // NORTHERN TERRITORIES // CANADA

Thor sighed as he resigned himself to go find his axe, while he told himself he had warned the trolls. There had been no choice.

Once the Trolls had been dealt with, Screwbeard had been more than willing to co-operate. Melting down the weapons the trolls had been using them, cleaning and purifying the metal. This had been the relatively simple part of the job. Thor had his connections on Midgard, and he always kept on the look out for anything that could possibly be Asgardian in nature, he had already helped operatives of a group who called themselves a shield to break apart the berserker staff. A weapon left behind centuries ago.

Now with the help of his allies, he found himself in the forests of the nation that called itself Canada. He looked up as he heard two ravens fly overhead. He quickly looked away from them. If Odin wanted to waste time and keep an eye on him, that was his own waste of time. Thor wasn't a threat, he didn't seek to overthrow and rule Asgard. All he wanted to do was help people, and he'd do everything in his power to make sure he could do so as well as possible. The weapon was being forged, yet Screwbeard was no sorcerer and nor was Thor. In days past Midgard possessed its own Sorcerers though Thor wasn't entirely sure where any of them were these days, he had done a 'google' and found several though they all turned out to be charlatans.

So now he sought a different kind of sorcerer. He had heard the tales when he still traversed the nine realms, the dark elf sorceress who had once lain with Malkeith the Accursed. He had betrayed her and murdered her entire village and people. After she attempted to kill him, he cast her out. Malekith found it crueller to banish her to where she could never return than to allow her to reunite with her people in the afterlife.

---

1015CE // EAST COAST // NORTH AMERICA

Selvig nodded along. "I took the liberty of pulling some files once I saw the news-" He indicated to the mess of papers surrounding him. "-just in case you came looking for my help." Thor smiled at his friend as Erik worked his way into the centre of the papers. "From what I can tell our Draugr friend from Oslo was from a particularly nasty group of Norsemen. They routinely went a-Viking but killed indiscriminately. Other Norse, men, women, children. Unlike other Norse Clans there seemed to be no form of system of honour, other than strength-"

Thor ground his teeth together. "I know the type well."

The village burned. Bodies littered the ground, covered in a smoky haze. The smell of death, piss and sweat radiated from every darkened corner. In the centre of the village, the biggest fire of all roared, almost as violently as the attackers had claimed the village. Bodies of the fallen raiders were lifted and thrown onto the fire to burn as a massive communal funeral pyre. The bodies of the fallen villagers? The men and women who fought back? They were left where they fell. The raiders had come through the fog of the sea, they had been unprepared.

They had heard tales of whitemen, but had never seen heard tales of them being this far north, or capable of attacks so brutal. All the men had been killed, not just the warriors. Even the elders, and boys who had come off age. All the woman, who hadn't fought back had been rounded up near the funeral pyre. The raiders had taken the most attractive of the woman by force, their protests and screams the only thing that could be heard over the roaring fires. The rest who had already been used, and those who could do nothing but watch, whimpered and sobbed huddled together. Surrounded by guards who leered at them, occasionally drawing a blade near them. Cutting cheeks, or using them to remove clothing.

In the longhouse all the food in the village littered the tables, men stumbled around and cheered. Women from the village served the men their food, alcohol and other needs. Those that didn't had their throats cut, and were put back outside with the others. The Jarl sat on the chair at the end of the longhouse, he had brought it with him from his homeland as he surveyed his raiders as they all partook in the bounty this land had brought them. It would be a good land to conquer, the people were fighters but their techniques for making armour and weapons seemed almost primitive. They were not true warriors. He dropped the mug of ale he had been drinking, while the others drank the piss poor stuff the natives made he was drinking the ale they had brought from the homeland. His hand outstretched, a local girl quickly filled it with another tankard.

As she was close to him he moved his hand to his knife, working its way up the side of her dress splitting the seam, barely cutting into her skin. She screamed as it dropped to the floor. Laughing he kicked her as she walked back away from him, trying to cover herself. He didn't see what became of her as his right hand man approached.

"My Jarl. The men have finished gathering everything of value in the boats."

"And have they had their fill?" He swirled the liquid around his tankard before taking a swig of the tepid liquid.

"Aye."

"Very well. Have the men return to the boats, we sail for home. We shall use the riches from his haul to build a fleet big enough to bring our people here, to conquer the new world."

"And what of the woman?"

"You say the men have had their fill?" The man nodded. "Then send them to join their men in the afterlife." A grin spread across the mans face.

"Aye, Jarl Jaekelsson."

"I must say," Prime Minister Klaus Limka of Symkaria commented, as the limousine carrying the visiting dignitaries turned onto the city's main thoroughfare, "Your workers have done a tremendous job in the reconstruction of Hassenstadt."

Indeed, the ride from the airport into the city had been remarkably smooth. There was not so much as a pothole or a patch of rough pavement along the Glory Road. Several of the buildings along the way sported brand new façades, fresh paint, and clean gleaming windows. One never would have guessed that only a few short months ago, this place was a war zone.

"Doomstadt," Prime Minister Lucia von Bardas corrected him. "Hassenstadt was the seat of power of a corrupt and incompetent regime. Doomstadt is the birthplace of the future."

"Hmph," scoffed Minister Vilmos Egans of Kaznia, a corpulent balding man whose jowls seemed to flap when he moved too much. "I have seen the 'future' you and your Legion offer. And in my opinion, it looks a bit too much like the past for my liking."

Von Bardas gave him a placating, even condescending smile, to assure him she could empathize. Kaznia had suffered long throughout the twentieth century, the political pendulum swinging back and forth from fascists to communists, with tens of thousands slaughtered each time power changed hands. Lucia had known that Egans would always be slow to accept the Way of Doom, given its superficial similarity to those old, backwards ways of thinking.

"I assure you, Minister Egans," she said with as smooth and warm a voice as she could manage, "We have no intention of making the same mistakes as the failed ideologs who came before us."

"Is that so?" asked Captain-General Tor Avruskin, the commander-in-chief of Pokolistan. "Thus far, all I have seen is the same kind of rhetoric, the same heavy-handed militarism, the same sort of Nietzschean will-to-power nonsense that fueled the rise of Hitler and Stalin. How is your regime any different?"

While Limka and Egans had both approached this proposed summit of nations carefully and diplomatically, Avruskin had made no secret that he considered Latveria and their "Legion of Doom" to be enemies of his people. While most of Eastern Europe had taken strides to modernize and leave behind the Cold War style of brinksmanship, Pokolistan and Latveria had remained bitter rivals over who was the dominant military power of the region. The Pokolistani military had never disarmed, had never stopped procuring and manufacturing weapons, and their soldiers were said to be on par with any of the first-world armies in terms of skill and discipline, if not in numbers or technology. There were even unconfirmed rumors that Pokolistan had secretly been operating a nuclear weapons program in spite of admonishment from the UN.

Historically, Symkaria and Kaznia would have never aligned with a nation as militant or as aggressive as Pokolistan. But the fall of Markovia had opened the eyes of their leaders. To counter the Latverian threat, they would need to combine their resources and their military might.

This summit was their chance to show a united front to the Legion of Doom. In their minds, it was likely their best chance to prevent a continent wide war....or even a world war.

"To claim that the way of Doom is inspired by Nietzsche or Marx," Von Bardas explained, "would be akin to saying the works of Mozart were inspired by the first cave-dweller to bang rocks together. They may have the same primordial origins, but are refined and advanced so far as to be unrecognizable. The Way of Doom does not fixate on some farcical supposition of racial superiority as the Nazis had done, nor do we blame the myriad failings of the old world on differences of class or economics as the communists do. While yes, we do require rapid and forceful expansion to take hold of the levers of power, afterward, the people who embrace the Way of Doom find themselves far better than they were before."

As the limousine rolled down the busy city street, Lucia rolled down her window and gestured to the citizens bustling about their jobs. While there were no smiles, no visible laughter, there was also no despair or hatred in their eyes. Each Latverian they passed carried themselves with a steely-eyed determination, a sense of purpose that none of the visiting dignitaries had seen in their own people.

"The Way of Doom gives these people something none of the old ways have ever managed: a purpose," Lucia continued. "It gives them not just a rose-colored vision of some distant future, but a plan of action for the here and now, a place and a function where they can truly make a difference in their community, in their country, and in the world. Every man and woman in Latveria knows the place where they belong, and knows how their duties will reap them lasting rewards, and every child is given the opportunity to shape themselves into the citizens they dream of becoming."

"And for those who don't fit into your grand plan?" Limka asked, the question heavy with grim implications.

"Contrary to the bloodthirsty dictators of the past, everyone fits into our plan," Von Bardas corrected him. "You will find no gulags, no death camps, no gas chambers or ovens, here nor anywhere else under our--"

"Good God!" Minister Egans cried out as the limousine approached Victory Square.

On either side of the road, spaced out in a regular grid pattern, were row upon row of four-meter-high metal poles, sharpened at the end to form tall stakes. While the street, sidewalks, and even the ground around these stakes were impeccably clean, the stakes themselves were stained a deep rusty brown-red. The color of dried blood.

Some, however, did not merely bear old stains, but had rivulets of fresh blood pouring down their shafts. Wriggling from the tops of these poles, impaled from pelvis to mouth, were dozens of men and women.

Egans turned his face away, while Limka looked for a bag to be sick into. Even the stern-faced Avruskin went pale as they drove amid the grisly scene.

Lucia von Bardas looked at the carnage with the casual half-interest as one might look at a new restaurant still under construction.

"This is barbaric!" Egans blustered, full of indignant outrage. "As if 'Doctor Doom' was not enough of a monster for you to cling to, now you draw inspiration from Vlad the Impaler?!"

"I agree," Avruskin said, trying to regain his composure, "What sort of 'purpose' to these poor souls serve?"

"Those 'poor souls,'" Lucia said with a sour expression, "are enemies of the Latverian people. The worst types of predators and degenerates that the old world creates and ignores. You call Viktor von Domashev a monster? I doubt you know what such a thing even is."

Lucia motioned for the driver to slow the limousine, and she pointed towards one of the bodies, a fat bearded man whose eyes had gone vacant after what must have been hours, if not days, of abject agony.

"Do you see that creature?" she said, not even addressing the victim as human. "That is Yvgeni Sokolov, a serial rapist and murderer. The Former Prime Minister of Latveria rerouted police forces to hunt down critics and dissidents of his own regime, while Sokolov brutally ravished and slaughtered over seventy innocents. His oldest victim was no more than fifteen."

The three foreign dignitaries' expressions turned, still revolted by the punishment, but any pity for the man flushed away.

"And that one," she said, pointing to a middle-aged woman whose face was a mask of horror, "is Katrina Zeitel. She was a former KGB agent, and later the head of Minister Fortunov's secret police. The things she had her men do to the people who displeased Fortunov are the stuff of nightmares. And that is to say nothing of the fortunes she made using her thugs to carry out human-trafficking, abducting innocents and selling them to rich and powerful foreigners to fulfill their perverted desires."

She listed a handful more and their horrific deeds, before deciding the point had been made.

"Each of these creatures was either ignored or even encouraged by the previous regime, and each of them now serves as a warning to anyone who has such vile urges themselves. The Ministry of Medicine is willing and ready to provide the necessary corrections for those whose mental sicknesses cannot be solved with simple therapy."

None of the three foreign leaders followed up on her comment; the surgical scars across Lucia's face and neck, the quiet whirr and buzz of cybernetic servos beneath her skin, answered any questions they might have.

"I realize that some of our practices may seem distasteful, even outrageous, to outsiders," she said as the limousine accelerated, suddenly turning a corner away from Castle Doom, "but I assure you, the Legion of Doom will in time build a better world. A world where the predations of corrupt old men and rich degenerates will be nothing but a distant memory. A world where every citizen can carry out their purpose with dignity and honor. A world where the 'super-heroes' of the west will be an amusing distraction, rather than an unaccountable ruling class. And if we must take drastic steps to bring that world about, then so be it. We will take whatever means necessary to see the Way of Doom done."

After the limo had driven another block or so, it reached what appeared to be a vacant lot, in which stood three Legion soldiers. Each of them stood before a neatly-dug trench, approximately two meters long and two meters deep. Each of them had left a shovel sticking up out of the earth by the trenches they had dug. And as the limo came to a halt, each of the soldiers leveled their rifles and surrounded the car.

"What--...what are you doing?!" Prime Minister Klaus Limka sputtered. "This was supposed to be a peace summit!"

The doors to the limousine swung open, and the soldiers pulled the three dignitaries out.

"Y-you can't do this!" Minister Vilmos Egans protested.

"As I said, whatever means necessary," Lucia von Bardas said as she casually strolled towards the three fresh graves. "Your nations believed you could form an alliance to oppose us, to stop the Legion of Doom before it could break out across Europe. Every man and woman in Latveria has a purpose, my friends. And now, your purpose will be to show the world that the Legion of Doom cannot and will not be stopped."

"Do you even know what you're saying?!" Avruskin bellowed defiantly as the soldiers forced him to his knees. "Pokolistan will never stand for this! If you do this, we will declare war on--"

The sound of Lucia's laughter was like a slap across the Captain-General's face.

"Ohhh, my dear, simple man," she smiled coldly, "Latveria declared war on all three of your nations the moment you touched down at the airport. READY!"

The three soldiers shoved the foreign leaders face-down into the dirt.

"AIM!"

The soldiers raised their rifles and disengaged the safeties.

"W-wait!" Karl Limka pleaded. "Symkaria can b-be a valuable ally! P-p-please, just listen, I beg you--"

"Doom does not beg," Lucia von Bardas sneered. "FIRE!"

With a trio of muzzle flashes and an instant of pain, Prime Minister Karl Limka of Symkaria, Minister Vilmos Egans of Kaznia, and Captain-General Tor Avruskin of Pokolistan were plunged into oblivion.

“ He’s quite an enthusiastic chap, isn’t he?,” Galahad spoke amusedly as his newest steed continued licking him in the face. The foal was stick-thin and smaller compared to his other brethren. His legs were reedy and there was not an ounce of fat under his alabaster coat. The rearer said that the foal would die by winter’s end.

Justin contended that he would be a late bloomer. Justin rubbed his mane with gusto before reaching down towards his mouth to give him a bite of carrot he’d snuck in from the kitchens.

“ So, what are you going to call him, squire?” Galahad leaned down next to him, patting his newest steed gently on the fur.

“ You can name your horse?,” Justin questioned. Horses were killed in almost every campaign. It was a miracle if a knight could make it out of a campaign with one remaining only for it to serve as calvary fodder in the next.

“ Proper knights do,” Galahad cheekily replied as he tapped the green crest on his breastplate and on top of the green paint was a red wyvern snarling at Justin. Justin looked at it with a mixture of wonder and jealousy. What would his sigil be?

“ The seers say it provides good tidings for victory,” Galahad said with a smirk. Justin rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if

Justin blinked, thinking for a while, before smiling back.

“ I think you’ve just given me an idea….”

---

SHINING KNIGHT

Fellowship 2.2.1

---

The paddock was childlishly easy to infiltrate. Justin had seen farming villages that were more fortified than whatever security had been afforded for. It was midnight and the parking lot was filtering out of the latest race, crowds of people abuzz with the mood of conversation and alcohol in the air. Tightening the hood around his head, Justin filtered out of the crowd and spotted a series of chain link fences around a squat square building. He hears the sound of loud neighing and the pungent scent of horse scat and hay. The odor brings him back to days when he used to replace horseshoes as one of his daily tasks as a squire. It’d taken nearly half a noon and by the time he was done, his attending knight’s steed had nearly taken his head off had he not been attentive.

He took a deep breath, stretching his arms out, before crawling on the fence and vaulting over to avoid the cut of the fragmented shards of glass that had been glued on top. He landed on the top soil ungracefully, the mud squelching underneath his weight.

“ Buaidh.” Justin’s timbre was low, a rough burr in his voice. “ Buaidh?”
Only one stable room was lit. He slowly stepped into the light and his breath was taken away. There, underneath the shadow of a flickering incandescent lamp, was Victory. The horse didn’t look as though he had aged a day but the condition he was in disgusted Justin. His mane was uncombed. His fur was covered in flecks of dirt and Justin could see faded skin that were scars from mortar fire or shrapnel Victory had taken during their flight over Verdun. Over his thigh, the number “24” had been painted on with white acrylic.

“ Victory - “ The horse’s ears perked up at his name. “ Victory. It’s me. Justin. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Victory just looked at him for several seconds and then, snorted disdainfully before returning back to his rest.

“ What?” Confusion was evident in Justin’s voice. This wasn’t the reunion he’d imagined. His steps became slower. “ Didn’t you hear what I said? I’ve come to get you out of here - “

Victory reared his head back, squinting his eyes as if he were insulted, before shuffling away and laying his head on the ground again, his ears twitching in annoyance.

“ You were meant for greater things than this.”Justin had sat on a wooden stool that had been placed in the stable. His once proud steed just inched his body away, as if his presence repulsed him. “ We were friends. We were comrades on the field of war. Does any of that matter to you?”

He then pointed towards two patches of scarred skin on Victory’s back.

“ How could you let them clip your wings?,” He asked quietly.

Victory didn’t bother replying, still pretending to sleep.

“ So, this is the life you have chosen?” Still no response. Justin continued to spur him on, feigning disbelief in his voice. “ Being a simple jousting steed appeals to you? Even a mule sowing a field would be more dignified than - “

Justin managed to duck in time as twin hooves shot up towards his head like bullets. The oak post behind him fractured into a spray of wooden splinters that sprayed on his skin painfully. The entire stable shuddered as strips of the post peeled off it. Justin looked at the remains of the post and then, at Victory as the horse slowly stood up on his fours and stared at him with livid rage.

“ I don’t want to fight you. I came here to talk.”

Victory simply huffed, lowered his head down and brushed the stable floor with his hooves, ready to charge at him. With a pained expression, Justin signed and raised his arms up,

“ Fine. Let us talk in a language we’re both familiar with.”

The short man in the dapper green suit was led casually into the adjacent legal office.

"Mr Tawny? This gentleman is Mr Oswald Loomis, he says he's brought a new case for us." Mary Marvel announced the spritely gentleman's entry.

Bobo tailed them at a careful distance on his skates and sat, as discreetly as a chimpanzee on roller skates is capable of sitting, on the lounge in the corner of the office.

"Linoleum? That's an-- interesting choice-- for a legal office." Mr Loomis said, inspecting the floors.

"Oh, uh-- yes. Please forgive the floors. We're between legal offices at the moment." Mr Tawny stammered, his covering as poor and convincing as the linoleum itself.

"Yes. Between the legal offices on the western and eastern sides of the building. Located in this slum right here." Detective Chimp thought to himself, not wanting to deter the business they could ill afford to lose.

"Now, what can our Firm do for you today, Mr Loomis?"

Mr Loomis took another look around the inauspicious workspace of the "Firm" before openly discussing the case in question.

"Well, as you may be aware, I recently spent a-- length of time, under the accommodation of the state..."

"You were in prison. Because you're a self-proclaimed supervillain." The private investigator said from the couch in the corner, to glares from all in attendance.

"What? You're here for our legal services, right? There's not much point playing coy and beating around the bush here for reasons of politeness and civility. If you decide to push forward with the case, he's your lawyer, right? Besides, you were already convicted and served your time, yes?"

"Apologies for my investigator's abruptness, as uncouth as he may be, I assure you he is very good at his job. Please continue." Mr Tawny interjected, before instructing Loomis to lay out his case.

"Yes, as you both may well know, I have graced this city with joy and jocular japes as the supervillain known as The Prankster, and that's part of the reason I'm hear." He began. "You see, I believe I've been wrongly imprisoned on a count and that my own reputation has led to my being persecuted by the state. I wish to sue the Metropolis PD and/or the district attorney's office for this."

Detective Chimp rubbed his face, it was too early for this conversation without scotch. "This isn't about that thing with the pennies is it?"

Both lawyer and potential client in their tweed green suits turned and stared at the Chimpanzee investigator.

“No.”

Detective Chimp arched a solitary eyebrow from his lounge.

“Alright, YES, but I had a valid point with the pennies.” The Prankster jabbed a pointed finger down, tapping hard on the desk. Detective Chimp rocked back on the couch, a smug, self-satisfied grin of confirmation spread across his face.

“Nobody appreciates good satire anymore…”

“Certainly don’t appreciate bad, ham-fisted satire, either.”

The Prankster scowled at the chattering investigator. “Are you going to get your monkey in line?”

Behind his desk, Mr Tawky Tawny winced. He’d seen how this kind of thing had played out before. All of the mirth drained from Bobo’s face.

“Do you see a tail, sir?”

“Pardon?” The man in the green tweed suit uttered, with confusion. He looked at Tawky Tawny, but he’d pushed himself away from his desk and held his paws out in a gesture that suggested he wanted no part of what was happening.

“Do you. See. A tail. Sir?” Detective Chimp repeated, deliberately and with no small amount of venom in his words.

Detective Chimp held the uncomfortable silence for a few extra beats with malignant ferocity as he bared his teeth in full.

“Great. Ape.” The words whistled through his domineering grin. “If you see no tail, it's a great ape. Emphasis on the 'Great'. I am no man's 'monkey', least of all yours, or his.” And with that, the small-statured detective skated grumpily from the room.

...Around the corner, where he held an extended finger to his lips in Mary's direction as he listened in to the conversation which continued without him.

“Well, anyway. As I was saying, my satirical commentary may not have been well received, but the Metropolis Police Department had no connection between my actions and those of the supercriminal known as Toyman besides speculation and hearsay. They heard claims from Superman - a witness who never took the stand in my own case - which sent them on a tunnel-vision path where they determined I was guilty from the outset and set about ensuring I fit that frame.”

Tawky Tawny leaned forward and tented his paws from behind his desk. “So you... want me to sue Superman..?”

The Prankster had rocked back in his own chair by now, as he regaled the tiger with his own side of the story. “Hmm..? What? No, Superman is just a concerned citizen, albeit a superpowered one. It's not his responsibility to investigate and solve the crime. No, I intend to address the people responsible. The Metropolis Police Department and District Attorney's office. They're the ones who wrongly convicted me.”

The tiger attorney considered this. He wasn't going to have to press anyone from within the superhero community. And everyone deserved their day in court... If he could prove that due process hadn't been undertaken, that assumptions had been made, then maybe...

“I'll take the case!” Tawky Tawny said, reachin a paw across the table.

The audible slap of a primate's palm against a chimpanzee's forehead could be heard in the room as the handshake consummated the agreement.

“What was that?” The Prankster asked, about the loud sound that punctuated their deal.

“Oh, it was just the plumbing. I hear that noise around here all the time...”

Shout my name! (Part 5)

---

Walking up to his apartment, Scott suddenly remembered how messy it was before his 'accident'. The key turned, a click from inside let him know it was unlocked, along with the ease of which it turned, yet he hesitated. Fear, unease, these were the emotions that had put a stop to his stride.

"Is it your arm?" A woman from behind him asked. Scott had been released from the hospital after some further poking and prodding from the doctors, but otherwise was cleared; he didn't even need a cast, and was only prescribed a light amount of painkillers. Neat! Except his family had been called during the weeks he was unconscious, and the one who had come to look over him is his sister, Alexis Mason.

Scott liked living alone because that meant he could live how he wanted. As an artist he had several materials laying out in the open, purely for anatomical reference of course, but anybody else might misunderstand. Then there were materials you just didn't misunderstand.

"N-no, it's nothing." He muttered glumly. A cold sweat began to make its way down his back. Upon entering, he noted with some alarm that his apartment had been decluttered. However, to his eyes it was now messier than ever. His stencil kit, coloring tools, graphite tips, and most of everything had been moved. This was going to take awhile to fix.

Alexis cleared her throat, making sure she had Scott's attention, then continued. "Normally, hospitals call family and next of kin. Since you don't have any 'nexts', Mom and Dad got the call, then me."

Scott slowly turned with a gulp, his spirit had been caught in his throat, and he could send no reply.

"Doctors said they wanted me to make sure you didn't fall apart after leaving the hospital." She closed the door, then locked it behind her.

"And?" Scott didn't like where this was going.

"And, since Mom and Dad can't make it, I flew over." Alexis gestured to herself needlessly, and continued to talk while pacing about. "And, considering my own circumstances, I was thinking about moving anyways."

"So, hurry and move.. on.." Scott smiled a wide, obviously insincere smile, and motioned to the door.

"Well, you know, starting your own clinic. Property values, clientele location, medicine rights, not to mention having to manage your own living expenses. It adds up!" Alexis then turned towards him with an equally fake smile, it was full of flowery cuteness that brought their parents low every time, not to mention the poor boys back in school. "Come on, help your big sis!"

Not one part of it sounded like a question, she had already planned to stay. At any rate she was family. Could he really say no? As if she could visibly see his willpower decrease, she switched her smile out. "Thank you!"

Scott sighed as he collapsed into a chair, without a fight, he had been utterly defeated.

'Damn that woman, she's so used to getting what she wants from Dad and Mom!' Scott shouted inside his mind.

"I'll be back okay, stay safe!" Alexis cheerfully said. Just as quickly as she had beaten Scott, she left, leaving him alone in his suddenly spacious apartment. Well, not quite alone. He still had some things he needed to ask. With some reluctance, he brought his fist closer to his face, an awkward pose to be sure, but important.

"Starheart, was it? Now that we have some time, tell me more about 'us'?"

"... Scott Mason, thou art my partner. Thou need only thine will-" The Starheart started to respond, before it was abruptly interrupted.

"Hey, shut, we did that already. Skip to telling me what you are."

"Then I shall reintroduce myself. I am the Starheart. I speak, work, and empower thou through this medium of thine choice. A ring. I am a gathering of unfathomable, cosmic, energy from the furthest reaches of the cosmos. My kind live in a nebula, ordinarily merely watching the universe around us. Due to reasons outside of my control I have been living on Earth." Starheart said calmly, as if merely reading a textbook description.

Scott nodded with wide eyes, clearly impressed. "Ah, only through the ring? So you're not actually inside me, no chest bursting?"

"No, although I am lending my power to slowly heal thine body, I am not physically inside thou." The Starheart continued on while Scott began to examine the ring closely. "Unless thou were to swallow the ring, then I shall be."

"Don't worry about that." Scott insisted, making a gesture of waving it off with his other hand. "Alright, next question, how old are you?" He asked earnestly, looking directly into the 'lantern' emblem in his ring, as if making eye-contact.

"Is that important?" The Starheart seemed to be at least a little surprised.

"It is, since we'll be working together from now on." Scott nodded eagerly. After a moment of consideration the Starheart continued on.

"Hmm. I spent around three thousand years in space. I landed on Earth around two thousand years ago."

"Whoa, you're totally older than me! Mister Starheart, you must have tons of fighting advice!"

"I.. would not say that."

"Oh, super humble! Also, isn't this a little, conspicuous?" Scott gestured to his ring finger with his other hand. Even though he said that, he also felt a tiny ring was innocuous, maybe he could just wing it?

"Indeed? Thou could choose to hide it."

Scott pondered it for a moment, spending the next minute silently tapping his finger on his chin. "Hiding, that's right, I have to change that getup. Now then, where are my pencils..." For Scott, the path of hero was only just starting. Right now, his top concern was making a new age costume. Whatever he had put on earlier would have to stay in the past.