The screen flickered as the channels of the television were changed in quick succession. The dull glow from the monitor barely illuminated the dirty, dank, cramped room and its handful of occupants. On a dingy couch facing the screen, one individual stared with an intensity that could burn as the various news stations discussed the recent sociopolitical shifts in the mutant sphere. A long, delicate finger pressed down on the remote, and the screen flashed again.

The tv now displayed a cheering crowd thunderously applauding a tall, handsome man in a dark suit who spoke behind a podium marked with the scarlet WIDEAWAKE AMERICA MOVEMENT insignia. Above, a banner displayed the green and blue globe of Earth stamped with a white, closed fist. The Friends of Humanity and its greatest proponent, Graydon Creed.

The figure on the couch scowled in disgust as a well-manicured fingernail quickly tapped on the remote, changing the station once more. This time the screen depicted a young blonde woman sitting behind the Frontline anchor desk.

"As I'm sure our viewers are well aware, the Brotherhood of Mutants began in the early 1980s as a political organization that spoke against the poor treatment of mutantkind," Norah Winters explained. "Their acts of non-violent civil disobedience, however, quickly turned to more aggressive activism, and finally resulted in a full-blown, militant, revolutionary group. Over the decade, the Brotherhood was responsible for countless acts of domestic terrorism, including the attempted bombing of New York City Hall. Ultimately, though, the group came to an end when an FBI raid led to the arrest of senior leadership."

The news anchor continued, "Now, it's been over thirty years since the Brotherhood was at the forefront of public consciousness, but just last month reports of a new Brotherhood of Mutants began rising on various social media platforms and far-right forums. We spoke to Dr. Steven Lang, professor of mutant history and studies at Empire State University, who says these reports are nothing to be concerned about. He suggests that with the prevalence of costumed heroes in our society today, an organization like the Brotherhood of Mutants would be no threat at all in the modern world. He credits these rumors of resurfacing as nothing more than a loose collection of internet trolls—"

The light of the television died out suddenly as the figure tossed the remote away. The small space was now shrouded in almost complete darkness. From the shadows, the silhouette rose and turned to face the others who had been watching in silence. Two bright, amber eyes stood out clearly amongst the gloom.

"Boys," a seductively sweet voice called out. "It's time we make ourselves known. Let's show this Steven Lang just how concerned he should be of our Brotherhood."

---

---

---

Carolyn typed on her keyboard, eyes scanning the page in front of her. She pushed her glasses up her nose, a bad habit when she was in a "thinky mood". The fact her boss rarely, if ever, did paperwork would annoy another personal assistant, but it made Carolyn's day. The fact she could get it all done in a matter of minutes was neither here nor there. Even if it took her all day, she would relish it. After all, how many people could say their boss was a genuine superhero? Granted, her boss would kill her if she heard that word used. Her boss had a habit of hating "heroes". She recalled a day not too long ago when the two of them were drinking at the nearby pub and the news was on ("The fuck kind of pub has the news on and not a stupid sports game" her boss had asked no one in particular) and someone on there had mentioned heroes. "If people acted decently towards others, there would be no need for heroes" her boss had said. Carolyn didn't ask for elaboration.

However, as she typed, her eyes scanned the nearby video she had pulled up to the side. On it, the news anchor was speaking about the Brotherhood of Mutants and their rise from non-aggressive tactics to full-blown violence. IF she were honest with herself, Carolyn could see reason on both sides. The president all but saying mutants were a menace and moving forward with the Mutant Control Act, is anyone surprised they would lash out?

The door to the office slammed and Carolyn quickly shut the video down as her boss glided in.

Neena, or Domino to her enemies (or enemies turned lovers back to enemies), appeared like she just rolled out of bed. Sunglasses covered last night's binge drinking and this morning's hangover. "Carolyn. How's the best secretary in the Bronx doing tonight, baby?"

Carolyn's eye twitched. "Personal assistant. You know how I feel about that word."

Neena made a 'pssht' noise ad flipped her hand. "I know, I know, but it's sooooo sexy! Never would have thought I'd have my own one of those, let me tell you."

"Well if you continue to not fill out reports and leave me with them, you won't have one at all."

"Bitch, please, I know you have a lady boner for doing it. But I'll try to be more on top of it. Anywhoodle, any new clients?"

"Your friend came in talking about some gang activity, but other than that, nothing came in. He's in your office."

Neena finger-gunned Carolyn and made her way to her office door. She opened the door and saw Ceasar laying on her couch, snoring. She picked up one of the books she had on the table that made it seem like an actual office and not just a place she nursed her headaches and tossed it on the boy's stomach. He woke up with an 'oof' before knocking the book to the ground. "Hey! What'd you do that for?"

"My office is not your bedroom. I get things are tight at home, but you still need to go to school. Education's important."

The two waited a beat before barreling over in laughter.

"Sorry, have to say that otherwise I get sued. What are you here for?"

Ceasar, a hispanic 16-year old boy who constantly wore a knit cap on his head and baggy pants that exposed his buns to everyone within its radius, came over to her desk and sat down. "You hear the news?"

Neena waved his question away. "Course not. All it ever is is bad stuff going on. I'm already aware of that being a Black woman in America."

"Well that's not why I'm here anyway. Word on the street is something big's going down."

"Typical players?"

"Nah, chica. This one's different. Heard of The Big Man?"

"I don't do religion Ceasar..."

"No not that Big Guy. The Big Man. He's this enigma. No one knows who he is but he has his fingers all over. I heard a local group talk about working for him. I think something's happening."

"Something is always happening." Nenna leaned back in her chair as she pondered this. "The Big Man huh? Sounds like a supervillain. I ain't some do-gooder, cape wearing, skintight latex freak. That's out of my wheelhouse unless he hurts one of mine."

Ceasar knew this. Respected this. He also hated superheroes. "I only bring it up because I think he's making his move into the Bronx. If he does, things are going to get dangerous. Well....more dangerous."

Neena sighed and rubbed her temples. "It's never a dull day here, is it?"

"That's why we are lucky to have you."

Luck. Heh, that was funny. Maybe her power, the power she was hated for despite its good intentions, was being used for more than just nabbing up criminals. "Thanks Ceasar. Keep an ear to the ground for me. In the meantime, I may hit the streets, see if I can pick up work."

Cearar snapped his fingers and exited the room. "See ya in my dream's tonight Carolyn."

"You are a minor Ceasar. Don't make me call your mom."

"Aww, man. Why you gotta do me like that?"

The door closed and Neena waited for a beat before she picked up her belt, fitted with an assortment of protective merchandise, and her leather jacket, flying it over her shoulders. "I'm heading out. Call me if something comes in, but if not, take the rest of the day off."

"You know damn well I'll be here until sundown doing your notes."

"Love you, baby!"

Neena exited her building and began walking in any direction. She had a feeling today would be wild.

---

A graveyard.

That’s all that remains of the city around him.

He walks around the corpses of hooded mothers cradling the corpses of their children. He walks around young soldiers who died for the mirage of a country they once believed in.

Vietnamese rebels. Haitian protest leaders. Revolutionaries. Slaves.

The faces are all different but they all have the same end.

Being the fuel to his father’s furnace.

A cry like a foghorn splits his ears and he looks to a canyon of crumbling buildings to his left. A colossal hulk of steel and iron eclipses the horizon. Its chest is cracked open, rivulets of metal magma spewing out of it. Its mouth is a churning furnace, grinding and chewing. Its hide is bristling with missile pods, artillery cannons, armaments, the enemy of life. It devours and devours, growing and growing until it's bulk blots out the sun. Its eyes turn towards him. Before he can run away, its maw opens, pulsating with violent red energy that bubbles at the surface. vomits out a baleful light that swallows him with the truth.

“ ONE WORLD, UNDER IRON.”

---

The blanket flies off as Tony rolls off the bed in a stupor. He hugs himself, yearning for the warmth of the RT unit in his chest to warm the cold sweat off his skin. Still shivering, he looks up at the digital clock sitting on the bedrest.

4 hours of sleep.

From a statistical perspective, it was a measurable improvement

---

Frequent trips to DIY and home improvement stores were an unfortunate part of being on the run.
His cart was loaded with every bit of scrap, solder, wiring, batteries he could get his hands on. The first few months shopping in DIY stores felt as though he was a Renaissance artist being forced into finger painting. There was no way he could acquire high quality grade fabricators or machining equipment from a civilian store and accessing Stark Industries high-tech RnD workshops were out of the question without proper clearance procedures. It’d been a year and he could still feel the phantom pain from having to disassemble smoke detectors to salvage enough americium for his first RT unit. Working on a portable nuclear reactor in a minivan with only tin foil for radiation protection wasn’t something that appealed to him.

Besides, it was better for the world to believe he was dead than sacrifice a little subterfuge for comfort. He wasn’t sure who to trust at this point.

As he strolled towards the electronics, tossing a can of WD-40 in his ever-growing cart, Tony could overhear the argument of a child and her father in the background. He slightly turned his head sideways and pulled on his hood to hide his face. The girl’s head was adorned with brown cornrows and her dark-skinned cheeks were puffed out in anger. The father ran a hand through his coarse short-cut brown hair and shook his head.

“ No, you can’t have the hammer, Riri.”

“ But, daddy, I wanna play with the hammer!,” Riri pouted, stamping her feet on the ground in frustration. “ I need it to build my magic tree house.”

“ C’mon, Riri,” Her father crouched down, scratching his chin in deep thought, before snapping his fingers in enthusiasm. He stuck out his hand to Riri. “ How about I teach you how to use the hammer and we can build that tree house together.”

Riri’s eyes were narrowed, looking at her suspiciously before slowly gripping his hand, hers comically undersized in comparison to his.

“ Okay but I get to decide on the paint job.”

Tony watched from afar with bitter longing as the father then hoisted Riri onto his back. Riri, patted his father’s head like a drum and proceeded to point in front of her as if to direct her. He tapped his fingers on the handle of his shopping cart mindlessly and decided to move on. If he stared at them all day, the father might notice and call security on a certain coded billionaire hobo who looked to be in charge of a child trafficking ring.

As he walked to the checkout counters, he ignored the strange looks everyone gave him as he lined up with his shopping cart, the massive weight just enough for their design specifications to handle. He gave a cheeky smile of apology at the employee manning the checkout who looked as though he wanted to give a world weary sigh at the dilemmas of 24/7 grocery jobs. Maybe, Stane would have more success if he hired every disgruntled individual

“ Home renovations?,” The employee questioned, voice clearly disgruntled. He scanned each and every barcode with the speed of a man who burnt through all of his years of youth looking for job promotions.

“ More like a personal project,” Tony replied back curtly.

The mounted TV in the corner of the stall flickered to WHIH news and Tony reflexively looked down at his feet the moment he saw what was on there. There was a picture of his face, one he took for Times Magazine back in 2017 when he first took over the reigns of CEO of Stark Industries. There was a cocksure, arrogant smile on it that only hinted at an unstable egomaniac. It was like looking at a man from another planet.

“ Today marks a year since the mysterious death of former Stark Industries billionaire CEO, Tony Stark. Often noted for his eccentric idiosyncrasies and public controversies, a burnt coastal mansion on Malibu remains a memorial to his unmistakable legacy on America’s tech industry. The investigation into Stark’s death has now been closed by the FBI and the CIA, who have reported that a simple gas accident was the cause of the house fire. However, many, including Tony Stark’s former acquaintance, Colonel James Rhodes, disagree with the CIA’s conclusion.”

The television screen switched to a live interview of his friend and Tony cringed. Shame filled his chest as he saw how disheveled his friend was. His spotless military uniform was unkempt and his beard was untrimmed. His eyes were bloodshot and his calm voice that had been a rock of confidence during hsi most troubled times had wilted just so lightly since Tony’s disappearance.

“ He was my damn friend. I won’t rest until his killer or killers have been brought to justice under a U.S court. It’s plain and simple.”

“ In the middle of Obadiah Stane’s eulogy to Stark, the CEO of Stark Industries was violently attacked by a water bottle thrown by protestors in the crowd claiming to be a part of the radical activist group “ Rising Tide”. The protestors then started flinging spent bullet shells on stage, claiming that Stark Industries has failed to send financial remunerations to families allegedly impacted by their weapons in various overseas conflicts. Their demands include the immediate cessation of U.S government relations with Stark Industries and the formation of an independent commission to investigate Stark Industries for crimes against humanity.”

“ The Starks are mongers of iron. The money they make is lined with the blood of refugees and orphans. We will not rest until the iron is rust!,” The leader, cloaked in a red bandana, held his fist up and the rest followed in a sequential rhythm, mimicking the motion of a wave.

“ RUST! RUST! RUST!”

“ In the midst of all this, Stark Industries remains embroiled in a series of guerilla attacks from the mysterious armored terrorist known as the Iron Man. In a following statement, Stark Industry public representatives denounce the claims as false and ensure the public Stark Industries has a rigorous internal affairs process to mitigate corruption - “

The television cut off just before Tony could laugh. Internal affairs? That was a joke. Stark Industries had no internal affairs. His father was the sole dictator of the entire company and it was by his hand to declare the company corrupt or not. Internal affairs and anti-corruption regulations would slow down ‘the gears of innovation’ as he would call it.

And what did I do about it?

His amusement quickly faded. He paid for his goods in an orderly fashion and pushed the heavy shopping cart out of the entrance. The van was located in a distant corner of the parking lot. It was rust-laden, the paint chipped off. Mold and dust blackened the windows. Looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, he pressed a button on the car key and the back of the van slowly folded open. He’d converted the inside into a makeshift workshop. A bench was mounted on the side and the Model 1 was placed on a makeshift stand, standing ready for deployment at a notice. Numerous tool cabinets had been welded together in a grotesque monstrosity that only a mind like his could navigate. Closing the backdoor, he separated and stored the goods into their respective sections whilst peeking over his shoulder for any signs of suspicious activity outside. Tailgaters, mysterious men in trenchcoats, oddly large groups of people. After the house fire, he couldn’t become complacent again.

Once done, he clapped his hands and the holo-frame projector whirred to life. Crafting it out of a cinema projector and a bluetooth speaker was an experiment in agony and it sure didn’t measure up to his old one at home but it was functional.

“ Show the nearest route to Stark Nevada Cloud Facility,” Tony said. The blue light morphed into a topographical map of Texas, constantly shrinking in scale until he saw a spherical domed facility. A bush of chain link fences and concrete walls surrounded it. It was by far the most guarded data server bank in Stark Industries and for good reason.

It was where they were keeping JARVIS.

---

“So, are you going to lie and tell me you fell down the stairs again, Clint?”

Bobbi Morse cut into her omelet without looking up towards her breakfast companion. She seemed slightly out of place in the grungy diner, with most of its patrons wearing trucker hats and flannel. Agent Morse was instead dressed up in a suit and tie, her own sort of uniform. Of course, Clint Barton seemed more dressed like a cartoon character; he sported a bright purple t-shirt with a white thermal long-sleeve underneath, matched with non-descript jeans. His face was a tapestry of bruises and cuts, covered up in part by old Hawkeye^TM branded band-aids. He was busy chowing down on his own stack of pancakes drowning in maple syrup. He didn’t bother to answer his exes’ hypothetical. She already knew the answer. She always liked having all the answers.

“If you want back in the game, there are plenty of pieces in play. I’m currently running point on a potential deal going down in Madripoor. It’s well-suited for your kind of work.”

Clint swallowed his current bite hard, resting his knife and fork on his plate as he grabbed a couple paper napkins from the dispenser on the table. He wiped the sticky syrup from his lips, his eyes finally turning up to meet Bobbi’s. She stared back at him with a stoic expression. Clint read volumes of worry in the way her eyebrows furrowed slightly the longer she stared. “Bikers. Stalking my building. Either one of them was stalking my 80 year old neighbor to confess his love… or…”

“Or?”

Clint sighed. They both knew the answer. Speaking it just made it more real. “They’re trying to intimidate whoever lives in the building.”

Bobbi nodded to herself slightly, taking a sip from her coffee and stewing on that for a moment. She looked casually about the diner as she swallowed. “And why would they be doing that, Barton. What’s the motive?”

Clint shook his head. He hated when she talked to him like this, talking to him like he was some kid in her English Lit class. “Can you stop talking down to me like I’m an idiot, Bobbi?”

Bobbi’s lips pursed for a moment as she slowly turned her gaze back towards Clint. “You are an idiot, Clint.” She reached her free hand across the table towards his, grabbing on to it firmly. “You’re not stupid. You just refuse to look in the mirror and see yourself.”

Clint cocked his head slightly to the side. The insult was expected… but it wasn’t a jab. The words were vaguely familiar. Bobbi had called him an idiot so many times over the years it almost felt like his own name, but today it was different. There was meaning behind it. Some of it was hurt, some of it was pity. Clint didn’t want to dissect it further. He just looked at Bobbi as she pulled her hand away and checked her smart watch. “I’ve got to go, Clint. I’ll be out of town for a few days. Clean yourself up by the time I get back.”

She was gone within a minute, a crisp hundred dollar bill folded neatly under her plate. Clint ate the rest of his food quickly in silence, only nodding towards the money when the waitress came by with the check. He shook his head when she came back with change, and half-heartedly nodded along as she gave him a hug. He couldn't quite make out the words as he had taken out his hearing aid when Bobbi had left. Her words were still bouncing around in his head as he ducked out of the diner and made his way to his red and black 1970 Dodge Challenger. He sped off from the Jersey diner, following the signs back to NYC.

Clint slid his hearing aid back over his ear and turned on the radio, flipping through a few news stations. He tapped away on his steering wheel as he listened to the usual: politics, anti-mutant legislation, shootings. The same old news he listened to all the time. His eyes shifted to the same old scenes he was used to on this drive by now. A couple of the billboards had changed again. Clint's eyes drifted until he caught a tiny bit of movement in his rear-view mirror. He locked eyes with himself for a moment. His face seemed more purple and red than pale. It was no wonder Bobbi was concerned.

Clint turned his rear-view mirror away slightly, so he could no longer see his reflection.

Attention Richard, it is critical you pay attention at this time.

Richard woke with a start as the planet came into view. He could already see the extent of the damage to the planet below and realized that it was too late. The 8x8 distress call had come through weeks ago, and despite starting at the other side of the Galaxy Richard was still the first one to respond. A Cosmic entity had come and destroyed the planet. What was left was a dying planet all its energy depleted as its ecosystem went through one final collapse. "Give me a full scan of the planet."

Confirmed. Within two hours life on Orbucen will cease, most the life on the planet appears to be congregated around evacuation ships, however, they appear to be inactive.

Without further hesitation Richard flew down to the ships, most of them had their ramps closed, but he could still see thousands of refugees clamoring at the gates to get in. Women, children, and men all screamed, pleaded, and begged to be allowed on. There had to be room for their family or even just the youngest among them. It was all in vain, the promises of wealth meant nothing in the face of destruction. The guards knew their families were safe, and that was all that was important.

There was a shift in attention though as the sky lit up as the Nova Centurion came within seeing distance. This is the part of the job that Richard found hardest. Giving hope, when he knew he'd never be able to deliver. "Worldmind send my ship, and repeat a call for assistance from the corps-"

There are currently no other Corps personnel available, and your ship will not arrive for another-"

"Just do it."

Richard flew in closer once he recognized what was likely a launch control center. Orbucen was a type-I civilization and if they had any chance of fleeing it had to be now. He winced a little at the relief on the face of those in the control center as he approached.

"Centurion! I am glad that you were able to come, even if it is at the end. We still need your assistance."

"I came as soon as I could. More help will arrive soon-" It hurt to lie. He didn't do this job to lie to people, especially in their time of need, but better in these last moments to offer false hope, than none at all. "-what seems to be the delay in getting these ships off the ground?"

"All ships except one are full to capacity. The Central Authority will not grant the codes to allow the ships to take off until they have arrived, however, protestors have barricaded them in their offices and we are unable to get them. Please rescue them, so we can leave.

The Central Authority is the Oligarchy that rules this world, Richard Rider. We will need to evacuate them in order to proceed with the evacuation.

It was the end of the world, and of course if the powerful weren't allowed to survive. No-one was.

---

“ When asked by Verity Willis of WHIH during the 1985 Stark Expo whether world peace would be possible by the end of the 21st century, Howard Stark replied with his most infamous quote to date:

“ Peace isn’t profitable. Consider that and you’ll have the answer already.”

Born to a shellacker and a stenographer in up-state Manhattan in 1918 during the end of World War 1, Howard’s appetites and ambitions couldn’t be contained, leading to earning a full scholarship to MIT at the age of 15. Becoming a three-time Collier award winner in his undergraduate years and earning dual-PHDs in both electronic and mechanical engineering, Howard Stark was widely considered to be a pioneer of his generation.”

“ World War 2 was widely considered by many to be the catalyst to the formation of Stark Industries. Joining the OSRD in 1941, the network he formed would eventually become the first board of directors for the now famous industrial start-up. After the conclusion of the war in 1945, Stark Industries grew to a multi-million and eventually, a billion dollar empire. The Cold War only served to bolster Stark Industries prominence and close affiliation with the government as a military weapons contractor, earning Howard Stark the nickname “ The Iron Monger…”

…. [CONT ON PG 5]

---

“ Mr….Hogan-”

“ That’s me,” Tony pulled at the collar of his polo shirt tightly. His fingers mussed through his dyed hair worriedly as though his disguise would melt off any second like the Witch in the Wizard of Oz. The chair he was sitting on was uncomfortably inhuman. The plastic laminate seat pressed painfully against his back and he swore that the thin legs were incapable of supporting his weight. It felt as though the chair could fall apart at any moment and was only held together by the power of his belief. The interviewer was a balding, bespectacled man who was in an over-dressed suit and tie that made Tony look like a suburban father with his get-up. The interviewer adjusted his glasses, an unimpressed look at his face, before looking back at his clipboard.

“ What qualifications do you have to succeed in Stark Industries?”

“ I’m applying for a janitorial job, right?” Tony questioned. The interviewer’s face didn’t budge and Tony sighed, clearing his throat, as he went on a diatribe.“ You know, I had to work for everything in my life. I’m a go-getter, a guy who had to pull himself up from the ground to get where I am now. My father never left me with anything. Hell, I never took handouts and you’ll never find a harder worker than me.”

By the time he’d finished, Tony struggled to hold in his laughter. The interviewer had nodded throughout his entire rant, taking down notes, and appeared to even look interested. After a long period of silence, the interviewer spoke again.

“ But what actual qualifications do you have?”

Tony bit his lip nervously before shrugging half-heartedly.

“ I can also code in Java?”

“ You’re hired, Hogan.”

---

Steve Rogers breathed in slowly.

The air was a little stale, unsurprising for a place of brick and old wood that looked like it had been barely cleaned in a decade, even though he had spent the whole of yesterday tidying things up. It had been his sole occupation, in between reading whatever history books he could stomach. He was still struggling to wrap his head around things. Last week he had been in Germany, ducking behind whatever piece of rubble he could find while Nazi’s took pot shots at him and his boys. HYDRA had been up to something, even as their country collapsed all around them. Even as it was so damn obvious that the war was lost.

The next he was walking up in a cold, sterile room staring up at the faces of surprised doctors.

He frowned as he flexed and massaged his right hand, pulsing with an old ache he earned doing something stupid in Tunisia. In a way he was glad he had been as disorientated as he was when he…woke up. The doctors had just been doing their job, thawing out what they thought was a corpse. Nobody expected him to be alive. Him included. Who the hell could live through something like that?

He had been focused on getting out. They had chipped off most of the ice that, lethargic and confused as he was, he could do the rest. The race through the base had been…well, not pleasant. In hindsight he could understand their tactics more properly than he had in the moment, when everything was a bloodied blur. They tried to restrain him, first. But when he had cracked enough skulls they just decided to hang back, keep an eye on him while he tried to run and form a proper response team. He had stopped when he had burst onto the deck of the Helicarrier. So much space. So much impossibility.

When he had calmed down, they approached him. Began to explain.

Steve took another deep breath, letting the stale air wash through him. He held it for a few moments, before slowly releasing his breath. It had been a week or two since that mess. He couldn’t stay so directly on a SHIELD facility like that, apparently. People were already beginning to talk. So they had, upon return to New York, shunted him into this safehouse while they figured out what to do with him. Maybe he could’ve run. Slipped out the door and began to explore his home, so twisted and changed by the passage of time. But he had caught a glimpse of it on the way in.

He’d get used to it later. Right now he preferred this solitude.

Walking to the center of the room he approached a stained punching bag. It was an old thing, of taut leather and faded colors. Scratches marked it, and here or there lay a sloppy patch job to keep it together. He couldn’t even begin to let loose on it. But it was what he had. So he settled into a stance, and went through the old motions.

As his fists hit the punching bag he couldn’t help but note with some amusement that he probably would’ve found this place nice, back in the day. Small, compact and filled with all the little necessities of life. If he had seen it when it was first built, that is. Right now he was most likely older than it. Maybe the whole building.

Rusted metal chains groaned in protest when he hit the punching bag too hard, sending it snapping it away from him. For a second it looked like the punching bag was going to slip loose, but ultimately the chains and leather held, and it soared back to him. He caught it with a single hand, frowning.

He was already looking at the door before it even began to open.

Sharon Rogers stepped in. A short woman, dressed smartly in a SHIELD issued suit, her dirty blond hair was neatly tied in a bun. And her cool blue eyes swept the room, before meeting his own for a moment. Under one arm was a roll of newspapers. A duffle bag was slung over her other shoulder.

“Captain,” she said, unsmiling. He nodded to her, holding the punching bag in place so the creaking of the steel chains didn’t get too loud.

Shaon Rogers was, apparently, a descendant of his sister. She was a link, of sorts. A thing to hold to and say that this world was real. Probably why they assigned her to be his handler. And that's what she was, despite all the words they tried to use. They wanted to make sure he didn’t break anything. Storm through central park on a rampage. They didn’t say any of that, of course. But he wasn’t an idiot. Well, not completely. He accepted the oversight, such as it was, without a word. He understood. The world was beyond strange, and he appreciated the company.

As she entered the room she tossed the wad of newspapers on an old, cheap table. The duffle bag gently sat on the ground next to it. “Looks like things got out.” Sharon said as she leaned against a counter, crossing her arms.

Steve walked over, shifting the newspapers so he could get a look at them all at the same time. Pictures of SHIELD, its helicarrier, its bases, symbol, whatever they could get their hands on stood prominent on the pages. A few of them had some scientists that he had been told found him. And, most prominently, photos of him.

“Not surprising.” Sharon continued. “Something like this…well, it was never in the plan to keep you hidden forever. Just long enough to get your bearings.”

And for SHIELD to get its own, Steve thought.

“But too many people saw you. Some grunts probably talked too. So the timetable has been moved up a bit. Tomorrow the Director will be confirming that you’re alive. I’ve been asked to put forward a request that you stand on the stage when that happens.”

“A request?” He said, wrapping his hands.

Sharon nodded. “Just a request. Not an order. Things have moved more quickly than we had hoped, so…”

He had never been shy, not truly. But the thought of standing in front of stage, looking into a sea of strangers, nailing it in with their questions and their cameras that he was truly lost from his home punched at him. Maybe he should. Get out of this safe-house, stand in front of the world proudly.

But he was never proud.

“I’ll think about it.” He said. “But no promises.”

Sharon shrugged. “Don’t worry too much about it. This was a last minute thing.” She waved a hand, gesturing to the duffle bag. “Besides, they managed to gather some of your old things.”

Old things…? Curious, Steve picked up the duffle bag and hauled it onto the table. He only opened it half-way when he saw his shield. He paused for the moment, staring at the gleaming metal. When he last saw it, the old girl was coated in frost and blood. But now…now it was clean. Proud. He pulled the rest of the zipper back, revealing a uniform he was all too familiar with.

Slowly, with a care that he knew with bone deep experience that was unnecessary, he picked up his shield and held it in front of him. The white star flashed in the low light.

“A bit delayed,” Sharon said quietly. “But welcome back, Captain.”

Normally this time of night on a Friday, John King would already be three pints deep at his local dive bar, swapping the same old stories he always repeated and reminiscing on the same exes he also moaned “got away.” Sadly rent was on the up, meaning less time for drinking away his problems, and more time begrudgingly working all of the overtime he could muster. As a result, tonight the lowly engineer found himself down in the darkened subway tunnels beneath New York City, his hands tinkerings with one of the signalling posts, as the sounds of clattering train carriages rocketed the tunnels around him.

Normally the work itself wasn’t too bad. He’d spend some time on each signal, chatting leisurely with his partner, yet today he had been abandoned. So instead he worked alone, headphones in and blaring music into his ears, as he audibly grumbled about his plights in life.

It was because of this that John was too distracted to hear that something was currently moving down the darkened train tunnel towards him.

The being moved slowly, keeping to the darkness as it eyed its prey. The hiss of its tongue escaped from under the blood-red cloak that encapsulated its body.

John continued to work away as it crept closer, his eyes fixated on the multimeter in his hands. He was oblivious.

Closer and closer it moved. A low growl began to echo as the glint of teeth began to pierce out of the darkness below its hood.

Closer and closer until it was ready.

John let out a gut-wrenching scream as a burning erupted from his back, as the beast began to sink in its claws. He fell, agony sweeping through him as his both seized up. He barely managed to turn his head up to look at the monstrosity before him. The pair of rolling, mad eyes; the pig-like snout, twitching and quivering in his direction; and the drooling mouth, saliva
hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs. Whatever this beast one, it seemed to stand tall on its hind legs, with one muscle arm emerging from the confines of its cloak, his scythe-like claws now dripping in what he could only imagine was his own blood.

And it was hungry for him.

He struggled backwards as fast as he could, fighting through the pain as it towered above him, stepping forwards menacingly. It was enjoying this. Enjoying the hunt. Wiping the blood away with the cloak, it readied itself to strike.

Yet before it could swing, a shout echoed around the corridor. Over the sounds of the trains in the neighbouring tunnels. Over the sounds of John’s screams. Piercing their ears as if reality itself was shouting.

The tunnel illuminated a fiery red light as bands of crimson energy rocketed towards them from the darkness. They withered like snakes around the beast, ensnaring the creature’s raised arm and its upper torso, tightening as they burned into its skin. They overwhelmed him immediately despite their strength. It tried to lunge forward against its victim but found itself stuck in place.

It roared, shaking its body from side to side as it attempted to turn and lay eyes on its attacker.

It didn’t take long for her to step into view, however. She moved confidently despite her small frame. Her hair was a mess of blonde, with a scruffy fringe covering the entirety of her forehead. Her clothes followed suit; a torn band t-shirt and ripped jeans, topped off by a pair of dusty military boots.

At a first glance, there wasn’t anything too intimidating about her. That was if it weren’t for the obsidian staff she hand clutched within her hands. She pointed it forward with a fury, with the end blaring in a combination of vibrant reds and oranges, the crimson bands themselves originating here. They were hers to control, and thus, now was the beast.

Momentarily, her eyes flicked to the left, where John still lay in a now growing puddle of his own blood.

“Run.” Illyana Rasputina ordered. “This demon is mine.”

It is a common misconception people made.

Understandable, to some extent. The crescent darts, a truncheon which he threw.

People thought Marc was a ranged fighter. A marksman.

But I watched him train. I saw his background. He was a boxer with tools. A melee fighter. He wanted to get in close, he breathed perspiration and blood.

And when I say that, I don't mean just a common brawler like today's prize fighters. Hair-trigger meathead punchers where the only science involved was looking to maximise a punch's power in Newton force per body mass index... No. Marc was a technician. A sweet scientist. He may not have had the feet of a Maurice Béjart, to call him a dancer, but he had all of the craft of any prizefighter you could name.

A flutter of crescent darts released from the rear hand, under the fore's elbow to disguise their approach until later. But the darts were not the threat, they merely allowed him to slip in left under the guard and the opponent's heavy right. A truncheon to a nerve cluster. A hard punch just below the heart. Turning an elbow to weaken a counter, recognising and slipping the overly aggressive haymaker of a frustrated powered opponent. Equal punching power and comfort from either hand in myriad situations.

He was Mercel Cerdan in a cape. But with weapons which distracted from his true intent. His true intent was one of malice, and would end with you grounded; on the floor by his hand.

I am not Marc.

---

---

---

Cold rain beats down. I wear a dead man's clothes. But here I perch, and wait, in my own warmth.



This part of town lacks true tall skyscrapers, but its the best I can do, for overlooking the target. 215th Street Station, the quietest in Manhattan. The perfect place for my prey to feed. I hold one of Marc's crescent darts between my fore and middle finger in a hand hidden well within the depths of the cape. I'd inspected its splendid stirling silver in the moonlight earlier, when I had first gotten here, but have since tucked it away. The sniper's training to remove anything reflective coming back to the fore.



Heels clack up the stairs to the station. A woman ascends. A duck call would have been more subtle.



Lights flicker. Common with these, the Hellbent have this effect often. I turn the crescent dart in my hidden hand. I sight my prey.

No.

It's a big one. The dart won't be enough. Heaven help me, the dart won't be enough.

The woman starts to panic, sensing its presence. Possibly OUR presence.

I silently curse myself at the predicament. Lady's in the killbox. I'm not Marc.

But today, I guess I'll have to be enough.



I stow the crescent dart. I'm not Marc, and whilst I've little doubt I'd strike my target true, I think the loss of the element of surprise would be too costly for whatever advantage the damage of the dart could do.

Two steps and I hurl myself across the gap into the night. The cape billows and catches me, then I draw it closed and turn myself into a missile. Driving a shoulder through and tackling the demonic beast off of the platform and onto the tracks. I pull the truncheon and club it into a panic in the moonlight. Then the moonlight brightens and I realise what will happen next. I quickly fire a grapple line from the truncheon, pulling myself away to the far line of the station as the subway barrelled through.

I puff and pant. Close contact. Melee fighting. It's not for me. And then my salvation - the ladder from the Mooncopter whisks me away.

Tired as I may be, tonight's only just begun.

---

G M E V E N T # 1
^{Waterside Plaza, Manhattan, NYC}

Roxxon Energy Corporation, a multi-billion dollar oil and gas enterprise, operating in almost thirty countries, was experiencing its most profitable period since its founding in the early 20th century. The company's newest CEO, industrialist entrepreneur and investor, Dario Agger, having taken over in 2011, was mostly credited for the record-setting successes Roxxon was seeing due to his aggressive, forward-facing business strategy. In reality, the multinational behemoth's $500 billion annual profit was owed to an entirely different factor. While the world knew Roxxon as one of the largest and most influential global conglomerates, the company was rooted deeply within the criminal underworld.

The Chitauri invasion and subsequent 44-Hour War changed how the world viewed life itself. For Dario Agger, already an amoral businessman, it entirely altered his perspective on enterprising profit. In the decade since taking control, Agger rapidly became the 8th richest man in the world and established himself as one of the central figures in the superhuman black market. Manufacturing of illegal weaponry based on scavenged Chitauri technology; development of super performance enhancing drugs; trafficking mutant slaves; genetic engineering. The Roxxon Energy Corporation dabbled in it all, unbeknownst to the public.

All across New York City, Roxxon Energy tanker trucks cruised the streets. Ostensibly transporting fuel, the vehicles were in truth smuggling next-generation weaponry out of the Big Apple. A fact that wasn't as secret as Roxxon's CEO would have believed.

One such tanker and its inhabitants, idling at an intersection in Waterside Plaza, discovered this the hard way as the heavy truck suddenly teetered violently from side to side accompanied by a cacophonous blast. The high-explosive grenade that had rolled underneath the vehicle impacted with enough force to lift the rear end several inches. A hail of bullets followed, striking both the sturdy doors and scattering across the bullet-resistant windshield. Screams filled the air as the surrounding vehicles slammed on brakes and hurriedly threw their cars in reverse to put as much distance between them and the chaos.

At the same time, two large garbage trucks slammed through the traffic, tossing smaller vehicles in their path aside, as they maneuvered to block the tanker. From the backs of the garbage trucks, fourteen armed individuals clad in an assortment of dark hoodies, masks, and patched-together body armor poured out, surrounding the tanker. Another figure, this one in less-tattered tactical gear, emerged from the rear garbage truck and gestured towards several others.

"Hurry up and cut into that thing," he said in a thick British accent. "The Big Man wants what's inside."

Four men broke formation to approach the large, metal tank. They produced palm-sized cylinders that began sparking blue from the tips. High-intensity plasma cutters would make short work of the tanker's shell and reveal the hidden goods within.

"Mort!" The panicked voice came from the front of the Roxxon truck in the moment of silence following the pause of gunfire. "We've got a problem, there's something in the—"

The shouting was cut off by the abrupt sound of tearing metal and thick glass exploding, replaced by a short-lived scream of terror and a sickening crunch.

Mortimer Norris, leader of the assault team, took a step back as he witnessed a hulking figure drag itself out from the passenger side door - or rather, where the door had once been.

Standing seven-and-a-half feet with thick, armored plates decorating his massive, orange-grey body, the monstrous Antonio Rodriguez towered over the assembled men circling the tanker. His services retained to guard this particular shipment, he growled ferociously as the onslaught of bullets returned, this time harmlessly ricocheting off his body.

"You don't know who the fuck you just messed with."

Richard flew, more or less, straight to the government building. He did what he could on the way, with Worldminds constant nagging in the background. Save a couple of people from falling buildings, and move them in the direction of the ships. In the distance, he could see the rioters outside protesting the Central Authority. Good for them, shame it came right at the end. Richard really had no notion to move in and help them, but considering the fact that these officials held the lives of everyone aboard the ships in their hands he had no choice. If he couldn't save everyone, he had to save someone.

Without pomp or ceremony, he crashed through a window and into the center of a room. There were screams of panic, guards sprang into action before a very well-dressed alien came forward raising his hands. "Hold your fire! This is a Nova Centurion!" The being approached him, Richard extended his hand and it was grasped by both of the aliens' hands. "I am glad to be seeing you now. We had hoped that our planet could have been saved, however with you here now we can maybe save what is left of our people. The disturbances within the atmosphere have prevented our evacuation, and the protestors have prevented our land transports. You must see us to our ships."

Richard pulled his hand back. "I'll see you to your ship, but first give me the codes to launch the ships-"

Caution Richard Rider, adrenal spike detected in many of the occupants of the room.

"That way if you don't make it the ships can still lea-"

"Unacceptable. You will take us, and then we shall supply the codes."

"I only mean it to make sure your people survive."

"Either we all survive, or none of us do. This is the way of things. If you do not help us, none of us will survive and that will be your burden to bear."

"But your people will die."

"Only if you fail to save us."

Richard had to refrain from physically frowning, it cost all his focus to stop the rage from translating into his eyes. "Fine lets go, but no-one gets hurt."

Without offering a chance for any rebuke Richard led the group of five out of the room, through the council halls, and out into the public. As soon as they appeared the crowd surged forward, and objects came flying at them. Thrown from protestors. "Graviton shield to full strength, full coverage."

There was a flash of light as the field expanded, objects bouncing harmlessly off. As they moved into the crowd anyone that attempted to stand in their way was pushed aside. Richard could see the pain in these poor people's faces, the anguish, and the anger. The rage.

Richard had never felt more ashamed in his life, all these people wanted was a chance to survive. He could be doing something, and yet here he was. A chaperone to the powerful.

---

“ Look. I’m just asking you to have an ounce of introspection - “

“ And I do. I’m an introspecting individual, or in the process of it - “

“ Do you seriously not believe you have responsibility for the deaths your weapons cause?”
“ First of all, the technical term isn’t weapons. Obi calls them “ applied military technology” and before you give me that look, I put the legwork in the RnD and give the scraps to the design group. They’re the ones who point it at - “

“ Is that seriously your defense?”

“ Look, all I’m saying is that I make the tools. A hammer doesn’t kill people.”

“ But a hammer wasn’t originally designed to kill people.”

“Look, how do you think we get funding for our other sectors? Military contracts. Look at our biotech divisions, telecommunications, software, that’s only possible with the money we make from - “

“ Killing people to save people. Does that equation balance it all out? ”

“ It’s our history. My father’s history - “

“ The futurist who's also a stickler for tradition. That’s a joke if I ever saw one.”

“ Can’t beat that tongue of yours.”

“ Oh, you can beat me in other ways…..”

---

During the fifth day of his entry level position in the Stark Industries Nevada Server Farm Facility, Tony had finally figured out how to hack into clearance. Sure, it took a little bribery, 24 hours of bypassing his own outdated encryption firmware he made in his twenties and elbow grease but the location was still the same. If he had access to his now-destroyed supercomputer with terabytes of processing power.

He could have bulldozed through the facility with the Model 1 like a bull in a china shop. But hardware was hardware and servers were especially delicate hardware. With all of that in mind, the firmware and server banks required to house and contain an V.I was a glass chandelier. As far as he could tell, JARVIS’s primary neural matrix was in cold storage. JARVIS wasn’t a true A.I. He had over-ride functions, commands built within him to prevent him from becoming a crappy 90s cliche. However, one of those commands was to stay locked within deep storage in the eventuality of his death.

Tony breathed out fog in the depths of the cold facility, liquid nitrogen running through the walls to cool down all the immense heat produced by dozens of server banks working non-stop 24/7. A Stark technician was meant to come down here in a HEPA-registered custom built isothermal suit that kept them from dying of hypothermia. All Tony had was ten layers of T-shirts, a wool parka he got from a 5 dollar thrift shop and cooking mitts to keep his hands warm. His testicles felt like two ice cubes as he shivered, trying to locate the exact server port for him to access.

“ 25-A, 6-B, ah, there we go!,” Tony unscrewed the plastic seal of the server rack, gently setting it down so that he wouldn’t make any noise. Decoupling a connection cable, he plugged it into his computer and begin uploading his script to break past the hardwalls. The script would send a trail of crumbs for the 22 engineers on standby to prod at curiously whilst he could root around in their orchards like a raccoon in a garbage bin. His eyes flickered through multiple server logs and server pings that were being set off by his relatively messy manner of hacking. The sound of hissing cooling pumps and the electronic hums of server frames kept him company.

So much so that he didn’t even feel the gun barrel pressed against his head.

“ You have 10 seconds to explain what you’re doing in this secure location before I shoot you in the head …..” A woman’s voice spoke softly, cutting through the cold like a thin razor. A glove hand appeared to the left of Tony’s vision and tugged the lanyard out from the front of his chest to behind him. “ ….Mr Hogan.”

“ Lady, I’m just doing maintenance - ,” Tony couldn’t finish his words as a hand forcibly slammed his head against the plexiglass cover of the server.

“ Like I said, what are you doing here?”

“ Sorry.” Tony said groggily, trying to process her words through the pain on his head. “ Still trying to get over that concussion you gave me.”

“ Does this help jog your memory?,” Tony felt something thin against his ankle and before h react, it jabbed him at an angle that made him squeal and flop to the floor like a cut puppet. He was gasping at the agonising pain and watched as a figure floated into view, looking down at him upside down. A curtain of black hair floated down around a gold mask. Cold blue gimlets peered out down at him. “ I’ll ask one more time. What are you doing here?”

“ Well, a little. Is this supposed to be an interrogation or foreplay?”

The masked woman grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up as though he weighed no less than a cat. She then shoved his back roughly against the server frame, making it creak. She then placed the barrel right between his eyes.

“ You say one more quip out of that insufferable mouth of yours and I’ll shoot you in the lap first.”

“ So I'm not a fan of this type of roleplay. Maybe, start with a little bit of teasing -,” Tony croaked out desperately as she loudly cocked the receiver, thumbing the trigger warningly. He raised both of his hands in the air in surrender. “ Alright. Alright! I’ll give you what you want.”

The pressure relented against his eyebrows and Tony sighed in relief. He set his arms down beside his side, shaking them to relieve the tension. He took one slow breath in before speaking.

“ Boo.”

“ That’s it?” The masked woman’s chin tilted up in amusement. “Boo?”

“ That’s right,” Tony smirked as he motioned for her to look down. The eyes underneath the mask widened. Pressed against her belly was his palm. His ring finger twitched and dozens of metal scales began to unfurl out from under the sleeve of his coat. A scalloped glove formed with a large white lens on his palm. There was a low whine of power as energy channeled through a hidden wire conduit between his chest RT and the palm repulsor. The masked woman pulled her arms up to shield her face but it was too late. All the factors were there. Point blank. Element of surprise.
The repulsor discharged and a white lance of pure energy slammed into the masked woman’s gut. Her scream of pain was deafened by the pure heat of the energy emission, air rushing in to fill the vacuum the repulsor left in its burning trail. She was sent flying heads over heels, smashing into the opposite server farm and the one behind it. Shards of silicon and plexiglass littered the floor as she laid twitching, her skin-tight suit burnt to a crisp at the torso.

“ Boo.”

"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to WHIH Newsfront! I'm Christine Everhart, and tonight, our guests need no introduction, but I'll be happy to provide them one anyway. Arriving from a parallel universe just in time to help save the Earth thirteen years ago, they've since become global sensations! Pioneers in science, captains of industry, best-selling authors, billion-dollar movie stars, inspirational figures for boys and girls the world over-- not to mention world-saving superheroes! The First Family of the Future, Reed Richards and the Fantastic Four!"



"A pleasure to be here, Christine."

"The pleasure's all mine, Doctor Richards. Now, first, if I may, love the new look. The beard really suits you."

"Ah, thank you, I guess, I, err, I've been spending a lot of time in the lab lately and haven't had much time to shave--"



"Though I did manage to convince him to trim it a bit before we came today. Poor thing looked like he'd been castaway on a desert island. Once he gets his mind on an idea, it's all he can think about until he cracks it."

"Well, I think I can say for everyone that we're all very excited to see what incredible new experiments Doctor Richards comes up with next. Now then, Miss Storm, you--"

"It's Doctor Storm, actually."

"Ah, yes, my apologies. Now then, Doctor Storm, you're well-known for running the day-to-day operations of the Future Foundation, a multi-billion-dollar think-tank and humanitarian organization. Given how well you handle running such a fast-paced and highly stressful position, enduring the rigors and strains of your activities as a super-heroes, and rebounding gracefully from your very public break-up with Olympic swimmer Namor McKenzie, do you feel like you set an example to the lonely older women out there that they can still be an inspiration in their advancing age?"

<sub>"Hey, did it just get colder in here?"

"*pffft* Oh yeah it did."</sub>

"....well, first of all, Ms. Everhart, I believe that everyone has the potential to be fantastic regardless of trivial things like age, gender, or status. That's what the Future Foundation stands for: helping every man, woman, and child on Earth achieve their best possible future. We believe everyone has the potential to make the world better, whether it's through saving lives, fighting injustice, advancing knowledge, or just brightening someone's day. It's never too late to start being fantastic-- and it's never too early to start pursuing worthwhile goals instead of, for instance, spreading tabloid trash."

_{"....yeesh, and I thought I was the one who handed out burns."}

"*ahem*...which, ah, which brings us to you, Johnny Storm, The Human Torch! The thrill-seeking kid brother of the four, you were a teen heartthrob when you first arrived on our world! And throughout your twenties, you became the red-hot face of the Four, with six Teen Choice Awards and voted Sexiest Man Alive three years in a row! And then, this year, you lost that title to your best friend Wyatt Wingfoot, coinciding with your thirtieth birthday. Tell me, now that you're no longer the hot young face of the super-hero scene, what's next for the Human Torch?"



"Okay, well, first of all, thirty is the new twenty, okay? Secondly, I'm really happy that Wyatt won Sexiest Man Alive; he's a great guy and an even better friend, why wouldn't I be happy? And third, just because People Magazine gave some made-up award to someone else doesn't mean the Torch has lost his sizzle! I've still got Rise of the Rawhide Kid coming up this spring, and--"

"Actually, I heard this morning that the studio has hired James Gunn to take over the project, and he's replacing you with Euro-star winner Lon Zelig."

"...o-okay, that's news to me, but I'm sure it's just--"

"And lastly, we come to Ben Grimm, the powerhouse of the team! Sometimes known simply as 'The Thing,' Ben, you've become a real favorite to many fans out there! You've come to show everyone that you can be a hero even if--"



"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm ugly. Think that's gonna be news ta me?"

"....right, well. There are rumors that Doctor Richards has been attempting to experiment on your skin cells to create new building materials. If you don't mind my asking: why go through all the trouble to replicate orange rocks?"

"Well, first, it ain't exactly rock. My skin, it's made outta....ahh, whaddya call it, atomic lasagna?"

"Close, it's 'nuclear lasagna.' A somewhat whimsical-sounding name for a rather extraordinary material. The atoms in each cell of Ben's skin are so closely packed together that the nuclei form a lattice structure in flat layers. Layers that look like, well, lasagna. This material is so dense, in fact, that it is nigh indestructible, quite possibly the strongest substance in the known universe! And there are only two places in all of the cosmos where you can find it: the heart of a neutron star, and my good friend Ben here."

"Yeah, guess I'm kinda special after all."

"So with that in mind, why try to replicate this 'nuclear lasagna' as a building material?"

"Well, the possibilities could be limitless! The nearly indestructible nature of such a material could be the basis for entire new fields of mega-architecture! Infrastructure that would never have to worry about erosion and aging! Buildings, homes, entire cities that no longer need to fear the ravages of natural disasters! To say nothing of the fact that it would make the most high-profile threat of the modern world, the costumed 'super-villain,' a thing of the past virtually overnight! If we could unlock this secret, we could have an indestructible world....one that would never....never have to...."

"....Reed? Reed, are you all right?"

"Hm?....Oh! Oh, yes, I'm.....I'm fine. Thank you for your time, Christine, it was lovely."

"It was?"

"Yes, well, we hope you'll come back soon and--...I'm sorry, we've got a breaking news report. Sources are reporting an explosion and multiple gunshots here in downtown Manhattan. Police are attempting to cordon off the area, but eyewitnesses claim a super-human is on the scene, and--...Doctor Richards? Where are you going?"

---

"Mort!" The panicked voice came from the front of the Roxxon truck in the moment of silence following the pause of gunfire. "We've got a problem, there's something in the—"

The shouting was cut off by the abrupt sound of tearing metal and thick glass exploding, replaced by a short-lived scream of terror and a sickening crunch.

Mortimer Norris, leader of the assault team, took a step back as he witnessed a hulking figure drag itself out from the passenger side door - or rather, where the door had once been.

Standing seven-and-a-half feet with thick, armored plates decorating his massive, orange-grey body, the monstrous Antonio Rodriguez towered over the assembled men circling the tanker. His services retained to guard this particular shipment, he growled ferociously as the onslaught of bullets returned, this time harmlessly ricocheting off his body.

"You don't know who the fuck you just messed with."

As the enormous armored man loomed over the hopelessly outmatched gunman, a loud swoosh came from overhead. A gleaming white, T-shaped vessel, held aloft by fantastical anti-gravity technology, swooped down from the city skyline, depositing four figures in blue.

"Hey, pipsqueak!" the Thing called out, his fists making the sound of grinding boulders as he approached.



"How's about you watch yer language? There's kids about, y'know."