“I believe in Gotham City.”

Hamilton Hill took a rather large swig from his glass of scotch and looked out the window at the impressive view of the city below.

“My grandparents came here from Kentucky during the war, my grandfather was looking for any opportunity to escape the coal mines. He labored in a factory so that his son could become a lawyer and judge, so that his son’s son could one day become mayor." A soft smile played on his lips as he thought back to some distant memory of his grandfather. "The city isn’t without her flaws and imperfections, but… she’s done alright by me.”

Hill turned away from the window and stared across the desk at the man sitting behind it. Bruce Wayne looked at Mayor Hill with indifferent blue eyes.

“And my love for this city is why I turn to you. Falcone, Maroni, Sionis, they’re all just nouveau riche wannabes. The name Wayne means something in this city, that name rings out from the slum corners to the corridors of power–”

“If you could get to the question,” said Bruce. “And stop kissing my ass, Mr. Mayor.”

Hill smirked and raised his glass to Bruce.

“Can’t shit a shitter.”

He drained the rest of the glass and put it on the edge of the desk. Bruce stared at the glass in silence for a long moment before Hill got the hint and put it on a coaster.

“I, umm… am in a bit of a pickle you see,” Hill said, clearing his throat. “It stems back from my days as a law student. I did something rather rash, I’d rather not get into the details…”

Bruce watched the fop sweat begin to form on Hill’s forehead. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a lint covered handkerchief he used to mop his face with. Hill was a four term mayor seeking a fifth term next fall, the man had traded away his sense of shame or impropriety and even decency in the same of reelection. Whatever he was hiding, it had to be horrible.

“But suffice to say, during my first campaign someone wrote a crude letter threatening to leak the details of that unfortunate event to the world at large if I did not pay them a certain amount. I obliged them and that seemed to put the matter to bed, until my reelection campaign four years later. And every reelection cycle since they reach out and ask for more and more and more. This time I simply cannot afford their asking price! I need your help to find the blackmailer and end my nightmare once and for all. I’ll pay you, name your price.”

Bruce let the silence in the room linger as he stared at Hill with an annoyed look on his face. He knew the man was a born politician, a silent room would be the worst thing in the world for him. He let the man squirm in silence for nearly a minute before he spoke.

“For almost ten years now,” Bruce said softly. “I’ve tried to donate to your campaigns, including that time you ran for congress and lost in a landslide. But my donations were always returned. I’ve never known a politician to turn away free money.”

“It’s the optics,” Hill mumbled. “It just wouldn’t look good. I do the same with Falco– uhh, others. I just don’t want to answer all those pesky questions reporters would have.”

Bruce nodded and put his hands together, leaning back slightly in his plush leather chair. “And now you come to me, like a thief in the night. Your chauffeur parks five blocks away, you take the freight elevator up to my office –” Bruce motioned towards the empty glass on his desk. “You drink my scotch, and you ask for help. No, you demand it. And you offer to pay me? Like I’m some errand boy.”

Bruce stood and slowly walked around the desk. He wrapped an arm around Hill’s shoulder and walked with him towards the large glass window.

“Mr. Mayor, people like me don’t deal in simple things as money. If you’d taken the time to know me, then you’d know that we have at least one thing in common: favors are our currency. You’re not asking me to do work for you, you’re asking me to do a favor. A favor which you’ll pay back one day.”

Hill went for his soaked handkerchief again, dabbing it on his cheeks.

“I’m not some common hood, Mr. Mayor: I’m a Wayne.”

With his free arm, Bruce pointed to the city that stretched out below them.

“Like you said earlier in your sycophantic rant, this city was built on the backs of my ancestors. They didn’t hop off some boat from Sicily one hundred years ago and call themselves American. You won’t be the first politician in debt to a Wayne, and you won’t be the last.”

Bruce let Hill go, pushing him away slightly. Hill lurched forward against the glass window and caught himself against it while Bruce walked back around the desk. He sat down and spread his hands, letting a cold smile spread across his face.

“Besides, Mr. Mayor, if not for my grandfather, how do you think your father would have become a judge? How do you think you were allowed to run for mayor in the first place? Back in the day, nothing happened in this city without my father's say so. You say you’re afraid to be in my debt, but the truth is you were in my debt before I was even born.”

He saw Hill’s face flush and Bruce knew he’d struck a nerve.

“Now, tell me all you can about your blackmailer.”

---

The Finger operation ran like clockwork. The high-rises and low-rise courtyards operated 24/7, selling cocaine, heroin, crack, weed, pills, whatever you needed. Everyone in Gotham and the greater tri-state area all came to the Finger regardless of class or social standing. Stockbrokers in power suits lined up alongside dope fiends, minivans with the little annoying stick families idled behind crackheads pushing shopping carts.

The demand served as a testament to both the product and the business acumen of the Skeevers Bros. Jefferson and Julius Skeevers had once been corner boys selling dime bags and eight balls once upon a time. The life of the corner boy was usually short and violent, you either died by the time you were eighteen or in jail for most of your life. The people at the top always changed due to the usual violence and backstabbing, but Jeff and Julius were always good soldiers. If the streets were a game of chess, the two brothers would have been pawns, but they were the smartest and most dangerous pawns in the game.

After one management change too many they decided they were done being pawns. A few guns and a few connections with the west side dealers for product, and they slowly but surely took over the east end block by bloody block. An alliance with Carmine Falcone gave them all the product and men they would ever need to control the entire city’s drug supply.

Jeff stood on the balcony of his apartment at the top of one of the high-rises. He smoked a cigarette and watched the traffic. A dark suburban pulled out of the high-rises and headed down the avenue. That would be the midnight re-up. A group of armed muscle went around the spots and resupplied the dealers with drugs and did cash drops. The crew chiefs were responsible for making sure the inventory count was correct, both in cash going out and drugs coming in. If the count was off both the dealer and his boss would faced the consequences.

“Goddamn,” Julius said as he came out on the balcony. “It’s too cold to be out here this time of night. What are you doing?”

“Watching,” Jeff said, exhaling a column of smoke. “Look at this shit, Jules, all this territory and all this product, all the work we put in… it’s just amazing.”

“Imagine if we’d been born white,” Julius said with a chuckle. “We’d be CEOs or some shit.”

Julius bumped his chest with his fist, Jefferson doing the same, before they dapped each other up.

“Us,” said Jeff.

“Us,” replied Julius. “Always us.”

The two brothers looked out proudly at their empire below. What they didn’t know was that while they watched, they were being watched. It was true that they had built up an empire. But like the people before them, and the people before them...



Empires were made to fall.

The waves rolled in as the tide gently eased out.

Rick looked at her tanned physique, the way the light shimmered in places off her lotioned flesh. Tried to remember it for later. Less that 15% cloud cover. The late afternoon, not-yet-evening light that caught the waves at an angle just before cresting, and shimmered off her flesh.

The sands blew gently on a moderate breeze; just enough to keep the sting of the summer heat at bay, as if counting away the lazy infinite seconds that a place like the shack could afford.

"What are you thinking, Ricky?"

I'm thinking about how you look, how all of this looks, for when I have my oils out later, and a fresh canvas in front of me.

Except you can't say that. It's weird. Becky's also a little too basic for that to be a response.

"Ricky..?"

Well, maybe. I mean, give her a little credit. People might surprise you.

"I guess I'm just thinking about how good this all looks, and thinking about painting it later."

She gasped. "You paint? I mean... I knew you paint, but you paint here too? In your free time? I thought that was just stuff you did for school."

He smiled politely. As the closed-mouthed smile kept him polite. And his mouth closed.

Excitement took over her. "Oh, you've got to show me Ricky!" And after some begging and pleading and false modesty on his end, they walked back to his beachside shack which was left to him by the dead grandfather he never met, where he would sit her down and show her a few of his more recent attempts from here. Without the other girls in them. Although honestly, it mightn't make much difference...

He produced a few of his more recent efforts. Including an impressionist effort to capture the dappled light off the shore and the swirl of the swell rising to the fine spray of an evening mist.

"Oh..."

She sounded disappointed.

"Well... I have other's. That's from when I was working through some impressionist stuff, and trying to experiment with--"

"Well, if you're asking me my opinion..."

Wasn't. But go ahead anyway.

"I guess my impressionist is that it doesn't really look like the thing that you were tring to paint."

Rick laughed spontaneously at her joke, which caught him so well off guard.

Then he saw she still had a straight face.

A very straight face.

Oh Becky... No...

"Impressionism is an art style. I was-- trying to do a thing. Anyway, sounds like you might like something a bit more... realism... Landscapes. Have a few in here..."

He handed her a smaller canvas that had a fine brush landscape immediately recognisable as the shack with the beach and surf in the background.

Then in his haste to produce more slice of life artwork that might take her fancy, he failed to suitably filter the art and handed her another from last year when he brought Lauren from that Theatre group down here. Wait, was it Lauren? Laura..? No, Layla? Oh this is bad, Rick... you're bringing that many down you're losing track of the names now? It hasn't even been that man-- no. It was definitely Laura. Laura or Layla. Laura sounds right though.

Well, it's gone pretty quiet. You should probably say something. Or-- you know-- at least make eye contact.

OK. Here goes. Pick our eyes up off the floor. Knees. Wow, she's got good legs. Pity you messed this all up. OK, keep going up. Eye contact, we're gonna be doing eye contact and three, two, there it i--

She was looking at him and biting her lip.

"I have a bit of a naughty idea, Ricky..."

"...maaaybe, it'd be fun if you painted me."

"Well there's nothing naughty about--"

The two piece swimsuit became a one piece as the top half hit the floor, with the conspiratorial promisary look of even less to come.

"I'm gonna go get my paints..." He walked quickly out of the room towards his art supplies, before hastening his pace to a frantic frenzy as soon as he was out of view.

Paints... Gotta find paints. Grab a canvas. Paints. There!

Then he raised his head and considered possible outcomes from the direction things had been taking.

Rubbers... Gotta find rubbers.

He scrambled across the room and started going through a set of drawers in desperation. He opened drawers and grasped around blindly hoping to find a familiar square wrapper.

...and instead his hand found a different kind of plastic. Taped to the underside of the drawer above. One of the drawers had a false bottom, but whatever this was hadn't been returned carefully enough and plastic still protruded.

He pulled the drawer out further and pulled on the plastic just to find a baggie containing dozens of small pills.

"Oh Gramps... what were you into? What is this, E? Viagra?"

He drew one of the small pills from the bag and held it up to the light. They were stamped with a marking he hadn't seen adorning pills before.

A single hourglass.

"Ricky..?!?" He heard Becky call out to him from areas unseen. Presumably in a state of undress unseen.

He dropped the pill in the bag and threw it back in the drawer. Back to the task at hand, there'd be time for... whatever that was... later.

---

H O U R M A N
H O U R M A N

---

There was no time for dalliance. This was the Hour of Chaos. And as he felt the surge as more and more Miraclo surged throgh his blood stream, it would be an hour of power.

As Kobra had looked to seize an entire sporting arena, seemingly eager to rapidly increase their number beyond what had been creeping growth for the cult, the J.S.A had stormed through in response in familiar style. With Rick dropping from S.T.R.I.P.E like a bomb. First point of contact. The tip of the spear.

Kobra cultists converged. This was not an enemy which would sit and wait and attack in ones or two. A mass of humanity converged on him.

But not enough to overwhelm the heavy hitter.

Blasts launched from S.T.R.I.P.E as cover for the secondary point of contact. Stargirl swept through, with green blasts from the augmented cosmic rod that Ted Knight had recently provided her with, to better attune to her sensibilities. She landed and began striking at the cultists who splintered from her Miraclo juiced teammate, as two more were sent sailing by heavy punches.

Sanderson Hawkins landed near homeplate, and with a smile quickly took control of the environment. Kobra members sank up to their necks in the dirt. He threw a wave of dirt across the ball park, staggering a morass of humanity and throwing out whatever little order they had left.

The left field lights suddenly cut out, and Doctor Midnight made good use of their discombobulated order, with blackout bombs and well timed kicks, attacking the fringes. She called Dugan to, and the pair worked on driving them across, controlling the brawling mass with a semblance of order.

Stargirl took to the skies again, and made a sweeping run, giving the pack little chance to regain control, as green blasts further kept them off balance.

Sandy, changed tactics from the broad, to the more focused. Using dirt waves to sweep across and clear the right field side, giving Kobra nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. Collapsing their attack and converging it back to the middle, where Hourman was still wading through their ever-present numbers like he was back at the shack and waiting to hop on the perfect wave.

They were herding Kobra like sheep. Dispatch enough of their numbers, knock as many as they could out. Maybe some of these ones would take to the attempts to remove the brainwashing. It had been tricky, they used chemical psychotropics and some kind of drug that Beth hadn't yet been able to isolate, in addition to the age-old and time tested brainwashing techniques from other cults down the years. But, if nothing else, they'd add no more to their numbers today. Left field and right field started to converge into a singular column. Stargirl took to the skies once more.

But they had forgotten about the bullpen. And Kobra had brought one Hell of a reliever.

A single blast, a flash of plasma, stopped time. Halted breath. Changed everything.

"--Courtney!" Cried out the mechanical voice of S.T.R.I.P.E, momentarily losing track of keeping to codenames in the field.

The Stargirl fell.

Kobra fell all around as Rick exploded upon them with a surge of Miraclo-infused rage.

"Sandy. Clean up. I'm taking that weapon off the field. Clear a path for S.T.R.I.P.E."

Rick sprinted to the bullpen and kicked the door in, which blasted through and took out three Kobra men lending support to the plasma rifle unit. They fired the weapon at him, it knocked him off balance, blasting him into a wall. But with gritted teeth he pushed through and the area was soon cleared.

He dragged Kobra cultists out, three-to-a-hand, to the field proper to join the rest of their ilk.

The rest of his team had taken down the remaining Kobra scurge. Pat Dugan had left his robotic power-suit behind and now knelt over his step-daughter, holding her in his arms and visibly weeping. Sandy had raised dirt waves up to turn the ballpark into a contained bowl, to keep the personal moment and private identities away from the prying eyes and cameras which had anticipated a very different evening of excitement.

"Doc?" Sandy asked Beth, the team's resident physician. With the implication of asking whether anything could be done.

Beth solemnly shook her head. She'd had a good angle on the shot. The fact that the plasma had burnt an exit wound through the back of Stargirl's uniform that was visible as Pat held her was not a good sign.

"Plasma rifle, straight to the vitals. Scorched right through. Her eyes were open, but she was probably gone before she ever even hit the ground." The doctor uttered. It was overly clinical, but delivered with the intention of providing some small hope of a silver lining of having not had the time to significantly suffer.

Whilst Pat held her and sobbed uncontrollably, Rick watched their former teammate's face and cocked his head to one side. A single eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Uhh Beth--? You'd know better than me... how long does rigor usually take to set in?"

A less than sensitive question given the circumstances at hand. But not without merit. Her jaw had seemed to tighten in the few moments since passing. And the skin's colour was shifting pallor very quickly, given how recently the blood would have stopped circulating.

Pat turned to scowl at the crude question, but Doctor Midnight pulled him up before his indignation was given voice.

"He's got a point, Pat. Look! What's happened to the side of her mask?"

Pat lay Courtney down on the infield grass, and looked at what she was referring to. A bulge had begun to form on the side of her head. With great care, Dugan pulled back the mask to reveal the fresh bulge.

Just to find an ear that clearly never belonged to Courtney.

"He's not the only one with a point." Sanderson said, referring to the ear. Pat scowled.

"Look, I was kept in a state of suspended animation for literally decades... sometimes I fall short on the social cues. Ok?" He justified his ill-timed joke.

They looked back at the body of the fallen 'Stargirl', the skin hadn't merely gone translucent. It had taken on a clear green shade. And her previously tightening jaw now revealed clearly defined ridge folds, vertically upon her chin.

Nobody was joking now.

The atmosphere turned thick as the present moment washed all over them.

Tim Drake got out of his car and surveyed the area. It was a fairly quiet, working class neighborhood. The further east Dutch Hill ran the suburbs yards faded into row houses and inner city Gotham, but this neighborhood was about four blocks away from the change. Tim saw yards well kept, dogs in some of them, and houses that were maintained with pride by their owners but in desperate need of remodel. Gentrification was only a matter of time, but for now it stood as a bastion of blue collar Gotham that was rapidly becoming a distant memory.

He was looking for the 1200 block of Williamson Road, a little side street that ran parallel to the main avenue of Kemper Street. Two weeks ago GCPD made a routine traffic stop on Antonio Boggs and found a substantial amount of cocaine on his person, enough to arrest Boggs for felony possession with intent to distribute. Boggs retained the services of Pennyworth & Fox for his criminal defense, and Al threw him the case. An easy enough task for an investigator still wet behind the ears.

Tim checked the PDF of the arrest report on his phone as he walked down the sidewalk towards Williamson. Sergeant Mike Malone of the Western District initiated the stop, made the arrest, and later wrote out the report Tim was reading. From soup to nuts, Sergeant Malone was the lynchpin of the entire case.

The map on the incident report showed Tim where the stop had occurred, just quiet of the part of the street. He looked around for any cameras on light poles or in backyards. The advent of the wireless doorbell cameras made the job a lot easier some times, some times. You still had to deal with getting the footage from greedy homeowners looking for a cut. It seemed that headache would be avoided this time.

According to the report, Malone observed Boggs’ car doing a rolling stop at a four-way intersection on Williamson. That gave Malone the probable cause he needed to initiate a traffic stop and find the drugs. Tim took pictures of the street with his phone. There was a four-way stop about 200 yards from where the traffic stop occurred, but he couldn’t see a good vantage point to where Malone had been sitting. He walked up the street towards the stop. No good spots to park for a cop cruiser, but he did see a convenience store on Kemper that might have a view. He took more shots of the intersection before trudging over to the convenience store.

“Good morning, my friend,” the man behind the counter said as Tim entered.

The place seemed to be empty. This time of the morning most working people’s days were well underway. There would be a lunchtime rush and then another at five, but for the most part Tim imagined the place just had customers dribbling in one at a time.

“Morning,” Time said. He reached into his pocket and quickly flashed his credentials. “My name is Tim Drake and I’m an investigator.”

He always found the key was to carry yourself with the air of a cop, but never outright say you were. His ID card did in fact identify him as a state license private investigator, and he hoped his use of the word in an introduction wouldn’t lead to follow up questions.

“Who is the owner here?” he asked.

“It’s me,” said the man.

Tim should have guessed. He was a middle aged Asian man wearing a white button up with top button undone, dark dress pants, and a nice gold watch on his wrist. He didn’t exactly look like he was working for minimum wage.

“I have a few questions for you.”

Tim got out a leather bound notebook and a pen. The good thing about most immigrant business owners was that they were the law and order types, especially in borderline neighborhoods like this one. After asking his name and other biographical details he got to the heart of the matter.

“You ever have a cop frequent this place?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “Sergeant Mike. He’s here almost practically every day, he’s one of the good ones. Doesn’t ask for free stuff, always pays full price, and always likes to talk.”

“He ever sit out in the parking lot?”

“All the time,” the owner nodded. “And I love it. Bunch of punk kids live around here, they see Sergeant Mike and they know not to fuck with me.”

Tim kept his head down as he wrote in his notebook. “He ever pull anybody over while sitting in your lot?”

“A couple of time. The people around here, they speed up and down this street. No sense of safety.”

Tim nodded and kept scribbling.

“When was the last time he did that?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” said the man. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Tim said as he looked up. “Thank you for your time.”

“Who did you say you were with?” the man asked with a furrowed brow. “You police?”

“Thank you for your time,” Tim said as he walked out the store.

From the front of the store, Williamson could be seen, but the four-way stop was a little further up the road. Boggs may have done a rolling stop, but from his vantage point Malone couldn’t have seen it. What he would have seen was a blacked out car with music blasting out of it and he made an assumption, invented probable cause. Profiling, in other words.

Tim took a few more pictures of the street from the front of the store and headed back to his car. It wasn’t much, but in the hands of Big Al Pennyworth it would be enough. They’d go to trial, subpoena the convenience store owner, and destroy Malone’s credibility on the stand. All it took for a Gotham City jury to hear was that a GCPD officer may have lied in the course of the investigation. Al would play it up from there. If Sergeant Malone had lied about the probable cause, maybe he was lying about the drugs he found on Boggs? Enough doubt to get Boggs out of jail and back on the street.

Because the fact of the matter was Boggs was a drug dealer, the cocaine Malone found on him was in fact meant to be sold. But Boggs was a Wayne Family dealer, and as such he was under the legal protection of Pennyworth & Fox. Tim knew firsthand that the Waynes always stood by their people. He and his dad were proof.

He was on the way back to his car when his phone buzzed. Not the actual phone he used for personal or work related things, but the second phone only a select few people had the number to.

BW
Meet me at the tower tonight.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and got into his car. The big man was calling. They probably hadn’t seen each other face to face in a a lone time, but that’s how it worked. That’s how he worked. If it required face to face then it was a big deal. Tim texted Karmen and let her know they’d have to reschedule for another night, she could always pick up another shift at the Peppermint Rhino.

Back when Tim was a kid and his old man was out on the street hustling for nickels and dimes, he had always had a dream that he wanted to be a somebody. The night his old man stood tall for the Waynes, Bruce had promised Tim the chance to be that somebody. Jack Drake had sacrificed his life, but it wasn’t in vain. And now here was Tim, a nice well paying job doing something he loved and the freedom to be his own man and the chance to sleep with beautiful women.

“Living the dream,” he said softly to himself. “I made it, pop.”

---

Barbara Gordon opened her eyes. The sound of her phone vibrating on the nightstand was nearby. She sat up and groaned. The clock on the nightstand said it was almost 11 in the morning, the sunlight peaking through the curtains doubled down on the time. She leaned over and squinted at the screen of her phone.

INCOMING CALL:
BULLOCK

The hell was Bullock calling for? He knew she worked third shift last night. She had just gotten to sleep a few hours ago. Barbara fumbled for her glasses and put them on. She heard a groan over her shoulder and looked back.

“Tell them to call back,” Dick Grayson mumbled.

She scowled back at him before slipping out under the covers and grabbing her phone.

“I didn’t wake you did I, sweetheart?” came Bullock’s gruff voice.

“Yeah, you did in fact.”

“Too bad. I’m on my way to your place. Think we may have a break on the Crutchfield Street killings.”

Barbara cursed under her breath and looked back at the bed. Dick was half asleep, the sheet covering his naked body. The last thing she needed was for Bullock to find him here like this.

“How far away are you?” she asked. “I need to get ready.”

She heard a knock on the front door.

“That answer your question? I been trying to call you for an hour now.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She hung up and started to shake the bed.

“Dick,” she hissed. “Wake up, my partner is outside.”

It surprised Barbara how quickly he moved at that point. He seemed to spring out of the bed and start dressing himself. Within seconds he had his jeans and t-shirt on.

“Do you think he knows?” he asked.

“Bullock is a great detective when he’s on the job, but outside work? He’s a mess, no way. This is something else”

There was another thump at the door.

“C’mon, Babs, I don’t care if you’re in your pj’s.”

Barbara turned towards the door.

“Give me a minute, Harvey!”

When she turned back, Dick was gone. The window to her fire escape was open and she heard the sound of rattling metal. Good, she thought, the last thing Harvey needed to find was Bruce Wayne’s adopted son warming her bed.

---

“This was worth waking me up for?” Barbara asked as she looked at the grainy security footage. Bullock was sitting on her couch, drinking a cup of coffee while Barbara watched the footage from Bullock’s phone, her robe covering her pajamas.

“Keep watching,” Bullock grunted.

On the phone events from four months prior played out like it had a thousand times before. But, she noticed, this was a new angle.

Crutchfield Street in the Bowery had a reputation. It was firmly in the red light district and known for its wide variety of carnal pleasure for sale. Usually the red light district was violence free. They knew it drew the attention of the cops, and cops were bad for business. But that truce had been broken during the height of the summer. A pimp and his two goons had been killed approaching the brothel they ran. All three men had been stabbed to death with surgical precision. Barbara and Bullock inherited the case from the uniforms of the southeastern district. They’d identified the three men as Eastern European, members of the Chechen’s crime organization.

After that, the trail went cold. No eyewitnesses were willing to speak to cops, and the few surveillance cameras they found showed footage that was grainy and out of focus. But now? The footage Barbara watched was pretty clear and pretty close. She could clearly make out the name of the brothel where the men had been killed out front: Alexi’s Tea Room.
“How did you get this?” she asked Harvey.

“It took a little convincing and a little bribing,” he said. “But the whorehouse across the street from our scene did in fact have a security camera, despite what they told us. It was hidden in the tits of that naked statue out front.”

He cleared his throat and looked away from Barbara.

“Don’t… ask more about what I had to do to get it, just watch.”

She smirked and turned back to the footage. It showed a black sedan pull up to the Tea Room. Three serious slavic looking men in suits climbed out the car. The two larger ones flanked a smaller man with a shaved head and a neck full of gold chains.

Before the could head inside, a figure landed on the roof of the car and struck out quickly. They jumped down with the car blocking them off from the camera. Movement from the other side of the car was fast and furious, the figure knocking all three men to the ground before they could defend themselves. Barbara saw blood running on the pavement under the car and pooling on the street.

Her eyes widened as the figure jumped back on top of the car. She tapped her finger on the screen to freeze the footage. Crouched on the top of the car, frozen mid-jump, was a man dressed in black body armor. In both hands were some sort of club with what looked to be a razor’s edge. A mask hid his face and on his chest was a bird. The footage was black and white, but she knew the bird would be red.

“Deathwing,” she said softly.

“If that’s what that jerkoff’s name is,” said Bullock. “He’s one of the Bat’s goons, that’s all I know. This was a Wayne hit, Babs.”

She cursed softly and looked towards her bed. The window to the fire escape was still cracked open. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn she saw the fire escape sway with movement again.

---

"And that's it. All the important information, anyway. The rest you'll pick up or have to rely on John and the others. Nothing is to chance anymore. Good luck."

Parker Robbins concluded to himself, his hoodless reflection staring back at him in a handheld mirror. He tossed the mirror onto his desk and reclined further into his chair, sighing exhaustively. The man brought his right hand to comb through his hair, swiveling on his chair to stare out the window to New York City.

He should have been out there, still running an iron grip on the underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen. Digging his hands in and gathering all the sleaze and opportunity that he could. Power was earned by beating the next guy and The Hood, as he became known as, was a true kingpin in this city. That life seemed like a lifetime ago despite it being only yesterday that he… No, that wasn’t right anymore.

Parker closed his eyes. What did Spider-Man say to him once? With great power comes great responsibility., he chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned up in his chair to slouch forward. He mocked Spider-Man for that line before getting his ass beat by the masked hero. What was funny then was that Parker would counter that great power comes with great opportunity. Now, he got it but for all the wrong reasons.

The criminal kingpin known as The Hood was replaced entirely by the stronger The Hood Supreme, taking the mantle of the Sorcerer Supreme. He could bend reality to his will with the magic that coursed through his fingertips and yet, he’d doom himself in the process. All that power came at a price, requiring a strict adherence to time. Greater power didn’t give him more opportunity, it only sentenced him to greater responsibility. In a way, Parker might have deserved this. A life sentence for the wrong he has done. He could understand, but this wasn’t just one life sentence.

It was an eternity.

His watch beeped, an alarm triggering. Parker didn’t acknowledge it just like he didn’t acknowledge the grandfather clock chiming in a westminster tune behind him. Out in the hall, another clock sounded, albeit muffled by the closed door.

One till midnight.

Time was up.

”Fuck you, Spider-Man.”

Parker muttered, recalling that damned phrase as he turned around to face his desk. He drew the amulet from around his neck and held it in hand. A green glow emanated from strange eye-shaped amulet. With one last breath, Parker slipped a finger in and tapped the stone. A green flash broke free and engulfed Parker, the man vanishing as the light faded.

Two minutes passed, and the green light returned, replacing Parker Robbins right back in his chair. His eyes snapped open, wild and confused. He had no idea how he had got there.

It was a new day for all but him.

^{Question 1.01 - Going Live}

Going live in 30, the countdown chimed to the land's faithful.

And all across the network, the living dead peaked through their coffins, breaking the threshold of incuriousity. Rolling the stone from before their tombs and tasting bandwidth, as doggedly as a maggot working through jerky. Cranking the video quality, they tested the stream's dedication. Steadfast, they were given light and color in 1080P.

"Good evening, Hub City. As always, I'm Victor Sage and you're watching Sage Advice! Only on Hub City News Online, where you don't have to worry about advertisers skewing our bottom line, shadowbans, or information suppression courtesy of rogue algorithms." With the tail of his trench coat snapping in 4/4 time, the reporter stood before a wire fence that said No photography. No recording. No trespassing.

"Following Mayor Wesley Fermin's acquisition of a private helicopter, the people of Hub City have been demanding an audit. Seeing as no such gifts were disclosed and it's very hard to imagine how an elected official with a one hundred thousand dollar salary managed to pinch enough pennies after declaring bankruptcy six months ago. I figured we could help him out this evening."

Sage winked at the camera, as the drone it was mounted on was called to heaven, rising above the eye of man and setting its sights on the shadowed walls of Hub City's mightiest piece of post war construction. Reaching the highest smoke stack of the facility, the camera saw what laid within its concrete heart and laid it bare.

"Welcome to Hub City Motor Works, the city's biggest source of employment since 1952 or, at least it was, until it shuttered it's gates five years ago. But I don't need to tell you that. You used to work here or at least someone you know used to. As you can see, they're burning the midnight oil down there, manufacturing SUVs by the thousand.

But none of whatever proceeds there are have been entering circulation within the local economy. Well, not unless you count whatever gas station Mayor Fermin is refueling his helicopter at. The business license for Motor Works was surrendered years ago after they were pursued by the Department of Labor for unpaid wages."

Once the dark, outer walls were overcome, it was plain to see that the facility was alive and well, with the industrial glow of work lights bleeding through the cracks in the brick. Switching away from Vic for a moment, the drone's camera went live as the audience was drawn into a seance.

The facility roared with the vivacious scream of steel shaping steel, swishing with the ancient bile of dinosaurs coursing within them, pulsing on demand like a frog leg touched by an electrode. A monstrosity held back by generations of workers whose blood spackled the thresholds like a Passover lamb, just once a year if they were lucky.

"As you can see, the parking lot is empty. The lights are on but nobody's home. Someone, it would seem, has been connected to the city utilities, as you'll see here," the camera swung towards the electric meter that was mounted to the side of the building. "And last month, the very same day that all the firetrucks in the city were seen traveling in the direction of this hollow shell, the chief of twenty years retired. I see a pattern here. Perhaps we should take a look inside, however. Don't you think so, citizens of Hub City?"

From on high, the drone swiveled to look at Vic as he raised the chain link fence like a scroll and passed through it untouched. Incidentally, at that moment, the rays of light that had been whispering through the gaps in the wall went dark. Responsively, the drone swiveled around the facility to investigate.

The door nearest the ginger journalist swung open and, when it did, somehow seemed to suck the moonlight from the grass, as a trio of men slithered forth from their den.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Vic waved his gloved hands. "I hope I'm not intruding on anything too terribly interesting but I was just hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for the people of Hub City this evening."

"Can't you read, sir? The sign says no trespassing. Clear as day. Now we know its dark out and we don't need to make this any more than it is but we won't be answering any of your questions, Mr Sage. You need to be on your way."

"I did see the sign. But this is public land. When I spoke with the office of Commissioners of Public Lands two days ago, she insisted that the Motor Works property wasn't for sale and gave me permission to be on it. So, it is in fact, not me who is trespassing. But if anyone, you. Speaking of which, who are you? The public would love to know."

It was at this moment that the stream, which had been broadcasted to hundreds of working class Wisconsinites, doubled in viewership. The amounts of comments placed on the HCNO page and, in all material ways, audience engagement remained the exact same. But there were now hundreds more watching. Hundreds more knowing where Victor Sage was.

"We don't give our names to the public, Mr Sage."

From behind the nebulous shadow man, emerged another figure. This one a lady, stepping forward from the factory's darkness and into the moonlight just as visible as Mr Victor Sage.

"While we appreciate that you've done your homework, Mr. Sage, I'm afraid that you're in error," the woman said, her voice warping and tongue wobbling like she was trying to swallow a fistful of unchewed gumballs. "We'd been negotiating and working through the property's sale for quite a while before finalizing its sale just yesterday. So while that's all technically true, the situation just isn't what you're implying it to be." Finally, her voice stabilized, "If you refresh the website by morning, you'll find it updated to be perfectly in order."

"I'll be sure to do that. It seems I might need to have a word with the head of the Commission to see why the state of public lands are so unclear and see what needs to be done to help modernize it."

"Oh, dear. You don't need to bother with any of that. I am the head of the Commission. I'm merely here to help finalize the paperwork."

"Really? I'm surprised you'd drop everything during your vacation to Fawcett City to come here, of all places, in the dead of night, to sell a building that's been worked in for months."

She choked. "I am on call. Business is business."

Vic stared. Daring her to say something he could fact check into oblivion.

"Can we help you with anything further, Mr. Sage?"

"I don't think you can. But I'll be sure to look into that, Ms. Clifford. I hope you can get back to your vacation soon."

CRACK! The video feed went dead. And it seemed that this line of inquiry would have to be punctuated, not with a question mark, but with buckshot.

The drone dizzily circled down to the ground and heard the sound of dozens of feet marching from the concrete into the grass. An electric car growling to life as a bland cast of stock characters yelled "on the ground," "don't you fucking move," and "I will blow your fuckin' head off if you gimme an excuse."

The last thing that the audience heard from the blind drone before it was crushed under heel was "We have a warrant for the arrest of Victor Sage."

Storm clouds brewing.

---

Drums echoed in the back of the Great Hall, ethereal singing came over the heads of the crowd who danced and cheered. The hall was a blur of colour, as people twisted and turned to the beat of the drums. The musicians at the far end of the hall controlled the flow off the room, they were at its mercy. Only Odin sat stoic and still at the far end of the hall on his great throne, Huginn and Muninn sat atop his shoulders. Gugnir in right hand, while his left tapped along as if controlling the beat of the drums.

The doors at the far side of the hall opened, and in walked Thor. Second son, and crown prince. He carried Mjolnir. His red cape billowed in his wake. He took a step into the room, smiling at Loki, his half sibling who danced among the denizens of Asgard. One second he was dancing closely as a man, the second as a woman. Weaving an elegant dance through the crowd, but never with a partner other than themselves.

Thors steps thundered through the hall, mirrored by the beat of the drums as the tempo changed. Raindrops started to fall, though nobody in the crowd seemed to notice as their clothes became damp. Despite his forward walk Odin never seemed to get any closer. Thunder rumbled as his heart rate increased, and his speed picked up. The drums got louder and thundered in his ears, he could feel it them echoing in his skull.

Feet splashing in the water, his pace continued to increase. Soon the water was up to his knees as he fought against the torrent of water that streamed down from Odins throne. The water was up to his knees when Odin slammed Gugnir on the ground and all the dancing stopped as everyone looked to him. They cheered and looked to the ceiling as the water turned to blood. Thor screamed, and lightning lanced out from him as the blood continued to rise. He tried to swim to the surface, to keep his head above it. Though soon he was consumed in its darkness.

---

Thor awoke with a start. A low rumble of thunder could be heard outside his small wooden cabin as he sat up, cradling his head in his hands. The same dream, again. It had been for the past several months. The dreams were the very reason he had come to Midgard, to this small cabin he had owned since the 1930s. War had been raging across the Nine Realms, a war he was responsible for in his ignorance. While with the assistance of many of the other Aesir peace had largely been restored, there were still small pockets of unrest.

When the dreams began, he went to his mother. Who told him that what he needed was rest, a break from duty and responsibility. Having gone from one crisis to the next for nearly a century, and so he had returned here. To Midgard. A world where he felt more at home than he did within Asgard, he always had. The people here and a spirit, that he never saw anywhere else within the nine realms.

Walking to the small sink he splashed some cold water on his face. Sighing as he heard a small. Tap, Tap, Tap at the window, as soon as he saw the ravens he knew.

It was time to return home.

---

The Williamsburg Bridge
12:32 AM

I'm so happy, 'cause today I found my friends. They're in my head.

It all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Two armored trucks en route to the Federal Reserve Bank of New York were in the midst of a delivery of bills. Normally, armed transport would accompany them in the event of an attempted robbery - in the case of the FRBNY, there were always three sets of security vans on loan from a local agency, with one to stay in front and two to follow. But as soon as all five vehicles had made it to the halfway point of the bridge, something in the air started to change. A fourth van of an identical make and model appeared from the rear and casually veered into their path, prompting all six to a screeching halt. As the truck's drivers slammed the brakes themselves, though, they noticed that the four vans had started moving in a particular pattern. The two in front had peeled inwards, while the two behind interlocked in an opposite formation. Within seconds, the truck drivers realized something was horribly wrong. Another terrorist attack was always a possibility, with the security detail potentially acting on the defensive.

Then the gunshots started. Before the drivers could think to radio in an alert about the suspicious activity, sixteen men appeared out of the vans in ski-masks, bulletproof vests, and darkly colored jumpsuits, all brandishing automatic rifles. A hail of bullets pelted the exterior shell of the trucks, causing sparks to fly and glass to shatter. The driver of the first truck even ducked behind cover as his side mirror exploded. But the message was delivered plainly without an exchange of words: this was a robbery and if any of them valued their lives, they'd do exactly what was asked of them. While the second truck's passenger cocked his significantly underpowered pistol, his co-worker grabbed the weapon and forcibly lowered it. He was new to the job, so the reaction was understandable. But this wasn't a scenario that allowed for any heroics.

"Transport's en route, let's double-time it. ETA's eleven minutes to extraction."

As soon as one spoke, another emerged from the back of the crowd, seemingly pushing his way to the forefront.

"Eleven minutes for you, maybe. Remember that the plan diverges from here for some of us."

"But we were promised---"

"Relax. You're still getting your payday. Soon as we get these idiots out of the way of it..."

There seemed to be a leader amongst the pack, as the slender-framed man stepped forward, rifle still drawn. His head turned ahead, visibly indicating the drivers and their subordinates with a much more threatening demeanor.

"Here's the deal. You make your hands nice and visible with no sudden moves, you don't get scrubbed off the the windshield. Any action to the contrary receives the contrary."

His accent seemed to indicate that he was from Jersey, though it was a dialect that was all too familiar from the region of New York. He could have easily been from Brooklyn, for all they knew. What was important now was that he'd given an order. Hesitantly, their hands visibly shaking, both men complied with the request and sat back in their seats, arms raised. A much taller, bulkier figure appeared from behind the leader and quickly grabbed the door, flinging it open and latching onto the first truck's driver with one massive hand.

"Remember to be gentle, O."

"Heh."

I'm so ugly. That's okay, 'cause so are you. Broke our mirrors.

With surprisingly little effort, the driver was violently tossed onto the pavement, forcing him into a sideways roll. By the time his body crashed into a series of nearby traffic cones, he looked up to see at least three of the rifles pointed in his face. That was enough to cause the other three occupants of the truck to quickly maneuver out, their arms also raised. The leader snapped his fingers, and all at once, three sets of four gunmen swarmed upon the hapless representatives of the FRBNY.

"See? Painless, simple. Like all good things."

The leader turned towards the waiting second-in-command.

"Blow the truck, do whatever you gotta do with the contents. Throw it in the river for all I friggin' care, just be sure to make it nice and loud."

Wordlessly acknowledging the change-up of priorities, each group of four ordered to keep one of the FRBNY pinned down parted with a man a piece, with three ultimately approaching the massive and electronically locked back doors of the trucks. A third man who hadn't been noticed before approached, his garb similar to the others, but noticeably different for one detail: a massive trenchcoat covering his uniform. He held something that was difficult to see at his side, almost like it was some sort of coiled-up cable.

"With respect to our deal, D, you know I could just break the door myself."

The leader held up a hand, his gaze fixated on the skies.

"No. They handle the cash, we handle whatever comes next. Don't get antsy on me, M."

Even from beneath his mask, a wide smirk could be seen creeping across trenchcoat's lips.

"Who's antsy?"

Sunday morning is every day, for all I care. And I'm not scared.

"Please..."

D turned towards the faint murmur that originated from one of the drivers. Sure enough, one of them was forcibly brought to his feet, rifles still trained at either side of his head. The man was visibly in his late thirties, eyes glassy and breathing labored. Scared out of his mind.

"Please don't do this. Take... take whatever you want and go, but don't hurt anybody. We're just out here to do a job. I've got a... a family, a couple of kids."

"That right?"

Suddenly, D's demeanor switched. Just moments before, his body language communicated that even under the circumstances, this was a calm and collected professional. One could easily imagine that this had been far from his first rodeo when it came to executing high-risk-higher-reward robberies. But the minute that the guard had started groveling, it was like a fuse had just... shorted.

"Alright, line 'em up."

The others turned, a couple of them even exchanging confused looks.

"What?"

D angrily shot forward, rifle drawn.

"I said line 'em up. Straight line, horizontal."

"Boss, maybe take a breath..."

"No."

To everyone's surprise, he responded to that appeal by turning off the gun's safety. The others that had just been in the middle of trying to crack the door had stopped, their reaction being to place their hands back on their weapons. Something was evidently going very differently than what had been planned, and it startled them.

"No, this piece of... this is what I hate. The minute that somebody begs? Drops to their knees like they're five and just got, what? Caught with the cookie jar? That's when I get pissed. This is a simple exchange. We get the cash, they get to live. I laid it out all nice and clear. But that?"

Grabbing the newly wide-eyed and completely pale guard by the collar of his shirt, D spun around and tossed him face-first onto the concrete. The man shrieked for half a second, but became eerily silent as soon as he looked back to see the gun lowering towards his line of sight. It was at this moment that the others noticed, for the first time, that the make and model of D's rifle was considerably different from theirs. More sleek, streamlined. Highly technological, in a way.

"That's the kind of thing that'd get me beaten by the old man. 'Till I learned not to do it no more. 'Till I got made an example of."

The gun cocked, ready to fire. The helpless driver began to shake his head, overwhelmed with disbelief. Several wanted to advance and prevent this, but none took so much as a step. This had just become an entirely different situation - casualties weren't conducive to a simple heist.

"It's just not something I can abide in others."

Light my candles in a daze, 'cause I've found God.

THWIP!

All fell silent as a thick line of a silken material appeared out of nowhere, latched onto both of the driver's shoulders and whisked him into the air. A few of their jaws dropped while watching the driver scream out as he sailed past the trucks, disappearing from sight entirely. D himself was frozen in place, clearly wondering what just happened. But before anyone could react properly, another set of lines shot out of the dark.

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

"What's going---"
"Is that---"
"What the f---?!"

Three gunmen holding down the other drivers felt an immensely strong tug on their weapons. Then went slackjawed as the rifles careened out of their hands, whipped sharply, and struck three others hard in the back of their skulls. They tumbled forward and slammed against their immediate surroundings, one colliding with the armored hull of a nearby truck, another hitting the metal railing of the bridge, and the last unfortunately forced into a fourth gunman, whose weapon fired off a stray shot into the air in surprise.

D, O, and M converged on eachother, frantically scanning for any sign of something in the dark. But the lights of the New York City skyline bled into a heavy early morning fog to obscure their vision enough to make it a difficult task. The other men began racing around, shouting barely intelligible orders, grabbing their freshly discarded guns and trying to quickly position themselves on the defensive.

Yeah, yeah.

"You've gotta be friggin' kidding..."

"What's happening?! Is it the cops?!"

"No, moron, this is it! This right here!"

A large, human-shaped shadow moved above them at blinding speeds, twisting and turning mid-air with the grace of an Olympian. D's eyes locked onto the figure just as landed on the side of the armored truck, seemingly clutching to something. Or more accurately into something, with each of them hearing the distinct sound of metal slowly bending. D pressed a button on the side of his weapon, brandishing it as a series of orange lights began to emit.

"M's right, it's him! The friggin'... the guy that the Bugle talks about!"

All stood to attention as the figure's head raised, revealing the intricate crimson design that sat atop a featureless black visage. Scanning the crowd of would-be thieves, readying himself to strike before any of them got wise enough to try and attack. The Spider-Man.

Yeah, yeah.

Pérdida de tiempo. His heart still racing from the frantic swing across the bridge, Spider-Man felt a surge of adrenaline hit him all at once. The world went into slow-motion as his enhanced senses kicked in, revealing a few potential approaches on how to handle this before they opened fire. There were at least fifteen, maybe sixteen hostiles in total? He wasn't sure. A couple of guards were being held at bay, though some had escaped the notice of their captors upon the webslinger's dramatic entrance. Miguel had to quietly hope that they took the opportunity to escape on their own, because he had a feeling that what happened next would be occupying his attention.

Which suited him just fine. Unlike a majority of the mask-and-spandex crowd that had come to infest New York, he wasn't interested in pretending to be a hero. He just knew from a lifetime of living in the city that he couldn't trust the cops to do the job correctly. Clenching hard against the steel casing of the truck, Spider-Man held his breath and focused. Then without much consideration, he leaped high into the air. He could hear the guns start to fire at him, but they sailed straight past. His movements were too fast for them to keep up.

"DON'T LET HIM GET CLOSE! YOU HEAR ME?! DON'T LET HIM---"

THWIP!

The leader fell directly on his ass, his mouth suddenly engulfed in a thick patch of webbing. Two of the thugs approached him and attempted to help remove it, but the others were still focused on their mystery attacker as he somersaulted into an arc above. Firing another webline to secure himself, Spider-Man swung low and reached out with a gloved hand. Grabbing one of the gunmen by the back of the neck, he violently flung him into the air and brought his knees up, effectively propelling into his spine. Shooting like a missile, the screaming henchman collided with two others, allowing Spider-Man to coat them in another, bigger patch of webs as he swung over. As a result, the three were now immobilized.

I'm so lonely. That's okay, I shaved my head. And I'm not sad.

Landing on the bridge proper, Miguel rolled and flipped out of the path of another smattering of bullets. Sparks once again flew off of the truck as he dodged behind it, leaping onto the back and scaling it with precisive movements. His head was pounding and the blood was rushing to his extremities, but he had to admit - it was a feeling that he'd become addicted to. Compared to the monotony of his day-to-day grind, putting himself in situations like this gave him a thrill that no drug, he suspected, could ever hope to match.

Leaping over the protection of the truck, Spider-Man raised both hands and shot out two weblines at once. Watching them attach to the opposite support cables of the bridge, he yanked hard on them and released his heels' grip on the vehicle. The result catapulted him directly at a group of thugs who were surprised enough to stop firing, seriously considering whether they should try and clip him there or move out of the way. By the time it became obvious that "move out of the way" was the smarter option, his fists brutally collided with two of their faces. Miguel then used his momentum to sail forward, grabbing onto the third's shoulders with both hands. Swinging his body wildly, he wrapped himself around the criminal's back, grabbed his arm in a lock, and then maneuvered the other arm into the other side of his closed thigh. Watching Spider-Man yank himself back, all of them backed away in horror as the sickening sound of bones snapping drowned out the man's screams.

He'd broken both of the thug's arms. In an instant, acting without hesitation. This was enough to cause at least two of them to drop their guns and immediately turn away, running for their lives past the barricade. Spider-Man couldn't help but smirk as he leaped ahead and latched onto one of the poles connected to the overhead bridge light.

"Anyone else?"

They responded with further gunfire. Miguel cursed at himself as he dodged, realizing that he'd nearly opened himself up to a bullet by trying to act tough. He'd paid the price for such arrogance in the past, having suffered stabbings and gunshot wounds in his initial days wearing the suit. A year of experience had taught him to be better, but there were occasions when he forgot himself. He figured that was the part of him that he'd inherited from his father, who would "forget" himself all too often - to the point that it cost him any contact with his family, having put Miguel and his brother through enough physical and mental abuse to last the rest of their lives.

And just maybe... I'm to blame for all I've heard. But I'm not sure.

He would never be like him. Being Spider-Man meant that Miguel had a chance to make a difference, but it was going to be on his own terms. And as far as he was concerned, stopping a robbery like this was only a step below intervening in a random carjacking. Before the gunfire on the bridge had alerted the police to the chaos, prompting Miguel to respond after hearing it on his police scanner app, he'd been pursuing an Alchemax truck to an off-site storage facility that could have resulted in something truly incriminating. Evidence of some genetic tampering that the government couldn't possibly overlook, no matter whatever story Tyler Stone could have spun for them. But because of this, he'd lost the trail.

It made him angry. And when he got angry, Spider-Man got particularly into the idea of mimicking a certain Wookie by snapping someone's arms out of their sockets - hence his earlier display of aggression.

"HEY, FREAK! PLAY DEAD!"

Before he could engage with his next few attackers directly, Spider-Man was surprised to feel the brunt of some unseen energy knock him off of the path of his descent. Just barely managing to catch himself from falling by latching onto another bridge cable, the wall-crawler spun around to see just what had knocked him back. But to his surprise, a large rectangular strip of something glowing came flying towards him. As Miguel tried to leap out of the way, it struck him hard between his shoulder blades, ripping into the fabric of his suit and causing him to cry out as it burned into his skin.

Falling several feet before hitting the concrete below, Spider-Man's ears began to ring as his vision blurred. And three obscured shadows began to overtake his line of sight, moving towards him at an alarmingly calm pace. Miguel could feel his shoulder ache from being practically dislocated from the impact of the fall, but he didn't have the slightest idea of what could've hit him.

"W-Who the shock..."

"Who the 'shock'? What's that supposed to..."

"Montana. Eyes on the prize. Ox?"

Spider-Man started weakly pushing himself back up, but was struck again. This time by a massive fist hitting the back of his skull. The ringing got even louder and he almost felt himself black out, but he could swear that he'd heard these voices before. Not in person, but in something he'd watched. Some sort of televised court hearing, or something.

"Nice one. Bet he's not up for anymore of that jumpin' around like a cartoon bunny on crack."

Montana. Ox. It all clicked into place. Their leader was a two-bit hoodlum named Daniel Brito. Or "Fancy Dan", as he was more colloquially known to the public at large. The three of them had been sentenced to a Maximum Security facility for murdering at least a couple dozen enemies of the Maggia over a five-year period. Gruesome stuff, at least enough to get all of them a life sentence. But they had mysteriously disappeared during a prison transport six months prior.

I'm so excited. I can't wait to meet you there.

They were known as The Enforcers. Usually, they were only called upon when their clients had reached a point of no return. Spider-Man realized that their presence here could only indicate one thing, as he could feel them coming closer - this wasn't a robbery after all.

This was a trap. And like an idiot, Miguel had leapt right into it.

Mierda.

And I don't care.

I was the Phantom Stranger.

I see the end of days. I see a woman, ivory-skinned and dressed in black, turn off the light and close the door. I hang up my hat and my coat. I walk out with her. I don’t look back.

I am the Phantom Stranger.

I see a blue world. I see pearls falling onto damp concrete. I see a comet from a doomed world. I see gods fall. I see men rise.

I will be the Phantom Stranger.

There is nothing more to say.

don’t be so sure, darling

I am the Phantom Stranger and I see your defeat.

when? in a million years? i will be defeated, wanderer, but not anytime soon.

I am the Phantom Stranger and I have the first move.

ah. the mortals.

well, wanderer, you now have my attention. try to amuse me this time.

---

---

SOMEWHERE IN LAS VEGAS

MADAME XANADU’S TAROT HOUSE

In all of the various casinos that lined the Vegas Strip, the Tarot House was not the most famous but it commanded a certain reputation. It was the oldest on the strip by far and if you asked a local, they would have sworn it had been there since 1970. Or 1950. Or before the Alamo. Regardless, it was a squat purple brick, the old wood and concrete walls intertwined with vines and speckled with vines. Within its walls, its patrons gambled their lives away under the guise of violet curtains and lily-scented oiled smoke that cloyed at the walls.

In the basement of the Tarot House, guarded by two burly half-troll guards with sloping bear-like shoulders, was a door. And a door after the first door. Past several heavy doors wrought in wood, iron, silver, and all manner of strange materials, Madame Xanadu sat unmoving. A cigarette burned impossibly slow between her fingers, embers never traveling further along the rolled paper. Bookcases lined every wall of the room. Ancient tomes marked with swirling scripts, battered things, summoned from the ether, and rested heavy on the shelves, full of words written in tongues long since forgotten. Scattered objects, strange in every imaginable way, filled the gaps between the books. A collection of grim talismans that pulsed with magic and the unmistakable touch of the occult.

The faint, pleasant smell of jasmine was everywhere, overcoming even the burning smell of nicotine. A candle flicked on the table, red wax slowly seeping onto the table. Six chairs had been strewn in front, occupied by six strangers. Cards spun slowly through the air, one held in place above Madame Xanadu's extended finger.

Turning her attention away from the floating card, she spoke, her sonorous voice sickly sweet for a moment, “You wonder, perhaps, why I have brought you here?”

“Free drinks?” The first voice that morphed into a multitude of voices replied, whispers of hideous laughter seeming to shiver into existence from several parts of the tatterdemalion form all at once.

The second voice that replied was clipped, slow, each vowel a cog in some great mechanical device“ Hauling six strangers out into the Mojave desert, each of whom have no prior connections to each other.Everyone here acts familiar around you. They know you. You’re here to collect.”

Ah, an astute observation. There may be hope for you yet.” “I have aided you, one and all, and my help does not come free. You knew this, I told you my price, I warned you, when you sought me out that my services do not come free. You will not refuse me, not now, not ever. We have a contract. We have a deal.

“ YOU THINK YOU CAN HOLD ME TO A CONTRACT?,” The third voice crackled like a furnace, each syllable piercing the air like a fire poker. The temperature in the room rose by a few degrees.

Madame Xanadu smirked, her eyes calmly meeting the two smoldering embers that glared at her with righteous fury.

“Some deal,” The fourth voice bitterly intoned with a heavy french brogue. “An agreement made at gunpoint is hardly a fair bargain.”

What price would you put on your life? Do not play the fool. I saved you. You would not have made it out of Paris if it had not been for my help. I can happily see you returned if that is your wish? No? How terribly unsurprising. A sensible choice, but your lack of gratitude does you little credit.

The fifth voice, a soft voice, full of the sounds of the West, the City of Angels, interrupted. The most normal figure in the room, the young woman looked like a poster child for a dated music video featuring the Cure. Black lipsticked lips were pursed in a careful frown, a hand rested nervously on the silver ring of her choker, and her painfully obvious magical staff was held in her other hand, leaning lightly against the side of her chair as she gripped it tightly, "Umm, I don't mean to be rude, but I’ve got some things to deal with, some bigger problems, maybe you can find someone else? Someone better suited for this task.”

“Bigger problems? Someone else?” Madame Xanadu hissed, shaking her head.

“Yeah, maybe you can find someone else! You know, some real heroes? Like Zatanna, Doctor Strange, or Brother Voodoo,” the cackling collective cheerfully added, somehow managing a conspiratorial wink beneath the strange garb they wore.

“Are you questioning my judgment?” The goth fashioned girl shrunk under the clairvoyant’s glare as she continued speaking. “ I choose the tools according to the task, but……you wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“ What the hell are you trying to say, lady?” The sixth voice said, no, growled, hackles raised, the anger in it leashed and tugged at its collar frenetically. “ You summoned us here, all the way to bumfuck nowhere, just to shit on us?”

“Pah, Vegas is hardly nowhere, the rooms furnished to you were nothing to complain about. I could have left you sleeping on the floor in some warehouse. Perhaps next time? I do not waste kindness on the ungrateful…”

The fabric shrouded figure shook its head, “It would’ve been a whole lot nicer if I didn’t have to share my room with a stranger, no offense to Miss Stabbity and her glowing sword over there.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. A sad fact that I am well aware of at this very moment. You’re not the best. You’re not even the second best. You’re a bunch of losers. Thieves. Deadbeats. Butchers. Magical sledgehammers, vagabonds, and pantless beasts.”

The wizened fortune teller continued to hold her expression of contempt for a few seconds, emerald eyes before surrendering it with a sigh of resignation.

“ But you will do, you will suffice for this mission.”

“ What mission?,” The fourth voice enquired.

“ The Phantom Stranger has gone missing.”

“ IMPOSSIBLE. I WOULD HAVE SENSED ITS PRESENCE.”

“ Yes, if only you had the patience to remain with your prior host, Spirit. You only have had time to acclimate to your mortal form for a week.”

“ I don’t get it. Who the heck is this stranger guy?”

“ He is a Lord of Balance.”

“Never heard of him,” the multimodal voice quipped, draping itself over the armrests of the large fabric chair it had claimed. The opossum perched on their shoulder released a low yawn, before they continued, “Balance doesn’t sound like my problem.”

The second voice interjected, their voice terse.“ He is an agent of the Green Hooded One, the Guardian of the Aether, the Spectre. They are the gatekeepers of this reality. ” With realization, the second voice slowly turned their head to the clairvoyant with a new look“ And you are as well.”

“ The Hooded One has many voices and hands on which to act, hedge mage.” The second voice bristled at the jab. Madame Xanadu took no heed of it as she continued on. “ But your observations are correct. He has gone missing.”

“ I don’t get it.” The final voice, the beastly one, asked. “Why doesn't this Spectre guy just deal with his own business?”

“ Take care of how you speak his name, half-breed. You talk blithely about matters of which you know nothing about.”

“ What my esteemed colleague means to say is that the Spectre has many matters to focus his attention on. Direct intervention by him in the mortal plane would take an inordinate amount of focus and limitless power does not equate to finesse. It’s why the Spectre usually uses agents such as Xanadu over here or…the Stranger.”

“ A simple explanation, hedge mage,” said Xanadu.

“ But where would we even begin finding him?,” The voice of voices spoke once again, amusement turned to a screeching whine.

“ I do not give you the answers, soulkeeper. Only this promise. That your debts will be released upon completion of this task.” Xanadu took another drag from her cigarette, her face growing more shadowed before stubbing it out in a copper ashtray. She snapped her fingers and a circle of candles lit around the seven figures, turning the room red and orange. From under her left sleeve, a curved dagger emerged, pale scrimshaw gliding across the flat, and the ruby encrusted grip glowing ominously in the candlelight.

“ Your hands,” said Xanadu. “ If you would please.”

Slowly, six hands came forth, four of flesh, one of flame and one of fur.

“ Hold on,” The fifth voice whined. “ Are you sure you cleaned that knife properly-”

Xanadu was swift yet gentle, the edge of the dagger biting through the skin and sinking into the flesh. Streams of ichor pooled into a small pewter basin, swirling together in a stormy red eddy. Xanadu began to chant slowly, her voice pouring like a river into every corner and crack of the small basement.

“ I, Madame Xanadu, in authority of the Lords of Balance, the Earth and the Hooded One, bind you to three truths. I bind you to find the Phantom Stranger. I bind you to not seek any ill intention against my patrons. I bind your shadows to be one until this pact is fulfilled.” She paused and the candle flames became frozen. “I bid you six thee farewell.”

The pewter bowl bubbled, a fountain of red spraying up in the air, before the . Before the six strangers could say a word, Madame Xanadu clapped her hands and stood up.

“ Alright, we’re done here.” She said quickly. “ Shoo now. I have a very important guest coming in the next 30 seconds.”

“ Wait, where do we begin looking - “

“ Get. Out.” She nodded towards the pair of burly trolls that arrived in, wielding clubs that were about the size of a man. “ Boris, Kochansky, please escort our guests out.”

As they were being roughly guided out of the basement, the faint shadow of Xanadu’s voice could be heard behind them, growing ever more quiet.

“ Ah, Mr Luthor, I have been expecting you. I assume your investments in LexCoin have paid off…..”

---

The doors to the Tarot House slammed shut, leaving the hastily shepherded group of magicians with a fading vision of the two considerably sized trolls and their menacing cudgels. A chill wind battered the unlikely party, the unlucky souls who had been unceremoniously tossed out into the desert night. Bright neon strips loomed in the distant, no longer glowing pleasantly, but instead shining with a fell light that filled their hearts with uncertain dread. The threads of the ritual still hung heavy in the air. Powerful magic did not fade so quickly. They were bound together now and the chains that bound them seemed to rattle in the darkness.

“ So, where the hell do we begin?”, The wolf-man asked,

“ In a bar with good drinks, I know just the one,” the laughing tatterdemalion offered, shrugging with obvious boredom when they were met with pointed glares.

The trenchcoat hatted man sat on the side of the boardwalk, ignoring the looks drunk tourists and casino-gamblers sent his way. He reached into his trenchcoat and produced the pewter bowl that he had snatched from Madame Xanadu. The bottom was still dried with blood from all six of them. He took out a piece of chalk, hastily sketched a circle on the concrete and placed the bowl in the centre. With a snap of his fingers, the pewter bowl cracked in two and smoke erupted from the pieces that were split in twain.

“ Oi, wolfie.” The trenchcoated man recoiled briefly as the wolf-man snarled, hackles raised again. “ You mind taking a sniff?”

The wolf-man lumbered forward and took a deep draught of the crim-coloured smoke.

“ I smell……baobab against skin……powdered sugar…beignets……seawater……..gunpowder and blood…….the stink of split blood against leather whips….”

“ Well, anyone up for a trip to the Crescent City?,” The trenchcoated man asked.

“ Hell seems as good a place as any to start…” The french swordswoman said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The midnight sky began to purple as dawn fiunally arrived and stretched their shadows, six in total, as they lengthened across the asphalt strip of the Vegas Boulevard into the barren desert beyond.......

Return of the man God who would be King

---

Thor walked out of the small cabin. The two ravens moved to his shoulders, but he shrugged them off. "Yes, I am aware I am being called to Asgard." They both cawed. He stretched out his hand, mentally calling to Mjolnir who lay nearby, the hammer wobbled, stirred and then flew to his hand—creating a crack of thunder on this warm summer's day. He turned his attention upwards towards the sky, raising Mjolnir as he did so. "Heimdall! Return me home."

A brilliant flash of light and colour came down from the sky as the Bifrost opened, lifting him up and into the air. All the colours of the various worlds surrounded him as he was pulled towards Asgard. He heard a caw and looked up at Muginn. Thor could have sworn he flapped his wing downwards as if pointing. Turning his attention below he was surprised to see several beasts coming behind him. Their wings outstretched, some form of golden armour adjourned their chests. Baring their teeth in a snarl. His fist tightened on the handle of Mjolnir.

Looking up the light at the end was becoming brighter. As soon as he arrived in Asgard he'd-

The wind was knocked out of him as something collided with him from his side. Pushing him out of the tunnel, he came crashing down in a flurry of dirt and debris. Thunder cracked and rolled as Thor brought himself to his feet. Duck, Odinson! Thor did so, he heard the woosh of movement over his head as he narrowly avoided whatever weapon had been tossed at him. Standing back up he saw Hugin and Munin flying above him. Thor didn't have time to process this, however, as he heard the thump-thump-thump of heavy footsteps.

Walking around him, the man picked up his large axe. Red energy glowed around it. "So the Young Prince wants to return home to Asgard?

Mjolnir twisted in Thor's hand as clouds grew overhead. "What interest is it of yours?

The behemoth before him chuckled, as he swung his axe up to lay on his shoulder. "In time Princeling. In time. He paced around, circling Thor. "I come today with a proposition. To join us, then once we have taken the Nine Realms you can have your precious Earth to rule as you see fit."

Lightning crackled overhead, playing in the sky. A few stray drops of rain escaped the swirling clouds and dropped on the ground around them. Thor's words and tone didn't match the anger beneath the surface. This was a battle of wits, and Thor had long ago learnt from Loki how to play in such a theatre. To reveal his anger, was to lose. "You come to offer me that which is less than my birthright? I think not.

The man chuckled and swung his axe nonchalantly. He was arrogant and confident. This is what made Thor wary, if his opponent knew enough to be able to intercept him within the Bifrost. Then he had to have some understanding of Asgard, and likely of Thor himself. Was his confidence mere ego, tactics or was it earned?

"Oh little Princeling. You fail to understand, if you do not accept within the week-" An orange portal opened behind him, as he turned towards it. At the last moment, looking back over his shoulder. "-I shall take your birthright from you." Then without another word he stepped through the portal.

The ‘to-do’ list that took three sticky notes, front and back, was finished five minutes later than it needed to be. He stole a minute in the bathroom to send the text that he might be a little late. Every time he was caught with his phone out, it was a sharp look, a comment. Or at least he thought it was. Better to just avoid it, sad as it was, by hiding in a bathroom stall. He just hoped no one came in and pulled on the locked stall…that was always an uncomfortable moment that, for whatever reason, filled him with dread.

He told the desk reporter he would be back in an hour. To his shock, the desk reporter just waved his hand and responded with, “Go home, kid. Nothing happening tonight.”

Even when he thanked the desk reporter, the man never looked up from the AP Flash screen he was studying and exploring, click at a time. The subway took a little longer than he would have liked to get across the city to midtown. He got through the lobby and into the elevator in good time. When he got to the suite number, he was hopeful he’d made good time, only to enter the office and see no receptionist, and the woman standing in the doorway to her office, waiting for him.

“Little late, Jimmy, come on in. We still have about thirty minutes.”

“Sorry, Doctor Lanza,” Jimmy Olson’s heart sank a bit as his shoulders slumped and he followed the woman into her office and took a seat on the patient side of her desk. Had he really taken that long to get there? She asked him about his meds, and he answered as well as he could, as honestly as he could, his right leg bouncing nervously as he sat there answering her questions.

“You think you’re taking the right dose at the right time?”

He felt like he might blush, “I think so, yeah, uh, yes Doctor. It’s just…the newsroom sometimes gets a little hectic.”

“Well, Jimmy, it’s very important you take the right dose at the right time. I’m sure the people you work for would understand. Just take them during your breaks?”

Jimmy Olson smiled, sheepish, “Right, yes, I will do that. Thanks.” You’ve never met Perry White, doc.

“Sleeping better?”

He nodded, “I think so, my Apple Watch broke, and I haven’t gotten a chance,” or the money, “to replace it yet, but tracking it myself it seems like it’s gotten better, for sure.”

“Eating better?”

He chuckled, “Learning how to cook when my roommate doesn’t take the kitchen, so I think so.”

“Suicidal ideation?”

His head shook, once, quick, “No. That’s a lot better,” the lie came so quickly even he barely noticed it. The rest of the twenty minutes were a blur of her telling him something about adjusting the dosage of his medication, and another lecture about taking it on time, every time. As if he didn’t know the agony of missing a dose firsthand. She asked him if he had wanted to talk about anything about a little joke about the five minutes they had left. He might had said something, he needed to say something—it was the only part of the sessions that he felt did any good for him, but the anxiety of the five minutes comment just left him smiling and shaking his head, making an excuse about how he had the rest of the night off and just wanted to go enjoy it.

“Well then, I’ve got a date with my husband, so I’ll see you next week Jimmy.”

The subway ride to his apartment was a gallery of people excited and dressed up for Friday night on the town. The northside seventh story walk-up was little more than a closet with a little kitchenette and a metal sink that doubled as bathroom and kitchen sink. His roommate worked in a restaurant kitchen, but left their kitchenette littered with mess and unwashed dishes that left Jimmy almost sighing as he walked in and stared at it.

“FUCCCCCK!”

The sound made Jimmy wince as it came through the thin walls of the lowest rent apartment he could find, the roommate there before him, the price too good to pass up. The roommate was rude, and it appeared, had brought company over unannounced and without checking as they’d agreed when the lease was heard. In a moment of dark curiosity, Jimmy got closer to the door, only to hear the sound of skin-on-skin, and the same woman’s voice who let out the ‘fuck’ began a disturbing stream of words that just made Jimmy blink.

He didn’t always understand why some women let themselves be treated that way, but he wasn’t one to judge, he just didn’t understand. He retreated to his tiny bedroom, a single-sized cot decorated with a sleeping beg and blanket, a few pillows tucked against the wall between bedrooms. The desk was old, something he’d found on the street and cleaned up, his old computer on it, waiting for him. He nearly jumped when something started hitting against the wall between bedrooms, sighing deep as he slid on headphones and drowned it out, deciding against sleep for now, not wanting to feel the thuds from the wall. Instead, he logged into the coolest thing he was part of; the secret online forum for super sightings. There were posts about magic, gods, metahumans.

Downvoted and towards the bottom he found a post about Boston. The poster claimed to be an MIT student with dark cell phone footage about a girl in the air, floating, then flying then floating. He tried to understand the downvoting until he saw the comments:

Great. Ultra Bimbo. Just what the world needs.

She can fly. Big whoop.

FAAAAAAAAKE.

You go to MIT and I go to Harvard, sure, bruh.

Clown ass simping dude.

He’d been to Boston. He noticed a building, it had a garden on top of it, a co-op, his aunt had shown him when he visited her last year. He sent the link to an old online friend, a digital artist that worked contracts for gaming companies, and started up Baldur’s Gate 3. It was towards 3 in the morning when he finally could escape the burning of his eyes from screen exposure no longer, saving his game and checking his messages before he went to bed, taking off his headphones and frowned at the sounds of his roommates bed hitting against the shared wall again.

Yet it was the message notification on the computer screen that drew him in.

” Hey James. Not sure what crackpipe they’re smoking but this isn’t CGI, or AI, this footage is real. Know anything more about it?”

---


The phone rang, and her eyes darted to it, suspicious. It was the desk phone, not her cell phone, which rarely meant anything good. In the back corner of the bullpen, where new reporters and interns were tossed and forgotten, Lois didn’t have a line of sight on Perry White’s office, or the office of Jerry, the assistant editor for Metro that she’d been assigned to…but it was nearly three in the morning, and she knew she’d seen both offices empty. She heard the phones of every desk ring, too, “Security calling to see if anyone’s still here so they can leave early? Get off your butt and do your rounds,” she snorted, and returned her attention back to the screen that illuminated her cubicle and herself, fingers continuing to type.

When it rang again, she ignored it, again. She was half-way through one of the better lines she’d written all night when the phone rang for a third time and made her nearly jump, “Jesus, you’re lazy,” it was irritation that drove her to pick up the receiver and hold it to her ear as she just continued to type, trying to recover the brilliant finish to the line she had lost when the third ringing of the phone surprised her, “listen, keep calling and I’ll give the editors your name for not doing your ro—”

“I need help. This is my only hope.”

Lois stopped. The voice was a woman, older sounding, desperate and terrorized. “Ma’am, slow down, and—”

The voice kept going like she didn’t even hear her, “—they stole my baby. It took me over a decade to track them, but I did, and I think they found me out—”

“—who found you?”

Again, the woman just kept going, “They took my little girl. They took her and everything she came with. They thought I wouldn’t fight, but I kept fighting, I escaped the facility they had me committed to, the judge they paid off—”

Her eyes rolled, hard, eyes coming a close as she sighed softly into the receiver, “Listen, Ma’am—”

Again, the voice ignored her, “—no matter what they did, I found her. Luthor, they named her, my baby Kara…named after the MOTHERFUCKER WHO TOOK HER!...I think they found me, so if you’re hearing this, I’m dead—”

Lois blinked and stared at the receiver for a heartbeat before bring it back up to her ear.

“—and you’re my only hope. The only journalists in town who they don’t own. North 81st and Clinton, Greyhound station. The key is taped onto the back of the last toilet of the women’s restroom on the second floor. It has the locker number on it...please, please, please help. Please do the right thing…please, please...”

There was just sobbing and mumbled, desperate, heartbroken pleas before the line went dead.

“...what was that?”

Lois Lane found herself jumping out of her skin, so high, so fast, that she was on her feet and swearing at the shadow who she found standing at the entrance to her cubicle, “JESUS CRIST!” When she looked up, heart beating so hard and fast it had made it’s way into her throat, she found only Jimmy Olson, the copy boy and, as Jerry as so adorably put it, the coffee bitch we’ll fire before his review period so we don’t have unemployment taxes spike on us.

That was the moment Lois decided Jerry was a fucking sleaze.

“...Jimmy, dammit,” Lois deflated back into her seat, taking deep breaths with her eyes closed before she regained her composure, and looked back to the guy, “Why are you even here?”

He shrugged, like he’d been scolded, “My, uh...roommate had a party going, I had some work to finish, so, uh...”

You’re lying but I don’t care. “…okay, well, since you’re here why don’t you get me everything we have on the Luthors? I’m going to take the recording of that call and scrub it from the Planet’s system after I download it onto my phone.”

Jimmy just looked confused, “Why?”

“Jimmy…background. I’ll explain it over breakfast, but we have a few hours until people get here, and I want to be out of here by then. Can you do that?” She asked him, her tone softer, gentler. There was something raw in the guy’s eyes. Something vulnerable, and Lois was smart enough to know how to handle it.

It was only when she watched Jimmy nod, walk off towards the archives that she finally turned her attention back to the phone, and listened to the call once more, the secure, encrypted browser on her cell phone the only search she trusted in the moment, bringing up pictures of the Luthor family and checking photo credits and descriptions, her scrolling stopping dead at a family picture dated a year ago, tagged at a charity function: the elder, Lyonel, the son, Lex, and...daughter, Kara. It should have been fear Lois Lane felt.

But she was Lois Lane, and all she felt was determination.

This particular night was quite cold. He was glad to be inside of the Jokemobile which had air conditioning. Driving down the lone street to a location he didn’t know where just yet. Listening to the police scanner for any potential crimes that could be happening. To relieve his boredom he turned on the radio to a random station. The voice of a sad-sounding man filled the Jokemobile. Joker could only stand a few minutes before changing the station. On the next few stations, he found a song he really liked

Singing along while he was speeding passed a few honking cars. Singing in a high-pitched and off-key voice while tapping the wheel of his car. Only stopped when he heard a bulletin from the police scanner. There was a robbery going on at a well-known jewelry store. Joker punched in the coordinates speeding faster towards the store. He wanted to catch them with their pants down and get the element of surprise. Although he knew stealth was not his strong suit. Nevertheless, he was going to try his best to not be seen until the right moment.

Parking his Jokemobile a few feet away from the jewelry store. Jumping out of the seat clicking a button to lock it. The Joker would be very angry if some hooligan stole his vehicle while he was out fighting crime. He had paid a good amount of money to customize his old car to create the Jokemobile. The clown hero jumped out of the car and started walking towards the store. Going around the back thinking he could flank them. Noticing the backdoor of the building was open. He assumed that was where the robbers had entered. Joker was crouched walking further into the building hiding behind a wall. Watching the robbers trying to wrangle the crowd.

A figure who he assumed to be the leader was barking orders to the others. Joker moved from his current position toward a vent. Carefully opening the grate and setting it down on the floor. Moving from the vent towards the offices where the hostages would be. Peeking from the vent grate he could see the hostages being guarded by two robbers. Leaving a small jack in the box that was timed to fill the room with laughing gas. This was only going to make everyone in the room have the cause of the giggles. This would give him enough time to subdue the robbers.

The Joker moved further into the vent and to the adjourned room. Looking at his watch to see how much time he had left on the jack in the box. Putting on his X-ray specs to see both the hostages and the robbers. He could hear the faint sound of “Pop Goes The Weasel” starting to play. As soon as it finished he could see everyone in the room starting to laugh. This was his time to strike while the iron was hot. Joker put some explosive gel on the wall. Jumping through the new hole in the wall. Quickly he closed the distance and punched the laughing robber with a hard punch. BIFF! POW! Thud! He was glad he remembered to bring a pair of brass knuckles. Pulling out a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. After handcuffing them he knew that the other robbers would hear the commotion.

Joker could hear loud footsteps coming towards the room. Joker quickly leads the laughing hostages through the hole in the wall to the other room. Reaching toward his utility belt and pulling out a few small pellets. As quick as a cheetah the clown he threw the pellets near his feet. Moved into the large puff of smoke moving towards the main room, while pulling out a deck of cards. The cards were sharpened so he could use it as a weapon. Throwing the sharpened cards at the hands of the robbers, making them drop their weapons and holding their hands. "Bad boys like you need a good spanking."

Joker threw some chattering teeth at them. The teeth stuck onto the robber’s legs making them fall to the ground in pain. He could see the other hostages who were cowering in the corner of the room. "Don't worry folks this will be over before you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

Noticing four other robbers coming into the room firing their guns at the clown hero. Joker hid behind a display. Scanning the area of how he could escape this situation. Then all of a sudden someone crashed through the skyline of the building. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing to stare at the strange person. Joker noticed the person was wearing a costume that looked like a bat. The man looked over at the robbers with a serious glare. And without a moment of hesitation throwing what looked like boomerangs at the robbers. Disarming them and started to punch them with his fists. Joker watched as the costume man beat the criminals senselessly.

Looking angry at the strangely dressed man. He was not going to share the spotlight with anyone. Not now not ever, not as long as he was Gotham's sole protector.

Pulling out a long-barreled .44 magnum from his pants aiming it at the bat person. “There can only be one star of this show, that would be moi.” He said with a big smile on his face. Firing the pistol which only shoot out a sign that said BANG. “Oops. Oh right.” This action got the attention of the man who turned to grimace at him. Clicking the trigger again made the sign shoot out like a projectile at the man.

“Are YOU retarded OR something, your GUNS can’t HURT me I’M the GOD damn BATMAN!!!” He bellowed as he got out of the way of the sign, he lunged forward towards the Joker. Laughing the Joker now found the situation has become more interesting.

“I got something better than a gun to take you down.” Joker grabbed hold of Batman’s arms and threw him backwards into a display case. The burly man crashed loudly into the display utterly destroying it. Quickly he put away his gun and brought out a crowbar. The Batman was rushing towards him like a charging bull.

“YOU cannot BEAT me SCUMBAG! I'm THE night I'M THE GOD DAMN BATMAN!!!” Batman was stopped in his tracks by Joker slamming the crowbar into the vigilante’s face. He was laid on his back, but he seemed to quickly get back onto his feet.

“If you want to work for me so badly, You only need to ask nicely.” Moving out of the way of a punch or two. It seemed to him that Batman would not stop until he punched out a few of Joker’s teeth.

“YOU’RE a FILTHLY animal, WHY would I HELP a CRIMINAL like YOU rob THIS store!” Batman kept punching. They were slow so Joker could easily dodge it.

“I’m not helping them rob this store, I am trying to stop them from stealing. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the gosh darn Joker. Protector of Gotham ” This made Batman stop and glare at Joker with the same intensity he gave to the criminals. Stepping closer toward the Joker who had to cover his nose. This guy smelled like a mixture of garbage and sour milk.

Their conversation was interrupted by police sirens and a voice speaking Joker turned his head toward the sound of the voice. “This is Harvey Bullock of Gotham PD, put your guns down and your hands up. The building is surrounded.” The man’s voice was gruff and echoed thanks to the bullhorn he was using.

“Look you must be new around here, but like I said before there can only be one protector of Gotham. That person is me…” He turned his head back towards Batman. Being perplexed that Batman had suddenly disappeared. Joker was glad that costumed freak was gone, so now no one would steal his spotlight. "Oy Vey." Rubbing the bridge of his nose.Putting away his crowbar. Walking out of the building with his arms outstretched with a big smile on his face. “It’s so nice to see you again Harvey. I gave those bad boys a good spanking.” Pointing a gloved thumb behind him referring to the criminals.

“We didn’t need your help clown, we could’ve got these bastards.” Bullock looked annoyed signalling for his men to secure the hostages. “GET THOSE SCUMBAGS IN THE VAN!!!” Screaming into his bullhorn again while walking past Joker.

“How rude Harv, should you at least say hi good Joker? Besides the only thing you could get is a box of donuts.” Joker was now fully ignored by Bullock. This was commonplace between him and everyone in Gotham PD. He was sure that one day he would get the recognition he deserved. Joker walked away from the building and got into his Jokemobile.

“I’m going back to HQ Harley. Would you like anything to eat?” He said through the communicator that Harley had made for him. Starting the Jokemobile and starting to drive down the lonely dark road. Harley was happy to know that Joker had gotten out okay. She suggested some Taco Whiz, which was something Joker wouldn’t mind having.