Issue: 1-1 Humble Beginnings

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Saturday. Finally.

It was the one day Cindy Moon did not have to slave away in front of her textbooks, at least the one day of the week her mother did not hound her over studying. Although Cindy did make a habit of presenting study on Saturdays even if she was just doodling in her notebook for an hour. Shutting her laptop, she hurried and got dressed, an oversized tee, tucked into her skirt with her trainers. She had no intentions of wasting today inside.

Cindy emerged from her room to the compact living room. Her parents didn't quite grasp the concept of apartment living as they brought all their stuff from Albany. Her family was well off, they could have probably afforded a townhome somewhere in the city, but her parents chose not to. As they put it, they wanted to reconnect with their heritage, but they were both natural born citizens. They didn't even really speak Korean anymore.

Whatever.

It wasn't like Cindy was going to complain aside from having to narrowly slip around the back of the couch to pass through. "Going out, Cin?" Her father turned away from the television to watch her leap Junior's bag. "Yeah, dad. I'm meeting Mina and we'll probably go to the park or something. I dunno." Cindy replied as she began shuffling behind the couch. Her focus shifted to what her father was watching.

"...you're seeing a rise in crime over the past month. The city of New York has to step up. I mean, get this Wallace, we're having stories leak of vigilantism cropping up all over and-"
"You'll be back before dark, Cindy."

Cindy turned to see her mother standing in the dining room, her eyes shifting from the television to her.

"I-" Cindy bit her tongue. She knew that this was a command, not a request. Unfortunately, she had a lot more to lose than her mother to fight her on it. A grounding would be awful. "Fine. I'll be back by dinner, I guess. I wanted to try this new place, but whatever, right." She winced realizing that she was taking an attitude, not a great move when facing her mother.

"Yes. I'll be back." Cindy raised her hand to quell any of her mother's wrath. Her plans today were setback by this. She might have to cut her day with Mina short if she was going to get some practice in. Just how much could she do with her newfound powers? She knew about the wall climbing and the spider silk from her fingers. There was also that strange acute sense to things, but what was that even? This was the first day she had to let loose.

"You better." Her mother said sternly before turning back into the kitchen.

Whew. Close call.

Cindy turned and raised her eyebrows, giving him a look. He merely shrugged with a smile. He knew what he signed up for when he married her. "Have fun, Cin." Albert Sr. turned back towards the television. Cindy did as well.

"..hero in your own story. Let's do our part to fight climate change. Together. Roxxon Energy, fighting for tomorrow."

Cindy rolled her eyes at the ad at another oil company trying to advertise their good will. Funny how quick companies are to try and play the hero after they cause a disaster.

Not wanting to waste any more time, she darted out the door.

The mayor's mansion is silent this late into the night. An old man is in a room on the ground floor, sitting at a mahogany desk and writing away, occasionally gazing out the window into the rainy night while listening to the crackle of the fireplace. It was typical for him to be awake until almost the early morning, writing a sermon about the fires of Hell or plotting the next heinous deed his associates would enact. He's the Reverend, head of the Gospel of Sinners and the most powerful man in Hub City. And I'm looming in the shadows behind him, watching and waiting.

After getting out of the Lemire Avenue Apartments I gunned it straight for the mayor's mansion. I was covered in bruises, my suit torn and tattered and dirty, but I needed to do this. It was easy enough to break into the mayor's; climb the fence with my grappling gun, take out a few patrolling cops, then slip in through the door to the cellar. After that, it was just a matter of finding out where the Reverend was. I caught one of his thugs heading to the bathroom and began breaking fingers, starting with the pinkie. He caved after the ring finger. "T-the Reverend is in his study! Down the hall!" One knock to the head and he was out like a light.

The door was open and I slipped in near silently. I'm here now, watching and waiting from the shadows, pondering what to do. Am I going to kill him? Maybe. The Man wants it to be done, wants to wring the life out of him. The Butterfly wants answers, wants to know who this man is, why he's been terrorizing Hub City for decades. Spreading drugs through the city, rigging elections to put his men in public office, aggressively shutting down businesses that refused to cooperate. The Butterfly wants- no, needs to know.

"Oh Danny boy..."

The Reverend perks up slightly.

"The pipes, the pipes are calling..."

He begins looking around the room. He doesn't see me in the shadows just beyond the light.

"From glen to glen..."

He looks over to the television by the bed, turned off.

"And down the mountain side..."

"Who is that?"

"The summer's gone..."

He stands from his desk, looking around the room. "Who's there?"

"And all the roses falling..."

I emerge from the shadows and he stumbles away from me with a gasp, falling to the floor in the process.

"Now you must go... Away... And I must bide..."

The Reverend looks up at me with terror in his eyes. The kingpin of the underworld, reduced to nothing but an old man cowering in fear. "You... You are dead..."

"Am I? Then what does that make you?" I lean down, closer to him. He's frozen in place, staring at me with awe. "Dreaming, perhaps?"

"What do you want?"

"I want you, Reverend..." I grab him by the arm and pull him to his feet. "I want you to pray."

Will I kill him? His life is worth nothing but the sins he carries out. The Man is screaming for retribution, to end his life. The Butterfly tries to see the value in him, tries to say that every life is sacred, but it withers away at the almost demonic energy the man carries in the very fiber of his being. This man is demented. He's led to the deaths of countless others.

But could I kill him?

I'm about to answer that question when I hear the door opening behind me.

"Hatch, what's with all the noi-"

I drop the Reverend and twist around at the voice and see her.

Myra.

... She cut her hair.

"Who are you? What are you- where's your face?"

I'm about to answer when I hear the sound of metal scraping against brick. I twist back around to the Reverend just in time to bring up an arm and block a red hot fire poker that would've smashed right into my head. I can feel the blisters already forming as I kick him in the chest, sending him stumbling into the fire place. He shouts in pain and jumps back to his feet but it's too late; his coat's on fire.

He tries to pat it away but the fire just spreads to his sleeve. He panics, looking for something, anything to douse the flames, and after finding nothing he runs straight to the window and leaps out into the rain. As the glass shatters I hear a loud, screeching beeeeeeeeep coming from an alarm on the wall and more coming from down the hall. Shit. I'm gonna have to follow Hatch out that window before every cop on the property comes running.

I'm about to start running when I feel a hand gripping my forearm. I twist my head around and see Myra tugging at me. "Hey, faceless guy. Come with me." She leads me out of the room and down the hall, back to the door I came in from. As she shuts the door, I can hear the sound of running boots and clamoring voices from down the hall where we just were.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask. Myra didn't have any reason to help someone that had just broken into her family's home, it didn't make sense.

"Because you can help me," she says, leading me down the stairs and into the cellar.

"Help you do what?"

"I overheard a conversation between Hatch and my brother... I..." She takes in a deep breath before she continues. "Hatch moved in a month ago. My brother, Wesley... He's working with him. I... I didn't want to believe it. Wesley said that Hatch is threatening him, that Hatch would have my daughter killed if he doesn't work with him."

The Man wants to snort a resentful chuckle at the idea of Wesley Fermin only working with Hatch to defend his sister's daughter. The Butterfly processes what she said. Daughter.

"You have a daughter?"

"Yes. She lives at St. Catherine's Home For Orphaned Children. Wesley had me give her up for adoption, said that if anyone found out about her it would ruin his chances to become mayor."

I want to pry, find out more about this daughter of Myra's I had never heard of, but now isn't the time. "The conversation you overheard. What was it about?"

"Hatch wants to get William Spencer out of the picture."

"Spencer? The superintendent for the Hub City Unit School District?"

Myra looks up at me, widening her eyes slightly in amazement. "You know who he is?"

I nod. "Why do they want to get rid of Spencer?"

"Spencer's been trying to launch a political career. He wants to challenge Wesley in the next election. Hatch doesn't want that."

"What are they planning to do?"

"They're going to rig a school bus to explode."

"What? When?"

"Today."

I look down at my watch. 5:09 AM. The school buses would be departing in just under an hour.

"Thanks for the help."

"Don't mention it. Now get out of here and save those kids."

I climb out of the cellar and start sprinting back to my car, hidden in the woods past the fence. I fire my grappling gun at the fence and zip up and over it, landing on two feet and continuing to sprint to my car. I hop in and start it up, pulling out of the woods and back onto the road like a bat out of hell.

This night was turning out to just be one long day. Haven't slept since about this time yesterday. And I won't get any more sleep for the rest of my life if I don't get to the bus depot in the next forty-seven minutes. I slam my foot even harder onto the gas pedal.

I'm not letting any kids die today.

"Hello folks, and welcome to the Bulletin, I'm your host. G.Gordon Godfrey-" The camera snapped as the greying news anchor turned his head to the camera. "-bringing you the latest unbiased news un-tainted by any political ideals or machinations. No Woke news here - no sir."

A smaller screen appeared to the left of the anchors head, showing scenes of a surging fire at a futuristic looking building. The name 'STAR LABS' could be seen amidst the flames. "Reports are coming in from El Paso Texas that a local STAR labs facility has caught fire -" The camera did a close up to G.Gordons sneer "-no surprise there." The camera pinned back out.

"A representative from STAR has claimed that nobody was hurt in the blaze, however the scientist who's lab caught fire has mysteriously vanished, an are asking the public for their help in finding Doctor T.O Morrow, who may be injured or confused" The camera whipped around to G.Gordons other side as he turned quickly in his chair.

"-IIIIII think that they should be asking for the authorities to start the manhunt for an arsonist, not for a victim!"

The camera returned to its starting angle. "Now. I'm sure you're thinking, G.Gordon, that has to be it for the shocking news, but you'd be dead wrong."

The background image changed to that of a crime scene surrounded by police officers, detectives and CSIs.

"Reports are coming in from New York of some crazed vigilante running around gunning down dozens of men at a time." He changed his tone to a softer tone. "Now, I'm sure you're thinking. G. Gordon. These people are allegedly mobsters and mafia, surely they deserve the death penalty. But I ask you-" The camera shot to his other side as he twisted dramatically in his hair. "-What happens when he deems a Head Teacher worthy of punishment, or a Doctor. Just how many innocent people will die because one man decided to be judge, jury-" a close up as he spoke quietly, practically a whisper, into the camera. "-and executioner."

Volume 1 - First Prototype

---

Michael gripped his right shoulder as he gingerly moved it around. The Cyberwear™ yet-to-be-patented arm brace was doing its job, albeit in an uncomfortable way. A million ideas for improvements raced through his mind, the main being some sort of numbing gel or codeine injection to combat the incredibly weird sensation of feeling his bones very slowly correct themselves under the brace. He couldn't complain though, it was better than walking about with a broken arm. It might take some time before he could go toe-to-toe with mafia goons again, but the silver lining was that in the meantime, he could focus on helping Alex get their fledgling business off the ground. And maybe tackle some white-collar crime on the side when he wasn’t looking.

He pulled on a light jacket and slung a satchel over his shoulder as he left the apartment and made his way down the stairs to the front door. It was a sunny day as he stepped out onto the street. The kind of day that made you want to buy a crate of beer, a pack of cigarettes, and sit in a field somewhere. A nice thought for someone with more disposable income, but for Michael, the most he could convince himself to part with was just enough for a coffee from the shop a few blocks over. There's only so long a guy can last on cheap instant coffee.

He put in his earbuds and swiped along the apps on his phone, tapping on a familiar app and clicking play. It was a sort of trivia app he had developed alongside Alex. It called out random questions to him and all he had to do was call back the answer. It seemed, though, that the implementation was way off for a wider market. Most people didn't want to be on the subway home shouting out "The Roman Empire" or "Diego Maradona", and the app struggled with harder to understand accents. Nevertheless, Michael used it to keep his mind spry. He was a powerhouse when they went to the local pub quiz that was for sure.

A wave of information hit him as he made his way down the street. His brain had a knack for analysing everything and anything it came across, from the manufacturer of a car driving down the street, to the species of a bird he could hear the call of. For many, this would have been overwhelming, for Michael it was regular life. However, there was one piece of information he couldn't quite piece together though, and that was the intention of the shady character who had been following him since the last block.

The guy was a schlub for sure, wearing an outfit that screamed "Undercover". Brown leather jacket, black "Metropolis Meteors" baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses and some jeans. Either this guy was going undercover to meet Robert Redford and give him information on the Watergate Scandal, or he was following someone. Michael, being one part cautiously egotistical and one part cautiously paranoid, assumed it was him. Maybe he should have done something about it, but confronting someone in public about following you wasn't always the sanest fashion to wear. Besides, it had only been a few nights since his first as a ‘hero’; he thought it best to lay low for a while.

Nevertheless, the barrage of analytical information stopped dead in its tracks the moment he entered the coffee shop and saw her. There were a hundred coffee shops before this one, but in truth Michael came to this one to see her. Every day was the day he'd work up the courage to properly speak to her, but that day never actually came. When he got to the counter, it was like he lost all confidence. All he really knew about her was what he could glean from her name badge—her name was Paula.

He got to the counter and ordered. She barely looked up at him as she turned and hurriedly began making his coffee. He glanced behind him, the shop was busy as ever and the queue behind him hadn't seemed to dissipate one bit. His mind snapped back to reality checking the queue, that shady figure was nowhere to be seen. Must've been his paranoid imagination. He thanked Paula for his coffee and sat at one of the last free empty tables, pulling a laptop out of his bag and beginning to work on a new prototype for Cyberwear.

---

Two nights ago

---

Carmine Gazzo sat in his luxurious office sipping a fine wine and staring out over Metropolis. As far as he was concerned, it was his city. He had a hand in every pocket and a knife to the throat of any he didn't. The office was huge, lavish, but lonely. He came here to get away from the inane ramblings of the goombas around him. They were good muscle, but none of them could see the bigger picture. It felt like every other day, he was dealing with some new issue they had managed to create for him. The police were a manageable enemy; male bravado was a much bigger one.

He didn't turn as the door opened behind him, and the noise of heavy footsteps filled the room. He sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair as he spoke.
"What now?"
The capo shifted nervously as he approached the desk, glancing left and right as if he were looking for an escape route.
"Uh... well, you see boss, we have a little uh... problem..." If one thing annoyed Carmine more than issues, it was someone wasting his time by not just telling him right away what the issue was. He rose from his chair and approached the window in front of him, holding the wine glass in his right hand.
"Spit it out."
"Well, boss. Y'know those superfreaks that have been all over the news? Well, uh, we think one of them sorta mighta beat a few of our guys up last night during the gun deal." Carmine felt the base of the wine glass crack slightly in his hand as his grip tightened. He felt a vein pulse in his temple. If he were younger, he'd have thrown the glass through this idiot's face, but since that heart attack, he'd been told to watch his blood pressure. He took a deep breath, turning to the stocky Italian man that stood before him.
"Well, is it 'sorta,' or is it 'mighta,' you clown? What did this bastard look like?"
"Well uh, it's definitely, sir. He beat up our guys, their guys, and broke all the guns. The guys who got a good look at him said he was wearing a leather jacket and had these metal balls that really did a number on Little Tony's head—I mean, the guy's got a headache that could kill a hor-" Carmine cut him off by holding his hand up.
"I couldn't give two fucks about Little Tony's head. What I do care about is the money, and more importantly, the control we've given up here. If some clown in leather can make some of my best men look like klutzes with just a few metal baseballs, how long will it be before the cops get some fancy ideas and start coming after our operation?" He sat back down in the expensive leather office chair, spinning it around to face the nervous-looking subordinate. He gently placed the wine glass down on his desk—tiny drops of wine dripped down from where the cracks had formed. "I want this guy dead, you understand me? I want a message sent out to these costumed freaks that Carmine Gazzo is not to be fucked with. Find him and do it publicly."

Hal walked into the meeting office of the large plane that was taking them to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, saluting Agent May and Sinestro as they sat in a chair each, he saw Sinestro sat with 6 strange items on the table in front of them. Looking like old timey lanterns of each of the colours. "So i'm gonna take a blind stab in the dark and assume that these are where our names come from. But i only see 6. Where's the..." He quickly counted them "Purple one?"

"That would be Indigo, Hal Jordan." Sinestro replied in his usual disappointed manner. "But yes, you are correct, these are the Power Batteries that allow us to use our rings. Something that i have neglected to trust you with until now." He replied. Agent May then butted in to correct him.

"Actually, It was only shortly before takeoff that we were able to recover the others from his craft." May said coldly. Sinestro didn't respond, simply continuing to stare at Jordan, but Hal could tell he didn't appreciate having his authority undermined by May.

"The Indigo lantern does not have a battery. It has a staff that materializes when its champion is chosen. This may cause problems down the line." Sinestro continued as if May hadn't said anything.

"Ok, so how do these work?" Hal asked, trying to change the subject. "Because my ring hasn't been working for over a week." Sinestro got up and walked towards the yellow battery.

"Your Ring is only half of the equation as, although it will be able to store a lot of energy, as well as storing it in your body, it is unable to properly refine pure emotion into energy. That is the Lanterns duty. The Lantern itself draws the emotion from the universe around it and then you may charge your ring using the battery, like so." Sinestro held his ring finger into the lanterns lense.

"In blackest day, in brightest night!
Beware your fears made into light
Let those who try to stop what's right,
Be burned by power, The Golden Light!"

As he did so, the lantern and ring began to glow golden as Hal watched the battery charge the ring up. May and Hal both looked at each other and nodded as if in approval. Hal then walked towards the green one and put his hand into it.

"In brightest day, in blackest night,
No evil shall escape my sight!
Let those who worship evil's might
Beware my power, Green Lantern's light!"

As he chanted, the reaction was much more fierce, probably because Hals ring was completely out of juice, Hal had to hold the battery itself as i felt like it was trying to draw him in. But as the process finished, the green and black suit once again appeared around Hal.

"Congratulations, Hal Jordan, you have just taken your first step into a larger world." Sinestro said.

"Alright, Obi-Wan, what's next?" Hal asked, Sinestro raised a questioning eyebrow.

"My name is Sinestro and you will address me as such." He said, dryly.

"It's just a figure of speech on this planet." Hal replied, trying to make sure that Sinestro wasn't completely offended. That being said, Hal really kinda wanted to offend this stuck up ass. As each mans eyes narrowed at each other, May got involved.

"Our next move is to relax and get what rest we can before we reach S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. 5 Rings between 2 lanterns will have us playing catch up initially. As soon as we have recovered 2 and given them to their proper users, we should gain the upper hand." She said. She then handed each of them a wallet. The men took the wallets and looked inside. In there was a S.H.I.E.L.D. Badge as well as ID with their faces on them. Sinestro stared coldly at May, clearly not appreciating that he had been photographed without his permission. Hal tapped him on the shoulder and showed him the photo on his card.

"Hey, they got my bad side too." Hal smiled. Sinestro simply sat down again, Hal wasn't a mind reader, but he could tell that the thought going through Sinestro's head was "I'm surrounded by idiots" Hal sat down with the Green battery and looked it over. He could feel the raw power radiating off of it. Sitting there, looking into the green light, he could almost feel the universe at his fingertips. Every living being on this planet their hopes, their dreams, their will to survive thrive, to create to destroy, to-

"Captain!" Hal snapped out of his trance and looked at May who was stood over him, Sinestro was no longer in the room and neither were the other batteries.

"Yeah?" He asked, his throat suddenly really dry.

"Buckle up, we're landing." Hal looked at the clock. 4 hours had passed. Hal shook his head and got up, before carrying the battery with him to his seat and sitting down before doing his seatbelt up.

"Do not look too deeply into the Lantern, you may not like what you find." Sinestro said to him.

"What the hell is that even supposed to mean?" Hal asked him. Sinestro simply looked out of the window in response. "Cryptic ass..."

STAR LABS // CENTRAL CITY

"Run Iris, run.

It started as a walk, before speeding into a jog. Then she felt the power, the electricity running through her veins as her power flowed through her. Ever since gaining her powers, and realizing what they were she had always shown some element of restraint when running. The first couple of times her brain not used to the speed struggled to process the information fast enough.

Even once she was used to it she always had to be careful of the wake she caused, especially if she was slowing down to a stop and didn't want to attract attention.

Now wasn't the time for restraint, it was time to cut loose. Something about the speed felt right, something about using the speed felt satisfying. It as as if a small part of her was telling her that this was why she was hit by that bolt of lightning, so she would move.

^{_{There's something I never told you...-}}

"Fascinating-" She could barely hear Harrison over the sound of the electricity in the air and the whirring of machinery as the treadmill struggled to keep pace with her.

^{_{"Iris, what you do is dangerous. I just want you to be safe...}}

-"Fascinating! This is more than I imagined-"

Iris was barely registering the speedometer above her. All she new was that she wanted to go faster.

^{_{"You think this is your city?}}

A red light began to flash above her, and she could have sworn she heard some form of klaxon.

"Iris stop!"

^{_{"See you around, Flash.}}

Suddenly the treadmill fell to pieces, her lack of focus on the task at hand sent her flying into the wall in front as the belt below her suddenly stopped. As she was realizing what was happening, seeing no possible way to stop herself in time or to turn she put her hands up in front of herself in an attempt to shield her face.

When she didn't feel the unmistakable shooting pain of broken bones she looked up, and gasped at the various equally perplexed scientists that were in the room with her. The completely different room than the one she had been in before.

She waved a hand meekly, and was just thankful that she had decided to wear her - freshly clean - costume to this. "Uh, hey everyone-"

"Sorry everyone! So sorry!" Iris turned to the door as Harrison came running into the room. "Miss uh-"

He paused, not sure what to call her. Iris without a moments hesitation, and not entirely sure where it had come from, spoke up. "Call me Flash

Pripyat, Kyiv Oblast - Ukraine

He feels the weight of age with every step. The crushing pressure on his joints as they step against the dirt, telling him to stop and rest. The immense burden of mental exhaustion, scrambling half-finished thoughts until they can't be fully formed. The itch of irritated skin, having been forced to forgo any form of bathing in the last few days. And then there's the massive leather backpack strapped to his shoulders, stiffening his body to hang closer to the Earth with copious amounts of research notes, a couple of laptops, some rolled-up paper maps and a few burner phones that he'd pilfered out of wastebins and small town gutters. His only tangible connections to the world, now. But no food or water left to sustain him, no form of ID or credit cards, not even a working watch to tell the time. And the state of his clothes, heavily tattered and worn from years of use before they wound up at local homeless shelters and used good stores, betrayed someone who hadn't seen an actual roof over his head in decades. Each displaying some faded brand or name that meant nothing to him.

This was Dr. Bruce Banner's life. A short thirty-two-year existence that had been recently marred with an affliction. Not his first, certainly, after inheriting certain unpleasantries from a hospitalized mother and a monstrous abuser of a father. But an affliction that had a primary side-effect: habitual distance from his fellow man. It was why he had found himself drawn to Pripyat, of all places - a "ghost" city, claimed to be uninhabitable when it was evacuated in 1986 following Chernobyl. It's levels of radioactivity had waned over the decades since, and some workers frequented the city in off weeks. Tourists even occasionally came to see the spectacle, but radioactive pockets and the resulting dust had made it inadvisable for anyone to stay long.

There might have been a time when that'd have bothered Dr. Banner. The exposure, the rising levels as you ventured North. He doesn't remember such a time, anymore - it might aswell have all been an interesting footnote in the back of a brochure. What he was looking for right now was irrelevant to what the city did to anyone else's health. And if he weren't so damned exhausted from his journey, Banner might have even stopped for a moment to drink in the plethora of quiet that nature and a bit of nuclear fallout had generously provided him.

No, what the Doctor needed right now was to answer a housecall.

Astonishingly, someone had reached out with an offer. Something about a potential solution to a problem within Banner's cellular structure, a problem heightened to a greater degree in recent weeks. They had claimed to have been working on something similar for years, as a potential mutant deterrent that all the world's governments would pay handsomely for if proven effective. They just hadn't been able to convince anyone to come to Ukraine to be a test subject, given the recent struggles and increasingly volatile relations. Banner almost laughed when he'd heard that. The idea of a tank or the sight of heavy ordinance scaring him away from entering the country. No, the crippling horrors of war were almost comforting compared to what he'd been living with. He'd even go as far as to say that he welcomed such an encounter.

"Hhn."

On the long road ahead and through a clearing mist, Banner came to a sudden stop. An old giant wooden sign had fallen over a chain-link fence and partially collapsed it. Three times as big as he was on his best day, the sign displayed some sort of writing that served as either instruction or warning, with a big arrow pointing to the left. Even if he hadn't started reading up on his Ukrainian only a week and a half ago, Bruce would be entirely lost as to the sign's meaning. But he was certain of something - whoever he was looking for was beyond it, and the only way forward was through the mess of splinter and warped metal. Approaching the sign slowly, Banner pushed on it with both hands. It didn't so much as budge. He leaned against it, took a deep breath and tried again with a bit more force. It remained entirely too stable. Letting his heavy backpack fall with a thud on the ground, the Doctor inwardly pushed aside a growing frustration and placed his hands on it a third time. Gritting his teeth, he placed one foot against the ground and thrust himself against it.

His heartrate spikes. His breathing shortens. As he presses on, Banner catches a glimpse of the flesh of his wrist beneath heavy sleeves. Small, unsightly veins begin to appear across his forearm. Normally a faded purple color on an average man at their worst, Bruce's expression quickly turns from resilient to horrified as he notices the color of these: a deep, unmistakable forest shade of green. The sight causes him to immediately stumble back, scared of what his own body was just threatening to do. It doesn't even register it as he falls directly on his tailbone atop the freezing concrete. The pain doesn't so much as vex him as he rolls up his sleeve and looks at the arm. The veins are still raised, still that unnatural color - but they're turning back. Gradually, they're turning back to something resembling human.

Bruce sits for a moment and catches his breath. He'd had a heart rate monitor just a few days before, bought at a street vendor with the few dollars that he could manage to scrounge up out of nothing. The device was long gone, lost in the night like so much else. Given away to time that had been stolen, missing hours of activity that he desperately wanted back - and at the same time, wanted nothing more than complete obliviousness.

"Close, Banner. Real close..."

With a heavy sigh of relief, Bruce slowly pushes himself back to his feet. The sweat beading down his brow was merely an indicator of how fortunate he was - that the worst he'll feel is winded for the next half an hour. Collecting his backpack and staring back up at the sign, still affixed on the path ahead, the Doctor simply waits a beat before turning left and continuing down the next path. If he can't go through, Banner figures to himself, he'll just walk around. Easy enough to say for a man who just nearly broke the Earth over a traffic hazard.

"Anybody here?"

The wooden door creaks open. A thick wave of frigid air strikes Banner in the face as he stands in the vacant opening of a dilapidated building. A bar, from what he can tell of the ravaged insides. The wooden furniture is all there with the requisite cobwebs and dusting, clearly having sat unused for well over a decade. For a moment, the Doctor considers turning right around and leaving. There's nothing here for anyone, let alone a desperate scientist hailing from half a world away. But he takes a closer look at everything inside and begins to reconsider. Fully stacked bar, though the glass bottles are still a little worse for wear. Plenty of hanging pictures and paintings, though they've become so warped that you could hardly be blamed for mistaking them as abstract pieces. A couple of metal statuettes, signifying sports trophies of some kind. Banner tries to think of a reason that this shouldn't be inviting, but - hell, it's the first clear sign of civilization that he can remember seeing since he crossed the border.

With a quiet shrug to no one in particular, Bruce treads past the entrance and allows the door to naturally shut behind him. Cautious in his movement, on the off chance that an owner still lives there or even the unlikelier scenario of someone hanging around to scavenge for some booze, it takes him a few moments to let himself settle into confident ease. Finally, he breaks a tension of his own making by removing his pack and swinging it hard onto the unmanned bar. Nothing makes a sound - even if there were mice or roaches, they'd have scattered well before now. Heavily sighing to himself once more, Banner takes a seat at the bar and allows his tired body to finally rest.

It's still difficult to think. How long had he been on the road now? More to the point, how long had it been since he touched foot on American soil? The details are tantalizingly close enough to be just out of reach in the recesses of his mind. He gingerly rubs the bridge of his nose and allows the aches and pains of his journey to leave him, as if they had been waiting on command. He can only remember flashes of what led him here, like a morbid dream trying to be pieced together out of fragmented edges. Five weeks ago, his problems were... tolerable. Not entirely managed, but at least they were the kind that most people dealt with. The generalized anxiety of a new assignment. The rush of adrenaline that came with playing to his strengths as a researcher. The disdain for having to meet new people, to tolerate following orders as a subordinate. The horrible, unrequited longing for...

He stops himself. The truth is, he was more shocked than anything that she had appeared again after such a long gap in his thoughts. When he left for New Mexico, they had fought rather bitterly about it. Not about the leaving itself, granted, but his rather insane request that she join him. Even now, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone what his thinking was there. She had made it clear from the beginning: once they crossed the line from psychiatrist and patient to... something else, it wasn't anything that could last. She was a married woman, and despite the lapse in judgment, the man she loved still bore a matching ring. Bruce was more like an occasional thrill that she'd foolishly allowed herself. Something that could be dropped at a moment's notice. And at the time, he agreed to let it only be that.

Then the weeks after the affair had bled into months. The visits to the hotel room she'd rented started becoming more passionate. And for the first time, they'd started to really talk. Banner had once actually laughed at the thought that if - and he was more than sure it was an if - the whole thing had been some elaborate way to coax deeper confessions out of him than in their initial psychiatry sessions, it was wildly successful. But Bruce did tell her everything he could've, damn near everything he'd hidden from even himself. And as he did, he couldn't help but enjoy memorizing the shapes of her body. Feeling the warmth of her skin on a winter's night. Watching the way her smile crept along her lips, making some sly joke at his expense if not her own. Turns out that the longer they got to know eachother, the more they realized that they were both screwed up - it just felt better to admit it when they were together.

The truth is, he'd become obsessed with her for a time. And as the path of making some kind of commitment made itself visible with the job offer in Albuquerque, she was far from ready to follow it. Maybe she'd never even really considered it in the first place. It was hard for him to know, even with the benefit of hindsight. But so much had changed in such a small amount of time that when push came to shove, Banner had never even thought about calling her. Not even to check-in. Not even to formally say goodbye, which he was so self-righteously indignant to do before he'd eventually left. Looking back on it now, all he could do was be relieved that she hadn't come. What their life could have even looked like in the face of the absolute horror that would follow.

And horror is exactly what had been waiting for him. The position in a think tank that had been promised to him was quickly turned into an active test. His expertise in radiation wasn't just theoretical anymore, despite being only a few years out from getting his Master's - it was forcibly real and very much crucial to success. And then there was the gamma bomb. The "Worldbreaker", as some had crudely dubbed it. A brilliant piece of work by a leading military technician named Sterns, the idea of the bomb was that, after enough fine-tuning, a controlled blast of gamma radiation could reverse cellular degeneration on a level most wouldn't have thought to even dream of. A cleanse of microbiomes that would jumpstart the body's natural ability to regenerate. With this type of breakthrough, it could've led to everything. Cures for every major cancerous disease as a serious advancement on available chemotherapy. Safe and effective treatment of Alzheimer's.

Of course, there was also the big one. A potential effect on cell receptors. The kind that, when compromised, would lead to certain psychotic disorders. Like the ones his mother had suffered with every day since she was a teenager. Like the ones Banner had started to suffer from himself in early adulthood. Even now, looking at his trembling hands, the good Doctor wondered how much of what he'd experienced over the last few weeks could be trusted. Had he really gone through the whole ordeal at Project Worldbreaker's unceremonious end? Was it even possible that he would be standing here if the project had actually gone as wrong as he remembered it, that rainy night in the desert?

Had he been tricked into suddenly seeing that other face in the mirror, staring back at him with nothing but hate?

"What in..."

Banner suddenly shot up from his seat upon hearing a noise. He'd been lost in thought for so long that he could tell the room had considerably darkened, bringing him closer to midnight than he'd anticipated. He wasn't sure of where his crude lodgings would be tonight, but at the moment, it didn't particularly matter: upon closer listening, he could almost swear that he'd heard someone breathing. Instinctively reaching for his bag, the Doctor retracted, realizing that he had no method of defense on his person. This was likely to be the first human contact that he'd made in weeks, and he was a stranger in a foreign land. He could have at least thought to pocket some kind of knife.

Instead, Banner quietly made his way through the public area of the bar, passing through a large cobweb and brushing off his shoulder as he moved. Whoever was there, they weren't making any attempt to flee. They also weren't making any real effort to be inviting. So either they were petrified of this man entering a place they didn't expect, or they were actively planning something. Bruce's mind raced with possibilities as he found himself in a dark, shadowy back area. About four to five poker tables sat infront of him, almost too difficult to see. Each table was scattered with cards and chips whose plastic had rotted.

Adjusting his eyes to the dark, Banner quickly realized that he hadn't imagined the breathing: someone was sitting at the table in the very back. Their features were almost impossible to make out with no working lamps, but they were tall. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and some sort of thick jacket. Bruce froze, unable to immediately decide what to do. If the person didn't realize he was there, scaring them wasn't the best course. But the figure seemed calm. Eerily so, given the circumstances.

Clearing his throat, Banner remained standing where he was. There was no reason to limit their distance, at least not at the moment. But the figure had to know he was there, and to the Doctor's surprise, it didn't seem to phase the stranger in the slightest. At least that made one of them.

"<Ah, well... am I speaking this correctly?>"

The Doctor wasn't sure of his grasp of Ukrainian. The stranger didn't seem to react to this, either. The natural inclination in Bruce's mind was that his grasp was very poor.

"<I don't know if you can understand me.>"

The figure seemed to raise their head, slowly.

"<I am... from America. I come here... seeking someone.>"

The figure is silent for a beat. Then nods.

Banner's worries about the encounter suddenly morph into some faint hope.

"<You... can understand. That's good.>"

Then the shape of the figure's hand becomes visible. Only just, still partially obscured by the jacket, but it reveals at least some life to a frankly unsettling figure. The hand places something on the table ahead of them. Banner looks at this, curiously, trying to make out what it is. An object that's very small atop some kind of a board that now sits revealed. The Doctor inches closer to see what it is, his curiosity briefly overtaking all rational thought, until he comes close enough to accurately discern...

A chess piece. A pawn, specifically.

Bruce quickly begins to piece things together. This has to be some kind of local. An old man, more than likely, who comes to this bar in the off hours and challenges other locals and passersby to a game. Banner even starts to make out that a full set is already at play, with each piece sat on their respective sides. It stands out for its pristine condition amongst surroundings that show nothing but age and disuse. Still, Bruce politely shakes his head.

"<Oh. I... apologize. This isn't what I... that is to say, I'm looking for someone.>"

The stranger takes the pawn they laid down and taps it against the table. Wordless, with no features still to be seen in the dark. Doctor Banner tilts his gaze, feeling a general unease begin to creep up in the back of his neck. Who the hell is this? Why does it suddenly feel so foreboding to simply decline a stranger's invitation to a simple table game?

"<They work in... I'm looking for a man of science. To help me with something.>"

Once again, the stranger takes the pawn. Taps.

Banner's unease quickly gives way to impatience.

"<I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else. I'm not...>"

Another tap. Bruce feels his fists clasp together, tightly.

"<Listen, old man. I'm not any kind of company you want.>"

Another, more violent tap. Banner feels the veins in his neck straining.

"<Stop. I'm asking you... I'm telling you to stop.>"

The stranger pauses, still holding the pawn. Bruce takes a deep breath, quickly trying to calm himself. Afraid of checking to see what the veins would look like in the light, particularly the color of their shade. He starts to feel a pang of remorse for being so short with what is likely a harmless local. For so easily crossing over the gentleness of uncertainty into almost a blindingly quick rise in blood pressure and an irritation that could spill into something worse. Something far more dangerous than the figure even knows.

Perhaps, Banner surmises, he's looking at this all wrong. He never minded a game of chess in the past, before things got so horribly dire that even a brief moment of levity and civility could feel like the building blocks for something to escalate. Banner slowly approaches even closer, his hand resting on the chair adjacent to the stranger's. Both virtually perched in a now pitch-black area of the room, they both quietly stare at nothing except a chess board illuminated by the trickling moonlight.

"<Maybe...>"

A few more moments pass. He pulls the chair out, and slowly sits down.

All of those weeks, running. Hurrying to one hopeless location after the next.

"<Maybe I could use the break.>"

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh, quietly starting to wonder where everything went wrong.

"<Life has been hell, lately.>"

---

A low rumble echoes across a military base. Ear-piercingly loud sirens have been going off for the last few minutes, too long for anyone stationed there to tell when it all began. A heavily armored military helicopter has already landed, and a fireteam has been deployed. Their orders were stressfully relayed by Colonel Glenn Talbot himself: breach the perimeter and find out just why direct combat from within the base itself had been entirely cut off. Clearly, something had happened - power had already been shutting on and off for fifteen minutes when Talbot got notice of potential seismic activity. Which wouldn't normally be worrying to him, as the area had been known for such a disturbance. But this was also one of the world's leading radioactive testing facilities, and with that volatile combination a potential reality, the mind quickly starts to wander.

That was why Bravo Team was here. Already in the weeds, as it were, Lieutenant Commander Emil Blonsky leads a squadron of six well-trained military sharpshooters onto the primary sealed entrance of the base. Men and women that he trained in Afghanistan, over a lifetime ago - all of whom he'd have gladly given his life for, given the chance. Individuals who collectively shared a history of weddings, funerals, births, and deaths. The fireteam would follow Blonsky into the fiery depths themselves if he commanded it, and he was well aware of such commitment.

Pressing the side of his sealed and armored helmet to activate the communication line, Blonsky is greeted with static that only grows louder as they approach. Given that they were all about to enter a closed-off radiation facility that had likely been compromised, the choice of attire - an advanced, state-of-the-art hazmat suit crossed with kevlar combat armor - seemed more than a little appropriate. And if it wasn't, Blonsky was going to have to convince Colonel Talbot to send a strongly worded letter to the boys over in Waynetech's Applied Sciences Division of Gotham City.

"Echo Team, this is Bravo Team. Come in, Echo Team. Repeat."

Giving his team the go-ahead maneuver, Blonsky continues to try and reach someone - anyone - inside the base who could still be alive as the forefront of his team, Sergeant Yuri, produces a set of large briefcases. Opening them, he and a fellow squad member retrieve a set of red and green override keys for the door. Nodding to eachother as they slip them into the exterior terminal, Yuri and the other soldier twists the keys in perfect synchronicity and watch as the blindingly crimson screen suddenly switches over to a brilliant emerald. A positive confirmation sound echoed through the above loudspeakers, and Blonsky turned to face the massive titanium doors leading to the underground elevator to watch them open.

"Steady as she goes. Single file, no separation. Maintain R-7 maneuver!"

"Sir, yes sir!"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Sir, yes..."

The doors hiss with a cloud of steam, finally opening.

What they find inside the elevator terminal is entirely unexpected.

The walls are stained with entire gallons of blood. Entrails line the ceilings. Freshly broken human bones are scattered across the floor. Faint screams can be heard from below, with moans of agony drowning them out. Blonsky's eyes practically bolt out of his head and his squadron stops dead in their tracks. A guttural shout roars it's way across the base, echoing up through the horrifically decorated chamber containing a now visibly destroyed elevator. The metal of it seemingly ripped apart with massive hands.

"I..."

Blonsky can't find the words before the situation quickly elevates into something much, much worse. Out of the corner of the fireteam's eyes, a large creature moves alarmingly quick from within a thick blanket of steam and vaults at them. The steam dissipates, revealing not only how massive it is compared to any human height or density, but that it's skin is a deep green. They barely have time to open fire at the new target before it's smashed into them, hard. Whatever it is, as Bravo Team is about to discover... it's angry.

Very angry.
.

---

There was a light clunk of metal echoing from just outside Rachel’s consciousness. The kid had grabbed a tin first aid kit from the warehouse. “Antiseptic, a bunch of bandaids...this isn't enough gauze. Why don’t they stock these things? Never mind the other guy in there also covered in blood, everything's fine, you got this you got this...”

“Just pull it out,” Rachel sighed, tired of his snivelling.

“Uh, I can’t do that. Its the only thing keeping your blood inside you right now.”

“Just do it!” Her eyes flashed red and her teeth grew sharper for just a moment. She felt his apprehension mix with fear and unease.

“Here goes nothin’!” Green mitts wrapping around the blade of ice, he began, “On three, okay? One, two-” SKRICH

Rachel’s shout of pain rang out. She saw stars where there were none. Raising her hand, she returned in to her wound, white energy once again stitching it back together. The teen boy watched in awe as the skin was healed. The black T-shirt was still gashed, and the blood was by no means replenished. “Why would you do that, whelp?” Opening her eyes she finally got a better look at him. His clothes were on the dirty side: a pair of jeans with tattered sleeves and a white T-shirt with golden hexagon logo. More curiously, his skin, hair, and eyes were all completely green, like he’d been dipped in a pot of St. Patrick’s ichor.

“Come on, you’ve seen it on TV, right? If you were ready you’d brace for it and it’d hurt even worse.”

Rachel scowled, “It hurts worse if you don’t see it coming, trash child.”

She smiled inwardly as she felt his spirits sink. That feeling was swiftly buried in a rush of alarm. “We gotta help that guy in there, come on!” Standing up, he reached his hand out. Rachel slapped it away before trying to stand. She didn’t make it higher up than her elbows could prop her up before she suffered a dizzy spell, collapsing back down. “Uh, sorry, just bear with me for a minute and then you can rest.” Rachel’s heart jumped as he reached his arms beneath her shoulders and legs, hoisting her up. Had the motion not further stressed her lack of energy, she might have tried to bite his throat out. Instead she was reduced to a wrathful glare, dark tendrils of energy emanating off her. He didn’t even register it as he lowered her down by the mage cut by her own magic. At this boy’s mercy despite all personal desire, she relented, raising her hand and using her magic to restore the disciple’s wounds. His slow, ragged breathing became a little bit softer.

Relaxing visible, the green mutant flopped down. “Alright. Not bad. What even happened here?”

“Better question: what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing better to do?”

“Oh my, how rude of me, I didn’t even introduce myself.” Running his hands through his messy hair, he flashed a smile. “Name’s Garfield, milady.” Before her eyes, he shrunk in form, becoming a striped shorthair cat with a grumpy looking face and more than a bit of pudge and as many shades of green as he’d been before. Turning back to himself, crouched in the same feline pose, he grinned, “I’m not voiced by Chris Pratt though.”

“...Unfortunate.”

“Well, if you must know, I’m a mutant who was part of H.I.V.E. until I got kicked out. I’ve kinda been homeless for a while. Been bumming some meals out here as a rat lately. Turns out Ratatouille was bullshit and they don’t have much of a sense of taste at all. I saw the lights go on, heard some banging, and thought I’d investigate.”

Rachel’s mouth twitched in disgust. It was all so absurd, so pathetic. This was the person who saved her? Pushing against the ground, she wrenched through the lingering pain and fatigue, sitting up properly with a twisted smile on her face. She began to giggle, then laugh, then cackle. “Little creature on this disgusting rock floating through space, digging through trash. Is that how you want to live? Pathetic.” His smile didn’t fall but, but she saw through him. “I did this. They were trying to stop me. You think you’re being helpful? That charity is a virtue?” Rachel took a dark shape. The shadow stretched wide, like two wings spreading. The beak of a bird pierced the air towards the heavens before angling down at Garfield, four red eyes burning down. Her voice, disembodied, sounded out, “So ignorant and blind. You really are just a rat in the dark scrounging at scraps better than any of you humans deserve. I’m impressed that you can live with yourself. How do you feign your happiness?” Like predator preparing to engulf prey, she drank in his emotions, waiting for the moment he broke. His sadness was like fine wine, his disappointment a classy buffet. But then the taste went sour as a sensation of pity came. The following spark of hope was like a spice of capsaicin to keep her tongue at bay.

He gave a smile, his pronounced canines on full display. Even as it concealed a deep pain, he still remarked, “I’m happy because...we have to be happy.”

The dark raven lingered for a few moments, before shrinking back. Rachel hadn’t moved, sitting in the same position, but her expression had returned to relative neutrality, her eyes narrowed. His broad platitudes did nothing for her except make her interest deflate like a dead balloon. With some difficulty, she stood, her balance faltering before she found relative stability.

Then she lost it. There was a rumble, easily mistaken for an earthquake. She fell into Garfield’s arms, the boy hovering by just in case of this exact possible outcome. They looked at the air as a white fissure seemed to erupt from nothing. The air seemed to drain from the chamber only to rush back just as quickly alongside a deluge of matter from nowhere. Black and white flesh materialized in high volumes, spilling out a lime green liquid. It bashed against the ground, more seeming to come.

Gar’s finger jabbed across the way to one of the fallen apprentices before he released his hands. “Get him outta here!” he called before pulling away. There was a low roar as he shifted into a humongous tiger, teeth snagging the disciple’s collar before he whipped his neck, flinging him to safety. Four legs pumping against the ground he hurtled to the next one, scooping him up and carrying him off just in time as another mass of foreign flesh crashed.

Feet leaving the ground, head pounding, she hissed, “Don’t order me around!” Despite her words, the girl so often lacking in self decided direction moved into action. One of the metal baskets she’d used early sprung to life, screeching across the ground and scooping up the disciple from the head and shoulders, pushing him along once he was mostly inside. The foreign substance crashed down, but the metal didn’t give, even as white robes became splattered in whatever Trigon-forsaken spew was making a mess of everything.

With everyone out of danger, Rachel and Garfield hung back as they waited for the chaos to settle. From her elevated point of view, Rachel saw a former being unlike any she’d heard of before. It seemed to have had at least 6 limbs previously, but was heavily dismembered, as though ripped apart. The appendages she could make out were either akin to tentacles with bumps like scales or nails, or the one remaining thin arm ending off in a double hand, four fingers on each. It’s skin was black while its inner flesh was white, whatever liquid its body possessed still dripping out. If there had been a head, it was missing entirely.

“Coooooool. Friend of Godzilla’s?”

Rachel sneered. “How so?” Floating a bit closer, she observed, “It’s not of this world. Or dimension.”

“An alien fell on us? I knew my animal magnetism would be more of a curse than a blessing.”

Rachel shook her head, ignoring him. “I’m not worried about what it is.” Eyes tracing a line across its wounds, she finished, “I’m worried about what killed it.”

With there being no sign of another incursion, Rachel considered her task. She had come here due to picking up on this location’s magical presence, operating purely on the objective truth of what she sensed rather than the assumption that such a mundane location detached from the natural world couldn’t harbor any sort of magical affinity. And judging by the coincidence of her arrival, the mage trio, and now this corpse from beyond, there was no mistaking that something was odd about this place. Off to the side, Garfield had turned into a bloodhound, sniffing the area around the body. Though she wanted to place her sigil and leave, she was pushed by her curiosity, floating closer to the body. Raising her hands, she opened her mouth, but all that came out was a scream. Bursting from the corpse a long head with a sharp beak clacked at the air, opening its maw to reveal rows of teeth. Without warning, it lunged at Rachel.

With a wave of her hand, a barrier of her dark magic appeared, the teeth tearing through the shield like it was paper. Rachel got away with a scratch, cradling her fresh wound with her other hand as she backed away, the parasite moving to lunge again. There was a rush of green. A lion swooped in, the larger animal holding the monster in its teeth. A heavy paw pressed down on its longer form and the lion stretched its neck, wrenching the pest’s face from the rest of its body. It twisted and tore with a sound more like that of rubber than flesh, but once it gave, its gore spilled out all the same.

Returning to his human form, Garfield asked, “You okay?”

Rachel opened her mouth to answer, her wound healing quickly enough with a bit of magic, but the sounds of writhing sent chills down her back. With pops and squelches, the massive corpse was peppered with more of the parasites, screeching as they engaged with the air, turning their beaks on their next victims.

The sun rises in the east as I lean against the balcony's railing and take a sip of my coffee. The smell of bacon wafts through the air from the open sliding glass door leading to the kitchen, Maria hard at work cooking breakfast for the family. I peer down at the traffic below, both the cars in the street and the people heading in and out of our apartment complex.

"Frank! Breakfast is ready!" Maria calls out from inside. I smile to myself and walk back into the apartment, setting my mug on the dining table and taking my seat next to Maria. Frank Jr. is tearing into his pancakes, his bacon already reduced to crumbs on the plate. Lisa doesn't share her brother's enthusiasm, picking at her bacon with a fork.

"What's wrong, baby?" I ask as I use my fork to cut into my pancakes.

Lisa lets out a heaving sigh. "I'm just not hungry, daddy. Can we go to the park yet?"

"Not until we've all ate."

"But I don't wanna eat, I wanna go play!"

"Well you're not gonna have the energy to play if you don't eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Without it, everyone's just a zombie." To emphasize my point, I loll my tongue out, close my eyes, and stick my arms out while groaning like a zombie. The kids giggle and Maria chuckles quietly.

Then everything goes to hell.

The gunshot right outside our apartment makes me jump to my feet, my chair sliding back into the wall as my hand reaches for the gun at my side- the one that isn't there. A man kicks the front door open and steps inside, a Beretta in his hand. Another gunshot and I feel a sharp pain in my gut, falling onto the table. It cracks under my weight and slams to the floor and I find myself staring at the ceiling.

I hear my kids screaming.

"FRANK!" Maria cries out.

Two gunshots.

The children go silent.

Maria wails in despair.

Another shot.

And then she too is silenced.

The man looms over me, crouches down and gazes into my eyes.

Then he stands and puts another bullet in my chest.

I'm falling into the abyss.

Dark clouds swirl around me.

I feel the icy cold grip of death, choking me out.

Pulling me deeper into the void.

And I welcome it.

Because then I can see them aga

*BEEP!*

My eyes snap open and I jolt up from my cot. My breathing is rapid, heart pounding, veins pumping battery acid. Every nerve in my body is on edge, every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action. I look around frantically, trying to find the man that just broke into my apartment and shot my-

Inhale.

Count to ten.

Exhale.

I'm in a warehouse. Not my apartment. It's been a month since my family was killed. Four days since the funeral. Three days since Billy the Beaut had his face rearranged. Two days since Timothy De Luca took a bullet to the brain. One day since the news broke that police officer Frank Castle was waging a one man war on crime as "the Punisher." And one minute since I got a text on my burner from Dave... Or Microchip, as he wants to be called.


I snap the flip phone in half and toss it to the side, pulling myself off my cot. I get dressed: black Henley, black cargo pants, black boots. I take a look at the kevlar vest laying on a table next to a can of white spray paint. Dave told me that I needed a symbol. Something to strike fear into every lowlife that stalks this city's streets when they see it coming.

And now I had one.

Volume 1 - Beggar Knight

---

Darkness. Eternal darkness as far as the eye could see. All Duncan could see was darkness.

When his slumber first began, his dreams were filled with memories of adventure and camaraderie with his friends. Visions of Camelot and riding through the forests of Albion. Echoes of laughter at banquets and moments of bravery during battle. The last thing he saw was his battle, and then darkness. He didn't know how long it had been since his world was filled with endless nothingness; he could barely remember the faces or voices of his friends. Would this ever end? Would he ever escape this labyrinth?

...Duncan...

A voice? Who was that? It seemed familiar. He couldn't quite tell who it was though...



Finally a break in the silence. He was sure he knew this voice, was it friend or foe? Perhaps a ghost haunting him from his past?



Merlin! It was Merlin! It had to be! Suddenly a sea of relief washed over Duncan. He was safe, or at least safer than he was alone in the darkness.

"Merlin!" Duncan's voice echoed into the void, his desperation clear. "Please, I can't wake up!"

The blackness seemed to pulse around him, as if reacting to his plea. Straining his mind, he tried to picture the old wizard’s face, the mentor who had guided him through so many trials. But the image was elusive, just out of reach. The darkness was relentless, trying to pull him back into its depths, but the voice of Merlin gave him something to hold onto, a lifeline in the void.

"Duncan…" The voice was clearer now, cutting through the haze. "Awaken, Duncan… it is time."

A bomb exploded in his mind. It was like watching the big bang from a front-row seat. Suddenly the darkness was overwhelmed and crushed by infinite light. Duncan could feel his senses returning, he tried to gasp for air, but instead of air, sand filled his windpipe.

"Merin...Please help me..."

"Duncan, your time has finally come, my knight. The world you know is gone, replaced by one made of steel and glass. But your destiny has finally revealed itself one more. Awaken, sir knight and find me. We have much work to do."

Duncan's eyes shot open and were met with blinding sand. He began to tear his way upwards through the endless sea of sediment, clawing to grab any sort of handhold as he felt his skin cut and tear against the harsh grains. Every movement was agony, his muscles screaming in protest after centuries of disuse. Where was his armour to protect him? All he had was his tunic, trousers and chainmail. His skin burned against the hot sand as it made its best attempts to drag him back down.

With a final desperate lunge he shot his arm up and broke the surface, and as if answering his last burst of energy a hand grabbed his and pulled him free from his underground tomb.

---

Ali adjusted his robe as his camel trudged along through the harsh desert heat. He reached down behind him to his pack, brushing his hand against the old, rusted service revolver as he grabbed his canteen and raised it to his mouth, unwrapping his face covering and taking a big swig of the precious liquid.

His eyes scanned the horizon, flat and featureless as far as the eye could see. Traveling like this, he sometimes wished for the harsh climbs of the dunes, just to break the monotony of the horizon. It taunted him with mirages, presenting an endless sea just out of reach. Finally his sight narrowed on a ruin in the distance. A smile grew on his face.

He approached the ruin and dismounted his camel. He raised a hand and began stroking his chin as he surveyed the ground around him. What was it they had told him? Look for the pillar in the sand and dig two widths left? He didn't have the time or care to be out here all day. God knows if he managed to save this fool by nightfall it would be even more of a nightmare getting him back. Ali retrieved the compact shovel from his pack and flipped down the head. A deep sigh marked the start of his digging.

An hour later and he felt like he was making no progress at all. If it wasn't for the money he might have thought to give up, tell them the fool was dead for good and try to haggle for half the pay. Just then a pale hand shot out from the sand, causing Ali to jump back with a fright.

He saw the hand slowly begin to sink back down into the ground and he reacted fast, tossing the shovel to the side and diving down onto his stomach to grab the towering wrist. With all of his might he rose to a crouched position and began to pull. A wrist became an arm, and then an arm became a head, and finally the upper half of Duncan's body was free. Each time, something new emerged from the sand Ali shot to grip it with his free hand, eventually pulling Duncan fully free and sending them both falling into the sand.

---

Duncan pushed himself up to his knees, coughing violently as centuries of sand hacked their way out of his lungs. Ali stared at him in shock. Despite his briefing on the situation, he had to admit he'd expect to bring back a corpse. Just how was this man alive? He had more sand in his body than oxygen?

Duncan whipped around, instinctively grabbing for the Ebony Blade only to be met with empty space where his scabbard should be. Panic flared briefly within him, his warrior instincts kicking in as he prepared for a fight. His eyes darted around, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, nothing to use a a weapon. Nothing to use to his advantage.

Ali stepped back, raising his arms to show he meant no harm.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy there, friend,” he said, his voice calm but edged with caution. “I’m not your enemy.”

Duncan breathed heavily, sand still falling from his mouth with each ragged breath. He took in the man before him. He didn't have the appearance of a thief, or a scoundrel. His pristine white robes gave him an almost angelic glow. Perhaps this was a guardian sent from above, perhaps Merlin had provided an accomplice to assist in Duncan's revival. Whoever the man was, he had rescued Duncan from his sandy grave, and for that he had earned at least a few moments of the knights trust.

"Who are you?" Duncan managed to cough out, his voice raspy from centuries of disuse. "Where am I?"

The man lowered his hands slowly, pointing to his own chest casually as he spoke.

"I am Ali." His tone suddenly casual. He gestured out towards the seemingly endless expanse of the desert. "In general? You are nowhere. In particular? You are in the grand desert of the Wadi Rum. I am Bedouin, my people have traced and tracked these sands since the sun began to rise in the East."

Duncan’s mind struggled to piece together what had happened and where he was. The last thing he remembered clearly was the final battle against Mordred, the clash of swords, the flash of betrayal, and then... darkness. How had he ended up here? And where was Merlin’s voice, the one that had guided him out of the abyss?

"Merlin…" Duncan’s voice was a hoarse whisper. "Where is Merlin?"

Ali hesitated for a moment, moving to pick up his shovel before replying as he moved over to his camel and slid it back into his pack.

"Merlin is waiting for you my friend. But we must move quickly, the desert is a dangerous place, especially after nightfall." He took his canteen from his bag and unscrewed the top, handing it to Duncan.

Duncan's joy was palpable as he peered into the strange plastic container and realised it was filled with water. He began to chug the water before pouring it over his face and eyes. He hadn't even realised the canteen was empty, and Ali stood, mouth agape, at the sight before him. The white-robed man stomped his way over to Duncan and snatched the canteen from him. Attempting to pour some water out onto his hand, he was only met with droplets.

"That was our only water, you fool! We have days of journey left!" He stormed back over to his camel, angrily shoving the canteen into his pack. "We will need to refill it at a well now." He grumbled, pulling a sun-stained map from inside his robe and studying it. He scowled as he mounted his animal and held out a hand to lift Duncan onto the back of it. "Come, I can get us to one before the sun sets if we are quick."

---

Duncan's mind was awash with confusion. Confusion about where he was, about when he was, and about who he was. It was like he had all the pieces of the jigsaw but couldn't fit any of them together. Sparse images of faces he didn't recognise were all he could struggle to visualise. The only thing he could see clearly was the sneer of Mordred during their last confrontation. That was a memory that never left him in the darkness, but not one he chose to remember. He snapped himself out of his daydream, speaking up for the first time in ages.

"Ali, how long has it been since I was put into my trance? What year is it?"

Ali glanced over his shoulder with a curious eye and a puzzled eyebrow raise. Just who was this guy? What year is it? What kind of a question was that?

"It is 2024, my friend." Ali gave a straightforward answer, he wouldn't receive a reply from Duncan anyway. A feeling of shock rippled through him, as if he had been struck by an arrow. Had he really been asleep that long? What must the world look like outside of this desert? Eventually he worked up the words to speak up.

"And what of Camelot? Who rules her now?"

Ali almost stopped the camel at this, turning over his shoulder to look at Duncan direclty in the eye.

"My friend, I have no idea what you are speaking about. Camel-lot? Is this some place to buy camels? Whatever, it doesn't matter. We are almost at the well." He rounded the haven of water in the middle of the barren wasteland and they both dismounted, Ali handing duncan the canteen to fill and he himself taking a small tin cup from his pack.

Ali began pulling up the rope in the middle of the well until the bucket full of water reached his hands. He poured water into his cup and handed it to Duncan to fill the canteen. Sweet relief filled them as they drank. Duncan looked up at the endless blue sky, then traced his gaze down to the horizon, where the familiar mirage of a blue ocean taunted him in the distance. Then, just as he was about to look away he saw a mast poke up from this ocean. A small black dot that was gradually growing larger. He hit Ali on the arm with the back of his hand and pointed.

"Ali, look. Another of your 'Bedouin' friends?"

Ali squinted his eyes staring into the distance trying to make out the figure. They both stood in silence as the rider got closer. He was on the back of a camel, making its way towards them at a casual, almost slow pace. His pitch black robes provided a striking silhouette against the blue of the sky.

"Yes, yes. I know this man very well. He will assist us with the rest of the journ-" He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widening as they locked with the riders own pale set. A small gasp escaped his lips as he hurried back to his camel, shakily retrieving the rusted service revolver. Duncan looked at him, confused.

"Ali! What is the meaning of this?"

Ali didn't reply as he moved back into the riders line of sight and stood side on, extending his arm forward and pointing the gun at the black figure. A shot rang out, breaking the droning silence of the desert, and Ali's white robes were stained red as he fell into the sand. Duncan froze, he knew not what manner of spell this was, but he knew without any sort of weapon he was useless to fight the sorcerer. His eyes drifted from Ali's body up the rider as he approached.

The man casually rode toward Duncan, cradling his Jezail rifle over his arm, not even bothering to hold the reins of his camel. The animal, adorned in beautiful red cloth, instinctively kneeled, allowing the man to gracefully step off onto the sand below. Without a word, he strode over to Ali's lifeless body, looked it over briefly, then lifted and inspected the revolver in his hand. He glanced up at Duncan.

"He is dead."

Duncan hesitated, every bone in his body screaming at him to leap at the man and strangle him.

"Yes... why?"

The man undid his face covering, revealing dark skin that contrasted against his piercing pale grey eyes and a well-trimmed beard with a heavy mustache. A coy smile played on the corners of his lips.

"He drank from my well."

"As have I."

"You had my permission."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"He saved me from the desert. He was guiding me out of this place!" Duncan's voice wavered with anger.

The man jerked his head in the direction of Ali's corpse. "That?"

“Yes, that.” His voice tinged with malice.

“He was an outsider with no business in the Wadi Rum. No business drinking from our well.”

“He told me he was Bedouin, that his ancestors had ridden these sands for millennia.”

The man let out a laugh, stepping closer to Duncan and holding up the revolver, displaying its rust and disrepair.

“No Bedouin would ever let his weapon fall into this state. The man was a stranger to this land. I’ve been tracking him for days and only left him alive to lead me to you.”

Duncan's mind was racing. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. The man in black mounted his camel again and began to speak.

"My name is Mehdi. Your ally Merlin sent me to find you. Unfortunately, it seems Mordred also caught wind of your whereabouts and sent his own agent to intercept before I got to you. Come, take his camel for your own. I will take you to my tribe. We must reach there before nightfall."

He turned on his camel and began slowly trotting off the way he came.

Duncan rubbed his forehead, overwhelmed by the events. How could he trust anyone after what had just happened? He looked over his shoulder at the endless horizon. As far as he could see, he had two options: wander aimlessly forever or take another risk with Mehdi and potentially get out of this hell.

He climbed onto the camel and gently spurred it forwards to catch up to Mehdi. He rode next to him, the relentless sun beating down on the two as they made their way further into the desert.

STAR LABS // CENTRAL CITY

"Call me Flash

Iris looked around at the dumbfounded looks. "You know, cause I'm super fast, like a Flash?" Iris shrugged. "Oh come on all you smart scientists and I'm the only one who got that-"

Harrison cleared his throat loudly. "I'm more impressed with the fact you just ran through a wall."

Iris turned back around to look at the wall she had just come through. "Straight through the wall?"

He nodded. "Straight through the wall, come on back into the speed lab-" Iris followed as he turned around and left the room.

"Are you seriously giving me grief for coming up with the name Flash when you call the room you were testing my speed in the Speed-Lab? Iris rolled her eyes as she followed him in. The treadmill lay in tatters, many of the wires leading to where its various rollers and moving parts were sparked and fizzed. She winced slightly, the whole piece of equipment likely had not been cheap. "Sorry..."

She was surprised when he turned around with the biggest grin on his face. "Don't be." Once he latched onto the computer he never turned around, it was his sole point of focus. "This data is fascinating. You seem to be channelling some form of energy, I've never seen anything like it-"

"You're not telling me anything new here..."

He flapped her away with his hand behind his back. "Science takes time, go save something or something. I'll contact you once I've had some time to analyse the data."

"Yeah about showing up on my doorstep-"

"Oh don't worry about that, I scanned the frequency used in that earpiece the moment you entered the facility. If I need you I'll just tap into that."

Fed up of rolling her eyes for the day, Iris took off. Neglecting to comment on the number of liberties that Harrison appeared to be taking, she had barely made it home before she collapsed on the bed and a dreamless slumber took her.

It's 5:49 AM when I pull up to the front of the school bus depot. I hop out of my car and rush to the entrance, not even bothering to take the keys out of the ignition or shut my car's door. The ding-ding-ding of my car's warning chime fades to silence as I step inside the bus depot, trying to formulate a plan to stop the buses from leaving. I look around and see-

... There's no one here.

No one except an old man sitting in a chair and nodding off behind a counter. I walk up to him and clear my throat. "Whuzzut... Huh?" he mumbles, before looking up at me and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Hey, ya ain't got a face. What's up with that?"

"New razor, close shave." I rub a gloved hand over my chin. "I have questions about today's bus schedules."

The old man shrugs. "Ain't no schedules today. Holiday."

"A holiday?"

"What, you been livin' under a rock? Gaston Hupert's birthday. Kids is off."

I turn away from the man, looking at the buses all lined up. There's a gap between two of them where another bus could fit, an oil stain on the concrete confirming my suspicions. When I look back at the old man, he's reading a magazine. "But a bus did leave here."

He grumbles a bit and lowers the magazine. "Never said one didn't. Just said there ain't no schedules."

"Where was this bus heading?"

"Downtown, Carver High. Assembly there, think it was Spicer or Spencer or somethin'. Superintendent."

"When did it leave?"

"Bout ten minutes ago."

Shit.

"Did anyone except the driver come in this morning?"

"Some Mexicano and a little weasel lookin' guy, bout thirty minutes 'fore the driver came in. The Mexican was yappin' my ear off about this and that, couldn't tell what in the hell he was talkin' bout half the time. Think the little weasel had to go to the bathroom or somethin' cause I didn't see him till they was leavin'."

"Did they get into a car after they left?"

"Big green panel van."

"Did they follow the school bus?"

"I wasn't payin' no attention to 'em after that. I was tryna read." He gestures to the magazine in his hand.

Alright. Wasted enough time here. There's a bus heading downtown to Carver High. Two men, maybe more, in a green panel van tailing not too far behind it. They have to make sure their job is done right, probably have to blow the bomb manually with a remote detonator. I leave the depot and hop back into my car, slamming the door shut and stomping onto the gas pedal. I race down the street at 60 miles an hour and take a right turn. Tot and I had rigged my little VW Beetle up with a Porsche engine, racing shocks, and a Ferrari transmission. The little Bug that could, I like to call it. Proving its use once again.

The sun is rising now. Not much time left to stop this. They have a ten minute head start on me. I keep my foot pressed down hard on the gas and breathe in as slowly as I can. Keep my heartbeat steady. The Man is panicking and scared and hopeless. If he can't stop this, he won't be able to live with himself. The Butterfly is telling him that he can do this. Stay calm. Feel the ebb and flow of the world. Let relaxation take you.

Relax...

... What the fuck am I thinking? Relax? They're gonna kill kids! Those bastards are gonna blow up a Goddamn school bus!

I slam my foot even harder onto the gas, the pedal flush with the floor. The speedometer needle is quivering, hanging at about 80 miles per hour. I drift around a corner onto Carver Street and then I see it. A bus parked in front of Carver High School, a green panel van parked on the opposite side of the street. I slam on the brakes and my car skids to a stop about thirty feet from the van. I burst out of the car and sprint for the van.

The passenger window is down. I see a tanned man sitting in the passenger seat, fiddling with a remote in his hands. He's turned away from me and looking at a scrawny guy with glasses and a face like Steve Buscemi. "Fuckeeng goofball, Junior!" the man says. "You parked us too close! Back up and-"

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence as I wrap an arm around his neck and pull him out of the window. I take the detonator from him and throw it down an alleyway behind us. I use one hand to hold him by the collar while the other one beats down on the side of his head like a drum.

The back doors of the van fly open and four men climb out of it, sprinting to the bus. "Junior, grab the fuckin' grenades! Get on the bus!" one of them yells out. Frenzied, the driver grabs a box from the back of the van and gets out, rushing for the bus as well.

Shit.

I drop the man and his limp body falls to the ground. I take off after the men, who are already boarding the bus. The driver, Junior, is almost on board when I grab him by the back of his shirt and throw him to the ground. The box goes flying out of his hands and a dozen grenades spill out of it, all over the road. I kick Junior in the head, hoping that'll be enough to keep him down, before sprinting onto the bus.

There's about thirty kids on here, screaming in fear and backing away as close as they can to the windows. One of the men whips out a pistol, waving it around, but I'm already behind him. I grab him by the wrist and twist, the pistol falling out of his hand as I throw him to the floor.

I'm stomping on his face when I feel a fist hitting me in the back of the head. My hat flies off my head and I stumble a few feet forward, right into a railing that my head bounces right off of. "Shit!" I twist back around, ignoring the throbbing headache from the two hits, and take in my surroundings.

The aisle between the seats is spacious, spacious enough for two of the men to stand side by side. The third man steps over the body of his buddy and throws a wild haymaker at me. I bring my arms together and block the hit, before sending my elbows into his chest. He stumbles back and I lift a leg to kick him in the gut, sending him to the floor. He tries to pick himself up but I send a kick into his face, hearing a sharp CRACK as his nose breaks against my foot.

The last two men charge me together. Right as they reach me, I duck down and spin around with a sweeping kick. They fall to the ground, banging their heads on the hard leather seats as they do. I smirk a little. Never fails. I rise to my feet. One of the men tries to stand but I just kick him right in the nads and he falls back over.

I snap my head over to the bus driver who's looking at me in mixed horror and astonishment. "Got a phone?" She nods rapidly. "Call the cops." She whips out a cracked iPhone that's about six generations out of date and dials 911.

Then a grenade crashes through the windshield and rolls to my feet.

I scramble to pick it up, already fearing that it'll explode and take my arm off. I toss it back out through the hole it came in from and it explodes in mid-air, flying shrapnel shattering the rest of the windshield. I look outside to see Junior standing in front of the bus with a few grenades in his arm, already grabbing another one and getting ready to bite off the pin.

Thinking fast, I sprint and leap forward, grabbing onto the top railing and swinging myself through the hole where the windshield once was. I twist to my side and keep my legs straight as my shoes collide with Junior's face in a drop kick. I slam onto the asphalt with a grunt as Junior falls to the floor, the grenades flying out of his grasp and onto the road.

I pick myself up and start massaging my temples. God that railing was solid as a rock. I look back to the bus driver who's rattling off the details of the crime as quickly as she can. I can already hear sirens in the distance. Time to take my leave. I get back into my car and peel off as quickly as I can.

I'm heading home. Not my apartment. Not Tot's. But where I grew up.

I try not to think of the medical reports about a wailing baby boy covered in cigarette burns and bruises left on the footsteps of a hospital. Try not to think about the older boys that would twist my arm around my back and hold it there until I was sobbing. Try not to think about the loneliness, watching all the younger kids walk out with a new and happy family.

Try not to think about how it looks the exact same. Old red brick. Wooden sign that hasn't been touched up in decades. Saint Catherine's Home For Orphaned Children. My home. I can hear the sounds of children playing in the yard around back. It brings me back to another time. Not better. Not worse. I release the removal gas and take off my mask before getting out of the car and heading inside.

One of the sisters approaches me as I walk into the lobby, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet as she walks. "Are you here looking to adopt, sir?" she asks.

"No. I came to check up on a child. Myra Fermin's girl." I say.

The sister's eyes widen. "Jackie? She's in the yard playing with the other children."

"Can I see her?"

"Yes, sir. Come with me." The sister gestures for me to follow and I do so. Would've known the way with or without her help. "You'll have to be patient with her, she's... Special. She doesn't always understand."

I smile to myself. "You don't have to explain it to me, sister."

When we get out into the yard, I can see about a dozen children running around and playing tag. The only one that isn't is a red haired little girl, maybe about nine or ten, sitting on a swing set and mindlessly rocking back and forth as she watches the other children. I already know who she is before the sister confirms it with a finger pointed right at her. "That's her."

I leave the sister at the back door and approach Jackie. She notices me when I'm a few feet away, her eyes widening as she looks up at me. I kneel down to be at eye level with her. "Hi, Jackie. My name is Charlie. Your mother told me about you."

"Hi," she says, smiling a little. "Can you push me mister Charlie?"

I smile back at her. "Sure."

In the coming days, I'll be fighting. For my life? For the good of the city? I'm not too sure. But I know that there will be violence. The Man is ready for it, welcomes it. The Butterfly is trying to think of ways to keep everyone safe from it. I have a long and hard road ahead of me. But for now, I'm pushing the little girl on the swing, listening to her laugh with a joy that melts my heart.

WADE WILSON/DEADPOOL

Issue 2: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

Location: New York City

Wade sat in his apartment wearing nothing but his favourite red and white spotted underwear. He knew he could wear this since his roommate was blind. He could wear a chicken outfit, and she wouldn’t even notice. He was watching his favourite show, Golden Girls. “Oh, Sophia, you get 'em with your zingers.” While watching the show, he was reminded how much Al reminded him of both Sophia and Dorothy. He was then rudely interrupted by his phone going off. Scrambling to get off the couch and slamming his face into the floor. He quickly got back up on his phone and grabbed it from the nearby table.

“Hello.” He was breathing heavily, feeling like someone had stuck needles down his throat. Holding his phone near his ear while still watching TV.

“Hello, is this Wade Wilson?” The voice on the other end sounded quite deep, and Wade assumed the person was overweight.

“It might be; who is asking?” Wade responded, annoyed he was interrupted.

“My name is Wilson Fisk. I heard of your services and would like to extend your employment for a little job.” Wade couldn’t see, but the fat man leaned in his massive chair while conversing with him.

“What is the job? And how much is it going to pay?” He asked, to which Fisk quickly responded.

“I will have a limo sent to your location, and you will be brought to my headquarters in the Upper East Side. There, we will discuss the details further. I will see you then, Mr.Wilson. Have a good day.” The phone clicked as Fisk hung up.

“Wait a minute, was that the Wilson Fisk!” The good voice spoke up.

“I think so; he’d pay us a ton for this little job. We should take it.” The bad voice responded, and Wade nodded.

“Sounds like a good idea.” Wade got ready and went outside. He was surprised that the limo Fisk mentioned was waiting for him. During the car ride, he annoyed the driver by asking him to play his Celine Dion CD. He was taken to a nice-looking building and led to the top floor.

---------------------------------------------------

“Welcome, Mr.Wilson; it is nice to meet you finally. I have heard a lot about you and your work. If I may say so, I am quite your fan.” Wilson slowly stood up from his chair and began walking towards Wade. Each step made the floor shake, and Wade feared it would collapse. “Well, let’s get down to business. I have a little job for you. I need you to drive my son to a meeting with some business associates.” He pointed his fat finger towards a blonde man wearing a white suit standing at the corner of the room.

“Cute guy.” Wade said, nodding his head. "So I gotta drive your son to the meeting? And how much will I get paid?” He turned his head towards Fisk.

“Pretty much, it is a simple job. And the pay will be ten thousand dollars. And if you do a good job and bring my boy back safely, I will add another ten thousand to the reward. Does that sound like a deal?” Fisk held out his hand, waiting for Wade to shake it.

Wade looked at him, then at his hand, thinking the whole job would be easy and peasy. “Done. But I want one of those chauffeur outfits.” Shaking Fisk’s hand.

---------------

Wilson’s son Richard and Wade soon got into the limo after Wade got into his chauffeur outfit. While driving Richard around, he was annoyed by listening to Vennessa Carlton’s A Thousand Mile. While parked during a red light, he noticed some motorcycles right beside him. At first, he didn’t seem to mind but quickly got into gear when he saw them pulling out firearms. Putting the limo into high gear and going through the red light down the street. Noticing that the attackers were getting closer to them. Firing their weapons at the limo.

“Who the hell are these guys.” Wade lowered his head to avoid getting shot.

“There, the De Meo mafia from New Jersey. They have been wanting to kill my father for years now. They must have figured out my meeting somehow.” He said he found his gun in his jacket pocket.

Richard started to roll down the window and began firing back at the shooters. Deadpool, meanwhile, was swerving and trying to avoid traffic. Slamming into various stop signs, light poles, and other cars. Trying and failing to lose the pursuers. It seemed more were coming as cars filled with thugs approached the limo.

“ You'll need to take the wheel, handsome, while I get these guys off our back.” Wade rolled down the window, waiting for the confused Richard to take the driver’s seat. Getting out of the window and jumping into the car beside them. Smashing the glass on the passenger side door and getting into the car. Slamming the passenger’s head into the car's panel while grabbing his gun. The song Milkshake by Kelis played

Shooting the thugs in the back that were firing their pistols at him. Ignoring the pain of being shot and firing back at the thugs. "Hi, quit ruining my suit; my best friend made this." When they were dead, he quickly approached the driver. Using the passenger as a human shield and kicking him in the face repeatedly. Shoot the driver in the balls before throwing him out of the car. This vehicle is driving closer towards the limo and up the highway. Following behind them and slamming into a few motorcyclists, running them over.

Again, rolling down the window and jumping towards the limo but landing upside down on the sunroof. Quickly getting right side up, which took a little while. Noticing that they were trying to open the passenger side door. Moving over and stabbing the few thugs that tried to get inside.

“Here, use this.” Richard handed Wade what looked like a China Lake grenade launcher.

“Holy schnike!!! Where the hell did ya get this?” Wade was in awe and took a moment to admire the weapon.

“Got this from the old man while he was visiting in Nam.” Wade fired the weapon, making the remaining thug’s cars explode in a huge fireball.

The two found themselves at the designated location where the meeting was. Wilson Fisk was standing near the entrance with some of his thugs. Wade's chaffeur suit was completely tattered. A big smile was on his face. “Glad to see you again, Mr.Wilson. You did very well on my little test. You don’t need to worry about the limo; it was a rental.” He pulled out a large wad of money and handed it to Wade.

“Hot damn, now I’ll be able to get a shit ton of chimichangas.” Wade counted the money to ensure everything was there. Putting it between his buttcheeks before continuing to speak. “Well, thank you for your service. It was a pleasure working with you.”

“I was wondering if you would be interested in another job. This job would pay a lot more than the last one. Three times more, in fact.” Wilson held up three fingers and mentioned that more money piqued Wade’s interest.

Volume 1 - Beggar Knight

---

Duncan watched as the sun began to set, the camp emerging before them. An army of tents made from various exquisite fabrics had small lanterns hanging down from their entrances, almost mirroring the sea of stars that enveloped the night sky above them. Mehdi had cradled his rifle the entire journey here, and Duncan noticed him checking over it and testing the sights as the sun began to sink behind the horizon. The darkness. He had met only two people since waking up and both of them seemed terrified of whatever happened at night in this desert.

"You must meet with the Sheikh. Merlin's contract is not just for your benefit and I fear he will test you before allowing you to fill your end of the bargain. I will vouch for you, but he is a harsh man. Fear not my friend if you must face the night, you will not do it alone."

Duncan shifted in his seat. Nothing ever came easy.

Duncan’s muscles tensed as they approached the sprawling camp, a glimmering array of colorful tents. He could feel the weight of the desert's silence, only broken by the distant rustle of fabric in the wind. The people here moved with purpose, and all eyes seemed to track Duncan as he dismounted from his camel.

Mehdi nodded toward a larger tent at the center of the camp. "The Sheikh awaits. He is a man of tradition, and honor matters here more than anything. Show him respect, and all may go smoothly."

Duncan, despite his fatigue, straightened his posture as he took in the full spectacle of the camp. This was a place that thrived on tradition, on ideals, and honour. It reminded him faintly of the court of Arthur, or what he could remember of it. He nodded towards Mehdi, signalling to him he was ready for whatever test they had prepared for him.

As they approached a guard standing post outside the large tent opened up one of its entrance flaps, revealing an opulent interior. Cushions lined the ground, and lanterns cast flickering golden light across rich tapestries that adorned the walls. The scent of burning incense filled the air and guards stood watch with their hands on their weapons, eyes suspicious and alert.

At the center, seated on a lavish cushion surrounded by his warriors was the Sheikh. He was an imposing man—tall, broad-shouldered, and with eyes sharp as a hawk’s. His beard was thick and black, streaked with silver, and his robes were pristine and decorated with intricate embroidery. His eyes tracked Duncan like he was prey as he approached.

As the two came to a stop in front of the Sheikh, Mehdi stepped forward, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and bowing slightly. "Sheikh Omar, I have brought the knight as promised. He is here to fulfill his part of the contract."

The Sheikh's eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to Duncan. He stroked his beard in thought before speaking. "A knight you say?" His voice was deep and commanded respect. "You look more like a beggar in borrowed armour. In my land, a title is not enough to prove your worth. Strength, not stories, will be the only thing that can save you out in the night."

A murmur of laughter erupted from the crowd of warriors that sat in various parts of the tent. Duncan remained resolute, but he could feel every eye on him, weighing him, judging him. He knew better than to protest the insult. After all, maybe the statement had more truth than he'd like to admit. In his time under the sand he'd lost everything, all of his equipment, even the Ebony blade. He was no more a knight than Mehdi.

The Sheikh allowed the silence to continue on for another few uncomfortable moments, struggling to maintain his neutral expression as a playful smile broke onto his face. He rose his hand and beckoned over one his men in the corner. A giant man rose from his seated position, towering over those around him as he lumbered his way in front of Duncan. His arms and legs were as thick as tree trunks, with scars like roots tracing their way across any visible part of skin he had showing.

"If you wish to prove your worth, you will fight Omar. He is one of my finest warriors. No weapons will be permitted. Only then shall we see if your courage matches your title, Beggar Knight."

The murmur of the crowd grew louder, some of the warriors chuckling among themselves. Duncan stood his ground, his eyes locking with Omar's. The warrior’s grin widened as he sized Duncan up, he was two, maybe three heads taller than the knight.

The two turned to leave the tent to begin the test in the middle of the camp. As Duncan began to leave he glanced over to Mehdi, who gave him a slight nod and a wry smile. This was a test, a chance to earn their respect and prove his place among them.

As they reached the centre of the camp a crowd gathered. Farmers, women, children, and of course the Sheikh and his warriors all formed a large circle around the two. Echoes of giggling and chatter reverberated through the desert as the two stood staring each other down, bathed in the light of the campfires and the moon overhead. The Sheikh took his place on an elevated seat and with one word the brawl started.

"Begin."

Without hesitation, Omar rushed at Duncan like a rhino. His speed was surprising for a man his size, but his dexterity was not. Duncan managed to sidestep the initial charge, his reflexes rapidly coming back to him after his slumber as the adrenaline pumped its way into his bloodstream.

But Omar was relentless. Duncan could understand why he was one of the Sheikh's best warriors, he would have made a stalwart ally in the fight against Mordred all those years ago. He did his best to dodge or block the thunderous punches Omar rained down upon him. He could feel his arms bruising and his guard weakening as he waited for the opportune moment to strike. Just then, Omar overextended his arm on a wide swing attempting to get around Duncan's guard, Duncan bobbed and weaved the punch, circling around the giant as he drove a heavy hook into his ribs, causing Omar to stumble backwards, his hand instinctively clutching the affected area.

The crowd gasped in surprise, and for a second a look of shock and anger spread on Omar's face, before being replaced with an even wider grin than before. Finally, a challenge.

"Not bad for a beggar." Omar said, his voice a low growl. They locked eyes again. Duncan was smiling too now. It had been too long since he'd had a good fight.

The battle continued, Omar's brute force becoming less of an obstacle as Duncan started relieing on his agility and speed more. He kept mobile, attempting to tire Omar out before delivering a knockout blow. He could feel his muscles burning as he moved. If this went on any longer he might collapse, but he pushed through every ache and pain.

Finally, his chance. Omar, breathing heavily now, lunged wildly at him. Duncan dodged once more, grabbing the huge arm and using Omar's momentum to trip and throw him to the ground. He quickly held his foot on his throat, preventing him from rising as Omar lay on the ground, that grin never leaving his face. The crowd fell silent for a moment, unsure whether they should cheer or attack the knight for besting their guardian. The silence was broken by the Sheikh, laughing as he parted the crowd and approached, clapping all the while.

"Good, good, Beggar knight! No one has bested Omar in years, and certainly not a foreigner." He slid a dagger sheathed in an ornate scabbard from his belt and handed it to Duncan. Duncan held the knife in his hand. "Now, as is tradition, I give you my blade to finish the battle. Kill Omar and you will be one of us, we cannot allow one of our best to be defeated by a foreigner, even one who is a knight."

Duncan's brow furrowed at the order. He held the sheathed dagger in his hand as he looked down at Omar, whose grin was now replaced with a look of shock and pleading. Duncan's eyes glanced down at the hilt of the dagger, and he slowly unsheathed the blade, staring at the metal as it gleamed under the light of the moon. Intricate patterns decorated the dagger, images of battles long since fought and animals ridden by mighty warriors told a grand story Duncan didn't know. Before the knife was fully unsheathed, he slid it back into its scabbard. Looking up at the Sheikh with fury in his eyes he tossed the weapon onto the sand in front of the desert leader. He removed his foot from Omar's throat and stepped back.

"I will not. Your man fought valiantly and it would not be right to murder him in cold blood. I would give my life as forfeit before following this crude request, Sheikh."

The crowd gasped once more, and a rumble of conversation broke out. Duncan stood tall, catching a glimpse of Mehdi once more, that same wry smile playing on his lips as he stood, arms crossed watching what was unfolding. The Sheikh allowed the noise to go on for a while longer before he raised his hand and everyone fell silent. Another few moments passed before he spoke.

"Beggar knight, I give you the mercy of sparing your life in exchange for his and instead you would spit upon our millenia old tradition? So be it. The Bedouin are honor bound to Merlin's contract. But Omar must die." He picked his dagger up from the ground, quickly unsheathing it and thrusting the blade into Omar's stomach. The giant let out a painful gasp as his eyes widened and he fell to the floor clutching his midsection. One last death rattle escaped his lips as his eyes closed and he fell to the floor.

Sensing what was about to happen, the Sheikh's guards leapt onto Duncan before he could finish leaping at the Sheikh. Duncan was an inch away from the Sheikh's face struggling against the robed men holding him back. The Sheikh regarded him with disdain, before laughter eminating from the ground next to them broke the tension. The Sheikh let a smile pass his lips, before joining in on the laughter as he helped Omar up, the familiar wide grin on his face as he looked back at Duncan's confused expression.

"Beggar Knight," the Sheikh said, chuckling as he showed the retractable dagger, pressing its tip against his palm to reveal the hidden trick. "A small test of your character. You are strong, yes, but now we see that you are also honorable."

Duncan let out a slow breath, his tense muscles beginning to relax as the Sheikh’s smile remained. The guards released him, and Omar clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, his laughter growing louder.

"You, my friend, are truly a great warrior!" Omar exclaimed warmly. "It’s been too long since I’ve had such entertainment! Not since Mehdi outshot me in a hunting contest."

Duncan glanced at Mehdi, who gave him a knowing smile and slight nod. The crowd dispersed as the Sheikh led Duncan away from the center of the camp. “Come,” he said, gesturing towards a larger tent near the outskirts of the camp, "Tonight, we feast. You’ve proven your strength, now we shall see how well you fare against our wine."