1150HRS. Steve fell like a brick. Using his momentum to twist himself, he positioned the shield between him and the ground. Tucking as much of his body behind the vibranium disc as possible. He winced as he slammed against the ground, with enough force that would have at the very least put a normal man out of commission, at the worst, there would have been substantial internal injuries. Pushing himself onto his feet he made a beeline for the logging section of the yard, he had never known exactly where it was. Even in his early days in the prison, the old warden had had the wherewithal to keep Steve away from actual weapons - this was before he had later been banned from any form of prison labour that required a tool other than his two hands.
Getting over to the woodshop he looked over his shoulder. He couldn't see any guards yet, however it was just a matter of time. Picking up an axe he ran over to a pile of kindling. Resting the shield down at an angle, he raised the axe above his head with two hands and then brought them together crashing against the shield. There was a mighty clang as the axe collided against the impenetrable shield, sparks went flying everywhere. The kindling barely smoked. At this point he could hear shouting, he didn't even dare look back as he raised the axe again.
With the second strike he stripped paint, and the kindling started to smolder. The third time a small flame appeared, dropping the axe he crouched and began to blow. The flame took, and without hesitation he grabbed one of the uncut logs and using the axe head carved an archaic symbol into the wood. Putting the wood onto the fledgling flame, symbol side first, he almost lost his eyebrows as the flames suddenly grew in intensity. Instead of the pitiful little fire, the pile of kindling was now ablaze in a bonfire of impossible size. A shockwave followed a boom, he heard guards knocked off their feet as he pushed himself against it.
Steve grabbed his shield, and with all his hope he cast it into the flames. The last thing he saw before it disappeared was the paint the Russians had defaced it with being burned away. He got a glimpse of the shield as he knew it, before it disappeared into the flames. From what he had been told, many, many years ago about this ritual is that he could have stepped through the flames themselves without injury. Steve couldn't do that though, there were good people here. Good people who didn't deserve to be here would either leave together or would all remain.
He turned to see the current Red Guardian, Nikolai, walking towards him. Steve raised his hands in the air, a sly grin on his face. "So, that concludes our training for today-"
SMACK.
Steve saw the punch coming from a mile away, he allowed it to take him onto the ground and he rolled over as Nikolai was upon him. Grabbing Steve by his jumpsuit in the middle of his chest to pull his torso up, Nikolai right arm was raised ready to strike.
"What did you do?"
"I just had a little fire-"
SMACK
"What, did, you, do?"
"Honestly I just wanted to cook some marsh-"
SMACK
Steve could feel the heat in his cheek. He winced through the pain. "Fine, you want the truth?"
The small metal chamber was barely lit, monitor displays blinking under the flashing of a red light. A few bars and meters seemed to be low, but the lone occupant of the cramped space was paying them no mind whatsoever. Sitting in the chair that made up nearly the whole of the room, the red haired young woman had her eyes closed. Her hands, feet, and waist were trapped in heavy metal restraints, and a collar with a number of tubes bound her to the seat by her neck. There was liquid in them, but it was growing thin. With a pneumatic hiss, they released, the girl slumping in her chair. She had just begun to stir when the chamber began to open. Water spilled through the hatch, the girl waking with a start and a gasp. Taking stock of the situation, she moved decisively, kicking off from the seat and into the water. Split between deep blue and light, her arms and legs pumped until she broke the surface, a blue sky awaiting her. Green eyes squinting against a yellow sun, she treaded water for a moment before breaking from its surface entirely. Water dripping from her tall form, the silver trim of her purple leggings and leotard caught the sunlight, her long red locks swaying with every turn of her head, splashing water about. She ran her hands across her body, testing her silver bracers before raising her hand. Her eye glowed green before her hand did, a matching blast of energy vaulting into the sea. Relaxing a little, she ran her fingers through her hair before her hand found itself on the back of her neck. A small black diamond had been etched into the top of her spine, a brand in the skin. She frowned, falling back a little, floating in parallel with the unknown salty sea.
Koriand’r of Tamaran was free without being free. Her prison ship had malfunctioned, her captors branding and sealing away their cargo. She could only infer that she’d been sent off to the nearest habitable world to be retrieved later. How long could it have been? Her life support could no longer sustain her and thus had to release her before she could be retrieved. Her heart sank as she imagined the Gordanians swooping upon her, a fear that had her eyes shooting open, only to get another view of the wide empty sky, lacking in floating cities or starfleets. She wondered what other prisoners had been released onto this world, but that thought was quickly replaced by a curiosity: what was this world?
Righting herself relative to the world’s gravity, she shot upward, eyes scanning the horizon until she saw a mass of gray. By the time she reached the landmass, green trees and fields of gold stretching before her past a sheer rock wall. Touching her heeled boots to the ground, though to foliage was of different shape and color, it was still reminiscent of the lush green fields of her home that hadn’t been torn by war. Growing curiouser and curiouser, she took to the air again. A strange black streak caught her eye, weaving through the landscape. It was hard like stone, presumably processed. She didn’t care for its scent, like heat and oil, an archaic fuel source used by Tamaran in its history. She hoped it was an artifact: a remnant of this planet’s past civilization. But Kori was perhaps too hopeful. Her optimism was shattered with a blaring noise like the roar of a makango. She looked up to see a bright, two eyed beast with a shiny red shell barreling at her. She was out of the way in moments, soaring through the air as a painful shrieking noise was joined by an acrid scent even worse than that of the stone. A head poked out of the side, Tamaranoid (albeit with much darker skin tone and hair color), looking around, before they got out and kept up their search, checking a ditch on the side of the pathway. Kori, more than wary, kept to the blind spot, using the local’s vehicle as cover or moving high out of sight, until they lost interest and returned to their vehicle, moving on with their day. Koriand’r realized her mistake with a giggle: it was a road for transportation of these slow vehicles. If the inhabitants of this world didn’t have much better, then Koriand’r would have little hope of leaving without the Gordanians finding her, but it also meant their information network couldn’t reach here, allowing her some respite. With the road as her guide, finding civilization was no difficult matter.
-----
Koriand’r didn’t grasp any of it, but she didn’t mind it one bit. The air was filthy from the exhaust of their vehicles (more common than their people, it seemed). She was hesitant to use her means of understanding the local language, unfamiliar with the culture, but it may be a sacrifice she’d have to make. As she walked along the roads, she caught plenty of attention and stares. The small rectangular devices in their hands were often pointed her way, making her nervous. Tamaranians weren’t exactly the most well traveled in the reaches of the galaxy, so the girl standing above the average man or woman (much taller in some cases) in clothing much more upscale than the cheap and flimsy fabrics they were wearing was catching attention Kori couldn’t blame them for. This regard wouldn’t have been too unusual in plenty of neighborhoods back at home. Tamran had a number of fashions, but as royalty she was expected to keep to a certain array of colors befitting her position, and had been captured while in her battle dress, which would catch plenty of attention back home in any place other than the battlefield or palace. There was a bit of envy as she looked over the residents of this world in the varied colors and shapes of their outfits. Had she the time or money she’d have liked to try some out. A few of the folk tried to speak to her, so she smiled at them, hoping it was still a social sign of good faith on this world, and not, say, and expression of fear or loathing. At the very least it didn’t seem to aggravate any of her small interactions.
Just as she was starting to feel a bit tired mentally, her stomach’s hunger catching up with her, she was accosted by a slightly shorter man with dark coverings obscuring his eyes and slicked back yellow hair. His words were beyond Kori’s comprehension, and he was waving a paper card at her her with more text she couldn’t read. She couldn’t quite tell his mood: was he elated, or angry? And if he was angry, was there a problem? She felt a burning sensation on the back of her neck. It was not the tracking chip installed: she knew it was purely a psychological response of her own. Keeping out of arms reach, she floated upwards to a few gasps and shouts. The man’s jaw and card dropped to the ground. Kori didn’t linger on it for too much longer, floating off to an area with more quiet and hopefully more food. If they had nothing edible for her on this world then she wasn’t sure how she was going to cope...
The planet’s star was rather high in the sky, Koriand’r watching it lackadaisically from her seat on top a small building with a faint rancid smell in a secluded area of nature. Her mood was rather sour, her constant skywatch based in a reasonable fear. Yet, there was something more at odds with her. The masses of people roaming about, the vague interest in herself despite being a foreign body, the vast resources that seemed to be in use: these small, ignorant peoples were peaceful. The shadow of war was not on this doorstep. Had a neighborhood of Tamaran had this level of peace, it would be far louder with rancorous celebration in joy of life. They were simply existing, going about a day to day in ways Kori could hardly assume or predict without war to prepare for in one way or another. She was still hesitant to engage in her knowledge transfer, still afraid. She’d never done it with one outside of her race before. The Gordanians would attempt to bite of her lips should she try. Those of this world were complete unknowns: what would she learn about them? What would they learn about her? Were there ways they could call the Gordanians after all? Was trying to understand these people courting fate, or was she just meandering about in the face of inevitability?
There was a cry in the locale language. Kori looked down to see a red shape heading her way. Snatching the disc out of midair, she investigated it, not recognizing the scratched and faded artwork emblazoned on it. The material was stiff, but not completely inpliable. She didn’t test it, as the young juvenile of this planet would have likely been distraught if she were to break it. She tossed it back like she might a Nuvanian fragmentation grenade, but it only flopped awkwardly, not moving the same despite vaguely similar shapes due to the weight not matching at all. The child laughed. Koriand’r smiled, glad that there was yet another constant, another familiarity between the two cultures so distant. She didn’t understand his words but she watched him mime the proper throw. A brown beast roughly his size stood on all fours next to him, covered in fur with a tongue lolling out, creating a stupid yet cute expression. The boy had no fear of it, so she assumed it wasn’t harmful. He threw the discus properly, and it sailed through the air until his beast reached it, having run straight for it and nabbed it from the air. The boy wrestled with him for a moment, taking the disc back before tossing it Koriand’r’s way. It went a little wide, so she floated from the rooftop and caught it before it touched the ground. The boy yelled out in fright, or surprise perhaps, looking at her with wide eyes but not reacting negatively. Koriand’r took a chance, giving the disc a good toss. In her great strength, she used a bit too much force, the disc catching the air and flipping upwards. Grabbing it again, she used a bit more grace, making an elegant toss and finally letting it fly, the beast running after it. With smiles and laughter, the three of them continued to play with the disc until Koriand’r’s stomach reached its breaking point. Once again she’d been humbled, forced to beat back her own hubris and ignorance. Aliens as they might be (to her of course, to them it was she who was the alien), her fear was the thing most holding her back from connecting to any of them. The future was full of reasons to be anxious, but all of life was transient, and it should be enjoyed as much as possible.
Returning to the city’s hustle and bustle, her nose picked up a rare scent that wasn’t noxious. Observing a metal podium with lines of heat radiating off of it and a covering on a pole shielding it from the rays of the planet’s star, she saw that the woman’s creations would indeed be consumed. Approaching, she apologized in her native language before leaning down and taking the middle-aged woman by the shoulder, leaning in and meeting lips. She let out a cry of fright, arms flailing before Kori pulled away. “I do apologize! Yo esperaba my behavior to be inappropriate, pero era necesario.”
“What is wrong with you!? ¡Capulla!” Though the words were harsh and angry, Koriand’r felt a wave of relief, glad to simply understand them.
“I wish to procure one of these artículos alimenticios.” She pointed at the flat surface where cylinders of processed meat and foodstuffs of other shapes and colors cooked.
The merchant looked at her with wide eyes. “Then pay, stupid. There’s a line! ¡Apúrate!”
Koriand’r’s face fell slightly. “Este establecimiento not accept account numbers from Interplanetary Banking?”
The stare she received might have gouged through the infamously dense iron heart of a Pholathian draz mole. “Fucking LA. Oi, officer! Can you get rid of this puta imbécil? She’d holding up my business.”
Sorting through the words she couldn’t quite parse, Koriand’r started to get nervous as a blue uniformed man approached, black coverings over his eyes (a fashion choice Koriand’r was finding it hard to take in good faith). He looked up and down the tall woman, before asking, “What seems to be the issue?”
“I’m simply seeking food...”
“She can’t pay, make her leave!”
The hand of a fourth party reached over, grabbing the pole of the large shield and pulling it aside, the whole podium on wheels taking a tumble, the lady letting out a cry before scampering a few feet away. A handheld device beeped repeatedly, its dull metal pointed straight at Koriand’r. A pair of red eyes met hers from above. She was within the bounds of typical height for those of this planet, but this man was easily two heads over her. His skin was white like a Pax’ilian wraithworm, black markings about his eyes. A vest hung over his hair speckled chest, and his belt buckle’s emblem was in the shape of a fanged skull. The shock of long, coarse dark hair hanging back shook as he moved his head down to her with a leer. He cracked a smile. “Kond olo, bastiche.”
Iris groaned out of frustration, then threw her hands up in the air before bringing her hands down from her forehead till her fingertips rested on her chin. Iris was sat with two laptops, a tablet and her phone at her desk, each with various searches. Google, Bing, LexSearch and even AskJeeves. More tabs open than she dared admit, and yet there was no trace of this mysterious speedster that she had seen in the video.
Even YouTube had failed her, the only trace she could find of the speedster was in the documentary footage, and nobody on any forums she found seemed to notice him. She had gotten quite a lot of flame for suggesting she had noticed something other people hadn't. 'Typical liberal women, thinking she;s so much better than us men who are experts'. The doorbell rang, and she ran up and checked the peephole. By the time Barry noticed the door was open, Iris had already sat back down at the desk with her cup of fresh coffee.
"I will never get used to that."
Iris smiled. "I'm not used to people showing up unexpectedly at my door." Barry rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.
"Yeah, sorry about that, he's a good man I just didn't expect-"
"The famed Harrison Wells to break several laws and code of ethics and track me down?"
He chuckled awkwardly. "Well you are truly fascinating-" Barry walked over and took a seat in the living room. "-scientifically I mean." Barry leaned back in his chair and looked over to the work she was doing, the various freeze frames and the forums.
"Any luck on your speedster?"
"Argh-" Iris spun around in her chair. "Nothing. No reference anywhere. Nobody else has even noticed him." Iris passed the tablet over to him. "That's the best screenshot I can get of them."
Barry squinted as he looked at the photo. "This is just a blur?"
Iris let out a sigh. "I know! I can see him when I play the video, but I can't pause it fast enough." Barry was about to speak, but Iris beat him to it. "Yes, I understand the irony. It's a technology issue."
"So no leads?"
Iris shrugged. "Kind of?" She picked up the tablet and slid it over to Barry. "Victor Sage. He was the archive researcher for the documentary. He wrote a bunch of pieces for various newspapers until he became blacklisted after a particularly scathing article about the Mayor."
Barry nodded. "I remember it. Wasn't that well over a year ago?"
Iris winced. "That's the kind of part of the lead-" She leaned over the top of the tablet and swiped on the screen. "-he worked for Starrstruck Media for a short period and then, went missing... and is still missing."
"So you want to solve a mystery, by finding a missing person?"
Iris stood up, pacing back and forth. Needing to burn off some of the nervous energy. "It's not ideal, no, but I can't find anything on any of the other people credited as part of the production. He hasn't been reported as dead, so I'm hoping that he just went underground, trying to fly below the radar."
"I mean, I can see if I can pull up anything at the precinct. See if a report has been filed."
Iris stood up and walked to the closet in the far corner of the room, using her speed she quickly stripped down, and pulled on her 'super suit'. Throwing other clothes into a backpack, zipping it closed. She couldn't help but blush as she realised that she had just stripped down to her underwear, and changed, in front of Barry. Not that he had seen anything but a blur, but still.
"Going a trip?"
"Well I'm not going to figure anything out here, I'll chase some leads down in hub city-"
"As the Flash?"
Iris shook her head. "No, I'm just fed up of losing sneakers and clothes, and I have a shift tomorrow so-" She shrugged. "-May as well use what I've got."
"Cheat." Barry chuckled, standing up and clapping his hands together. "So we've got a mission?"
"We've got a mission, I'll call you from Hub City."
The desert nights had grown familiar to Duncan. Two weeks had passed since his arrival at the camp, and in that time, he had come to understand the rhythms of the Bedouin way of life. The oppressive heat of the day and the biting chill of the night were now part of his existence, woven into the fabric of his daily routine.
He no longer felt like an outsider. The initial wariness from the tribe had given way to respect after his duel with Omar and the days spent training with Mehdi. Duncan had proven himself as a warrior, but more than that, he had shown the tribe that he could adapt and could learn their ways. The black robes he now wore had become a symbol of that acceptance, as well as his past. He had learned to ride a camel as the Bedouin did, to navigate by the stars in the vast desert, and even to partake in their communal rituals. The nights spent around the fire, listening to the elders' stories, had given him glimpses into the Bedouin soul; their connection to the land, their fierce independence, and their deep-seated traditions. Though the world beyond the desert was foreign to him, here, he felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t expected.
He felt comfortable. Almost too comfortable. Fleeting thoughts went through his mind of a peaceful life spent with the tribe. He'd wandered alone almost all his life; why not do it with a group of fellow wanderers?
And yet, amidst this feeling of serenity was an undercurrent of anxiety. Something unspoken, but ever present in the cautious glances exchanged between the people around him as the sun dipped below the horizon. Duncan had noticed it in his first few nights, and picked up on their expressions growing more worried and frantic as the days ticked on. Every time he asked Mehdi about it he was met with a non-answer or even ignored.
Duncan sat around a newly made fire near his tent with a few of the other tribespeople, adjusting the sights on his rifle as he listened to them chat around him. The sun was just beginning to set as he glanced upwards and saw Mehdi and Omar approach, beckoning him over to join them. He rose to his feet, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he began to walk alongside them.
The air was cooler now as the three men walked toward the outskirts of the camp, the fading light casting long shadows across the dunes. Duncan could sense a shift in the mood, something heavier in Mehdi’s usual cool demeanor. Omar, too, was uncharacteristically quiet, his normally fierce gaze fixed ahead and his boisterous personality unusually quiet, as though watching for something Duncan could not see.
They reached a small rise overlooking the camp, a place where the wind swept freely across the desert, and the sounds of the tribe’s evening rituals were muted by the vastness around them. Mehdi stopped and turned to face Duncan, his expression serious. Omar remained a few steps behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his scimitar.
Mehdi began to speak, his voice low and steady. "Duncan, there's something we haven't told you. I must apologise, but we didn't want to put too much on you all at once, but it concerns your contract." He exchanged a glance with Omar, who gave a slight nod.
Duncan crossed his arms as Mehdi spoke, watching intently as he explained.
"You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?" Mehdi asked. "The way the tribe becomes restless as night falls, the way we keep our fires burning longer than usual."
Mehdi's words hung in the air. Duncan raised a hand to stroke his chin for a moment, letting the question linger for a moment. He nodded slowly, trying to piece together what Mehdi was getting at. "I've seen it." Duncan said. "I've seen it since I got to the camp. What have you not been telling me, Mehdi?"
Mehdi hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the darkening dunes. "There is more to your contract than just helping around the camp. There’s a reason Merlin sent you to us first. A reason tied to the desert, to the creatures that haunt it. Duncan, your end of the bargain involves more than just being found. You are here to help us fight the Ghul."
"Ghul?" Duncan repeated, his brow furrowing. "Another tribe? I will not shed innocent blood for you Mehdi."
Mehdi raised his hand to stop Duncan's speech. Omar shook his head, finally speaking up. "They are not a tribe, Duncan, they are not even human."
"Not anymore." Continued Mehdi. "They are not human, but once they were. Cursed spirits twisted by dark magic, driven by an insatiable hunger for the living. They lurk in the desert, waiting for nightfall to hunt."
Duncan's hand moved instincitvely over to the handle of the mace the Sheikh had provided him, hanging off of his belt. "You’ve known about this, and you didn’t tell me?"
Mehdi nodded solemnly. "We had to be sure you were ready. The Ghul are no ordinary threat. They are drawn to blood and death, and since you’ve come here, we’ve seen signs that they’ve taken notice of you."
"Taken notice of me?" Duncan echoed, suspicion tinged with frustration. "Why would they care about me?"
Mehdi stopped for a moment, searching for the correct words. he exchanged glances with Omar once more. "As I said, they are drawn to blood and death." Mehdi Explained. "It’s like a beacon to them. They sense warriors, battles, they can smell death. And you, Duncan, have a history soaked in it."
Duncan frowned, the pieces slowly falling into place. His entire life had been marked by violence, by the sword. Now it seemed even here, in this new world, that shadow followed him. "So what do we do about it?" he asked, his voice steady, despite the storm of thoughts racing through his mind.
Mehdi exchanged a glance with Omar. "We fight," Omar said simply. "We’ve fought them before, and we’ll fight them again. But this time, we have you."
"Fire," Mehdi added. "The ghul fear it. And iron—iron can wound them. We’ll prepare the camp, strengthen our defenses. But we’ll need you, Duncan. Merlin sent you here for a reason. He believes you’re the one who can turn the tide."
Duncan took a deep breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He hadn't chosen to come to the desert—fate had thrust him into this unfamiliar world after a millennium of slumber. The sands had been his awakening, but now they were to be his battleground. A part of him still reeled from the disorientation of it all, but another part, the part forged in the fires of battle long ago understood what needed to be done. Even if this was not the life he had expected or wanted to return to, it was the one he now faced.
"If Merlin believes I’m the one to fight these things," Duncan said slowly, the words feeling heavy on his tongue, "then I won’t run. I never have."
Mehdi placed a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, gratitude and determination in his eyes. "We’ll stand together, Duncan. You’re one of us now, and tonight, we’ll show the Ghul that this desert belongs to the living, not the dead."
Together, they turned and descended back into the camp. The fires were being stoked higher, and the tribespeople moved with purpose, reinforcing the perimeters, gathering weapons, and tending to the camels. A tense energy filled the air, the knowledge that nightfall would bring something far more dangerous than darkness.
As Duncan helped with the preparations, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging amidst the uncertainty. These people had accepted him, fought beside him, and now they looked to him as a protector. He wasn’t just a relic of the past anymore; he was part of this fight, this moment.
The night would bring battle, but Duncan had faced countless nights like this before. And he would face this one the same way, as a knight ready to defend the living from the dark.
The humvee rolled to a slow stop in front of the barrier; Marty rolled down the driver side window, and waited patiently for the guard in the booth to stand from his cushy chair and attend to them. Sitwell tapped his fingernail on the glass of the passenger-side window as they waited, still carefully watching Jubilee in the reflection of the side-mirror. She was slightly hazy; he figured the glass was in need of a wipe. It was a humid day, after all.
The guard arrived at the window and Marty greeted him warmly, pulling his wallet from his inside jacket pocket to flash his ID. There was some low muttering between them that Jasper didn't pay attention to, and then Marty leaned over to fish around in the glove compartment. "He needs your ID." Marty said in a low voice from somewhere uncomfortable close to Jasper's lap. "Excuse me?" Marty pulled back and sat upright again, thrusting a fistful of papers - Jubilee's transfer paperwork - toward the guard. "He needs your ID too. Security's tightened up. What with the world going a bit...crazy lately."
Jasper tutted. "The world's always been crazy." He said, but fished out his ID anyway, passing it to Marty to pass to the guard, who inspected it thoroughly before returning it back down the chain, along with handing back the paperwork. The guard returned to the booth, Jasper returned to gazing languorously out the window, and Marty rolled his back up as the barrier rose and the humvee rumbled to life and pushed on toward the base proper.
"So you're not W.H.O. after all." Chirped a voice from the back, a peculiar mix of spritely and sullen. "Hm?" Jasper said, only half paying attention as Jubilee leaned forward, pointing that accusatory finger of hers again toward him. "You're not W.H.O. You lied." "W.H.O?" "You. You're S.H.I.E.L.D." Jasper smiled a small smile only to himself, still looking out the window. "How d'you figure?"
Jubilee sat back, pouting and folding her arms over themselves. Jasper had a talent for being irritating, but he also enjoyed knowing he was being irritating, and she tried hard not to give him the satisfaction. "Marty's S.H.I.E.L.D, and there's more of a mentor-mentee thing going on than colleagues-from-different-organisations vibe." "That's just my innate and hard-earned seniority." "This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, too, and they're awful cagey about outside personnel - which is why Marty had to give the guard my transfer papers." "I've won them over with my natural charm and charisma. They let me in for the good of staff morale." "Plus, when you handed over your ID, it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge."
Jasper's smile dropped, and he tilted his head to meet Jubilee's gaze in the rear-view mirror. "And how did you spot that?" "Saw it in the passenger side mirror when you pulled it out, and the driver side mirror when Marty handed it to the guard, and the booth window reflection when he checked it." Jasper raised his well-practiced eyebrow. "That's a good eye you've got. Your friends call you Columbo, too?" "The explorer?"
Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, Jubilee smiled, pleased to be biting back. "No, the- the detective. On TV. Great at solving mysteries. Non-chalant." "Oh! Like Benoit Blanc?" "Who?" "Blanc. From those thrillers. Daniel Craig?" "I don't go in for British film too much. And I never liked spy movies." "No, not Bond, Bla- wait, you don't like spy movies?" "Can't say I've ever cared for them." "But you work for S.H.I.E.L.D! You're a spy!" "Exactly. The movies get it all wrong - car chases, shoot-outs, bad cocktails. It's actually just lots of paperwork." "You still lied about who you work for." "Ah, well. That's the one thing the movies get right. Lots and lots of lying."
As John stared into the eyes of the murderous animal, all he could think about was the circus he now found himself in. He wasn't sure what to expect when his first 'mission' right out of the coffin was looking for some hairy beast in the forest. He was amazed by his renewed leg and with that miracle coupled with the not-so-subtle hints from his coworkers, John had been duped into believing he was actually going to have a confrontation with Bigfoot. FOOL John was feeling pretty stupid to say the least. All this Bigfoot turned out to be was a circus bear with a penchant for walking upright and being too comfortable around people. That being said, the giant looked anything but gentle at the moment as it thrashed at its container and tried to get its claws on John again. FOOLHARDY Again. How had he survived the bear attack let alone wrestle it into that cage? John smiled as he turned away from the cage and ran his hand along the large gash in his suit. Whatever those eggheads at ARGUS did to him made him a new man. He had a new lease on life and, as foolish as he felt, he felt better than ever physically. BACK TO YOUR TASK, HERO "Back to base then? Seems like Whinnie's ready to go back home." John asked an ARGUS agent, furiously tapping away at an old tablet and reacting with an eye roll to John's joke.
"No dice Bat Lash. The brass uptop want you to go with the other agents to bring the bear back. It's good to have the poster-boy seen saving the cat from the tree so to speak."
"Are you messing with me? All the quips and bringing the bear back to the circus? No way they want me on-" SILENCE The agent just gave John a stern stare, never ceasing his typing. Match his gaze with a glare, John sustained it for a couple moments before breaking off and heading back towards the bear cage that was now being hoisted onto the back of a truck. The bear, now succumbing to the sedatives it had been shot full of, was sluggishly still pawing at the lock on its cage but to no avail. On his way by, John smacked the bear's hand back inside its cage in frustration and hopped up into the passenger seat of the truck. SMARTEN UP. SHOW THEM YOU CAN FOLLOW ORDERS
An hour or so later and no closer to civilization, the top of the main circus tent came into view. John's sour attitude had mellowed out and he'd settled into the motions; drop off the bear, look good for onlookers and maybe make it back to base in time for movie night.
The circus itself wasn't much to gawk at once you got closer. From afar it was all spotlights and stripes, a real throw-back to the 1930-something circuses people think of when you say the word 'circus'. People (mostly adults at this hour) went about their business as the government vehicle drove down the well worn path clearly intended for foot-traffic.
"The animal handler's supposed to meet us behind the big tent." the driving agent chirped in John's direction. "We'll just help move the bear over to it's enclosure and make tracks. Shouldn't take more than a couple minutes." MORE OR LESS. LIKELY MORE. THERE IS THE STENCH OF SORCERY HERE. John just nodded along, giving a smile out the window at the naturally curious crowd. Something about this place felt off to John though; maybe it was still all the supernatural bigfoot-hype making its way through his system but that didn't change the fluttering feeling he was getting deep in his gut.
Finally pulling around to the back of the large big-top tent, John was out of the truck and out the door before it had fully come to a stop. With a confident stride, John met with the man who he presumed to be the animal handler and who had emerged from a dilapidated RV. SHOW-TIME. "You found Balo! Thank goodness he's safe! When I let the officers know he escaped I was sure I was just going to be getting his remains but here he is!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Despite his thanks, Bonnie's focus was more on the bear, giving John a polite out to look over the odd man. Standing at just around 6 feet, Bonnie was ripped as shown by his open coat (sporting a nametag written in cursive) and lack of shirt underneath. A fine but thick slathering of short, un-impressive hair layed on his tan, leathery head which also sported his mouth that drooped into an odd, toothless but open smile and he basked in the presence of the bear. After getting his quick fill of gawking, John snapped himself back to the task at hand; branding. VERY PERCEPTIVE. "Of course not. If there's any shot to help one of God's creatures get back home safe and sound, USAgent'll take it." VERY PUERILE. Bonnie finally turned his attention to John asking: "Who's-"
The dead sprint from the neighborhood of Forest Hills to Midtown High was...Well, actually, the running part wasn't much of an issue for the Unbeatable (enough) Squirrel Girl; in any other circumstance, she'd probably enjoy her high-speed romp from rooftop to rooftop, hopping to and fro, free as could be. Sadly, she was on quite the time crunch, and even that was build upon the assumption that the bell she'd managed to hear wasn't heralding the start of class, but rather, that it would soon. Otherwise, she was already screwed.
It had hardly taken Doreen any time at all to clear the three-block distance from her neighborly rumble with the Hippo all the way to her high school. It honestly surprised even her, given that hardly a minute ago she felt like she'd gotten sent flying off a tilt-a-whirl. Though now, the true test came to be shown. "Okay, um...Now where could I...?" Her sharp gaze narrowed to the schoolgrounds from across the street, perched on a rooftop shared only by a few noisy pigeons. She could change up here, probably, but even if she was well out of sight of most normal people, imagining changing out her clothes in the wide open like this was a complete no-go. Besides, she'd still have to cross the road to get into the school in that case, and at normal person paces no less! Nope, out of the question. It'd have to be somewhere at Midtown, where no one could see her change, no one would see her leave (or at least she may have plausible excuse for leaving said space), and that it wouldn't arouse suspicion if a student popped out from there.
Her first thought was the school's own roof, but she shot that out just as quickly. It had the same problems as this one, and even more, there wasn't a guarantee that the rooftop doorway would be unlocked, and she wasn't eager to have to bust down a door just to get to school...The back of the school might work, but she knew some other kids would definitely hang out there, even if class was already started. Wait!
Her attention to the task at hand was shot when Doreen realized this was a golden opportunity to see what the situation at the school actually was, and...Judging by the student traffic still at the front, it looked like classes hadn't fully started yet. Most people were getting a move-on though, which bode poorly for her. Her Chemistry class was on the second floor, too...Maybe there was a spot where she could undress and quickly hop to one of the windows and slip in? Without...Anyone noticing...On the ground or wherever she 'slipped in' to.
...
"Doreen? Are you okay? You've been quiet for a bit."
"...Tip, I think I really stink at planning."
Tippy-Toe chittered to herself a bit, upset about Doreen's quickly declining mood, until an idea of their own struck them. "Well, when you can't come up with anything, you usually just handle things like we squirrels do. Maybe that can help? At that, Doreen tore her gaze from the school to her shoulder-bound companion with an incredulous look. "What? Okay, Tippy-Toe, I know that can apply for a lotta stuff, but I don't see...How... As she spoke, her attention returned to the school, and gears began to shift in her head as her natural exuberance seemed to be returning with an equally giddy grin. Nuzzling her face to her dear companion's, she spoke with joy in every word. "Tip, you're a genius! I know what I can do, and it's really stupid, and that's exactly how I operate! Still... If only for a brief moment, her expression went downcast once more, but it was pushed aside by a shrug from Tippy-Toe.
"It's fine! I know that if people saw you talking with me, you'd get weird looks. Humans aren't ready to learn about the other smartest mammal in the room yet. Central Park, like usual?
She grinned. "'Course! I'll meetcha there!"
With that, the pair went their separate ways for now, however temporary it was. As for Doreen, she had an incredibly stupid stunt to pull off.
Patiently waiting for most of the students milling about the front of Midtown High to filter through, she bounded from the rooftop and into a particularly foliage-dense tree that decorated the front of the schoolgrounds. From there, she got to work. Changing outfits inside a treetop was a...New experience, but she managed it as fast she could, and even more importantly if there were still lingering students, as quietly as she could. Now the next part? That would be the real stupid part.
Peeking her head from the leafy fortress she'd landed herself in, she made sure there was no one immediately around, and then zeroed in on her target; second from the far left window, her Chemistry class. She shifted her body, tensed her muscles, and envisioned every frame of the movement, then made the deft leap to the bottom of the windowsill. She could only pray no one had noticed her do that, because she at least had a very dumb cover story ready for the rest of this.
Quick to put on the facade of a girl who looked as if she were struggling for dear life, she rapped against the window, catching the attention of one of the students. It was Charles Weiderman - or, well, most people in school called him Charlie. Granted, 'most people' were also the sort who pretty much tormented the string bean of a boy. Doreen wagered that he might be the literal bottom of the social totem pole in Midtown High, and that was saying a lot.
The skittish young man made his way to the window, staring down in abject horror and confusion at what he saw. "D-Doreen?!" Still feigning difficulty in her falsely compromising position, she grunted out a few words. "Hrrgh! Y-yup, that's me! Window...Please?" There was a moment of hesitation; probably from the fact that most of the class would've been undoubtedly staring by now, and that's before a girl drops in via window. However, biting down any of his doubt, Charles opened the window and gave her a hand. In all honestly, his 'assistance' was about as helpful as someone trying to wedge her through the window frame with a stick, but Doreen put a little extra elbow grease into her performance to make it look like his efforts helped bear fruit as she flopped herself out to the cold floor of the Chemistry classroom.
By the time she stood up and dusted herself off, huffing and puffing a bit to still sell the moment, it was apparent that most of the class had now turned their attention on her. Worrying about that later! She immediately pivoted her gaze to the front of the classroom, and wasting not a moment, began reciting the last part of her plan. "Miss Chase, I'm so so SO sorry! I was late, and in a hurry, so I thought "Hey, Doreen! You've got some moves! Maybe we can climb faster than we can run!" So I just started climbing and climbing and then....And then you're not in the classroom."
It had taken most of her pre-planned dialogue to realize the titular Ms. Chase was, in fact, not currently in the room, much to the boisterous laughter of the rest of the class. Red with embarrassment, it was all Doreen could do to rattle off a hasty "Thanks, Charles." before she stalked her way over to her assigned seating, and hastily buried her face in their giant textbook with a groan of absolute shame and disappointment.
"Wow. That happened. It's that serious you missed a class once?"
Jumping up from her textbook wallowing, Doreen whipped her head around to her right; she'd recognize that slightly snarky monotone from anywhere. Well, given it was practically class time, it only made sense that Nancy was already here. Giving a much more forced smile than normal, she laughed in an equally stiff manner. The text she'd sent today was still all too fresh on Doreen's mind.
"Ha! Yeah, yeah. My parents, well, they just care a whole lot about me, y'know? They don't want the school having any reason to crunch down on my lifestyle."
"Mmm. The very important lifestyle of Doreen Green."
If her laugh from before was strained, this one ended up coming out more like a squeak. "Yup...Super-important Doreen Green lifestyle." At that, Nancy had a knowing smirk on her face, but didn't seem to want to push it any further than that. Thank goodness! Now she just had to get through an actual school day.
School was absolutely MISERABLE!
So of course, Chemistry had already ended up super embarrassing, but what's worse was that it turned out Ms. Chase wasn't at the school at all today, and a sub was taking their place. One that didn't even bother to take their attendance...And they also got some cookie cutter handout crud to do for the hour which was a complete joke. On the one hand, definitely made things easier on her, but on the other, well...Doreen had been really prepped to tackle Chemistry seriously today, only to fall flat on her face. So yeah, fail #1.
The second one came in a...Stranger way. By the time she'd made it to her PE Class about halfway through the day, the news of her climbing escapades into Chemistry had made the rounds, and it resulted in bar none one of the weirdest interactions she'd ever had to chew through. Some of the jocks had gotten to her while the class was hitting the track, and were doing their darnedest to convince her to put some of her 'secret talents' into some of Midtown's sports teams. Of course, with each team she shot down, they quickly pivoted back into acting like they were too good for her anyhow. Didn't exactly surprise her, when most of these peoples were best buds with the biggest bully in the school, Flash Thompson. Man, was that nickname tacky...Though with the news of someone off in Central City going by 'The Flash', it somehow seemed even sillier.
....Granted, she was calling herself Squirrel Girl. She didn't have a lot of ground to snark at the superhero naming stuff.
So point is, fail #2 was having to deal with harassment for a whole gosh-darn class by people she'd hardly even interacted with beforehand. She seriously hoped this talk of her being some closet athlete would die before the week was over, or else she might be dealing with this for a long while...
The last of Midtown's transgressions for the day were less about Doreen, and more about, well...Still Doreen, in a sense. By the end of the day, there was some talk around the school about the fight she'd had this morning, having gone public from the videos being streamed by the three students she'd saved. Most of what she was hearing, and regrettably, many of the articles she read in the spare moments at school against her better judgment, were not very kind to her performance. They lamented the extensive property damage, cried havoc over the rampant vigilantism in the Big Apple (like she was somehow the cause of that!), and many people were enraged that the Hippo-monster-man thing got away. Sheesh, and that wasn't even getting into the anti-Mutant rhetoric being spouted about it as well. She wasn't even a Mutant! I mean, the hippo guy could be, but she sure as heck didn't know, and she doubted he'd be up for a check-up for some power-suppressing drugs.
It was...Definitely disheartening. She wasn't even sure why she'd read these when she knew how they'd react, but it still hurt her all the same to be ridiculed for trying to do what was right. Still, even among the mass of negativity, there were small handfuls of people who retorted in her defense. People she'd personally helped, or those who simply placed their faith in her as another brave individual willing to use their gifts to defend the people and places they love. She even saw a post from one of the people she'd directly saved in that fight, apologizing for the harsh media it drummed up, and thanking her. Now that was enough to light her back up.
So, yep. Third strike, and definitely feeling out, Doreen was certainly in a more downtrodden mood than usual as she left the noisy mess that was Midtown behind for the day. Still, there was one massive hurdle waiting for her today...As she made her way to Central Park, she whipped out her phone and opened her messages once more, faced down with that menacing question all over again. She gulped, but gathered the courage to write something out.
'hihi! dunno why u ask, but we can talk at CP?'
'That works for me. Isn't that pretty public if we're gonna talk about that?'
'pfft. nah! I got nothing to hide!'
'If you say so. I'll see you there.'
'yeppers! seeya there! '
Okay, that was handled. Though, Nancy might've had a point...Still, she had to go pick up Tippy-Toe, and being out in the open made her calmer, generally. And she'd need all the calm she could get with a situation like this! Unfortunately, though, the trip all the way from Midtown to Central Park was no small feat, and she didn't exactly want to risk sprinting about on rooftops right about now, not with all the mental fatigue school had dropped on her. So, Doreen took a very mundane and slow route from Queens to Manhattan, and eventually made it to her favorite place on Earth.
Central Park was quite literally the reason her family had moved. Back in California, or at least the part of the state her family used to live in, there weren't many squirrels around, and the few that were there were treated like pests. Needless to say, given her connection to them, that kind of environment wasn't very conducive for her (that, and she couldn't even enjoy the beach without outing herself as some weird pseudo-Mutant or whatever she was, which was extra annoying). So, her parents did their research and got themselves a nice little home in Yorkville.
...Okay, 'nice little home' was a bit of stretch with how much of a squeeze Manhattan in general was, but it was good for her, and being so close to Central Park definitely helped Doreen out. It had even been where she met Tippy-Toe! Speaking of...
After arriving at the glorious natural beauty of her beloved park, Doreen wasted no time booking it through the greenery towards the Lake, and stopping herself underneath the shade of one of the biggest trees in the park. Before long, a familiar friend made their presence known by swiftly dropping on her shoulder. "Doreen! Was school okay? Did your plan turn out fine?
"Woof." Doreen wasted no time immediately deflating at the question, sliding down to sit at the base of the tree. "None of the above, honestly. I mean, the plan kinda went off fine? But it had some...Unforeseen consequences. Oh! And the darn teacher wasn't even there today! It was just a sub, and we did some work so easy half the class coulda done it blindfolded!....I'm not a part of that half, but still! Doreen huffed, arms crossed in (mostly) mock irritation. It honestly didn't bug her that much!....But, yeah, it still definitely bugged her at least a bit.
"Aw. Well, there's always next time! You know, hopefully with less interruptions in the morning in the form of super-sized bad guys. "Hah! You can say that again! Oh jeez, I wonder where the heck he is now? I'm totally gonna have to find a way to handle him next time...
Her musings were cut short alongside Tippy-Toe when she felt the distinct feeling of someone staring at her. Looking up, she saw...Nancy. Staring directly at her and Tippy-Toe. As they were talking by chittering at each other. The arched brow she gave left Doreen giving a struggling-to-exist smile and nervous, shifty eyes as she coughed out some kind of response.
"Oh, um. Would...Wouldja believe that I just like chittering with squirrels?"
Matthew Murdock's feet collided with a thud on the wood flooring of the old church, pulling up his mask as he desperately sought to catch his breath. Police sirens wailed at the other end of the block, red and blue lights filtering in through stained glass windows. It was hard to tell what was sweat and what were tears on his face as he slowly walked down the main aisle. He could smell the faintest whiff of candle smoke and old wood. His hands brushed along each pew as he approached the altar, his head turned up towards the domed ceiling above the tabernacle. He stopped before the steps up to the Sanctuary, making a sign of the cross as he lowered one knee to the ground. A second knee followed, as he lowered his head. The sound of his grating teeth rattled around in his head as he suppressed a primal scream.
The Punisher had won. Most of the Saints he tried to save were dead. The psychopath was in the wind. He had saved one, but it didn't feel like enough.
Matt ran his hand over his face before closing his eyes and lowering his upper body to the ground. He prostrated himself, listening to the echoing sounds of his city.
"My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart... In failing to do good, I have sinned against you."
♦♦♦
A man in a cowboy hat sat in the middle of Central Park, overlooking the lake as the Cherry Hill fountain gurgled not far from his position. He spent his time reading the newspaper, flipping through the pages. It was a quick skim, but enough to confirm what he already knew. Desmond's man had taken care of the evidence, and no one was the wiser. He didn't look up from his paper as a familiar, lithe man approached. "Sit down, Marston."
Sylvester "Snake" Marston took a seat next to the man, dressed in a simple hoodie and sweat pants. He always preferred loose and casual in environments like this. He eyed a few children tossing bits of bread into the lake, his foot tapping incessantly as his words nearly caught in his throat. "What are we doing here, Montana? Feeding the ducks?"
"I wanted to talk about last night without making you feel like I was going to double cross ya." Montana's drawl was comforting and inviting as he closed the newspaper, setting it to the side as he looked out towards the lake. "I know you're newer to the crew. Dan vouched for ya when he was in Rikers. But I've got a real simple rule you have to follow."
Montana looked to Sylvester, his eyes locked on his subordinate. The warmth in his voice had dissipated into grave sobriety. "No secrets."
Sylvester nodded dumbly, the fear evident on his face. Montana smiled softly, lifting an arm up to wrap around the Snake's shoulders, looking back out the lake and using his free hand to emphasize his points. "If ya do something wrong, ya tell me. If a complication arises, ya tell me." He paused, turning his sharp gaze back to Sylvester. His breath reeked of tobacco and whiskey.
"If the Devil shows up and sees what y'all are up to, ya tell me. Cause this is your warning, Marston. You, Ox, or even Danny boy keep something like this hidden from me again, there won't be a next time."
Sylvester nodded. "It won't happen again, Mr. Brice."
"I know. But just to be safe, Dan is coming with ya on the next one."
♦♦♦
Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in the old office chair. The soft footfalls on the old carpet were like war drums in his head: confident, short stride, lead foot... Foggy. As the door opened, Matt was already closing the laptop lid and removing his earbuds.
"Just got off the phone with Detective North about ... the good old boys in Blue are calling it a wash. No DNA or fingerprints, No CCTV in the area, no witnesses coming forward. They've got nothing."
Matt tilted his head slightly. No DNA evidence... he was certain he had left blood at the scene. He was bleeding on his way out. The NYPD was known to cut corners on investigations, but there was no way they would have missed something that obvious.
This was bigger than he first thought.
"They're sweeping this under the rug again, and insurance is going to fight tooth and nail to claim it's fraud without a conviction." Matt spun the chair around, removing his red-tinted glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, a wave of anger boiling in his chest. "This is the third apartment this has happened in three weeks, how is this not a priority?"
"NYPD is too busy looking out for the guy who shot up the Stardust. Or whatever maniacs were involved in a car chase and gun fight in Manhattan." Foggy shook his head in disgust, his cheap windbreaker rubbing against itself from his movements. Matt always hated that jacket. He spun around in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, you don't get to complain. You called out yesterday, so I had to do boring paperwork all day while hoping a client would come waltzing in so we could pay for the office rent this month." Matt simply held up his hands in defeat, and Foggy shook his head. "So yes, I'm calling it a night. It's 6, my dad just got back from the hospital so my ma is having us all over for dinner. She specifically asked me to invite you, in case you-"
"Thank you, but not tonight, Foggy." Matt gave a weak smile, his expression darkening as he felt that well of anger rising like bile in his throat. His jaw clenched as he tried to keep it in. "It just doesn't feel like enough."
Foggy froze, his mouth agape as the wheels turned in his head. "We just have to wait and see... maybe hire a private investigator to keep an eye out, try and get some pictures... so long as they take seven bucks and a Bodega punch card as a down payment." Foggy smiled awkwardly, waiting for some kind of amused reaction from his friend. It never came. "Right... look, Matt... you should get some sleep. We'll regroup in the morning, see if we can work out a game plan."
Foggy gave Matt a soft smile before leaving the office, with Matt waiting until he could hear the front door to their shared office space close. Matt nimbly slid open his desk drawer, removing the set of blood stained clothes and bandana.
????HRS. As the craft collided with the ice, the glass panels in the window burst, the metal beams buckling and breaking under the intense strain. Steve threw his hands up to protect his face, he felt the searing pain as his skin was cut by the shards of glass in what seemed like the thousands. He only felt this pain briefly however as the ice cold waters came pouring through the open cracks.
Using all his might he tried to stand himself up, pushing against the seemingly endless torrent. It pushed him back, colling with the pilot seat his entire body buckled and twisted. He gagged and coughed as he felt the water breach his mouth and nose. As his entire body became numb, and his lungs burned his last thoughts were off Peggy and the first dance they would never have.
Steve awoke with a gasp, taking what felt like his first breath of air in nearly a century. He shot up as he did so, there was a loud clang and jolt in his wrists. Trying to shake the fog from his mind he looked down to see that his wrists had been restrained, chained to the floor. Letting his right arm relax, he pulled with his left. Testing the tensity of the chain, groaning with the effort.
The fog that seemed to cloud his mind also seemed to be infecting his limbs, letting his left arm rest he tried pulling the chain with his right. Again with no avail, his muscles seemed unresponsive and uncooperative.
Trying to move his legs he found them similarly restrained, however they were restrained at both the knee and the ankle. Twisting his leg slightly he felt the discomfort, the slight stabbing pain, in behind his left knee. Even in his addled state Steve understood, as it was the only thing that made sense. His metabolism acted far too fast to be kept unresponsive by traditional drugs which realistically left two options. Use non-traditional drugs, which cost money. Or, continually pump new drugs into him faster than his body could work their way through.
Steve cast his eyes to the rest of the room, the bed was comfortable. Too comfortable, which let him know it was one of the infirmary beds. He struggled to focus, however the clean and austere decoration and layout of the room seemed to agree. It wasn't a very big room however, which meant one thing. He had pissed the warden off and was now in isolation. Even better Medical Isolation.
Turning to the door as he heard the lock click he nodded to the Doctor as he entered with a clipboard. Going straight to a chair he grabbed it by the back and twisted it closer to Steves bed before taking a seat. Steve, however, was much more interested in the person who entered the room with the Doctor. Crimson red hair, she wore ill-fitting fatigues that rubbed against her body awkwardly. As if she was wearing something else beneath them. She didn't acknowledge him at all, instead walking to the corner of the room he propped herself up and sat on a counter against the back wall.
"Have you been introduced to Miss Sokov yet Captain? Steve turned his attention back to the Doctor as he spoke.
Steve opened his mouth to speak. Shaking his head as he failed to form the words, until atleast one of them finally co-operated. "...No."
The Doctor merely smiled, that kindly patronising smile. "She is one of our many successes-" Steve had been in this prison, and seen enough people come and go to know that they very likely had a different definition of 'many'. "The warden wishes for you to remain in isolation, and the Red Guardian would like to repeatedly test your combat skills until you are no longer of use to us."
The Doctor looked up from his clipboard, tapping the top of it with his pen. "This would be a tremendous waste. Whether he would like to admit it or not, there is much Krylenko could learn from you- There was a slight snicker from 'Miss Sokov', while it drew Steves attention the Doctor merely ignored it. The longer he was awake, the more coherent he was becoming. He wasn't entirely sure if he was either being drugged less or if his being awake and increased heart rate was making it easier for his body to handle the chemicals.
'Miss Sokov' looked nonchalant and non-interested. Though there were subtle tells that Steve noticed when looking at her, indicating she had extensive training. Probably more than Krylenko. The angle she sat at, made it quick and easy for her to jump up. Especially with the way she was sat. He had no doubt if he was succesfully break his chains, she would be upon him before he knew what happened.
"-and there is much we do not yet understand about how Doctor Erskine managed to perfect the serum." The Doctor looked around, shiftily akin to that of a toddler telling a grown up a secret. "Our own could still use some work, yes?" He didn't wait for confirmation, before clapping his hand on his clipboard and standing up. "So until you can be trusted, and return to the perfect guest we have come to expect from you. Miss Sokov will be your personal guard. With fully authority to keep you in line, is that understood?"
Steve raised an eyebrow, but he nodded nonetheless. The Doctor chuckled.
"I am sure you are wondering how she could do such a thing- The two men looked over at her, and she merely smirked. Steve could have sworn her eyes turned red for a moment. "-Let us hope you never find out.
"Fine. Steve managed to croak between breaths.
"Ah interesting, the sedative is starting to wear off and-" He reached below the bed, and pulled up an IV bag that was still three quarters full. In fact now his head was clearer, he could faintly hear the pump working. "-there is still plenty left. It seems your metabolism is more effective than even I predicted. The Doctors pen clicked as he tucked himself behind his clipboard, scribbling down on his endless notes.
"Good to know I can still surprise you after all these years."
The Doctor nodded, the dryness Steve spoke in lost in translation. As the sedative wore off he could feel the heat and the pain from where Krylenko had struck him. Normally superficial wounds wouldn't take long to heal, no doubt the process had been slowed by whatever drug the Doctor had been pumping him full off.
"Any and all new data is invaluable, not to speak ill of my predecessors however sometimes their methods were... lacking.
Steve tried to offer a rebuttal, but found himself incapable.
"Anyway- The Doctor looked between Steve and 'Miss Sokov'. "-I will leave the two of you to get better acquainted. I have important work to do elsewhere." He turned to leave, and with a little 'ah' as he reached for the keypad on the door he turned back around to face Steve.
"The shield-
"Yeah?" Steve raised one innocent looking eyebrow.
"I don't care much for trinkets, but the Warden and Colonel Krylenko are quite upset. Where did it go?"
Steve laughed, then fought back the feeling of nausea that followed. Not sure on what Sokov could do, he elected to not lie.
"I have no idea, I was told the spell a long time ago. Told what to do if I ever needed help, and that the shield would find its way to said help. Steve risked a second chuckle. "Truthfully? I just hoped it would destroy it.
Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos Near Presidio, Texas January 8th, 1864
Jonah sat on a large chunk of rubble outside the burning Spanish mission, tipping out water from his canteen to pour it onto a wound on his left arm. It was barely a graze, but he knew better than to let it fester now that the shooting was done and the dust had settled.
The small alabaster church house, the once white walls now blackened with soot and pockmarked with gunshots, was the seventh target that Quentin Turnbull had marked for destruction on the damned ride of Satan’s Servants. According to Turnbull, it was being used by the Yankees as a place to stash weapons and ammunition. Clearing it out, he said, would be invaluable to hindering the Northern aggressor’s operations in Texas.
They hadn’t found any Yankees at Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos. They had, however, found plenty of weapons, and folks who knew how to use them.
Jonah stood, walked over to the body of a monk, drew his knife, and cut a strip of cloth from the dead man’s robe. As he dressed his wound, he looked down at the body: the monk had been barely more than a boy, couldn’t have been twenty even. The look frozen on the kid’s face was one of desperate fear, his eyes still wide with panic or surprise. Maybe he’d had a final second to be surprised when Jonah put a round through his forehead. Or maybe he’d been surprised that he’d managed to shoot Jonah first.
“God damn,” Eddie Cantwell snickered as he picked a rifle and a cartridge box from another monk’s still-twitching body, “You ever seen a holy man put up that kinda fight? Doesn’t strike me as a particularly Christian thing to do.”
“Can’t say ah was able to talk much religion with ‘em,” Jonah shrugged. “They shot at me, an’ ah shot back.” Now that he had a moment, he wondered what exactly it was that these preacher-men were so willing to break their commandment of ‘thou shalt not kill’ to protect.
”God-botherers didn’t even let me finish my speech,” said Victor Sono, trying on rosary beads and crucifixes to see if it matched the sheriff stars he wore as trophies. “I had a real good line about how we were ‘here to send you off to your eternal re-ward,’ and I didn’t get halfway through it before they opened fire.”
”Can’t say I blame em,” Tobias Manning sneered. ”The way you blather on, I was liable to shoot you myself just so we could get on with it.”
He and Eddie shared a laugh, while Sono scowled. As they laughed, they heard a woman’s voice screaming and sobbing. Out of the mission sauntered Mad Dog McGill, dragging a bloodied and half-naked young nun by the hair, before throwing her down hard on the ground before them.
“For I have seen the harsh light of truth,” McGill proclaimed, holding a scrap of old parchment, ”and in that light my illusions are dispelled. All creatures born of flesh are born with hunger, Hunger to feed, to kill, and to copulate. It is the nature of flesh, the life of the one Sustained by the death of another; The gratification of the one Indulged by the desecration of another. Lo, I have seen the Eyes of Judgement Pass over the wolf without scorn Even as it devours the lamb. For the wolf is but a beast Satiating its hunger for flesh. There is nothing in an act of hunger To be judged, but that guilt and shame make them so. Guilt and shame are but tools of the weak, To constrain the strong and the hungry. They offer the illusions of greater values Of purity, of innocence, of a soul beyond the body. The beasts of the wild hold to no such illusions. For in the end, what is the living flesh of the prey, If not meat for the predator to consume?”
It must have been Scripture of a sort, but it wasn’t from any book Jonah had ever heard of.
”Hey, gimme that,” said Jeb Turnbull as he marched out of the mission, snatching the page from McGill’s hand. ”That’s not for you.” Jeb stuffed the page into the pocket of his jacket
”Damn, Mad Dog,” Cantwell jeered, ”an’ here I always thought you was illiterate.”
”No siree,” Mad Dog said, ”my parents were married.”
The outlaws shared a laugh, and Jonah glowered at them in disgust. The beaten nun at Mad Dog’s feet limply tried to crawl away, but Mad Dog dug the heel of his boot into the wound in her back, drawing out another scream.
”Well, you heard the good word, gentlemen,” he said, a wild look sparking in his eyes, ”They ain’t nothing but meat for the predators. An’ I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m feelin’ a mighty hunger comin’ on…”
Crossroads Bar (derelict) Sunset Road, Presidio, Texas Present Day
The Crossroads bar was a watering hole that had closed down decades ago, but because the surrounding neighborhoods were just as decayed and all hopes of developing the land had fallen through, it stood abandoned. Once upon a time, it had been a place where tired, lonely, and desperate men had drowned their sorrows and inequities in cheap liquor. Now, it was a haven for rats, insects, and the occasional squatter.
As Jonah approached, he heard music from inside.
Someone was playing the piano, fingers gliding up and down across the keys in a fanfare that was both flowery and somber, before resolving into a melody somewhere between a folk dance and a funeral dirge.
The General, Jonah’s horse, winnied with trepidation as they drew near, but Jonah gave it a reassuring stroke through its thick black mane. When he dismounted, he rustled through one of the saddlebags on the horse’s side, and produced a green apple. The General readily munched on the fruit, and Jonah patted him to calm his nerves. As gruff and thoroughly unpleasant of a man as Jonah Hex could be, he was never anything but kind to his horse.
Once the General was calmed and hitched to a nearby light post, Jonah approached the door to the Crossroads, paying no heed to the various warning signs, and forced it open. Stepping inside, he saw the inside of the bar was dark and dusty, a pair of roaches scurrying to the shadows. At the far corner, a man in an immaculate red suit played a dusty piano, swaying left and right to the beat of the music, which grew in volume and intricacy as he played.
Jonah cleared his throat, and greeted the pianist with the usual amount of patience and pleasantry he had afforded him over their many meetings.
”What the fuck is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”
The pianist turned to face Jonah, revealing a face that simultaneously looked youthful and ancient. The man had sharp, narrow features, a high widow’s peak in his slick black hair, and a finely groomed mustache and beard that tapered to a point, but his skin was fair, unblemished, and did not have even a trace of a wrinkle. When he smiled, Jonah caught a whiff of brimstone.
”’Why hello, Mister Church, it’s always such a pleasure to see you,’” the man in the suit said in mocking conversation. ”’It’s a lovely day, and I always do enjoy our chats together. And, might I add, I am once again eternally grateful for your thoughtfulness and generosity by giving me purpose and allowing me to remain in this wonderful world rather than discard my wretched soul and leave it in the deepest pits of the abyss where I belong.’”
The man took his hands off the piano, yet the music continued.
”Why Jonah, thank you ever so much for saying so,” Mister Church continued, ”it warms my heart to know that my acts of kindness do not go unappreciated. Now, Mister Hex, what can I do for you?”
Spreading his hands as if to beg for an answer, Mister Church said, ”You see how easy that is, Jonah? Would it really be such an intolerable torment to start a conversation that way?”
Jonah glared at him, then repeated himself. ”What is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”
Mister Church chuckled. ”Well, you’ve seen the film, I believe it was fairly obvious what he’s doing. Though I suppose, given how long it’s been since you’ve had a roll in the hay, perhaps the motions are a bit unfamiliar to you.”
”You know what I mean,” he snarled, ”Why is he still here?”
The man stood from the piano, walked over to an empty table, and gestured for Jonah to sit down with him.
”Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Without waiting for Jonah to answer, Mister Church reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette case, and drew a thin white roll of paper. Producing a match with a flourish of sleight-of-hand, he struck it on the table and lit the cigarette. As soon as flame touched paper, Jonah heard in his head a million voices screaming.
Taking a long drag, Mister Church sat, and exhaled a thick cloud of foul-smelling smoke. ”As much chagrin and dismay it brings me to admit it,” he sighed, ”there are things in this wide and many-splendored world that exceed even the reach of my own not-inconsiderable powers of perception.”
”Meaning, what?” Jonah asked.
”Meaning I don’t fucking know,” Mister Church answered, ”And the only solace I take in that is knowing that my own ignorance in the matter perturbs you just as much as it does me. Mad Dog McGill, unfortunately, isn’t one of mine.”
”We rode together in the war,” Jonah pressed. ”We both died at Fort Charlotte. He died the same night you came for me.”
”And that’s supposed to mean something to me? What makes you think I would have made any kind of deal with him, as I have with you?”
”’sides from both you an’ him bein’ evil pieces of shit?”
Mister Church smiled. ”Aside from that, yes.”
Jonah paused for a moment, then sat down at the table. ”The page. During our ride, ah saw Jeb Turnbull collectin’ pieces o’ paper, said it was fer his old man. Mad Dog got one o’ them pages, an’ he started readin’ it. In that…film….he still has that page. That’s what yer really after, ain’t it?”
Mister Church grinned. ”If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, Jonah dear.”
Jonah looked at him skeptically. ”What’s so special about that page? Why should ah bring it to you?”
”Oh, there are myriad ways I could plead my case to you, Jonah,” he answered, ”I could appeal to whatever you have that passes for moral indignation, and show that Mad Dog McGill is a soul deserving of the very worst that damnation has to offer and that his time is long overdue. Or, if I were to be somewhat more cynical and appeal to your mercenary nature, I could tell you that doing this would put you in my favor, give you much-needed leverage to renegotiate the nature of our agreement. For now, however, I believe I will settle for the disappointingly blunt approach and say because I fucking own you and I fucking said so.”
For a long moment, Jonah scowled at him defiantly, and Mister Church’s playful grin turned dark.
”You do not want to be givin’ me that fucking look, son.” Church said, his voice still perfectly genteel despite the vulgarities he casually dispensed. ”You have no idea how good you’ve had it, compared to what I could bring down on you.”
Jonah glared for another moment, then almost against his will, turned his gaze away.
”Where can ah find him?” he asked.
Mister Church shrugged. ”Alas, my specialty has never been on seeking and finding, only dealing with those who seek me out first. If only, ohh, if only I had at my disposal a soul who was known for his ability to seek and track people down, perhaps I could– oh, Heavens to Betsy, unless my eyes do deceive me, I believe I see the famed bounty hunter Jonah Hex! Surely, his uncanny prowess at manhunting will be of use in this endeavor!”
Jonah snarled. ”An’ once you get that page,” he said, ”What about Mad Dog?”
Mister Church waved his hand dismissively. ”That, my boy, I leave to your discretion.”
The evening was chilly but Jean was burning up. Her sweat beaded and breath came hard as she muttered into the phone, “B-Burnside Park! He’s overdosing!”
The fallen addict’s phone trembled in her hand. “Okay ma’am, are either of you carrying any naloxone? Or any other opioid overdose medication?”
Jean’s gloved hand felt around. “No!” When she cooled down she’d leave a mental not to carry some around. Following the operators instructions, she was able to restore his breathing with some clumsy CPR and put him on his side, using some floating flames to keep him warm until she saw the light from sirens approaching. The EMTs arrived to find the alleyway otherwise empty, Jean watching from above for a moment before flying off.
At another park she took some water from the fountain, recharging herself mentally, washing out her mouth, and rinsing her face off. Already tired she was prepared to just go home, losing hope and feeling like time was being wasted. She knew it wasn’t true: this wasn’t the first time she’d possibly saved a life. She’d halted a prospective home invasion by psychically taking away the offending firearm, forcing the robber to retreat. But she’d also been too slow to stop a stabbing and too fearful to use her own phone to call it in, instead carefully moving the victim to somewhere they could be easily seen after pressing the wound closed with her mind, then lighting a fire in a garbage can. She still didn’t know what had happened to them.
She wasn’t thinking about giving up, certainly not entirely, but her value in symbols might have been getting in the way of her doing real good. It shouldn’t matter if she was a ‘mutant with a conscience’ floating around helping people or a superhero, but in her head that made the difference between a rando with no idea what they were doing and someone who really could make the difference. That said, even in her green and gold, she would still only be pretending to know what she was doing.
Worrying about Nathan, she started to float home for the night to get some rest (if she was lucky). But an errant thought from a ways off crossed her mind and fluttered her heart. Floating over, she found a currently vacant residence, it was lived in but not populated, not by its owners. Jean waited in the air above until a figure crawled out, freshly showered and fed off water and food that was not his. Floating down to the green skinned boy, she blurted, “Hey.”
He jumped, reflexively lashing an arm out before running away. Jean took the slap across the face, mental resigning herself to the fact that she deserved that before giving chase. Well, ‘chase’ was a bit of an overstatement, she just floated after him after going up a little in elevation. She watched him scamper over fences and through stretches of backyards in the rundown neighborhood. Once the first dog started barking the whole block was up in paws. The mutant boy hopped into the wrong yard, a snarling bulldog bearing down on him only to lose traction with the ground, whimpering as it floated away. The boy was bewildered but moved along, finally reaching a completely condemned house, slipping into the basement. Jean easily followed. She led with her voice, “I’m not going to hurt you, or turn you in. I just want to talk.”
Lit by an LED lantern, the abode was more than humble. Littered with stolen clothes and blankets as a ramshackle carpet over the concrete, there was an array of stolen devices and electronics. Jean caught some tools, noting that a number of them were under repair, taken from the garbage. A few cockroaches and rats scampered away while the boy grabbed a serrated knife, aiming it her way. Jean raised her hands. “I’m not coming closer!”
“Then get the fuck out!”
“Can we talk?” She pulled her red hair out of her collar and watched the boy’s yellow eyes flash with recognition, then a familiar anger.
Throwing down the knife in frustration, the boy growled, “Here to mindfuck me again bitch?”
“I didn’t...I shouldn’t have done that, I know, but I didn’t want you to hurt anyone! And I didn’t know what to do on short notice! If you were seen it would have been even worse.”
“I FUCKING KNOW THAT!” His voice echoed in the small chamber. “No one wants to see me. Can you tell why? Can you fucking guess?” Jean winced, eyes going off in another direction for a moment. “FUCKING LOOK AT ME!”
Jean locked her eyes in, taking a breath. “I’m sorry, I worded that badly. I just- I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I want to help you.”
“You want to make me your fucking pity project? I don’t need your fucking help. The inhibitors don’t make me look normal. You can’t help me: no one can help me. I can take care of my fucking self. Doing a great job so far.”
“No, I can see that. You’re good with electronics, huh?”
The boy paused. Anger was still very evident, but the compliment seemed to have slipped through a crack. “...There’s a pawn shop that lets me sell to them. I only...” He stopped, shaking his head, “I ain’t telling you shit. Get the fuck out already.”
“Well, can I come back, just to talk a little more?”
There was a low rumble in his throat. “Would I be able to stop you?” To prove his point, he grabbed a pair of MP3 players and hurled them at her, the two devices stopping in midair, floating back to their original spot on the shelf. “The more you stay away from me the better off I’ll be.”
“Look, I want to help you. My husband and son are mutants too. I want this world to be better for all of us. But if I can’t even help one local kid then I don’t know what I’ll ever be capable of if I put on a cape and go out there myself.”
“You’re going to become a superhero? Pfft,” he laughed to himself, turning away and finding a spot on the ground to lie on.
“Well I don’t think I was literally going to wear a cape, but yes. I...can I get your name?”
Reclining, he bitterly answered, “Can’t you just fuck around in my head and find out?”
“I want to know, but it’s not worth hurting you over.”
Silence, then, “Leech. Cuz I’m a fucking parasite, good enough for you?”
Despite herself, she caught the truth floating on his surface thoughts. James Rowan. She kept that to her chest. “Okay, I’ll see you again tomorrow. Take care of yourself, alright?”
“What, the superhero bitch not gonna take me in for stealing?”
“I mean, I’d rather you not, but taking property is different from taking lives.” She didn’t need to see his face to tell he rolled his eyes. Floating from the basement entrance, Jean went up and out into the night sky, hope and anxiety mingling within her. She later kissed Nathan goodnight and fell asleep leaning against his crib, until his early morning whining woke her before the alarm did.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Kree Merchant Group Astenseron. We are under attack from a rogue warship. We have lost 4 of the 7 vessels in our group and shields and life support on our flagship, please assist, pleas-"
The cry for help was not answered and the rest of the vessels were quickly destroyed. Those who were able to get to an escape pod quickly learned that those who weren't were the lucky ones as they were quickly brought aboard the floating fortress known as "The Dark Aster". As the captain of the group was brought to the bridge, he was able to get one last glance at the wreckage of his lifes work, before the captains chair turned around slowly to face him. The tall, powerful an imposing figure of one of the most highly decorated and feared Accusers the Kree Empire had ever known. Ronan... The captain was forced to his knees as Ronan stood up, hammer in hand. A Robot next to Ronan whirred forward and a hologram appeared of the floatilla they had just destroyed meeting with several other ships.
"Read the accused his charge." Ronan ordered, gripping the hammer in disdain.
"Captain Del-Va, you stand accused of treason and smuggling for breaking the trade embargo on a nation that the Kree Empire is at war with-" The captain looked horrified.
"Lord Accuser, those ar-" The captain tried to speak, but Ronan tapped the hilt of his hammer on the floor and stared at him a cold stare that would turn most mens bones to jelly.
"The accused will not interrupt the bailiff in his reading of the charges." The captain simply knelt back down.
"Resisting arrest and attempting to seek the aid of a rogue arm of the Kree Empire. Please enter your plead now." The robot finished.
"My lord, i have no idea what you are talking abo-" Ronan tapped the hammer again and the man simply looked at the robot. "Not guilty, my lord." Ronan then looked at the hologram
"You deny that these ships are yours?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Of course not, my lord, but those ships are Thanagarian, we are- Ronan tapped the hammer again to stop him.
"THE KREE EMPIRE IS AT WAR WITH THANAGAR!!!" He boomed at the man. The man looked confused, back and forth at the photo and Ronan.
"My lord... Perhaps you have not heard, but the Emp-"
"THE TRAITORS NAME IS NOT TO BE SPOKEN IN THIS COURT!" Ronan growled. He slowly circled the captain. "The Traitor was given clear and distinct orders not to accept the peace treaty, when they ignored this order from the Accusor Corps, they betrayed their oath and became unworthy of the throne of the Kree Empire. Many traitors followed them, but this ship, this crew... We are the last vestiges of the true empire, loyal only to the throne and our oath."
"My lord... What are you saying?" The captain asked.
"What i am saying is..." His other hand moved to the hammer. "I hereby find you guilty of treason. And the sentence is mercy..." In one swift motion, he brought the hammer above his head and brought it down, smashing the captains skull in, killing him instantly. He looked down at the captain, a tear forming in his eye. "How many more innocent lives will this terrible rebellion claim." The death of any Kree weighed heavily on his heart and he appreciated that the traitor on the throne was very persuasive. But the Thanagarians had been judged guilty by the Accusors and he didn't care what anyone else said, that meant declaring peace while a single one of them drew breath was a crime more terrible than any he could imagine.
"My lord, i have finally located the rings..." A voice came from across the room. Ronan looked over to see a tall woman approach him. Scantilly clad blue skinned woman approached him. a large book in her hands. Opening it, yellow energy began to swirl and circle from it, showing a planet. "A small uncharted world in Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha"
"Excellent work, Lady Drak." He turned to the helm. "Set course for-" He began, but Lady Drak butted in.
"My lord, attempts to attack the planet would prove disasterous at the moment." She warned. The swirling energy slowly formed into a large S shape.
"The house of El..." Ronan had never met a Kryptonian, but he had learned in the Corps that the Kryptonian Empire was one of godlike beings, technologies that made his ship look like little more than the result of banging rocks together. That it was the one time that the Kree had backed down was after a run in with one wearing that symbol. And as soon as they were in the vicinity of a Yellow sun...
"The planets sun is yellow..." Drak elaborated.
"Damn you, Sinestro..." He grunted. He then looked out at space. He daren't go yet. If he ran into the Kryptonian, then the only loyalists in the Kree Empire would surely perish and the millenias of history, honour and tradition. He needed all of them to take back the Empire, but with 1 of them... He may stand a chance against the Kryptonain. "We need more information on the planet and it cannot be traced back to us. We need someone with the firepower to deal with Sur but the subtlety to get what is needed and get back without alerting the Kryptonian to his pressence." He looked at the comms officer "Get me Deaths Head."
West Side always seemed to be overshadowed by its larger neighbor on the lower island in recent decades. The neighborhood had been neglected by city officials in allocating sufficient funding to the area, making it relatively insignificant to both tourists and its own residents. Despite numerous attempts to breathe new life into the neighborhood, promising initiatives often became mired in bureaucratic red tape and were then ultimately forgotten. Quite conveniently, there was no shortage of funding available when it came to renovating several of Old Gotham's historic buildings into luxurious hotels, often complete with chic restaurants or trendy bars. And the blatant neglect all stemmed from one significant reason:
West Side was built for the working class of Gotham.
For Officer James Newman, though, it was going to be a slow late night. But he'd take that over patrolling the Narrows or, heaven forbid, East End any day. Besides, the calm made it the perfect opportunity to size up his new partner, Mason Nichols, and decide whether he'd be a headache, a pushover, or a perfect fit for the badge. And so far, while driving along the streets, the rookie cop was leaning every more slightly towards being a big headache.
"So yeah, I want to be able to uphold the law like my father." Mason declared, his voice brimming with pride.
But maybe, just maybe, he could be molded.
"But your father was with the LAPD for about thirty years, right?" James asked, to which Mason nodded.
"Gotham City is a whole different ball game, kid. You've got to watch your step and be aware of any toes you'd be stepping on, or your career in the force will be a rather short one." James warned, his eyes scanning the rookie up and down. The newcomer may have thought he knew a thing or two about Gotham from whoever convinced him to leave sunny LA in favor of the gloomy city. But little did he know what he was truly getting himself into. "I'm sure your father knows all about that."
"I suppose so." Mason shrugged as he turned towards the window, gazing at the deserted street. "He and I haven't talked much in a while."
"He disapproved of you moving here?"
Mason let out a chuckle. "You could say that."
Suddenly, the dispatcher's crackling voice broke in over the radio, interrupting the conversation just as it was getting somewhere. James, visibly irritated, shifted his focus to the road, ignoring the ongoing transmission. "Central to any unassigned West Side units. Disorderly conduct reported at Cameron/Bedford Station. Suspect is described as a white male in his late 30s, behaving aggressively towards metro security."
Mason grabbed the speaker mic and spoke into it rather quickly, "Dispatch, 1-02. Request received."
James shot a glance at the rookie, sighed in resignation, and made a sharp right toward the station. The early morning was beginning to stir, with people bustling inside their homes as they prepared for the day ahead. Some were already out on the streets while others lingered at bus stops and more yet made their way to subway stations. As they arrived, the identity of the individual became unmistakably clear to James. He was one of the many persistent homeless individuals whom he dealt with regularly despite only living on the streets for just under a year and a half. He stood there wholly soaked, along with his duffle bag filled with belongings, clearly aggravated and mumbling some colorful words towards the nearby security guards.
Stepping out of the patrol car, James marched over to the man, hand ready on the tazer. The homeless man turned at the sound of footsteps, casting a disdainful look in the direction. "You here to make fun of me, Newman?"
James managed to maintain his composure, though a soft chuckle slipped out as the question was posed. He was just about to deliver a smug retort when Mason appeared, clutching an unopened emergency blanket. "Here, sir. Hopefully, this will warm you up and get your clothes dried up." The rookie said earnestly as he handed over the blanket and then pulled out a small notebook. He made sure to take a short moment to collect himself before asking, "Can you tell us what happened?"
Mason wrote down how the man was waiting for his boyfriend to arrive in the early hours when he was approached by someone working from the city as a cleaner. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he and his belongings were sprayed with cold water. Security promptly intervened but seemed to pay no attention to the unjust act and kicked him out despite paying the fare earlier. That was the story, at least for the moment. And honestly, to Mason, the homeless man's genuine distress and the dramatic display of his drenched bag seemed to make it an open-and-shut case. On the other hand, James was getting increasingly frustrated with his partner's sympathy towards him. This was the same person who showed apparent disrespect towards police officers, often getting cited for camping outside and then playing the victim card whenever alongside his boyfriend. His antics were getting tiresome to be dealing with constantly, and it was going to end now—one way or the other.
"Interesting story, Matty." James chuckled sarcastically, turning his body camera off as he edged closer to the man. "Why don't we let my partner figure out what really happened while you and I have a heart-to-heart?"
Matty shot a fearful look towards the other officer, silently urging him to step in and do something. Mason met his gaze and contemplated whether he should risk potentially straining his partnership with James. Having just graduated from the academy, he knew that jeopardizing his reputation within the force for some homeless person would be incredibly irresponsible and reckless. But that terrified expression on his face propelled him to speak up despite the risks.
"I wasn't done questi-"
"You are now." James cut him off, guiding the homeless man towards a nearby alley, losing the blanket in the process. All before Mason could have protested any further. It felt like a warning, firm yet delivered with a touch of kindness but laced with an unmistakable sense of unease beneath the surface. At least, that's what he told himself to rationalize his decision to allow a likely innocent man to be taken, unable to shake off the uncertainty of his partner's intentions. Still, a part of him couldn't help but be grateful that his solidarity seemed to remain largely intact. Eager to clear his mind, Mason sought out more details about the incident from the metro security guards waiting nearby to clear his mind off the mess.
But Mason was frustrated to have learned nothing substantial for them. So, rather than letting the headache of the situation linger, he opted to request the security footage, which the guards were more than willing to provide to the department. But when Mason returned to the patrol car, much to his surprise, his partner was nowhere to be seen. He had expected his absence to be brief, but as the morning commuters started pouring into the station, it was clear that something was amiss.
Suddenly, he heard a sharp yelp emanating from the alleyway, and then Matty came sprinting away, unknowingly heading straight for him. Acting quickly, Mason lunged and caught him before he could slip away, fully aware that he was not acting right. The suspect struggled furiously, squirming and wriggling all about, but Mason managed to pin him down to the ground. With his knee firmly planted in the man's back, Mason locked eyes with him and demanded, "Where is my partner?"
A crowd was beginning to gather around them; some took out their phones to film the unfolding situation. Matty screamed in terror, his gaze fixated on the alleyway, "A bat took him!"
Mason was taken aback by the answer. "A what?" He couldn't comprehend what he was hearing, almost wanting to burst into laughter at its sheer absurdity. But then, why was it said with such sincerity? "Do you take me for an idiot?"
"No!" Matty shouted, frantically shielding his face with his hands. "You have to believe me, it-t it was a huge bat! Your partner was about to pummel me with his baton when it swooped down and snatched him right out of the air. I swear!"
There were too many people to press him for more, and the crowd was still growing in size. So, Mason had no other choice but to detain him and call for backup, although he didn't appear to be a violent person at the moment. Matty fought against being restrained; he struggled upon hearing the handcuffs being pulled out of the holster. "Stay still, damn it!" Mason yelled out as he hoisted him up from the ground, opting to push him against the patrol car. But before having the chance to do so, the awful noise of a sharp thud against the car caused him to flinch, inadvertently releasing the man from his grip. The crowd erupted into panic as Mason turned to find his partner lying on the car roof, severely battered and bruised.
But he was still breathing.
James lay unconscious, his right arm twisted at a grotesque angle and his hand utterly crushed. Without a moment's hesitation, Mason sprinted over towards him, not caring about Matty's hasty escape and the growing crowd gathering around the car. As he tried to assess his partner's condition, deciding whether to move him, something on the roof above caught his eye. The sun was making it hard to see clearly, but it looked like someone in all-black attire, possibly wearing... a cloak? It soon vanished from view, leaving him bewildered. But his attention swiftly returned to James, who was starting to come to. Mason reached for his radio and urgently called dispatch for an ambulance and backup. Then he tried his damnest to comfort James. "Help is on the way. You're alive and breathing. Just stay with me, okay?" Mason asked, desperate to keep his partner conscious and for answers, "What happened to you?"
James' eyes snapped wide open as he fought to face his partner, tears cascading down his face as he vividly relived the horrifying ordeal. With great strength, he managed to choke out, "A bat attacked me."
A cool wind blew through the sands as Duncan sat on the perimeter of the camp, cradling the rifle in his arms as he peered off into the distance. It was quiet, nothing but the shifting sands dared to make noise. Occasionally a nervous murmur would break from the lips of one of the younger men, only to be met with a short reply or none at all. Duncan looked over the small defense force that had amassed. They all looked nervous, even Omar didn't seem himself, the towering giant's jokes becoming fewer and less confident the more the night dragged on. Mehdi was as cool headed as ever, but Duncan's keen eye could see even the desert sniper's hand shaking slightly. Mehdi had explained every confrontation with the Ghul resulted in less and less of the tribe coming back alive. They had never defeated them in a fight, only managed to hold them off long enough to run away. This time there would be no running away. It was a fight to the death, and Duncan had been dead to the world long enough, he wasn't going to let it happen again.
Still though, his unwavering resolve was being tested. His fight with Omar was one thing, but it had been literally centuries since he had been involved in mass combat like this. He felt a coursing of anxiety through his veins, and looking over the camp he couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. His eyes glanced over to the entrance to a tent, where a small boy was peeking out through the doorway and caught eyes with Duncan. Suddenly he was a million miles away, his mind tracing a path of memories back to his adolescence.
Duncan stood in line next to men twice his size, their armor clanking softly in the early morning light. The air was thick with the scent of iron, sweat and tobacco, a tangible reminder of the battle that lay ahead. He could barely keep his hands steady as the quartermaster approached, his movements practiced, almost indifferent, as he handed out gear to the soldiers.
When it was Duncan’s turn, the quartermaster frowned slightly, his eyes dropping down, taking in the boy’s slight frame before handing him a kettle helmet that seemed comically large in the boys hands. Duncan struggled to put it on, the heavy metal slipping down over his eyes. He tried to adjust it, but the weight of it made his neck ache.
“Better than nothing,” the quartermaster muttered, already moving down the line.
Duncan’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked around at the other soldiers, men who had seen countless battles, their faces hardened by experience. He could see the tension in their jaws, the way their hands gripped their weapons tightly. Despite their silence, the fear was palpable, hanging over the camp like a storm cloud.
Duncan took a deep breath, tightening his grip on the small shortsword that felt too big for his hands. The fort was bathed in golden sunlight, but it did little to warm the cold fear Duncan felt in his heart. He had left home to forge a new life for himself, one fighting for valour and for chivalry. How had he managed to end up here? Next to these men? Fighting not for his ideals, but for survival.
The weight of the helmet and the gravity of the situation pressed down on him, making him feel every bit the child he was. The voices of the men around him faded into a dull murmur as he fought to keep his composure. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to face what was coming, but he knew he had no choice.
A voice broke through the deafening silence in Duncan's head. The leader of the mercenary band, a grizzled veteran with a voice like gravel, sitting tall on his horse. His scarred face looked over his men, glancing over at the young recruit with a mixture of pity and indifference.
"Listen up!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the air like a bird of prey. “This is it. We march now, and not all of you will come back. But if you want to survive, keep your wits about you and do as you’re told. You all know the drill by now, kill the red and blue ones, protect the green ones."
The men around Duncan shifted uneasily, some clutching their weapons tighter, others muttering prayers under their breath. Duncan swallowed hard, trying to ignore the knot of fear tightening in his stomach. The leader wheeled his horse around, and with a curt nod to the banner bearer, the march began. The clattering of armor and weapons filled the air as the mercenaries fell into step, the sound echoing in Duncan’s ears like the pounding of a drum. He was just a boy, surrounded by men who had seen more battles than he could imagine, but there was no turning back now.
The leader’s voice rang out again, calling for the formation to tighten as they approached the battlefield. Duncan adjusted his grip on the sword, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his hand. The ground beneath their feet trembled as the enemy came into view, a sea of soldiers armed and ready for blood. Duncan’s breath caught in his throat. The world around him seemed to slow, the sounds of the march fading as his focus narrowed to the line of soldiers ahead. At the front, on an almost glistening white steed sat the leader of their enemy. His red, blue and gold armour catching the boys eye as he watched the mercenary band merge next to the amassed army he was due to fight.
In that moment, Duncan felt the enormity of what he was about to face. The uncertainty, the fear, and the burden of his own past weighed heavily on him. But he had no choice but to push forward. He was no longer just a boy with dreams anymore, he was a warrior, and today he would have to prove it.
As the two forces drew closer, the leader raised his sword high, signaling the charge. Duncan braced himself, every muscle tensing as he prepared to enter the fray. The memory of his father’s betrayal flickered in the back of his mind, a reminder of the darkness that had led him to this moment.
And then, with a roar that shook the very earth, the battle began.
"Duncan! Duncan!" Mehdi shook him by the shoulders, trying to snap him out of his daze. Duncan blinked, still lost in the daze of his memory, when suddenly slap Mehdi's hand connected with his face.
"Get it together, man! The Ghul are here!"
Duncan nodded, rising to his feet and taking in the carnage around him as he angled the rifle against his shoulder. It was so much worse than he could have imagined.
The Ghul were monstrous, twisted beings, their forms a grotesque blend of man and beast. They towered over the defenders, their pale, leathery skin stretched tight over sinewy muscle and gaunt, skeletal frames. Their faces were grotesque, a sickening fusion of skull and rotting flesh, with hollow, glowing eyes that burned with an unnatural, sickly yellow light. With claws like scimitars, they tore through the camp's defenses, their movements unnervingly swift and agile for creatures of such size.
Some wore remnants of ancient armor, rusted and broken, a testament to battles fought in forgotten times. Others carried massive, curved swords, stained with the blood of countless victims. The air was filled with their guttural snarls and the screams of the dying. They attacked with a savage ferocity, as if driven by an insatiable hunger.
Mehdi was already in action, his rifle taking down one of the Ghul with a single, precise shot to the head. Omar was near him, clashing his scimitar against the steel of one of the Ghul's own swords and thrusting a large burning torch towards the monster. But for every one that fell, it seemed two more took its place. The camp was quickly becoming a slaughter, and Duncan knew they were outnumbered and outmatched.
Duncan's heart pounded in his chest as he aimed at the nearest Ghul, pulling the trigger and watching as the bullet struck its target, tearing through the creature's shoulder. But the Ghul barely flinched, its head snapping in Duncan's direction with a snarl that chilled him to the bone. It charged, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat, and Duncan only had time to duck and roll out of the way before it was upon him.
The rifle was useless now. He tossed it aside, drawing the mace from his belt and sliding out a circular shield from its harness on his back. Just as he managed to ready himself the Ghul was on him. Leaping towards the knight and slashing its claws. Duncan raised his shield, catching the blow, then swung his mace low, catching the creature by the ankles and sending it crashing to the ground. Without hesitation, he brought the mace down in a deadly arc, crushing the Ghul’s skull with a sickening crunch.
As the creature's lifeless body hit the sand, Duncan felt an unexpected surge of energy course through him. His heart pounded, but not just from the exertion of the fight, it was something else, something that sent a strange warmth through his limbs. He felt sharper, quicker, like his body was moving before his mind could fully register the threat. The creature had been powerful, but in those moments, Duncan had fought with a speed and strength that surprised even himself.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The camp was in chaos, and there were more Ghul descending on them, their monstrous forms tearing through the defenders with ruthless efficiency. But Duncan wasn’t slowing down. He moved from one enemy to the next, his strikes precise and brutal, his shield deflecting blows that should have shattered bone.
"Stand your ground!" he shouted, rallying the men around him. The air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke, the firelight flickering wildly in the chaos. Duncan slammed his shield into another Ghul, the impact reverberating through his arm. Before the creature could recover, he swung his mace, the force of the blow sending it crashing to the ground.
He was moving faster than he ever had before, reacting to the Ghul's attacks as though he could sense them coming. His muscles, though tired from the day's strain, felt oddly light, as if he had untapped reserves of strength deep within. Each swing of his mace carried more weight, more force than he would have thought possible.
What's more, his eyesight felt sharper, like a hawks. Even in the midst of the chaos, Duncan’s eyes caught something in the distance, a dark pit in the sands, yawning open like a mouth. He could see the Ghul clawing their way out of it, their grotesque forms emerging from the swirling sands. That had to be it, the source of the invasion. If they were going to end this, that was where the fight needed to be taken.
"Mehdi! Omar!" Duncan called out, his voice cutting through the din of battle. The two men looked to him, their eyes following as he pointed his mace toward the pit. “I’m taking the fight to them. It’s time to give these monsters a taste of their own medicine!”
A fierce grin spread across Duncan’s face, the first sign of life in him since this nightmare had begun. Mehdi, catching sight of the pit, returned the smile with a nod, his rifle already slung over his shoulder as he made his way to the camels. Untying three of them, Mehdi mounted one and swiftly guided the others toward Duncan and Omar. They quickly mounted up, determination etched on their faces.
With a kick of their heels, the three rode hard toward the pit, dodging and weaving as Ghul leapt at them from all sides. The creatures’ claws swiped at them, but the men moved too fast, the camels carrying them swiftly through the chaos.
Within moments, they reached the edge of the sinkhole. Duncan’s eyes met Mehdi’s and Omar’s one last time before they dismounted, their boots hitting the sand. Without hesitation, they leapt into the dark abyss, ready to take the fight directly to the heart of the invasion.
“Yeah, dude,” Johnny answered for what must have been the tenth time that hour. “You’ve been cooped up for too long. You need to stretch your legs. Get some air. Enjoy the freedom.”
Benjamin Grimm grumbled in response. His massive frame was hidden beneath what would have been an oversized trenchcoat on anyone else but managed to fit perfectly on him. He moved in slow, ambling shuffles, careful not to apply too much force with each step.
It had been weeks since their quarantine had ended, and while Johnny, Sue, and Reed had been carrying-on their lives, Ben had hit a pause on his, choosing instead to live in self-imposed exile within his quarters. It had taken a long time for Johnny to coax the man into leaving the Baxter Building. A task that had primarily been accomplished through constant badgering and a not-so-subtle threat to leave a flaming bag of feces outside Ben’s door every morning until he gave in.
Resulting in their midnight stroll around Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
Johnny continued, “Seriously, stop worrying. My dad said we’re all clear to go out whenever we want. No one is going to stop us.”
That was true. Franklin Storm, head of the Future Foundation, had seen no reason to restrict the four of them and make their lives more complex than they had already become. After Johnny had outed himself to the tabloids the other week, the Foundation’s public relations team had been fielding answers from the media, anyway. While the details behind the incident were kept under wraps, and the public hadn’t been exposed to the abilities of the others yet, the information about four young adults developing extraordinary abilities through a science experiment, and their names, was out there.
Besides, the world has become much more strange lately. Four more fantastic individuals walking around New York City weren’t going to tip the scales wildly one way or the other.
“I s’pose.” Ben’s voice was like low, rumbling thunder now, but despite that, Johnny could still hear the sorrow in his limited words clear as day.
The pair hadn’t known each other all that well before the incident. Truthfully, Johnny didn’t know Ben much better afterward. They had first met several years back, not long after Johnny's sister had started dating Reed Richards. Reed and Benjamin had been best friends since childhood, and the former had invited the latter to the Baxter Building on occasion. Johnny was only seventeen then and didn’t see much point in getting to know the friend of the guy dating his sister. Then, two years later, Johnny volunteered for Reed’s little project, and Ben, having just finished his contract with the Air Force as a test pilot, agreed to help with his buddy’s science experiment. They had spent much of the last year leading up to the incident working side-by-side, essentially as human crash dummies, during all of Reed’s practical tests. While the two weren’t best of friends during that time, their relationship very much surface level for the most part, they still had grown used to each other’s company.
Johnny thought of those days and the jubilant energy Ben brought to any given moment—the fun-loving, confident guy who could dish out a wisecrack as well as he took it. That man was gone, buried underneath a ton of orange stone, the confidence and spirit crushed beneath its weight. It was an ugly sight, but not for any of the reasons Ben saw when he looked in the mirror.
“Alright, listen, big guy. I get you got dealt a rough hand; I’m not denying that. But you can’t keep punishing yourself for it, dude.
“I mean, look at me; I can light myself on fire and take to the skies with a snap of my finger. Just ‘flame on’ and bam!” He highlighted that last word by stomping his foot and miming an explosion with his hands.
“And you? You’re a freaking goliath. You could go toe-to-toe, pound-for-pound, with a tank and come out on top. That guy dressed in blue they’ve talked about in the news, the one lifting trucks or whatever, that guy wishes he was you.”
Ben grunted dismissively, continuing to shuffle forward. “Why do y'do that?”
Johnny hesitated, unsure of the question. “Why do I do what?”
“Say that thing. That ‘flame on’ crap,” Ben clarified.
“Oh." Johnny considered the question, needling responses instinctively forming at his lips, then reconsidered.
"It’s something from when I was a kid. When I was young, before my dad started the whole Future Foundation thing, he read me these pulp fiction stories from the forties and fifties. Our favorite was this series: Marvel Mysteries. The main character, Jim Hammond, was a human-looking robot built by a super scientist. He had all these cool abilities, and he’d go on these wild, science-based adventures and fight against other robots and monsters made by other, eviler scientists. There were only, like, a dozen books, and it was pure schlock, but, man, I loved it as a little kid," he said, a flicker of a smile dancing across his features.
Those moments of his childhood stuck with him. Back then, it had been the thing that he and his father could share in common. It was what they could relate on. At that point, Sue was already a science whiz; barely in middle school yet could hold conversations with their father about advanced biology concepts. It was easy for the two of them to relate. But for Johnny, it had been those pulp science mysteries that connected the two.
“Anyway, the robot’s main power was that he could generate fire, and every time it would be this big, cool moment where he’d face down the bad guy and say his catchphrase: ‘flame on!’ And the bad guys never knew he was a robot, so they called him The Human Torch, and that’s how he kept his identity a secret. He was basically, like, the first superhero.”
“Huh,” mused Benjamin. “What’re the odds? Y’grow up readin’ ‘bout a guy who can control fire then, years later, can do it y’rself. Someone up there must be real big on the jokes.”
Johnny took a moment to respond. He had been thinking about that topic for days, and a notion had seeded itself in his mind. That notion had sprouted and grown quickly since his run-in with the tabloids.
“We could do it, you know,” he told Ben after a few minutes.
“What’s that?” Ben questioned.
“You know, the superhero thing.”
When he was met with silence, Johnny quickly added, “hear me out. I’ve got powers. You’ve got powers. The media already knows about us, so we don’t have to run around in masks like that dude swinging around the city. And we totally…”
Johnny trailed off as a repetitive booming broke out across the Manhattan night. When he realized what the noise was, he did a double-take. It was Benjamin Grimm. His roaring laughter came out in thunderous, distinct bursts.
“Y’ve said a lot of dumb things ‘fore, kid,” Ben said through the laughter, “but this takes the cake.”
“Hey!” Johnny jabbed a finger at the orange giant. “This is a great idea! Do you have any idea how much we could make off of merchandizing?”
“Oh, yeah,” more rumbling guffaws punctuated the words. “Can see it now. Rocky and Matchstick. What a pair.”
Johnny was torn. On the one hand, this was the first time he’d seen a hint of Ben returning to any semblance of his old, fun-loving self. On the other hand, his idea had been genuine, and it pissed him off to be told it was dumb. Ultimately, he chose to bite his tongue altruistically as the pair continued their walk through The Big Apple, accompanied by the ongoing echoes of laughter.
If anyone asked, it was entirely coincidental that the bottom edge of Ben’s trenchcoat sparked and smoked from the baby embers beginning to consume the fabric.
It was early evening outside, and while the sun was setting it was still bright enough to bathe everything in a warm orange blaze, dappled twilight filtering through the treetops. An evening like this, Jasper would have very much enjoyed a slow stroll with a coffee in one hand and his jacket clutched in the other, substituting the coffee for a beer when he reached the bar, and then substituting the beer for a glass of whiskey when he strolled, slightly wonkier for his time spent, back home again. As it was right now, though, the dusk sun didn't quite reach the depths of the research lab he currently occupied, and he was illuminated not by autumnal half-light, but by the harsh white glow of the computer monitor in front of him.
He leaned back in his chair, pushing the balls of his palms into his eyes. He was too old to stare at computer screens like this anymore; he could feel the slow-fry in his corneas, the words of the article on-screen burnt into his vision, little fading scribbles behinds his eyelids. He blinked hard a couple times, and then leaned forward to switch the monitor off, resolving that if he couldn't have his beer and whiskey, he could at least still have his damn coffee. He stood, swooping up the empty mug next to the keyboard with one hand and beginning to pull on his jacket from where it had hung over the back of his chair with the other. It was a few short strides to the door, and then the canteen was just down the corridor. Maybe he'd get lucky, and HR or the IT boys had left some donuts out.
He didn't get lucky. No donuts; only a few oat-raisin cookies that he turned his nose up at, the crumbs of superior biscuits scattering the box a shredded taunt on what could have been. As it was he took his coffee and left, intending to return to his reading - he'd been poring over the archived research into the X-Gene serum left behind by his father and grandfather, and while some of the more intensely-academic science went over his head, even he knew that everything he'd read so far failed to line up with Jubilee's unique case. Halfway down the hallway though, he could feel his eyes trying to leap out of his skull at the prospect of more straining against the blue-light of the computer screen. He rubbed them again, coaxing them to stay in their sockets, and ultimately resolved to divert himself; a quick pivot on his heel and he was further off down the corridor, marching summarily towards the ward that currently housed his new patient.
The door was ajar when Jasper arrived and he poked his head through carefully; it was well-kept but empty. Jubilee's satchel-bag hung from the end of the bed, and tossed over the chair in the corner was her distinct yellow coat. The girl herself appeared absent entirely. "Miss Lee?" He asked, raising his voice slightly, as if he expected her to just be hidden underneath the bed or crouched behind the chair. "Just in the bathroom - come on in." Came the muffled reply. Jasper stepped into the room proper, and carefully moved the girl's coat to take a seat. There was the sound of a lock unlocking from the bathroom door in the corner, and Jubilee stepped through. "I'll admit, Agent Sitwell, you guys have some pretty good digs here. You can't extend this kind of interior decorating to your clinics?" "It's really not my department." Jasper answered off-handedly, dismissing the thought. He neither knew nor cared what kind of budget was allotted to the treatment centres. "No?" She said, her tone quizzical but with an edge; the follow-up was obvious: "What exactly is your department?"
Jasper leaned back; it was a fair question, and in truth, one he wasn't even sure he knew the answer to. He mulled it over, rocking the question back and forth in his head, before ultimately settling on remaining vague. "Officially, interrogation." He said, quickly continuing as Jubilee's nose immediately wrinkled and her mouth contorted into a distrustful grimace, "but in actuality, I mostly consult. I've got enough tenure to avoid the small stuff, and close enough to retirement to not get assigned big-ticket items that'd take a couple years. So I get requests across my desk, and I pick up the ones that sound interesting. It's been years since I've lead anything properly myself - interrogation or otherwise." "So I should feel honoured to be deemed 'interesting' enough to warrant your obviously very special attention?" "You're a distinctly unique case, I have to say. And Marty's a friend. But I'll admit - I've something of a vested interest in the serum we use in those clinics." Jubilee raised an eyebrow, prompting further explanation without needing to ask directly. Jasper considered evasion, but he needed to ingratiate himself with the girl if he wanted her cooperation. "My father and grandfather developed the serum. 'Family recipe', you might say. I wasn't involved in its formulation, and I'm not involved in its production or administration - but it'll inevitably fall back on me if what you've experienced starts happening to others. So, ideally, we figure out what's going on with you before then."
Jubilee sat cross-legged on the bed, eyeing Jasper with a sceptical gaze for a few long seconds, before eventually shrugging and pulling her phone out of her pocket, burying herself in the screen. "Fair enough." She said. "Your father and grandfather are nasty old bastards for developing probably the single biggest tool of minority oppression in the modern era - but as long as you can cover your ass, I guess." Jasper sighed. The serum was controversial in the public eye, and he should have expected pushback on his family history from a mutant; at the very least, he hoped his honesty was less damaging than lying and being potentially discovered later on. Instead, he stood up, taking a few steps towards the bed. Jubilee flashed her eyes up momentarily, before returning her gaze to her phone. "You'd be surprised how many people out there agree with you," he said, "even within S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. It's partly why I never worked on the formula." "Partly?" Jubilee said, her tone significantly terser. "I never had the brain for it, either." He admitted. He stood in silence, his attempt at lightening the mood sinking like the Titanic.
Eventually, he cleared his throat, the air becoming distinctly awkward. "Anyway - I just wanted to see how you were settling in." "Peachy keen, Avril Lavigne." She replied, laden with disinterest. "Hungry, though. When does room service dish up?" "I'll get a menu sent up." Jasper snipped, before softening again and saying, "but seriously, the canteen does hot dinners - something'll be brought in for you shortly." "Something meaty and undercooked, if you can manage it." She replied. "I'll specifically ask for our worst chef to prepare it..." Jasper muttered, bemused by the request. He watched Jubilee absently scratching at her arm, and noticed the skin there was shockingly pink, flaking away slightly beneath her nails.
Sunburn, he suddenly realised.
"When did that happen?" He asked, pointing to where she was itching, realising her other arm was the same salmon shade, as well as the skin around her neck and collarbones. "Surely not just from today?" Jubilee shrugged, pulling her t-shirt up to try and hide her chest while consciously stopping herself from scratching any further. "Wasn't there this morning. Must have caught the sun on the transfer." "I'll say..." Jasper muttered, moving to a cabinet on the far side of the room and rustling around within. He returned to the bedside with a small hand-held strip light. "Hold still for a second."
Gently, he took Jubilee's arm in his hand and turned it over, holding the black-light lamp over her skin and hovering his finger above the switch. "This might sting a bit." He warned, and Jubilee barely got time to ask what might sting before he flipped the switch and her arm was suddenly basking in UV.
There was a hiss, and for a second Jasper thought it was coming from her skin, before he realised Jubilee had made the sound the same time as she'd wrenched her arm away reflexively; she cradled it close to her chest, glaring up at Jasper with frightening intensity. "What the hell was that?!" She demanded, and Jasper switched the lamp off before holding it up. "Black-light. Good for veins and stains...and apparently bad for your skin." He answered, pointing at her arm that was already turning pink. "I think we can add 'UV sensitivity' to your symptoms."
A hand running across his thick moustache, the bounty hunter pressed a hefty thumb from his other hand into the socket of his skull shaped belt buckle, a light flashing. “Alright, girlie, we gonna do this the easy way or the fun way? I don’t got all day.” Koriand’r didn’t recognize him, but his size and skin tone were well beyond the vast diversity she’d seen in this corner of the planet. She could tell that he was just as much as an alien to this place as her at a glance.
“Hey buddy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” the uniformed local backed off half a step from the bounty hunter and the fallen food stand, clearly rattled, before drawing a handheld piece of iron and aiming it at the interloper. “Spread ‘em, fuckface!”
Koriand’r broke out in a sweat, baffled that he would choose violence so quickly. “Por favor, lower your weapon!” Despite her words of caution, she herself stepped back, not wanting to be in the path of danger.
“Power trippin’ putzes on all worlds huh?” He rolled his red eyes before grabbing at a short staff tipped with a hook. He tapped a finger to his cheek. “You got something on your face. Hold on: let me get that for you.” His words turned sinister as she grinned, pointing the hook towards the man’s face. With the flick of his thumb, the hook shot off. There was a spurt of red blood, the man’s head scattered about, the hook continuing on before landing on the hood of a vehicle, digging into the metal. “The name’s Lobo! Get it through your fraggin’ skulls!” The onlookers had taken steady caution when weapons were drawn, but now there was a full on panic. Screams rang out as those nearby scattered in search of safety.
As Lobo pulled his hook back, dragging the car with it a short ways before it dislodged, Koriand’r’s eyes were stuck on the fresh corpse. Just moments ago she feared him, and now he was gone. Koriand’r wasn’t estranged from violence. She’d had fellows in war take the hit for her and meet their end. They were mourned, but they had died for a fight that was still not over. Koriand’r couldn’t linger on them forever, even as the scenes chased through her mind in the night before she found rest. But this man wasn’t a soldier. He shouldn’t have been embroiled in this intergalactic conflict at all. He was a civilian, endangered because of her. Though they were not in her royal domain, the responsibility of a would be ruler still weighed heavy on Koriand’r’s shoulders, its burden overpowered by the righteous fury burning in her heart and in her hands.
“Alright, where were we? Uh-” Lobo’s word was cut in two as Koriand’r fist, blazing with green flame, knocked right into his jaw. Lifting up from the ground, he flew back, crashing into a small errant piece of painted metal, the yellow bending and breaking under his bulk, water raging out in a torrent. Wiping at his mouth, he snarled, “Raggin’ fraggin’- that hurt! You made me bite my tongue! Keezy fem!” Koriand’r raised her foot, slamming the heel on the dull metal handheld device he’d held earlier to track her movements. It shattered. She took a fighting stance, eyes and hands ablaze. Lobo’s eyes flashed, his teeth bared like a beast. “I had to put down a deposit for that!”
Boots pushing against the ground, he charged like a Gordanian tank. Koriand’r stuck true, floating just off the ground and planting both her heels into his face, energy blasting off her hands to push her off the air in lieu of the ground. Koriand’r might have felt the impact in her knees (much like she had struck a tank), but Lobo buckled, falling to a kneeling position, stars floating about his eyes. Koriand’r shot her fists out, unleashing a rapid flurry. He shook his head and stood like nothing was happening, the fists merely lapping against him like waves to a shore. He swiped an arm out, but she had flown overhead, the strike going wide. Completing her leap, she landed behind him hands first, buckling down before launching herself back up, one leg going straight into his back. Lobo took one step forward, then pushed both of his shoulder blades back. Bending her knees, she struck one more time. There was a sickening ‘crack’. Lobo righted himself, rolling his shoulders as Korinad’r hopped back to her feet. “Aw yeah, that’s the stuff.” Koriand’r froze as Lobo raised his arm and swung it down. Normally, the strike possessing no martial training whatsoever would have been trivial to dodge, but Koriand’r had been stunned at the realization that her strongest blows accomplished nothing more than chiropractic therapy. She crumpled to the ground in a heap, limbs bent in odd directions. Lobo raised his foot, but Koriand’r slipped away in a moment of hesitation, rolling to her feet and flying out of arm’s reach.
Hiding his grimace (poorly), Lobo reasoned, “Hey, I’m supposed to take you alive. I’m not gonna break you! Much.” Thoughts racing, she weighed her options. The tracking device was shattered, Lobo landlocked and nearly invulnerable, the immediate area evacuated. She had no plan, but she knew there had to be opportunity, if she could find it. Green tracing behind her, she flew off. “Oh come on!”
Streaking across the cityscape, a mass of blurred colors flying by, she slowed her pace, trying to focus as she scanned for anything she could use for an advantage. She knew that at some point in her path she might come across the ocean. Tamaranians needed much less oxygen than some other races, and could even traverse the vacuum of space for a period of time. A protracted underwater fight might render him unconscious.
The hopeful thought was dashed when she heard the revving of a chronium engine. Korinad’r looked over her shoulder to see a red eyed skull encroaching on her, the headpiece to an open spacecraft, Lobo mounted in its seat, holding onto the handles with a vile smirk on his face. The primary purpose of chromium in powering vehicles was interplanetary transport, the minimal size of the craft making traversal even easier. If Lobo could fly through the vacuum of space on that craft, then Koriand’r’s plan was shot before it had even started. “You could at least banter more! That’s half the fun!” Kori made him eat a starbolt for his trouble.
Continuing her volley, the spacecraft continued to get closer and closer, Lobo meeting every bolt on the chin. Aiming to disable the engine, she was shocked to see Lobo lower his elevation, taking the starbolt in the forearm instead. She shot a few more, watching as he either dodged or blocked them himself. He realized her target, his face going darker than she’d seen it yet. “If you touch the bike, we’re gonna have problems. You don’t want problems, do ya?”
“You are already quite enough of a problema as it is!”
“...Aw, you can do better than that.” Aiming his hook her way, she kept to an erratic flight path. The hook came, Koriand’r dodging it handily and grabbing the chain once it reached the apex of its flight. Lobo tried to reel it in while Koriand’r banked suddenly, looping around a rooftop construct: a cylinder on stilts with a cone shaped cap. Lobo’s bike jerked, the torque of the chain being pulled nearly sending him off. He and Koriand’r kept a grip on the weapon, but rather than disarm or dismount him, it was neither of the two of them that broke first. The metal construct began to cave in, before cracking and bursting, water spilling out of the tower. The chain going free as it sliced through, Korinad’r sped along only to lose grip, hurtling end over end before slamming into the concrete wall of a building, plummeting to the ground where she met the surface. She started to get to her feet as Lobo’s craft hovered down, the massive man stepping off to loom over her.
Kori muttered in her frustration, “Why do the people of this planet build to contain their water when there is an entire ocean so close by?” Lobo paused, thinking on it for half a moment before giving a lazy shrug. Aiming his hook at her, her eyes scanned the area, desperately seeking a way out even as her heart collapsed in surrender at this seemingly indomitable foe.
“You broke my tracker so this is gonna be a pain in the zazz. *badup badup* And I still got 6 more Tamaranians, 3 Glxians, *badup badup* and one pissed off Jovian to take care of. So, *badup badup* are you gonna be good, or-” Lobo was launched sideways, a mass of bone, muscle, and fur slamming into him. Koriand’r blinked at the out of place beast and his dark green fur and horns propped up on thin legs with cloven hooves, only for her eyes to widen further as it shrunk down, taking Tamarinoid form of one on this planet, excluding the continued green pigmentation. The boy shook his head, regaining himself while Lobo stood, snarling. He looked to Koriand’r. “You’re not secretly evil and planning to take over Earth or anything, right?”
“Ummmm, noooo?
“Infested with a disease? Being followed by a planet eater? Hosting magic parasites?”
"For the last time, I have no affiliation with that hack, Venkman!"
Jack Fenton roared into the phone before ending the call with an aggressive press of his thumb. He sat back and massaged his temples. That had been the third phone call this afternoon alone. He knew it’d be coming after what happened in New York nearly forty years ago. They shut Venkman down, discredited his and his colleagues’ work, and swept everything under the rug.
But Jack remembered.
It had inspired his work and between him, his now wife and his college roommate, the three had gone on to create the proto-portal that inspired his now complete ‘Fenton Portal’, a gateway to the ‘ghost zone’ and the object of his tele-harassment. His initial attempts to power the device had failed, but that didn’t stop this shady government organization from wanting to acquire it.
Looking up from his mobile device, Jack put away his gloomy expression and forced a smile onto his face before he addressed his wife and children.
"Sorry, Madds. I didn't mean to disrupt this dinner you worked so hard on, no more phone calls for me today" the burly man[color=#ffffff] [/color]apologized before turning to his eldest. "How were your classes today, Jazz?”
“Dad, you and I both know you don’t care about my classes,” Jasmine ‘Jazz’ Fenton replied dryly, pushing a few loose strands of her red hair out of her face and tucking them neatly back into the teal headband she wore.
“You’re just probing to see if I saw any ghosts,” Jazz rolled her eyes, “No, Dad, unfortunately for you, my classes were painfully mundane.”
“Jazz, that might have been the case today. But I’ve been looking over maps of Portland for the past decade, and I’m very confident that your school sits on a Hellmouth.” Jack explained excitedly, “If anywhere in Portland is haunted, it’s Reed College.”
“Whatever you say, Dad,” Jazz smiled before picking away at her dinner. Jack had struggled to connect with Jazz since she had graduated high school two years ago. Jasmine being accepted into Reed was a point of pride for both of her parents, but Jazz had quickly outgrown Jack and Maddie Fenton and their ‘sick obsession with ghosts’ as she so mildly put it.
“Danny!” Jack exclaimed excitedly, pivoting the conversation toward his youngest, “I was wondering if you could help your old man tonight with powering up the portal, would love to see if I can get it running.”
“Uh yeah, sure, Dad.” Danny replied reluctantly, “I suppose I can do that.” His fork rolled a few loose peas around on his plate before Danny let out a small sigh.
“Not like I had plans anyway.”
A college freshman, Danny hadn’t exactly been an overachiever nor a popular student in high school. His grades were painfully average, his extracurriculars non-existent, and he had to live in the shadow of his popular sister who seemed to excel at everything she put her mind to.
If anything, Danny knew more about what the inside of a locker looked like, than he did the inside of a classroom.
“How about you, Jazz?” Jack asked, “Want to spend some time with the family?”
“Sorry, Dad,” Jazz replied coolly, “As tempting as that is, I have a date.”
“A date?” Maddie spoke up, “Will he be coming here to pick you up?”
“Ha,” Jazz laughed sarcastically, enthusiastically shaking her head, “No, no he will not. I’m meeting him at the library.”
“Oooh a study date,” Danny waved his hands, “Sounds hot, making out between the bookshelves, being shushed by the librarian.”
“Daniel,” Jack scolded, “That’s enough.” He stated before turning to Jazz, “If any boy is going to be taking my daughter out, I need to meet him.”
“He’s a man, Dad, and it’s just a first date, he doesn’t need that kind of pressure.”
“At least give us a name,” Maddie pried, “Just for safety at the very least,”
“His name is Angel,” Jazz replied before Danny burst out laughing.
“It’s a very common name in South America, Danny!” Jazz snapped. “You’d know that if you were more like Angel, He’s a very cultured man, unlike you.”
“I hope we get to meet him, Jazz.” Maddie smiled as Jazz stood from the table.
"Pandemonium for Trask Industries tonight folks, as inventor Boliviar Trask, has gone missing during a vicious attack that has left several dead and more injured-" The background footage cut away to show the scene of the factory. Smoke still billowed from the control tower as emergency services tackled fires and cleared rubble.
"-After what appears to have been an attack to distract the Sentinel Prototypes and security, the prototypes appeared to fail and the systems shut down. The main offices exploded." G.Gordon turned to face the new camera as the angle changed. "Since the attack we have been receiving continued and escalating reports of Trask technology and software shutting down or malfunctioning without warning all across the globe. In the interest of public safety several airlines have cancelled and grounded all flights until backup systems are in place and activated-"
Gordon paused as he put his hand to his ear and turned away fron the camera. "And now we go live to a statement from Trask Industriesr."
The visual switched to that of a podium in a hangar. A spokesperson stood there, specks of dust and what was possibly blood on his usually pristine suit. A bandaid on his temple.
Given the go-ahead off screen, The man shuffled his cards awkwardly. His usual attempt at charm and charisma that had made him a meme all over the internet, absent. "Good Afternoon-" His voiced was cracked and broken as if he had been shouting. "-due to the severity and the changing nature of events I will be reading from cards [i]only[/i]-" He stared down the camera. An unusual forcefulness about him.
"-I ask that you all keep your questions for another time. At approximately twelve hundred hours, local time, the War Machine suits were active in an Artificial Intelligence flight test. Several assailants interupted the test and engaged in combat with the prototypes. The prototypes were successful however shortly after the control tower hosting myself, Tony Trask and several others was caught in an explosion. At this time Tony Trask is still missing, his body not found amongst the dead-" He coughed, clearing his throat. Reaching for a glass of water his hand raised it, unsteady.
Sipping from the glass he placed it back, clearing his throat once again before continuing. "Since the explosion many of Trask Industries, Enterprises and Technologies systems and software has been shutting down. As of yet, we cannot find the cause but are urging caution in the interest of public safety. As soon as I am done here, I will personally be overseeing our efforts to track down the cause of the system malfunction-"
Hammer continued with muted sound as he shrunk on the screen till he was in a small box hovering in the studio. "System Malfunction? Is that really the best Hammer and the Pee-Arr people at Trask can come up with? System Malfunction?! Planes grounded, peoples cellphones and work computers shutting down."
Godfrey twisted as he turned for the camera, a smug look on his face. "Now I'm no expert, but when one of the smartest men in the country goes missing making the next innovation in defensive technology for our boys in the military, and all his computer systems mysteriously start shutting down well-" He shrugged. "-well I'd be getting the C.I.A involved. Don't forget, Obadiah Stane is still hospital bound, in a coma after he was shot. Now if this isn't espionage, then I guess my word means nothing."
"There was a time I thought staying inside the system was the way to enact change, but science and advancement suffers on the whim of politicians, bureaucrats and the one percent-" The man stroked his moustache, then chuckled to himself before turning and placing a hand on his patients chest.
"No offense intended ofcourse my dear boy. You are but a symptom of the sickness."
The man picked up a remote, hitting the on button a wall of monitors activated. They showed a man made of stone trying to put out a flaming trenchcoat in New York, one in blue in red lifting up an overpass in metropolis, one with a flaming skull dispensing the most raw justice imaginable and various other superheroics and natural abilities.
"I've seen the future. You're on the right path, but the world of the Mutant is only part of the problem-" The screens changed. War, strife, politics, poverty. "The human condition has become cancerous. I have seen the future, and with your help I can change it."
Turning back around he walked very deliberately over to the bed his guest was restrained on.
"What do you say Trask, care to save the world?
Boliviar winced as the tape that had held his mouth closed was forcefully ripped off. He leaned forward and spat. "You talk too much, go to hell.
Slender fingers type precisely as the brunette's eyeline drifted through the crack between her monitors into the office of the Editor-In-Chief, watching as J. Jonah Jameson kept clicking and harumphing from his own desk.
Subscriptions had been down, advertising revenue had been down. The Bugle had already lost many of it's more prominent journalists to other publications who had offered more. Those who remained, generally did so for reasons other than pay - whether it was a sense of loyalty and or opportunity that was provided to them by a true reporter spirit even if his reputation had started to decline as he had to make more decisions from the 'Big Chair'. Reporters like Ben Urich, whose own best days were behind him, but felt truly indebted to Jonah for the opportunities granted him.
Curiosity and boredom got the better of her and she went into screen mirroring and began to backdoor into his computer. She rose to her feet and asked sweetly.
"Jonah? I might do a coffee run, can I get you anything?"
She entered his console's details and password which she had access to for her extensive administration duties, and held her finger over the 'Enter' key waiting for J.J. to take his eyes off the screen and waited the gruff response she knew would be coming.
"Coffee run? From petty cash?!" His eyes went wide as he turned to face the young admin girl, watching his finances circle the drain. She tapped the 'Enter' Key, and if he weren't distracted he'd have screen briefly turn black and announce mirroring had been activated.
"At FOUR PM? Someone just went out at TWO! Do I look like I'm made of money, Brant!? Get your kicks and fixes in your own time!" He finished with an unintelligible growl.
"Yes, Mister Jameson." She offered sweetly. Re-taking her seat, and watching her right screen, where Jonah's actions all played out in front of her.
He was visiting a page called 'Tech/Sci: Amazing Fantasy or the World of Tomorrow' for some reason.
She continued to type out office-wide memos and perform human resources tasks that would normally be undertaken by a full team in a fully staffed office, whilst her attention strayed to what Jonah was looking at on the right screen. His cursor began to stray to click on a blog, a video was about to load when...
"Ah. I see young Mister Parker made an impression..." he voice came from behind her.
A rapid boss-key and suddenly the right screen went blank.
"I'm sorry, Mister Robertson?"
"Oh no. You needn't be. I was just saying, he must have made an--" He stopped as the screen flickered a message across the top of the right screen.
SCREEN MIRRORING DISABLED
"Hmm." He ran a scrutinous eye over the young administrative officer.
"I am SOOO sorry, Mister Robertson." Betty apologized forcefully. "You won't tell Mister Jameson, will you?"
"No... No, I won't tell Jonah." And he wouldn't. Betty Brant was not only generally trustworthy, she was quite frankly an integral part of the day-to-day running of the paper, and filled numerous roles herself, which was one of the main reasons the publication had still managed to stay afloat.
"Just tell me... how's he been behaving whilst he's been looking at that page he's in?"
"Mister Jameson? A lot of grumbling, some harumphs, a few grizzled mumbles."
"Could a secretary give a translation?"
"It was the same way he reacted when Ned Leeds won that 'Nellie Bly Cub Reporter' award for the New York Press Club that you wrote his tenure letter for. When he got worried that he was going to renegotiate his contract or watch him jump--"
Robbie offered only a considered "Huh..." in reply.
"So this Mister Parker, is he a Pulitzer winner? Disgraced big name writer from elsewhere who needs to start over on the cheap?"
"No. Nothing like that. So you're saying he hasn't come in yet..?"
"No, sir."
"He'd probably want to pretty soon, or Jonah won't like that at all. Hmm... Better go see what all of the grumbling is about then, I guess. He's probably just trying to figure out the best way to use him." Robbie steeled himself for a full face of bluster and walked into the Editor-in-Chief's office.
"Well, if he's not a Pulitzer winner or star writer, what made you ask if he made an impressi--"
The door closed behind him.
"Oh."
She settled back down to work. Betty had been a mainstay at the Daily Bugle ever since her mother's passing. Her mother being one of the most brilliant and tenacious journalists that J. Jonah Jameson had ever known. He'd long felt indebted to her for her efforts at the paper which stretched back as far as when Jonah himself was just a beat reporter, before he'd gradually bought in more and more to have a controlling interest as the paper's own value dwindled and became a monument to obsolescence.
She'd been working behind a desk here since she was fifteen, and at the 'guard tower' before Jonah's office within the year, that was two years ago and her role had only grown.
Jonah felt indebted to teach her the ropes and make her a crack reporter like her mother had been. Only her role had grown so much, and she'd taken on so much of the fundemental day-to-day operations that her presence was too indispensable to actually let her work any real stories or be paired with a reporter.
The elevator at the end of the newsroom opened and out stepped a nervous youth in a white office shirt, sportsjacket, tie and pants.
He slowly edged past each row of desks, looking around as if unsure where he was supposed to go as people kept working at their desks. Nobody raised their eyes or turned their heads to meet him, so he kept moving forward row by row until he hit Betty's desk - his brow raised with relief as he saw the editor's name on the door of the office behind her.
"Oh, great! Umm... I need to go in there. I-- uh, just started working here... at the Daily Bugle." A smile creased across his face as he said the full name of the publication.
"I'm Peter Parker."
He was perhaps a year or two younger than Betty herself, perhaps a year older than she was when she left school and started working here, where her mother used to.
"I'm getting the sense that what Aunt May suggested I wear to make a good first impression has me wildly overdressed..." He muttered to himself anxiously, looking around the office.
"Not that you don't really look nice in what you're wearing!" He stumbled back over himself.
Smooth... She thought to herself, an amused smirk crossing her face.
"Riiiight..."
"I--uhh-- I have some paperwork with me. Uhmm. Mister Jameson said I was supposed to bring this in. Oh... and-- umm... I have this too!" He produced a slightly smudged sheet of A4 lined paper which he slapped down on her desk, unsure of the submission process but trying to have confidence in his work.
"Err-- first... story..? Or article? Or news bit or whatever?"
"Copy." Betty corrected.
"Roger-dodger, over and out?" He snapped back too quickly to have put any thought in.
Her smile widened.
"No it's-- it's called 'copy'." She clarified kindly.
"Okay... I've got to be honest. I've never worked--"
"In a newsroom?"
"Yeah, that either..." He looked around, feeling certain he was making an ass of himself he was making on his first impression, and hoping for minimal witnesses.
"It's okay. I'm Betty. I handle most of the administrative work for the paper, and a fair amount of the human resources and general daily operations work as well."
"That seems-- like a lot."
"Well, it keeps me busy. And between you and me, Peter, I happen to be very good at it."
He returned a warm smile and was about to respond when--
"I-- uh--"
"PARKER! Is that you out there?! Quit chatting up the admin girl and get your butt in here!"
The pair immediately started blushing, turning away from one another. Before Peter started stammering.
"I wasn't-- I mean-- I--"
"This is why you don't hire kids, Robbie! It's all puberty and hormones in here! PARKER! Don't make me say it twice! Get in here!"
"Brant! I want these office plants rotated! Get me something that absorbs pheromones!"
"I... don't think that's a thing, Mister Jameson."
His reply followed an unintelligible growl.
"I don't pay you for 'I don't think', Brant! Research! If it exists, I want them here by Friday! Unless-- they're that giant flower that smells like rotting meat. Anything else, get it in here!"
Peter went inside and the door closed behind him.
S P I D E R - M A N S P I D E R - M A N
Gwen Stacy
New U Technologies Laboratories
"Now you do know how to properly clean those flasks and test tubes, yes, Ms Stacy?" Doctor Connors asked.
"I know that can SOUND patronising, but in your early days in particular it is important that you understand there are no such things as dumb questions, or overthought processes. It is a rare opportunity that high school interns ACTUALLY get such a hands-on opportunity in scientific endeavour, and trace residue from irregular cleaning habits can be a leading cause of variables in experimentation."
Curt Connors was a kind man, if a little overwrought and fastidious in his explanations.
Of course being the head scientist in charge of a project, as well as an internship mentoring the elite young scientists of tomorrow, there were worse faults to have.
"Do you use an acid or a base pre-rinse here, Doctor Connors? And I'm assuming it's then soap and water and rinse with the distilled water." Gwen replied.
"THREE TIMES." He clarified, now pushing the bounds of patronizing. "Three times with distilled water, and yes we use an acid pre-rinse. Still impressive, not all laboratories are the same, and I'm impressed you at least knew the points of difference."
As if on cue, a teenager crossed the floor, quickly put his bag in an open box locker and took off his sportsjacket and replaced it with a lab coat.
"Certainly the most impressed by our two interns this year." Doctor Connors remarked.
"Hi-- yes-- hey. Sorry about this, Mister Connors--"
"DOCTOR Connors."
"Doctor Connors. Sorry." He corrected, clearly flustered from the situation and his rush to get there.
"I just started a new job so that I could afford to begin this internship. It's remote and I don't normally have to go into the office, but today there was an orientation, they put my details on HR file-- you don't... care about the details... but it was a one off, sir. It won't be happening again. I'm really sorry about this."
"Well, you're going to have to make up everything that you missed. Understand as well, that I am not very happy. This position is an incredible privilege that most in your position would revel in the opportunity. You haven't made a very good first impression."
"Yes sir, I'm sorry."
"Yes, so I heard. Just do better."
The boy looked over at the other teenage girl intern and attempted to retrieve the same collection of apparatus that she had in front of her. She tried to shake her head with subtlety, but he didn't see until he had already got it and returned to a bench.
"Mister Parker, if you had BOTHERED to ask, you would have realised that the collection of test tubes and flasks in front of Ms Stacy, that you have attempted to copy from, are in need of a clean. You may as well clean them now as well, since you've soiled them."
He should have known. The second he realised we didn't have gloves it wasn't going to be actual experimentation. It's a private laboratory. Gwen thought to herself.
He certainly wasn't projecting a very good first impression.
As Doctor Connors had his back turned he quickly asked in a hushed whisper.
"Quick! What did I miss?"
"The lockers, the emergency contact numbers, where the toilets are and the in-house method for cleaning test tubes and flasks - acid pre-wash, soap and water, three times distilled water rinse."
The youth dared to turn and look at her whilst Connors back remained turned.
"Thanks. Peter. Midtown High."
"Gwen. Standard High."
The two students worked the rest of the evening in relative silence, both hoping to find their way to Empire State University.
Felicia pouted. It did nothing in the face of the stern face before her.
"I do the work so you don't have to... and so that you can go to that fancy school. Empire State wasn't cheap... and neither was the donation that saw them look at you twice despite where your grades were. The least you could is get those grades back up now you're in the door."
"So if I get my grades up..?"
"Then maybe we'll talk about it... I don't like it, but one day you're gonna be your own woman, making your own choices. But while you're under this roof, it's my rules. So no, you're not going out until those grades go up. And that includes that frosh party on campus... But I don't know how you'd think you could come out on the job wth me anyway when you're failing electronics. I mean electronics, Flick, how do you think you'd do what I do if you don't get through that in the first place?"
"Alright, alright... I'll get my grades up in electronics. If I'm passing that THEN can I come out and join you?"
She pitched the negotiation with the corners of her mouth curling into a sweet smile.
The older man shook his head and sighed. "We'll talk about it..."
"Thank you, Daddy! Oh! Would you be willing to pay for a tutor to help me get on top of things?"
Walter Hardy waved a hand across her fully furnished bedroom, the decor fitted with everything and anything the younge blonde girl had wanted over the years.
"Does it look like I'd say 'No' to you, Flick?" He replied. He had an idea how this was going to play out. Some boy or another getting manipulated into pandering to her whims, he'd be introduced to some sucker who'd then be in their house doing her homework and getting strung along through the Felicia Hardy experience until he'd worn out his usefulness. "Door stays open, Flick." He dropped his one ground rule.
He doubted it was required though. Half the fun was in playing the guy in the first place. He hated thinking about his little girl in those terms, but he wasn't born without eyes, and if he was honest with himself it was likely his fault in the first place that she saw the world that way in the first place.
"Of course, Daddy. I'm just getting a tutor... Gaaaawd..." She rolled her eyes.
"Mmm." He murmured, leaving her to her devices. Walter had to prepare for another night's work.
Felicia scrambled for a bag. A tutor on short notice. Very short notice. The sooner she could find a rube to get her work caught up, the sooner she could go back out with her father. Feel the night on her face. Learn the real family trade.
"Where is it..? Where is it..?" She dug through her school bag, she'd had someone recommended by a teacher. A scrap of paper. The guy's name and phone number. 'Paulie'? "Ah-ha! Here!" She pulled the loose scrap from her bag, and lay on the bed with the piece of paper, pulling her phone off of the bedside table.
She dialed the number. She sat with impatient boredom as it rang until a voice picked up with a vague--
"Hel-lo..?" The voice on the other end asked, clearly not knowing who to expect from the unrecognised phone number.
Suddenly a tearful anxiety entered Felicia's voice that never met her eyes, as her posture remained bored on the bed.
""Hello? Is this... Peter Parker? Hi, my name is Felicia Hardy-- and-- and I really need help. I'm taking freshman electronics at Empire State University, and I got told by my teacher that he's gonna flunk me if I-- I-- don't get a good score on my next-- my next-- oh God..." Sobs and tears never breaking the eyes.
"Well, the thing is... I kind of recently got a new job, and I've started this internship, and between that and my... extracurriculars, I'm kind of time-short at the moment. I actually thought I took my number down from all of the noticeboards I had it listed on..."
"Please-- please I really need your help--!" She winced a little at herself in the mirror, laying it on too thick. But boys were easy. A little damsel mixed in and he'd come running. "I'm local! And I can't fail this class. Oh please! I'll send you my address now!"
She hung up the phone before he could further try and plead his way out of it.
She stood up from her bed, opened up a message to his phone number and dropped a pin for her location.
"Aaaaand, just a little nudge."
She grabbed her electronics text books from her bag and looked at herself in the mirror. She tried three different puppy eyed pouts in the mirror before making her decision to go with the second one. She licked her fingertip just to add a little extra moisture to the corner of her eye, before posing with her books folded in one arm under her chest, as she wore a pink-t with no bra, lifting the books underneath her chest 'just so' and taking a selfie of her perfectly posed look to add to the message.
The reply was almost instant. She snorted at the suddenness of his reply. "Too easy..."
"Yeah, I guess. I mean you got the number, and it's only Electronics. Be there in fifteen."
"Yeah, you will..."
Mary Jane Watson
The Watson Household, Forest Hills
"Are you all unpacked, Mary Jane?"
"Getting there, Aunt Anna."
"Well, if you need anything, let me know. You know you can stay here as long as you like."
Mary Jane Watson was relieved to finally be able to unpack from the cases. She'd been bouncing around various places and friends homes for a few months now looking for something, anything more stable.
Out there, somewhere, her mother and sister were struggling to make ends meet in that house. Her family threatening to drown her with their presence. She had to get out, however she could.
She related with how her mother must have felt when she decided to up and leave Philip after he hit her sister. She'd obviously never say it to their faces, but the sense of self-preservation felt much the same, even if it was under the weight of expectation rather than assault.
She'd never be able to be herself in that place.
She had little doubt that eventually Aunt Anna would let it slip where she was holed up, but until that day she had time to prove herself useful and buy back her freedom.
If she could get paying work, put together a decent enough amount, maybe they'd leave her alone if she sent back money to her mother and sister. See the value in letting her live her life elsewhere.
The thought made her feel guilt. But the guilt didn't mean she wasn't justified.
Her sister had been using her as free childcare for too long. Somehow, despite her sister having two children, she was able to keep more of her free time than the little sister M.J.
Finding work, re-enrolling to try and finish high school. It all seemed daunting, but still not as constrictive and frightening as the thought of either of her parents finding her and dragging her back.
"You know what you could do while you're here? I think it would be ever so sweet. May Parker has this nephew--"
"Aunt Anna," She giggled. "Can't I just unpack before you go looking to set me up with the local eligible bachelors of the season? This is Forest Hills, not Bridgerton."
It was just what she needed, the solution to every woman's problems as she could tell from her mother and sister.
A man to tie herself down to within hours of setting down in New York.
She loved her Aunt Anna, but she did wish she'd have a bit more sensitivity for her situation, all things considered.
"There's plenty of time for your free-living and fancy free niece to meet the local suitors, but just let her get settled first." She tried to cover her sincerity with a free-spirited laugh.
Aunt Anna poked her head back around the corner through her room.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I'm just so glad to have you here. I might be a little over-eager to show you off. May is such a sweetheart, and she just talks about her nephew so much and he's your age, I just thought-- Forget I mentioned it. It's the last you'll hear about it."
"That's okay, Aunt Anna. I'm glad to be here too."
But it was not the last she'd hear about it. Not even close.
Walter actually laughed out loud when he answered the door to the fresh-faced wide-eyed youth. The boy may as well have been damn near twelve, for how young and innocent-looking he'd appeared.
She is going to eat this boy alive... He thought to himself, as he provided introduction and directed him through the house to where his daughter would be.
"Can I get you anything to eat or drink, before you start?"
"Oh, uhh... no sir, I kind of want to get this done as quick as possible. See, I'm expected back home. I called and told them I'd be late, extenuating circumstances and all. But yeah, I kind of just have to help her get back on track and get home in a hurry."
Walter laughed out loud again at the earnesty. "Geeeeeeez..." He uttered without further explanation. Barely able to believe the kid was for real.
The younger man was led through the house and to Felicia's room.
"Tutor's here, Flick."
She turned, trying to show excitement for whoever this rube Peter Parker was before getting her first look at the young man. She was so shocked she was unable to hide her disappointment.
"Make sure you keep the door open, Flick." Her father's voice left behind, as well as a laugh which confused the young tutor.
"Oh my God..." She cried out. "My tutor's a high school senior..."
He winced at the comment, not sure how to broach the issue.
"Uhh... Junior. Senior, next semester. I mean, if it makes you feel better, I turn seventeen in, like, two weeks..."
Her horrified expression made it clear that it did not make her feel better.
"Look, it's not that bad. Not to toot my own horn, but I mean, I'm VERY good at this stuff. And you're not that far behind. You can't be. It's freshman Electronics. We just have to get you to 'see' it, and you'll find it easy."
She was covering her face with both hands. She was pretty sure that he would take it as shame on her part. In reality, she was trying not to laugh at how easy this would be.
"I jus-- I jus-- I just need to pass this next unit. And now I find out that even a High School Junior would have a better grasp on this stuff--"
"Well, I'm not really... 'just' a High School junior. I mean, I won Science prizes and... a job... IN the industry..."
"Could you-- could you just... DO this stuff for me?" She sniffed. She removed her hands from her face and hit him right between the eyes with the eyes as her mouth curled into a smile that suggested they'd have a secret, held just between them. "Just this once..."
She reached across and rested her hand on his forearm.
Peter made an audible noise and scratched the back of his neck.
"This isn't how tutors work, Felicity"
She kept hold of the eye contact. He broke eye contact first.
"I mean... when's this due by?"
It took everything she had to not turn her widening smile into a laugh.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow???"
"I know, Petey... But it's just so... hard. It takes so long for me to just get it all so wrong..."
His hand went from his neck, rising through his own head like he was flustered. She gave him something extra to be flustered by as she arched her back as she got to her feet.
"I'll just get us something to drink, Petey. While you think about it."
She tried to hold her laughter as she left the room.
She'd undoubtedly left him a drooling mess of pubescence back in the other room. She decided to putter around the kitchen, leaving him wanting more of her. If she timed it right, he'd probably beg her to let him do her work for her. Show off that big egghead brain of his and how much he could help her.
She opened the fridge and thought about what she could have, arching her leg in contemplation as she flicked through the shelves, before grabbing a jug of juice and closing the door.
Just to find him standing there.
"Here. I looked over your last stuff. This should be about a 93%. Should scrape back into passing. Any more than that and there's no way I could pass it off as your work. If they hit you with a pop quiz just tell them you're still very much working from the book." He said flatly.
He didn't seem happy at all. And if he'd been drooling over her at any point there was certainly no sign of that now.
"I don't need a drink. Just the cash."
She hopped over to the kitchen counter where the money for the tutor was kept. She returned to him and put it in his hands and was about to thank him when she realised he wasn't finished.
"Felicity... Get it together. If you want to use me for this next time... Lose my number."
Her back stiffened with the shock of the admonishment from the youth.
She looked down at the page, as if expecting it to have some message giving away that it wasn't her own work for her teacher.
But no, it had been completed, all the way through.
3x Thank
'
