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[i]Punisher War Journal

Back at safehouse 003. Micro is already coming up with some news related to Sinister. When he took a look at the looped mask I had taken off of those dead punks, he looked a little squeamish. Not quite enough to stop sucking down whatever was in that to-go soda. "Fantastic Size" blazoned across it in big bold blue letters. The stupid extra long straw ended up in a looping thumbs-up. Micro looked like a giant oversized toddler drinking it down like that. Funny, all these superheroes out there saving the world, trying to make it a better place. They sure fit well into the capitalism of the red white and blue. Near his computer desk was what was left of Micro's late night dinner: Flame On Fries. Smothered in some kind of red sauce. 

Johnny Storm was a punk. A loud-mouth with no sense of the world, thinking without much of a brain on him. I once put him out after he accosted me from taking care of business after some wise guy had it in him to stick up Marty's Deli. Torch didn't like how I opted to paint the sidewalk. Too close to the Baxter Building, probably. Johnny tried his hot head routine and didn't realize that Marty kept a fire extinguisher hung up by the front door. One shot and Storm collapsed in this mess of white filth. Only reason I didn't think to put him down for longer was I could hear Ben Grimm running from up the block. Hard to miss those footfalls, like every step was a landmine. Put me right back in the shit.

I'm back thinking of the old killing fields, faces I try to forget at night, that I miss Micro saying something and have to have him repeat it. He tells me the Sinister Mask has a particular piece of equipment by the nozzle. In an instant he's typing something into his giant monitors and boots up what looks like schematics: digital blueprints. He goes on and on about some jargon, and about the smell of the mask alone is getting him woozy like paint fumes with closed windows. He keeps going.

His computer screens are beeping and whirring, the technology beyond most of my grasp. Unless it shoots, maims, kills, blinds - it's not too useful in my hands. But Micro is an artist with this. He points to a piece of the mask and then at the screen. Says the nozzle piece on this mask is actually a patent. The type of latch it takes isn't found in many other pieces of equipment due to it. It's not Stark, Rand, Hammer. Nothing in heavy weaponry. When I ask he clarifies, it's not exactly weaponry at all. 

The screen zooms out from the nozzle latch schematics into a larger piece of equipment - almost like a scuba suit, or someone in a hazmat suit. Full body covering. And almost as thick as the Juggernaut.

Micro says it's from a Digger Suit. He pulls up a variety of files that flash on the screen. Demo tests, product video, camera feeds from security lines. Apparently, Digger Suits are one of the bigger pieces of the equipment line utilized by some place called "Treece International." The screen blinks around to show me the face of it's founder, Roland Treece. Looks like this guy has a variety of connections. Sizing him up, I decide his jaw looks weakest. Micro is still talking, and I can see he is smiling.

Instead of repeating himself, he pulls up another video feed. Someone I've been interested in for some time, apparently someone who came across one of these Suits in a non-ecological situation.

On the monitor, which is a point of view camera from the Digger Suit's pilot, a flash of sharp white teeth. Screams and shrills as the suit is crushed with the man still in it. The feed cuts out before long - leaving the man's fate unknown. The monster that destroyed such a sophisticated piece of machine was terrifying and fast, brutal and violent. Not unlike me. Except I can't swing from rooftop to rooftop like Spider-Man. And I've never bitten the head clean off a man.

Venom...

But some dots are starting to connect.

Now I have an in. [/i]