DC ♦ MARVEL ♦ DARK HORSE ♦ IDW ♦ IMAGE ♦ ARCHIE
GM
DC ♦ MARVEL ♦ DARK HORSE ♦ IDW ♦ IMAGE ♦ ARCHIE
GM
Prologue: From Russia Without Love
Gotham City, United States
May 2nd, 2016
Clark Kent knew the consequences of the Kryptonian Invasion would be fierce, and truthfully he didn’t particularly blame the world for turning their backs on him.
He had been so captivated by the prospect of knowing what he had never been able to that he allowed himself to not see the true intentions behind those who sought him out, and the consequences of such blindness had come at a cost that he could not forgive himself for— and how could he blame the world for losing their faith in him when he had lost faith in himself?
Everything he had done since 2012 had felt pointless and absolute irrelevant in the shadow of what had transpired only just a month ago. For all the lives he protected and damages he protected others from could not have justified the harm that came from the Kryptonian mothership being allowed to approach Earth in the first place. In many ways, it was an eternal nightmare for him— the scenario dwelling in the back of his mind and he relived it time after time. The telltale signs were all there: Zod’s posture, the armaments on the ship’s hull, the militaristic subservience, and the mood as he walked in the corridors.
There was absolutely no way he shouldn’t have deduced that the people of his homeworld were fashioning a conquest and not a meeting of denizens of peace. But the appeal of knowing where he came from, the knowledge from the archives about how the Kryptonians had turned towards peace in later centuries, and his own personal quest to know where he came from in full and to understand what he was had blinded him from all truth. He had been a selfish dupe and people died because of his ignorance.
He wasn’t sure if the world would ever forgive him.
He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself.
Forgiveness warranted action and action was exactly what Clark continued to do as Superman. Though, it wasn’t exactly any easier considering how several journalists criticized his lack of responsibility and the precedent that his activities brought to the planet. The public took to the press like flies and began to amount to anger, fear, and hatred of not only Superman but the other heroes of the world like him. If the mutant problem wasn’t bad enough there was now this. It probably was no surprised that his greatest enemy, Alexander Luthor, had also used the incident as a call to arms against metahumans. Clark knew it as soon as the invasion had been stopped that Lex Luthor had a massive grin on his face and had already begun planning more ways to discredit him and embarrass him. But he had no idea how big Luthor would be thinking until around two weeks ago when Luthor announced his intentions to help rebuild the damages.
A brave new world and “saintly” Luthor was picking up all the pieces.
It was no secret that Clark had strong feelings against LexCorp and Luthor himself. But after seeing how much harm had “coincidentally” surrounded LexCorp, it was a hard feeling to shake. How could a man who willingly and deceptively armed super-villains, assassins, terrorists, and corrupt governments be the face of a new frontier of society? How could a person like that be seen as good? How could a person like that get away with it? The frustration was like a fire in Clark’s stomach and even help from the World’s Greatest Detective had ended to dead ends— though it wasn’t like Batman could inherently focus on the problem at hand given what he was dealing with constantly in Gotham City; Clark knew he had a lot on his plate.
But eventually there would be no legal loophole or perfect way to weasel out of justice for Luthor and his day would come. But how? It had been almost four years since he talked with Luthor for the first time and Clark still hadn’t found enough viable evidence to justify his feelings. The possibility that Luthor had changed was something that seemed so unreal to the him. It was a thought that seemed impossible— especially after how many times Luthor looked at him with his smug grin knowing he had nothing concrete on him and that he could do as he pleased as long as he had all of his pieces properly on the board. Clark was no moron, but Luthor knew he was smarter than him in every single way and there was no way he wasn’t going to flaunt that embittered arrogance.
There had to be a chink in his armor somewhere.
“Let it go, Clark.” Clark muttered under his breath as he stood at the center of the Fortress of Solitude, trying to calm his nerves.
Clark knew thinking about the same thing for four years expecting a different conclusion was the definition of insanity but he felt like distracting himself completely would make it easier for Luthor to do something he would’ve otherwise noticed. It was a conundrum in itself, for sure. It was times like this that he wondered what Captain America or The Justice Society of America would’ve done in the same situation. Maybe it was a romanticization, but being a hero seemed so much easier back in the Golden Age of Superheroes; villains were simpler. All you had to do was fly and punch.
“Kelex, I’m going back on patrol rounds. Update me if anything comes up.”
Leaving the Fortress of Solitude, Clark slammed all of his anxiety into a physical outlet as he zipped from his base of operations as he made for the stratosphere like he always did when preparing for his patrol. Once within the stratosphere the Kryptonian stopped on a dime as he looked down towards the surface with a wide smile as his cape flowed behind him. Despite all of the anxiety he had with Luthor every single time Clark pulled himself up here he felt a blissful energy overtake him. Who needed therapy when you could just experience this kind of euphoric peace? He remembered when Kara had started to get used to her powers and he took her up to the stratosphere for the first time as a sort of introduction to the Kryptonian abilities she was inheriting.
Clark took a deep breath before a clear smile came on his face. Looking down towards the direction of the Eastern Seaboard of the United States his brows narrowed. He was overdue to talk to his friend in Gotham.
He had been so captivated by the prospect of knowing what he had never been able to that he allowed himself to not see the true intentions behind those who sought him out, and the consequences of such blindness had come at a cost that he could not forgive himself for— and how could he blame the world for losing their faith in him when he had lost faith in himself?
Everything he had done since 2012 had felt pointless and absolute irrelevant in the shadow of what had transpired only just a month ago. For all the lives he protected and damages he protected others from could not have justified the harm that came from the Kryptonian mothership being allowed to approach Earth in the first place. In many ways, it was an eternal nightmare for him— the scenario dwelling in the back of his mind and he relived it time after time. The telltale signs were all there: Zod’s posture, the armaments on the ship’s hull, the militaristic subservience, and the mood as he walked in the corridors.
There was absolutely no way he shouldn’t have deduced that the people of his homeworld were fashioning a conquest and not a meeting of denizens of peace. But the appeal of knowing where he came from, the knowledge from the archives about how the Kryptonians had turned towards peace in later centuries, and his own personal quest to know where he came from in full and to understand what he was had blinded him from all truth. He had been a selfish dupe and people died because of his ignorance.
He wasn’t sure if the world would ever forgive him.
He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself.
Forgiveness warranted action and action was exactly what Clark continued to do as Superman. Though, it wasn’t exactly any easier considering how several journalists criticized his lack of responsibility and the precedent that his activities brought to the planet. The public took to the press like flies and began to amount to anger, fear, and hatred of not only Superman but the other heroes of the world like him. If the mutant problem wasn’t bad enough there was now this. It probably was no surprised that his greatest enemy, Alexander Luthor, had also used the incident as a call to arms against metahumans. Clark knew it as soon as the invasion had been stopped that Lex Luthor had a massive grin on his face and had already begun planning more ways to discredit him and embarrass him. But he had no idea how big Luthor would be thinking until around two weeks ago when Luthor announced his intentions to help rebuild the damages.
A brave new world and “saintly” Luthor was picking up all the pieces.
It was no secret that Clark had strong feelings against LexCorp and Luthor himself. But after seeing how much harm had “coincidentally” surrounded LexCorp, it was a hard feeling to shake. How could a man who willingly and deceptively armed super-villains, assassins, terrorists, and corrupt governments be the face of a new frontier of society? How could a person like that be seen as good? How could a person like that get away with it? The frustration was like a fire in Clark’s stomach and even help from the World’s Greatest Detective had ended to dead ends— though it wasn’t like Batman could inherently focus on the problem at hand given what he was dealing with constantly in Gotham City; Clark knew he had a lot on his plate.
But eventually there would be no legal loophole or perfect way to weasel out of justice for Luthor and his day would come. But how? It had been almost four years since he talked with Luthor for the first time and Clark still hadn’t found enough viable evidence to justify his feelings. The possibility that Luthor had changed was something that seemed so unreal to the him. It was a thought that seemed impossible— especially after how many times Luthor looked at him with his smug grin knowing he had nothing concrete on him and that he could do as he pleased as long as he had all of his pieces properly on the board. Clark was no moron, but Luthor knew he was smarter than him in every single way and there was no way he wasn’t going to flaunt that embittered arrogance.
There had to be a chink in his armor somewhere.
“Let it go, Clark.” Clark muttered under his breath as he stood at the center of the Fortress of Solitude, trying to calm his nerves.
Clark knew thinking about the same thing for four years expecting a different conclusion was the definition of insanity but he felt like distracting himself completely would make it easier for Luthor to do something he would’ve otherwise noticed. It was a conundrum in itself, for sure. It was times like this that he wondered what Captain America or The Justice Society of America would’ve done in the same situation. Maybe it was a romanticization, but being a hero seemed so much easier back in the Golden Age of Superheroes; villains were simpler. All you had to do was fly and punch.
“Kelex, I’m going back on patrol rounds. Update me if anything comes up.”
Leaving the Fortress of Solitude, Clark slammed all of his anxiety into a physical outlet as he zipped from his base of operations as he made for the stratosphere like he always did when preparing for his patrol. Once within the stratosphere the Kryptonian stopped on a dime as he looked down towards the surface with a wide smile as his cape flowed behind him. Despite all of the anxiety he had with Luthor every single time Clark pulled himself up here he felt a blissful energy overtake him. Who needed therapy when you could just experience this kind of euphoric peace? He remembered when Kara had started to get used to her powers and he took her up to the stratosphere for the first time as a sort of introduction to the Kryptonian abilities she was inheriting.
“Shut your eyes. Focus past the noise and listen closely. This may seem like a burden but it isn’t— this is the heartbeat of the planet.”
Clark took a deep breath before a clear smile came on his face. Looking down towards the direction of the Eastern Seaboard of the United States his brows narrowed. He was overdue to talk to his friend in Gotham.
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May 2nd, 2016 ♦ Bludhaven, New Jersey
Bludhaven was a cesspool of human filth.
The pimps moved hookers. The dealers moved crack. A soccer mom behind on bills was the reigning weed queen of Avalon Hills.
And so long as it didn't affect him, he was happy to leave them to the petty criminality whittling away at so much human decency and civilization.
It started in the high schools. A heroine overdose. First one, then two, then a high school track star. That was when the attention got to be too much, and the dealers looked for markets elsewhere. Which was when they'd introduced it to a middle school.
To be clear, these dealers were not the dregs of society or demons in sheep's clothing.
Jimmy Arlen was a high schooler. He'd never been in any serious trouble with the law and went to church on Sunday. He made reasonable enough grades, but he wasn't scholarship material. At best, he might hope for community college out of high school, but the writing was pretty much on the wall that he'd go to work driving trucks just like his step-dad. Jimmy wasn't a star athlete, but he rode the bench for varsity basketball and ran track and field. He was a triathlete of meager, if respectable, talent and had gotten hooked on heroine as a way of putting himself in 'the zone.'
He got reduced rates from his dealer, Mark, if he ran some 'errands.' Working for Mark meant becoming a middle man. Mark provided the supply and Jimmy helped with marketing, passing the word, distributing, and collecting the money for Mark as they passed the heroine around the school. Then, when the High School had started cracking down, Jimmy found that his younger cousin was a gateway to a market of kids who could raid their mother's purses for money.
One of those kids had been Fabian Juliard. At twelve, he was interested in girls and Minecraft. His one mistake was that Jimmy Arlen's cousin was his best friend. Now, Fabian had never done anything like this before, but agreed to try it with a friend during a sleepover truth-and-dare that had ended with one kid headed to Juvenile Hall and the other to the morgue.
For what it was worth, Jimmy had apologized.
By the time the investigators had gotten together all of the information that they needed, and headed out to the trailer park on the lower east side where Jimmy Arlen lived, the call had already come in of a possible suicide at that address. Jimmy Arlen had hung himself with a length of rusted wrought iron chain. None of the cops had ever seen its like before. Kid had even pissed and shit himself in the obvious struggle against the metal cutting into his throat.
The curious thing was, no one could tell just how Jimmy had gotten himself up the tree like that. But there wasn't signs of a struggle and the cops didn't see a reason to chase that tangent when the medical examiner was going to rule it a suicide anyway.
See you in Hell, Jimmy.
And I mean that.
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GM
Prologue: Speed Demon
New York City, United States -- Office of Dr. Margaret Dillon
May 2nd, 2016
“The laughter becomes demonic, distorting like it is being put through some sort of filter until it just becomes screeching dissonance. The world dulls like it is in slow motion and everything feels heavy— I’m running… I’m trying to move as fast as I can, but… I’m only moving slower. I need to move faster, but I can’t no matter how hard I try. I can hear their screams underneath it all, crying out for me as they get father and farther away. I reach out… I can’t breathe— and then it stops. They’re dead. I don’t want to be alive. And then I see a twisted, demonic face— the glimmer of my own face in the reflection of its eyes… and then I wake up.”
I’ve always been told therapy was supposed to be good for you, but as far as I can tell it just makes things worse. Out of all the things I thought would help, this is probably in the top ten worst ideas I’ve had in 2016— actually, I’m pretty sure it’s the #2 slot. Challenging a Kryptonian to a fistfight is pretty hard to be beat in terms of ideas that I did not really think through in all fairness. But I digress.
The office of Dr. Margaret Dillon is quiet, save for the occasional scribble of a pen on paper as I relive my nightmares and express my “feelings” about said nightmares. What does she think I’m going to feel about these nightmares, anyway? I’m not going to suddenly think these nightmares are a “good development of my character that allows me to cope with what has transpired in my life” or anything; they are objectively terrible reflections of my thoughts and desires; it’s not really all that complicated. But my friends told me it was a good idea and since Ollie’s parents decided to put money down on this first visit I’m kind of trapped here for another… five minutes. Great.
Yeah, I’m not all too convinced this is a particular productive waste of my time and energy, especially considering I could be stopping a bank robbery or intrepid car chase through downtown Queens. Which, in all honestly, has been happening a bit more frequently considering we’re still rebuilding after the Kryptonian Invasion. But with all the money the mega-corporations are putting into the city to get us back to some semblance of “normal” within the month. Midtown High says they’ll be re-opening their doors in a few weeks, though that also means that finals and graduation will be pushed a few weeks as well. I can just hear Flash Thompson’s whining about it now.
“How often do you get this nightmare?”
How about every month for the last year? I sigh, “Pretty much every month since it happened.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure if talking about it is helping.”
The words kind of slip out of my mouth. Though I try not to make a fuss about it, I think I’ve heard “I see” enough for one day. If therapy is supposed to be a conversation about how to tackle my repressed feelings and regrets, then my therapist sure has a funny way of responding to it. I know she’s not quite the cartoon therapist from the movies I’m writing her off as, but I have this strong feeling that some non-answer to try to keep me doing these sessions will be her next reply.
“Therapy is a process, Mr. Parker. We can only accept our reality if we are willing to take the time to.”
Ding. Should have put money on that one.
“Maybe.”
“Well, that’s about all the time we have for today— though I hope to see you for a second one.”
Well, of course you do— that’s how you make the big bucks. Regardless of how I feel, I give her a nod before I step up from the chair and make my way to the door. I’m not sure if I’m wrong about this therapy thing or not, but she deserves at least some acknowledgement even if this is her job. I want to hope that she did some good here even if I’m some kind of cynic. I give a faint smile and turn back at her before opening the door.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Dillon.”
I take a huge breath as I finally take my exit— the door closing behind me, I take a wave at the next kid in line for an appointment. I manage to half-remark before I exit the building. “Good luck.”
It’s a little funny when I think about it. He’s only in for an appointment to talk about his issues, but I have a responsibility to attend to— maybe I should be saying good luck to myself. God knows I'm going to need it.
I’ve always been told therapy was supposed to be good for you, but as far as I can tell it just makes things worse. Out of all the things I thought would help, this is probably in the top ten worst ideas I’ve had in 2016— actually, I’m pretty sure it’s the #2 slot. Challenging a Kryptonian to a fistfight is pretty hard to be beat in terms of ideas that I did not really think through in all fairness. But I digress.
The office of Dr. Margaret Dillon is quiet, save for the occasional scribble of a pen on paper as I relive my nightmares and express my “feelings” about said nightmares. What does she think I’m going to feel about these nightmares, anyway? I’m not going to suddenly think these nightmares are a “good development of my character that allows me to cope with what has transpired in my life” or anything; they are objectively terrible reflections of my thoughts and desires; it’s not really all that complicated. But my friends told me it was a good idea and since Ollie’s parents decided to put money down on this first visit I’m kind of trapped here for another… five minutes. Great.
Yeah, I’m not all too convinced this is a particular productive waste of my time and energy, especially considering I could be stopping a bank robbery or intrepid car chase through downtown Queens. Which, in all honestly, has been happening a bit more frequently considering we’re still rebuilding after the Kryptonian Invasion. But with all the money the mega-corporations are putting into the city to get us back to some semblance of “normal” within the month. Midtown High says they’ll be re-opening their doors in a few weeks, though that also means that finals and graduation will be pushed a few weeks as well. I can just hear Flash Thompson’s whining about it now.
“How often do you get this nightmare?”
How about every month for the last year? I sigh, “Pretty much every month since it happened.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure if talking about it is helping.”
The words kind of slip out of my mouth. Though I try not to make a fuss about it, I think I’ve heard “I see” enough for one day. If therapy is supposed to be a conversation about how to tackle my repressed feelings and regrets, then my therapist sure has a funny way of responding to it. I know she’s not quite the cartoon therapist from the movies I’m writing her off as, but I have this strong feeling that some non-answer to try to keep me doing these sessions will be her next reply.
“Therapy is a process, Mr. Parker. We can only accept our reality if we are willing to take the time to.”
Ding. Should have put money on that one.
“Maybe.”
“Well, that’s about all the time we have for today— though I hope to see you for a second one.”
Well, of course you do— that’s how you make the big bucks. Regardless of how I feel, I give her a nod before I step up from the chair and make my way to the door. I’m not sure if I’m wrong about this therapy thing or not, but she deserves at least some acknowledgement even if this is her job. I want to hope that she did some good here even if I’m some kind of cynic. I give a faint smile and turn back at her before opening the door.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Dillon.”
I take a huge breath as I finally take my exit— the door closing behind me, I take a wave at the next kid in line for an appointment. I manage to half-remark before I exit the building. “Good luck.”
It’s a little funny when I think about it. He’s only in for an appointment to talk about his issues, but I have a responsibility to attend to— maybe I should be saying good luck to myself. God knows I'm going to need it.
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"From Qurac With Love" Part 1
S.H.I.E.L.D. CENTRAL
The Global Operations Center
Metropolis, DE, USA
Steve Dayton was a man in the middle of a storm.
Monitors bathed the dimly lit room in a sea of colors. Holographic models shone in tucked away corners where armchair generals and analysts carefully picked over developments in all parts of the world. Idly fiddling with the sterling cufflinks, the seasoned agent in the exquisitely tailored Armani suit was watching a giant track of the Middle East. Without looking, the man raised his voice as he called out, "Larry, where's my update on those Russian bombers?"
"Just waiting for sat-link coverage to come back up over the peninsula."
Ice blue eyes swept with the slightly turn of his head, leveling a chilling glare over at the pilot at the computer terminal a level below him. "Take your time. We're not trying to stop World War Three or anything," Steve barked impatiently. When silence lingered for longer than a second, he rapt two fingers against the watch on his wrist. "No, seriously, no rush. When you get to it."
"They're twelve kilometers outside Turkish airspace, en route toward Syria."
"Was that so god damn hard," the man muttered, pivoting to look back over the opposite shoulder at a brunette who was a knock-out at any age. "Rita, talk to me about Turkey."
"They're issuing warnings about entering their airspace."
No shit. But that wasn't the question he'd asked. "Will they fire?" Steve uttered, making his area of concern more clear.
"I don't think so, no," the woman answered, rather brusque but to the point. "They don't want another incident like in November."
With a nod, Steve acknowledged the report and was already moving on to the next part. Leaning over the panel in front of him, he peered down into the workstation of the transportation action officer. "Cliff, how's that evac coming?"
Rita's voice cut in from behind him. "We don't know for sure that the Russians are targeting..."
With a loud snap, Steve Dayton silenced the room. Leveling a finger over at the pilot, Steve asked, "Larry, is the Op Area in the Russian flight path?"
"If they maintain heading..."
Another snap, followed by a look back at Rita. That ought to be answer enough. If the Russians were flying bombers into Syria, Steve wasn't taking the chance of SG-5 getting caught in some bullshit Kremlin crossfire. "Garfield!" the man shouted.
The rapid sound of flat rubber soles slapping against the floor alerted Steve to the approach of his new secretary. Or 'administrative operations specialist.' Whatever the fuck bitches were calling themselves these days. The kid looked like he belonged in high school. A shaggy mop of hair and a suit that was obviously bought off the rack at Men's Wearhouse. With a pair of Vans, which were probably the nicest shoes he owned. "Sir?"
Sizing the young man up, Steve leveled with the kid. "This is the most crucial piece of this entire operation, Garfield. You're certain everything is right?"
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Y-yes, sir," Garfield stammered, holding it out for Agent Dayton to take.
Steve didn't reach for it yet. "I'm counting on you, Garfield," the agent-in-charge uttered, looking at the object in the boy's hands and then raising his eyes to look the kid in the face. He looked like fear, smelled like Aquavelva, and shook with more nerves than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. "Lives are counting on you," Steve dropped ominously, before he finally stretched out his hand. "Let's see what you've got."
In a moment of baited breath, the green-skinned young college student passed the white cup with its trademark green logo of a two-tailed mermaid into the waiting arms of the veteran spy. Holding the sacred chalice of overpriced caffeinated beverages aloft, Agent Dayton tipped the drink back for a tender kiss of the hot coffee against his lips.
Then he lowered the cup back down.
"Garfield?"
The boy might well have shit himself. His throat bobbed as he audibly swallowed at hearing his name spoken in that tone. "Yes, sir?" His voice might have gone up an octave on that one.
"All I asked for was a triple, venti, soy, no-foam latte."
"Y-yes, sir?"
"Is this a triple, venti, soy, no-foam latte?"
Green eyes just blinked. The boy was utterly baffled, as though he'd just been posed a trick question. "Uhhh..."
Popping the top off the white cup, Steve held the container out for the youth to inspect for himself. A head of foamed milk swirled at the top. "What's this look like to you, Garfield?"
The boy looked at Steve, then down at the cup, then back at Steve. "Foam, sir," he answered, sheepishly.
"It's foam, Garfield," Steve echoed, replacing the top and then holding the cup over the trash can before dropping the entire thing down into the bin. "I mean, I'm only defending the fucking free world here! Is it too much that I ask for a triple, venti, soy, NO-FOAM latte, Garfield?"
The kid took two steps back. Honestly, Steve was impressed it hadn't been more. "No, sir."
"No, sir," Steve echoed, holding his tongue before he said something about apologies and a quarter still not adding up to a cup of coffee.
"Sorry, sir."
"Is there anything else, Mister Logan?" Steve asked pointedly.
"Uhhh..." When the boy didn't appear to get the gist, Steve snapped his fingers and jerked a thumb toward the exit. "Yes, sir," Garfield uttered, shoulders slumped as he shuffled his way back out.
He'd made it three steps out into the hall before a voice called after him.
Pausing, the teen looked up to see a young woman with dark hair and glasses ambling down his way. She was the graduate student interning in HR. Donna? Deanna? D-something... "Oh, uh, h-hi, uh, Debbie, ri--"
Yeah, he got the look. "Dorothy."
"Dorothy, right, yeah," Garfield amended quickly. Then stood there. And what were they talking about? "So, uhh..."
"I was just wanting to chat with ya," the young woman said, holding her clipboard up against her chest as she smiled and added, "I mean, it's not like Human Resources needs a reason to just chat with folks, right?"
Garfield feigned a laugh, which came out rather weak as he flinched back at that remark. "Right, yeah," he agreed, albeit hesitantly.
"Actually, there's a reason."
Of course there was.
"Ya know, the other day, when ya fixed the copier?"
"...yeah?"
"And ya did that fist thing and said 'Go Green'..."
"Green Powah," the boy said, correcting her without so much as missing a beat. Then everything got quiet again. "Er, something like that."
"Yeah, that's not okay."
Wait, what? "Not... okay?" Garfield repeated, almost just to see if he'd heard her right.
"Yeah, you can't be doing that here."
Truthfully, at this point, Garfield wasn't certain if he was lost, dazed, or just confused. "Huh?"
"See, some people feel that you're focusing on your color, to the exclusion of others," Dorothy said, holding out her clipboard as she started to go through her notes. "And then the obvious reference to the Black Panthers, when you marked 'Caucasian' for race/ethnicity on your application forms... Well, I don't need to tell you, that's got some people saying you're committing cultural appropriation. You know, from real colored people."
Make that dazed, confused, or starting to get pissed off. "Real..." Gar began, finding himself flustered and speechless at the suggestion. Holding out both arms, the teen looked at the older girl and answered, "I'm GREEN!"
Seriously. Colored people? Was that even PC in this day and age?
"...and, wait, how would anybody know what I put for race on my..."
"That's not what we're talking about, Mister Logan," Dorothy snapped, interrupting before he could finish that thought. "And I trust we won't need to have this talk again."
With that, she held up two fingers as she made the universal 'eye on you' gesture and stormed off.
"Ugghhhh..." As he slumped forward, the teen planted his head firmly against the wall.
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"It begins with a breath.
In, slow and controlled like you're absorbing the world through your nostrils, in so that all you can hear is the air rushing like waves on the shore. Listen to it, feel it, focus on it until there is nothing else.
Let the sensation flow from the nose to the chest slowly throughout the rest of your body until it reaches your toes, the tips of your fingers, the crown of your head.
Now out, flowing in one continuous stream that your mind follows outward, letting all that you are stream forth in an single exhalation. Fear, anger, worry, joy, hope, love, let them all flow from your mind and into the open air with your breath. Know yourself to be a vessel, now being emptied of self.
In, knowing that what you take in is not just air nor mere oxygen but life. Feel that by breathing you renew something within yourself, that body mind and spirit burn brighter as you breath. Let your newfound emptiness be filled with the life of the world.
Now out, aware that a piece of you goes with it and mingles with the air of the world, tying it to you and you to it, linking you to life in this unending cycle of breath. Know you are more than your body, more than your mind. You are a fragment of the heart of the world.
This is the most basic awareness of Qi, and with it you may become more than a man, more than a weapon.
With Qi, you will achieve the impossible
and it begins with a breath."
Even as Lei-Kung's words echoed through his barely conscious mind Daniel Rand-Kai struggled against his desire for air. The swirling, reeking Charybdis that was a private school toilet was hardly the sort of thing he wanted to be one with his body. He twitched and flailed against the hold of his teenage tormentors, but falsely, feebly. Oh sure there were dozens of techniques he could execute even from this position that would leave them stunned, broken, dead. But here, he wasn't Xiaolong Rand-Kai, warrior prince of K'un-L'un and heir to the title of the Immortal Iron Fist. Here he was Danny Rand, the weird, famous orphan who'd spent most of his life speaking Chinese and had nothing going for him socially other than his dead parents' money. Rejecting the scavengers that had sought to rip off the occasional hunk of cash from him had made him enemies. Enemies were nothing new.
What was new was that Danny Rand couldn't afford to get expelled for beating his new classmates into vaguely humanoid piles of bruises. The rules were different here, even if he wasn't always sure what game they were all playing. So in accordance with the rules, the young Human Weapon was forced to endure a form of torture the local bandit chief (the term Lacrosse Captain was hardly fitting) had dubbed a 'swirly'. K'un-L'un training would ordinarily mean he'd have no problem holding his breath through any such torment, but his captors were taking just a little too much joy out of his predicament lasting so long.
Besides, he was probably starting to smell like piss.
He shifted just enough to lash out with a foot and hit into the nearest shin, a distraction that lead mostly to cursing and a sudden release from the depths of his gurgling porcelain hell. Danny grinned despite his head being soaked in...actually he didn't want to think about it. But the smile enraged the two in front of him enough for one of them to take a swing at Danny's face...
Which was really a mistake in the close confines of a toilet stall. The wild haymaker didn't have nearly enough momentum and it took just a little shift and a deflection to make the bully's fist crack painfully against the back tiles. Another fractional dodge sent a low kick rebounding hard against the toilet with a pitiful yowl from Danny's aggressor at which point the living weapon just shoved into him lightly to send the off-balance adolescent sprawling to the floor. Danny just looked down at him with the same big, stupid grin on his face.
"Whoa there, you okay? I couldn't see with all the water in my eyes, y'know. It's been great catching up with you guys but I'm just gonna go home now. Maybe take a shower."
He stormed out before the other two who'd been helping hold him down could process what had just happened, too busy helping their injured friend up. Swirly ended and the Living Weapon had barely laid a finger on them. Maybe he was getting used to the game: bullies zero, Danny Rand one.
Danny left school early in the hope that he wouldn't be tempted to take a more aggressive approach to swirly-deterrence. Let the principle or the school board or whoever go ahead and call Joy up about it, with the amount of money they'd likely donated along with his enrollment he could probably afford a single day of truancy and besides that-
"<<Hot damn, kid! Ya always look like you just went ten rounds with Shou-Lao the Undying?>>"
The words came from a grey haired, middle-to-senior-citizen aged man Danny had just walked past and only now noticed out of the corner of his eye. He was dressed in a ratty brown trenchcoat that looked like it wanted to be somewhere else, green pants that had seen better days a few decades ago and a five 'o clock shadow that had given up keeping time around seven-thirty. Well, all of that and a stench of alcohol and Yu-Ti knew what else that hung around him like a cloud. Not that Danny was one to talk at the moment.
Still, Danny just walked on and hoped he misheard even if it was strange for a probably homeless old white man to yell at him in ancient Chinese and use Shou-Lao's name. This was New York after all, anything was possible and it could just be a coincidence.
Then the old man grabbed Danny's shoulder.
"<<Phew! Make that ten rounds mucking out Shou-Lao's bigass litter box! Ya smell worse than me kid an' I been drunk an' high for sixty years!>>"
The sudden contact brought out old training honed into reflex and Danny whirled into the grab and used the momentum to scythe upward with his elbow in a reverse Rock Smash Strike, knocking the old man's chin high and exposing his throat for a Spear-Hand Blow. As he gurgled and reeled from the jab to the trachea and tucked his chin Danny did his best to smash his nose with a Brooklyn Headbutt: Not a solution Lei-Kung would approve of, but very satisfying to use.
But instead of falling to the ground gasping for air, the old man just stumbled a little and wiped the blood off of his face to reveal a smirk.
"<<You're not bad kid. Not quite as good as Wendell yet, but you're as angry and stubborn as he was->>"
Between being forced to endure having his head dunked in a toilet, yet another day's worth of sudden mystical kung fu intrigue and the mention of his father Danny had had just about enough. He focused that rage into his fist along with his own personal chi, drawing on the Chi of Shou-Lao along with it in a sudden flare of golden fire around his hand as he thrust it out at the old drunk.
The resounding thunderous bang as it was caught by a hand sheathed in similar golden flames just added to Danny's shock as his target failed to go flying or be otherwise stopped from existing in his general area. The sudden and horrific pain that jolted throughout his body as if someone was playing tug of war with his soul didn't exactly help things either.
"<<Even more like your old man than I thought. Name's Orson Randall, Danny. In case you're a little slow on the uptake, we need ta talk.>>"
Unfortunately for Orson, Danny was a little bit too busy fainting to reply.
3x Like
coGM
GreenGrenade
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
B R U C E W A Y N E ‘ S J O U R N A L
A P R I L 3 0 T H, 2 0 1 6
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E B A T C A V E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
A P R I L 3 0 T H, 2 0 1 6
All I hear is laughter and screams. Mirth and pain. They join together like two lovers’ hands, intertwining with the comfortable familiarity of time. I want to make them stop, to tell them to be quiet, but they’re persistent and unwavering, unwilling to leave me be. They pierce my mind with a clarity I don’t want – I can hear them as clearly as I can smell the tangy iron of blood, as clearly as I can see brick and steel plummeting to the streets below. Soon all that will be left is laughter and anarchy, the mark this diseased excuse for an Earth has left on me and mine.
I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, Mother. It’s taking me over. I can’t see past my own fears and doubts. I thought I could not fail you more than when I lost Tommy… but the events of the past six months are weighing heavily on me. Gotham is dying, and the world is not far behind. It’s plagued with scum, a cowardly lot that seemingly outnumbers the few good people left at every corner; no one is motivated out of anything but their own agendas, their own greed, their own lust or their own anger. Gotham reeks of terror and mistrust, of concealed chaos and corruption of the innocent. It fears the unknown; it fears that the unknown might reveal itself like it did weeks ago. Alfred and Barbara have tried telling me that it’s not my fault, and I’m desperate to believe them, but although my heart yearns for absolution, my mind knows better, and so the guilt stays, mingling with the laughter and the screams. Gotham is dying. And I fear that the Batman is, too.
I know that the mission must go on. I know that I have to keep fighting. But the laughter and the screams won’t leave me alone. I don’t know where they end and my reality begins.
I fear that someday soon, they’re all that will be left.
I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, Mother. It’s taking me over. I can’t see past my own fears and doubts. I thought I could not fail you more than when I lost Tommy… but the events of the past six months are weighing heavily on me. Gotham is dying, and the world is not far behind. It’s plagued with scum, a cowardly lot that seemingly outnumbers the few good people left at every corner; no one is motivated out of anything but their own agendas, their own greed, their own lust or their own anger. Gotham reeks of terror and mistrust, of concealed chaos and corruption of the innocent. It fears the unknown; it fears that the unknown might reveal itself like it did weeks ago. Alfred and Barbara have tried telling me that it’s not my fault, and I’m desperate to believe them, but although my heart yearns for absolution, my mind knows better, and so the guilt stays, mingling with the laughter and the screams. Gotham is dying. And I fear that the Batman is, too.
I know that the mission must go on. I know that I have to keep fighting. But the laughter and the screams won’t leave me alone. I don’t know where they end and my reality begins.
I fear that someday soon, they’re all that will be left.
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E B A T C A V E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
Bruce Wayne was looking at them again. Their names. Their pictures. Their families. The sickly glow of the computer showed it all; everything there was to know about the one thousand, one hundred and fifty-four lives lost in Gotham during the Kryptonian invasion. Alfred didn’t understand why he kept torturing himself like this. Why he didn’t just try to move on, to accept that there wasn’t anything else he could have done. But Bruce couldn’t lie to himself like that. He didn’t do enough. People died because the Batman couldn’t protect them. Looking at their lives, at all that they were before their world crashed around them, was all Bruce could do to make up for it. Knowing all that he failed to save was the only thing he could do to cope with his failure. The Wayne Foundation was not enough. Rebuilding the city was just the first step – no matter how much he gave back to those that were injured and to the families of those who died, it would never be enough. Ever.
Light stubble covered his face. He hadn’t shaved in days. His hair was unkempt, disregarded, a mess of black with no direction; he ran a hand through it subconsciously, covered by a gauntlet though it was. He wore the Batsuit, as Lucius and Alfred called it, its metallic grey and black plates reflecting barely any of the Batcave’s minimal lighting. Its cowl rested atop the computer’s desk, staring at him with its hollow eyes. He stared back. It didn’t look away.
The computer spoke in Alfred’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “Master Bruce,” it said. “There’s a guest here for you. I did you the favour of inviting him down to the Cave myself.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” he replied, turning around. A man clad in red and blue smiled at him. “Hello, Clark.”
“It’s been awhile, Bruce.”
He sounded tired. His eyebrows were slanted upwards, his brow creased, smile strained; weary. The bags beneath his eyes indicated lack of sleep… was he patrolling more? No. Nightmares. He usually had good posture, shoulders rolled back, confident and relaxed, but now they were slumped, submissive... he felt defeated. He wanted advice.
Bruce nodded.
“It never gets easier, does it?”
He was asking about the guilt, Bruce knew. Why else would he be here? His people came to Earth with the false pretence of reuniting with him, their lost son. Instead, they launched an invasion and initiated the genocide of approximately eighteen million, three hundred and sixty thousand people worldwide. If Clark hadn’t managed to stop them, the death toll would have quickly climbed to seven and a half billion. Of course he felt guilty. And if his body language was any indication, that guilt was eating him alive.
Bruce knew the feeling.
“No,” he answered. “No, it doesn’t.”
Images flashed into his head of blood spilled too soon, of swarms of flies eating staling flesh, of a sadistic grin marked by its owner’s blood, and he clenched his jaw in an effort to hold the memories back, to keep the floodgates closed.
Clark moved his hands behind his back, fidgeting, as he turned to look over the Cave. He was struggling to form the words he wanted to say, unsure of how to say them without appearing weak. Bruce could almost see the guilt on Clark’s shoulders, crushing him beneath its weight, equal to, or perhaps even greater than, that of the world – a titan, forced to bear the weight of the heavens upon his shoulders.
“I failed them – I failed all of them on that day.” He sighed. He could barely hold himself together. “I should’ve seen it.”
“Yes,” Bruce said, “You should have. And all those deaths… a part of them is on you. But those you failed don’t outnumber those you saved. Don’t forget that.” An image again, a baby; blood flowing among sinew and bone where its left arm used to be. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists as he tried to repress the memory.
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I don’t think any of us can forget something like that— and knowing what I know now, I’ll make sure they never do. Luthor’s taunting won’t change that.” It was barely perceptible, but Bruce heard it – a tremor in Clark’s voice at the mention of Luthor. Anger.
Luthor hadn’t held back after the invasion. He was quick to place the blame on Superman, crediting him with everything that went wrong; the media flocked towards him like seagulls, devouring every breadcrumb he threw their way. With his influence, he could turn the entire world against Clark… it was only a matter of time. This was but the next step in his vendetta against him. The years he’d spent trying to kill Clark, testing his limits, were nothing compared to this. To destroy a man’s body was one thing, but to destroy his image, his reputation, his mind – that was the ultimate blow. In some ways, that hurt far more than physical pain ever could.
Maniacal laughter echoed through Bruce’s mind. Shut up, he commanded. It didn’t.
“Luthor’s playing mind games with you, Clark. The taunting, the bad press; it’s all to get in your head. He wants to prove that he’s better than you, and you have to show him he’s not,” he said. “You’re stronger than me, Clark. You always have been. More than you think, in more ways than one. Use that strength. Don’t let the invasion hold you back. Prove to yourself that you can do better, that you are better – and maybe the world will see it, too.”
Clark chuckled humorlessly. “You know, they call me the Man of Steel, the Hero of Tomorrow... Superman. It’s funny.”
Only it wasn’t. Over the past four years of knowing Clark, Bruce had come to understand better and better why he’d been given those titles. Clark had that air about him, an aura that exuded confidence, from which goodness and honesty flowed freely; the moment you spotted him hovering above you, cape flowing elegantly in the wind, you knew that everything was going to be alright. A beautiful lie. Time and time again, Clark had proven to the people of Metropolis – to the world – that deep down, he was a good person. The best, even. Who needed to put the fear of God into criminals when you had that poster boy smile and that stern look in your eye, with the ability to crush even the most hardened offender with guilt with only a simple, “I’m disappointed in you”? Ever since the days of Steve Rogers and Jay Garrick, Superman had become the symbol that they used to be; the epitomisation of everything a hero should be. He was given those titles not because people worshipped him, but because they saw in him what they had seen in Captain America and the Flash. A hero. The very best of them.
“I never asked for those titles – never advocated for them. I was just a guy stopping a 747 from falling into Downtown Metropolis back when Lois coined it. A lot of people are putting faith into those nicknames... or they did. It’s going to take a lot of work to restore that. I can’t go back to the way things were before April, and I don’t expect it to. I know I have to look forward instead of back, but sometimes I feel like that’s impossible. How do you force yourself to keep moving forward when the screams keep following you?”
And then the screams came back in full force, screams of laughter devoid of any sanity, screams of laughter despite the fresh cuts and bruises on their owner’s face, despite the broken teeth and bones, despite the armoured fist beating down onto his broken form, unleashing a torrent of fury and hatred and fear unlike any Bruce had felt before. The laughter continued even after Jim Gordon pulled the Batman away, leaving the murderous, psychopathic jester in a pool of his own blood, mingling with that of the babies he’d killed. ”HAHAHA!” the pale man screamed, ”HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
Shut up, Bruce told him, Shut. Up.
For once, he did.
“I do it because I have to,” Bruce said. “I do it because if I don’t, it’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. The screams follow me, Clark. Every hour of every day, everywhere I go, they follow me. I can’t ignore them. I can’t let them go. But you can. You’re a hero. When criminals look at me, all they see is a monster. The bogeyman. But when they look at you… they see the next Steve Rogers. Lois Lane didn’t give you those titles because you asked for them. She gave them to you because you are them. They’re how people saw you. Give them a reason to see you that way again.”
Clark smiled at the comparison to Captain America. He could see that as clear as day, Bruce knew. Despite how it seemed at the moment, Clark knew his own strengths.
“Right. It’s just a matter of putting in the effort and keeping positive.”
Clark took a breath as his eyes moved towards the computer screen. Remorse flooded into them as he saw the names of the Gothamites killed during the invasion, and he looked at Bruce.
“There was something I once read in high school from Czesław Miłosz. ‘The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.’ I think we share that sentiment.”
Bruce remained silent. His gaze was transfixed on one name: Oriane Linville. A young single mother of two, she’d moved to Gotham from Barjols, France, after receiving a job offer from WayneTech. She was a prodigy, a genius in her own right, and she might very well have gone on to become the next Tony Stark or Hank Pym if not for the Kryptonians. She was crushed by falling debris, the remnant of a building damaged by Dru-Zod’s World Engines, killing her instantly. Her kids were left orphaned with no home to go back to; they had no living relatives in France – their father had left Oriane shortly after their birth, and authorities had no way to contact him – and even if they did, Bruce doubted that he would be willing to take them in. Instead, they’d spent the past month at Pinkney Orphanage in Old Gotham, with nothing to remember their mother by but what WayneTech and the Wayne Foundation could recover from her lab. It was likely that they would remain there until they turned eighteen, raised by the nuns who operated the place. They were only six years old. There was a chance they wouldn’t even remember Oriane by then.
They didn’t deserve this. Bruce should’ve done better.
Realising his mistake, Clark hastily changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about what we’ve been working on – our investigation on Luthor. Do we have any leads? Any evidence that might link him to what he’s done?”
“No,” Bruce answered, and it was the truth. Luthor was untouchable. LexCorp’s records were clean; everything seemed legitimate. He had covered up any and all of his crimes. They couldn’t be traced back to him, not his hiring of Robert DuBois or his experimentation on John Corben – least of all his development of the synthetic radioactive crystal he’d weaponized against Clark, which he’d promoted as a potential alternative source of energy, pending further research. According to what evidence there was, Luthor was innocent. “Not yet. I’ll keep you updated.”
“I guess I’ll leave you to it. If anything comes up, you know how to get in contact with me.”
Bruce nodded, and Clark turned, making his way out.
“And Bruce? Thank you.”
A gust of wind blew Bruce’s cape, and in an instant, Clark was gone.
As if on cue, the computer beeped behind Bruce. A notification covered its screen, large and urgent, sent from the burner phone he’d given to Jim Gordon on their first meeting in 2010. It read:
Pressing down on a key, Bruce spoke into microphone at the computer’s base. “Alfred, I need you down here. I’m going out.”
“Right away, Master Bruce.”
He grabbed his cowl and strode towards the Batmobile, navigating the Cave’s dimly lit caverns with practiced ease. The car’s cockpit closing overhead, he turned on the engine, its roar echoing through the dark. He drove.
It was time to get to work.
Light stubble covered his face. He hadn’t shaved in days. His hair was unkempt, disregarded, a mess of black with no direction; he ran a hand through it subconsciously, covered by a gauntlet though it was. He wore the Batsuit, as Lucius and Alfred called it, its metallic grey and black plates reflecting barely any of the Batcave’s minimal lighting. Its cowl rested atop the computer’s desk, staring at him with its hollow eyes. He stared back. It didn’t look away.
The computer spoke in Alfred’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “Master Bruce,” it said. “There’s a guest here for you. I did you the favour of inviting him down to the Cave myself.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” he replied, turning around. A man clad in red and blue smiled at him. “Hello, Clark.”
“It’s been awhile, Bruce.”
He sounded tired. His eyebrows were slanted upwards, his brow creased, smile strained; weary. The bags beneath his eyes indicated lack of sleep… was he patrolling more? No. Nightmares. He usually had good posture, shoulders rolled back, confident and relaxed, but now they were slumped, submissive... he felt defeated. He wanted advice.
Bruce nodded.
“It never gets easier, does it?”
He was asking about the guilt, Bruce knew. Why else would he be here? His people came to Earth with the false pretence of reuniting with him, their lost son. Instead, they launched an invasion and initiated the genocide of approximately eighteen million, three hundred and sixty thousand people worldwide. If Clark hadn’t managed to stop them, the death toll would have quickly climbed to seven and a half billion. Of course he felt guilty. And if his body language was any indication, that guilt was eating him alive.
Bruce knew the feeling.
“No,” he answered. “No, it doesn’t.”
Images flashed into his head of blood spilled too soon, of swarms of flies eating staling flesh, of a sadistic grin marked by its owner’s blood, and he clenched his jaw in an effort to hold the memories back, to keep the floodgates closed.
Clark moved his hands behind his back, fidgeting, as he turned to look over the Cave. He was struggling to form the words he wanted to say, unsure of how to say them without appearing weak. Bruce could almost see the guilt on Clark’s shoulders, crushing him beneath its weight, equal to, or perhaps even greater than, that of the world – a titan, forced to bear the weight of the heavens upon his shoulders.
“I failed them – I failed all of them on that day.” He sighed. He could barely hold himself together. “I should’ve seen it.”
“Yes,” Bruce said, “You should have. And all those deaths… a part of them is on you. But those you failed don’t outnumber those you saved. Don’t forget that.” An image again, a baby; blood flowing among sinew and bone where its left arm used to be. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists as he tried to repress the memory.
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I don’t think any of us can forget something like that— and knowing what I know now, I’ll make sure they never do. Luthor’s taunting won’t change that.” It was barely perceptible, but Bruce heard it – a tremor in Clark’s voice at the mention of Luthor. Anger.
Luthor hadn’t held back after the invasion. He was quick to place the blame on Superman, crediting him with everything that went wrong; the media flocked towards him like seagulls, devouring every breadcrumb he threw their way. With his influence, he could turn the entire world against Clark… it was only a matter of time. This was but the next step in his vendetta against him. The years he’d spent trying to kill Clark, testing his limits, were nothing compared to this. To destroy a man’s body was one thing, but to destroy his image, his reputation, his mind – that was the ultimate blow. In some ways, that hurt far more than physical pain ever could.
Maniacal laughter echoed through Bruce’s mind. Shut up, he commanded. It didn’t.
“Luthor’s playing mind games with you, Clark. The taunting, the bad press; it’s all to get in your head. He wants to prove that he’s better than you, and you have to show him he’s not,” he said. “You’re stronger than me, Clark. You always have been. More than you think, in more ways than one. Use that strength. Don’t let the invasion hold you back. Prove to yourself that you can do better, that you are better – and maybe the world will see it, too.”
Clark chuckled humorlessly. “You know, they call me the Man of Steel, the Hero of Tomorrow... Superman. It’s funny.”
Only it wasn’t. Over the past four years of knowing Clark, Bruce had come to understand better and better why he’d been given those titles. Clark had that air about him, an aura that exuded confidence, from which goodness and honesty flowed freely; the moment you spotted him hovering above you, cape flowing elegantly in the wind, you knew that everything was going to be alright. A beautiful lie. Time and time again, Clark had proven to the people of Metropolis – to the world – that deep down, he was a good person. The best, even. Who needed to put the fear of God into criminals when you had that poster boy smile and that stern look in your eye, with the ability to crush even the most hardened offender with guilt with only a simple, “I’m disappointed in you”? Ever since the days of Steve Rogers and Jay Garrick, Superman had become the symbol that they used to be; the epitomisation of everything a hero should be. He was given those titles not because people worshipped him, but because they saw in him what they had seen in Captain America and the Flash. A hero. The very best of them.
“I never asked for those titles – never advocated for them. I was just a guy stopping a 747 from falling into Downtown Metropolis back when Lois coined it. A lot of people are putting faith into those nicknames... or they did. It’s going to take a lot of work to restore that. I can’t go back to the way things were before April, and I don’t expect it to. I know I have to look forward instead of back, but sometimes I feel like that’s impossible. How do you force yourself to keep moving forward when the screams keep following you?”
And then the screams came back in full force, screams of laughter devoid of any sanity, screams of laughter despite the fresh cuts and bruises on their owner’s face, despite the broken teeth and bones, despite the armoured fist beating down onto his broken form, unleashing a torrent of fury and hatred and fear unlike any Bruce had felt before. The laughter continued even after Jim Gordon pulled the Batman away, leaving the murderous, psychopathic jester in a pool of his own blood, mingling with that of the babies he’d killed. ”HAHAHA!” the pale man screamed, ”HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
Shut up, Bruce told him, Shut. Up.
For once, he did.
“I do it because I have to,” Bruce said. “I do it because if I don’t, it’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. The screams follow me, Clark. Every hour of every day, everywhere I go, they follow me. I can’t ignore them. I can’t let them go. But you can. You’re a hero. When criminals look at me, all they see is a monster. The bogeyman. But when they look at you… they see the next Steve Rogers. Lois Lane didn’t give you those titles because you asked for them. She gave them to you because you are them. They’re how people saw you. Give them a reason to see you that way again.”
Clark smiled at the comparison to Captain America. He could see that as clear as day, Bruce knew. Despite how it seemed at the moment, Clark knew his own strengths.
“Right. It’s just a matter of putting in the effort and keeping positive.”
Clark took a breath as his eyes moved towards the computer screen. Remorse flooded into them as he saw the names of the Gothamites killed during the invasion, and he looked at Bruce.
“There was something I once read in high school from Czesław Miłosz. ‘The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.’ I think we share that sentiment.”
Bruce remained silent. His gaze was transfixed on one name: Oriane Linville. A young single mother of two, she’d moved to Gotham from Barjols, France, after receiving a job offer from WayneTech. She was a prodigy, a genius in her own right, and she might very well have gone on to become the next Tony Stark or Hank Pym if not for the Kryptonians. She was crushed by falling debris, the remnant of a building damaged by Dru-Zod’s World Engines, killing her instantly. Her kids were left orphaned with no home to go back to; they had no living relatives in France – their father had left Oriane shortly after their birth, and authorities had no way to contact him – and even if they did, Bruce doubted that he would be willing to take them in. Instead, they’d spent the past month at Pinkney Orphanage in Old Gotham, with nothing to remember their mother by but what WayneTech and the Wayne Foundation could recover from her lab. It was likely that they would remain there until they turned eighteen, raised by the nuns who operated the place. They were only six years old. There was a chance they wouldn’t even remember Oriane by then.
They didn’t deserve this. Bruce should’ve done better.
Realising his mistake, Clark hastily changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about what we’ve been working on – our investigation on Luthor. Do we have any leads? Any evidence that might link him to what he’s done?”
“No,” Bruce answered, and it was the truth. Luthor was untouchable. LexCorp’s records were clean; everything seemed legitimate. He had covered up any and all of his crimes. They couldn’t be traced back to him, not his hiring of Robert DuBois or his experimentation on John Corben – least of all his development of the synthetic radioactive crystal he’d weaponized against Clark, which he’d promoted as a potential alternative source of energy, pending further research. According to what evidence there was, Luthor was innocent. “Not yet. I’ll keep you updated.”
“I guess I’ll leave you to it. If anything comes up, you know how to get in contact with me.”
Bruce nodded, and Clark turned, making his way out.
“And Bruce? Thank you.”
A gust of wind blew Bruce’s cape, and in an instant, Clark was gone.
As if on cue, the computer beeped behind Bruce. A notification covered its screen, large and urgent, sent from the burner phone he’d given to Jim Gordon on their first meeting in 2010. It read:
Cpt. Gordon: Murder. Three vics. Norman Dr., the Narrows. Come ASAP.
Pressing down on a key, Bruce spoke into microphone at the computer’s base. “Alfred, I need you down here. I’m going out.”
“Right away, Master Bruce.”
He grabbed his cowl and strode towards the Batmobile, navigating the Cave’s dimly lit caverns with practiced ease. The car’s cockpit closing overhead, he turned on the engine, its roar echoing through the dark. He drove.
It was time to get to work.
4x Like
WHITE SANDS SPACE HARBOR
NASA Alternate Space Shuttle Landing Site
White Sands, New Mexico
He'd gotten the call at two in the morning.
An hour before then, the Space-X Exclaibur, an experimental space plane, had been given the go-ahead to de-orbit after a NASA and Space-X joint venture to recover a piece of debris from the Krptonian ship for study. On board had been a crew of four. Two mission specialists, Reed Richards and Susan Storm, pilots Jonathan Storm and Benjamin Grimm.
As for what happened next, he'd gotten the brief on the C-12 from Metropolis to the White Sands Testing Facility that doubled as an old Space Shuttle proving ground, ditching option, and emergency airfield. It had only been used one time in the history of the Space Shuttle Program. STS-3, the third flight of both Colombia and the Space Shuttle Program, landed here when weather prevented landing at either Cape Canaveral or Edwards Air Force Base.
The Excalibur had executed a de-orbiting burn for two minutes and nineteen seconds, at which time it had turned for re-positioning to enter the atmosphere. At approximately the same time, an electromagnetic anomaly lit of alarms from the International Space Station to Houston, Texas. As to whatever that was, a massive solar flare, sun spot activity, or just a complete anomaly within the Kuiper Belt, the Exclaibur and it's crew had been exposed to massive amounts of cosmic radiation. Houston had lost contact with the crew on board the Exclaibur and enacted emergency protocols originally designed in the aftermath of the Colombia accident to remotely re-direct and land the experimental spaceplane here at White Sands.
An orange light was illuminating the horizon as the disheveled, unshaven man stepped off the C-12 and onto the tarmac. Silver oak leaf insignia stood out on the shoulders of the military flight suit that he wore. The patch on the left side of his chest was embroidered with gold wings embossed with the medical caduceus symbol, beneath which were the words:
DABNEY DONOVAN
CDR MC USN
CDR MC USN
As the sun was threatening to rise on the horizon, Donovan could see fire crews still working to extinguish the smoldering frame of the Exclaibur there on the runway. As he started down from the plane's ladder, a man in a suit called out his name.
It was never good when it was a man in a suit. The U.S. military wore their affiliations openly. NASA personnel were wearing lanyards with their names and credentials. Firefighters each bore either military or federal civilian IDs on their sleeves. But the guy in the suit? Nothing. And, yet, he was here. In what was almost certainly a highly classified area.
So what did that leave? FBI? NSA? If there was one thing that Donovan had learned to be skeptical of, it was obscure three-letter acronyms associated with the U.S. government.
"What's the condition of the crew?" Donovan asked, skipping the introductions, and doubting there would be any.
"Alive, though they appear to be suffering some effects of radiation poisoning," the man in the suit reported, falling into step beside Donovan as the doctor made a beeline toward the smoldering wreckage. "They've been evacuated to Walter Reed for observation."
Donovan came up short. "Evacuated?" the doctor echoed, turning to face the man in the suit. "I got a call at two A.M. and told to fly out here ASAP," Dabney stated, more than a little annoyed if he was in New Mexico and his supposed patients were at a hospital in Maryland. "This isn't a house call, so please state the nature of the medical emergency," Donovan uttered flatly.
If Donovan was pissed, the man in the suit was completely nonplussed. "You're here because of what the Richards' expedition recovered, Doctor," the man answered in an even tone. Gesturing toward one area of the wreckage, the man in the suit beckoned. "This way, please."
Stepping over burning hunks of metal, the man in the suit led the Navy and NASA flight surgeon toward a large, oval-shaped object. The coloration and design didn't match anything else there on the runway. It was almost... crystalline, albeit cracked and pitted as though it had just been through quite the ordeal.
"We'd thought it was just a piece of the Kryptonian ship," the man in the suit was saying, as Donovan walked past him to approach the strange, otherworldly object. Now the Richards' expedition made more sense. The public story had been that Reed Richards and his crew were going to install new capabilities and hardware on the Hubble Telescope. Recovering alien technology in orbit of the planet was a much more plausible excuse to blow money in this restrictive fiscal environment.
If there was one thing that the U.S. Government didn't have time or money for, it was NASA funding.
Leaning in for a closer inspection, as Donovan peered over the crystalline formation comprising the strange, geode-like form, he heard the man in the suit say, "Now, however, we think it might be..."
Then he saw it.
A shadow. A flicker. At first, he'd thought it might only be a trick of the light. Except, the form had been distinct.
It had been humanoid.
"...life pod," Donovan breathed softly.
2x Like
GM
Prologue: Suicide Squad
Unknown Location, Eastern Europe
May 2nd, 2016
Roy Harper ached. In all of his scuffles in his travels, this probably was going to take the cake for his most unlucky.
Roy’s brows narrowed as he stared at the landed helicopter; trying to get the idea of who exactly had overwhelmed him and beaten him halfway to Tuesday. He may not have been his friend in New Jersey when it came to investigative bullshit but he wasn’t the absolute worst at noticing small details and making a connection. But there was nothing about the men with guns around him and the helicopter that gave any idea of who he had exactly pissed off—all unmarked, untagged, and plain. No PMC logos, no corporate brands, not even any names on their tags that hung off their necks. It was like they were being discreet for the sake of being discreet which made him all the more uneasy; after all, in his line of work that was never a good sign.
His eyes moved down towards the ground for a second.
Several rocks, a few broken sticks, a few pieces of scrap metal, and a few coins that fell out of his pocket when solider #1 decided to gut check him. He’d worked well enough with less, but given the half-a-dozen assault rifles and submachine guns that were pointed on him it’d probably end up poorly for him.
Damn It. I’d hate for Ollie to bury me like an overgrown slice of swiss cheese.
The heavy ‘thud’ of the helicopter’s sliding door being opened made his eyes jump back to attention— a man in a coat with long hair had moved out of the helicopter. He knew this was the person he had been annoying for the great part of two months. He wasn’t close to a name for the man but the only thing the red-haired man knew was that he looked like he was out of a cheap Serbian action movie.
“Mr. Harper, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
Not only does he look like a cliché, he sounds like one too. Wonderful.
The whole action movie villain cliché was, in Roy’s mind, rather overdone. He had spent the better part of the last two months routing shoddy mercenaries from hurting people in the greater Serbian region of Europe. He frowned, as he looked over the man more in detail— despite his appearance it appeared he was unarmed, though it didn’t seem like he gave off the appearance of a weak criminal warlord hiding behind his goons by the way he walked. It was a military step and one that was bred out of confidence as well as strength. But beyond that Roy couldn’t get an idea about him. Perhaps if he had interned with Batman & Robin he would’ve gotten the skillset required to get a clue.
“The boss asked you a question.”
A light sigh left Roy’s lips. Fine.
“Don’t think we have. I think you were way too busy murdering people for quick cash to bother with me.”
The butt of an assault rifle was slammed into his stomach— like a tiny metallic battering ram. Soldier #1 didn’t like the sentiment Roy uttered. Roy didn’t quite like the assault rifle trying to say hello to his kidneys. A mutual loathing.
Roy coughed as the man's smile widened.
“Here’s what is going to happen. You’re going to help me, and I’m going to tell you why.”
Lucky me.
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May 2nd, 2016
New York City
Rand Tower Sub-basement level
Beneath the heart of an empire, Orson Rand watched the heir to a legacy of warriors sixty six generations deep sleep like a harmless infant. Not for the first time he wondered if he had any right to be here, out of his long exile to the remotest backwaters of Southeast Asia, where the only people to speak his name were the ghosts that haunted him at night.
Well the ghosts, his dealers, the boy that ran the booze for him, the occasional purveyor of what Lei-Kung had called 'distractions of the flesh'...
Not that even those could distract him for long. Regardless, he was having the same argument with himself again. How could he not, when he stood inside a monument built out of his failures. Oh Wendell had certainly done well enough with what he'd been given, Orson would grant him that much. But the foundations of this place, still easy to find through the old tunnels...well, they were as old and useless as himself. Taking up much of the space was his old airship, the dead leviathan's frame of broken ribs poking through the skin of the envelope and making shame gnaw at him harder than any aching old wound. Worse than that was his father's old underground train, its' headlights glassy and empty, rust coating the rails out to the main tunnel's mouth as a gently festering reminder of what once could have been. It was all just like Wendell, always the collector, especially of things better left behind. Even the well-maintained training halls reminded him of his failure to properly prepare Wendell for the world.
That was one failure he would not repeat with Danny. Even if it killed him.
He turned his attention to the boy now, asleep on a stacked up pile of training mats with Orson's trusty old duster thrown over him. He looked so much like Wendell had at that age but his face was softer and his hair lighter, probably the mother's touch there. The kid had Wendell's spirit too, all iron and dragon-fire and hurt, ready to lash out at the world. His form had been good, he'd struck with conviction and without hesitation when perceiving a threat. But he fought without guile, trickery, innovation. Most dangerously of all, he fought without understanding.
Except for the headbutt. Orson rubbed at his nose and chuckled. that one'd hurt.
Danny stirred in the makeshift bed and Orson stepped a hairsbreadth out of what he'd judged to be the boy's range from there, just in case. A child's blue eyes opened in the daze of half-sleep and for an excruciating moment he recognized Wendell there, longed to melt away like a bad dream and find the pipe he'd discarded in Thailand, forget.
<<"Ugh, what hit me and why am I wearing a hobo's rag-jacket?">>
Moment over.
<<"Way I figure it, the jacket actually improved your smell. S'been a while since I was in France for the latest fashions n' longer since I was a dumb kid, but I didn't know it was in style ta walk out of school wearing the distinct scent of eau de toilette!">>
The anger got Danny up, visibly sharpened his focus as he locked onto the old man.
<<"I saw what you did and I know what I felt, you drew on the Chi of Shou-Lao. The unexpected mystic backlash was enough to knock me out and it still feels like it should be impossible! So...">> He looked Orson up and down, took in for the first time that without the coat on there was a dragon-marked uniform of the Living Weapon of K'un-L'un in front of his eyes similar to the one he'd secreted away. Curiosity burned along with anger in his eyes then. <<"you're another Iron Fist, and you knew my father. What else do you know?>>"
Orson didn't need any ancient magics to know his answer would seal Danny's fate. His mouth hardened into a grim line as he slipped a hand into a belt pouch and pulled forth a small cloth bag.
"I know that this is part of why your father died."
He pulled out a small fragment of crystal that immediately began to hum and glow with a soft golden light. As soon as it started, both Iron Fists could feel the pulses of energy it emitted with the hum, coursing and thudding like the beating of a heart.
"It's a fragment of the Anomaly Gem, a gateway to the realm an Iron Fist's spirit goes to after death, and a link to their collective qi. Your father had been using his company's resources to gather up some of the scattered fragments, s'far as I can tell he was gonna present them to the Yu-Ti as an apology gift before he took up as the next Iron Fist. We both know he...he didn't make it that far. Somebody wanted his fragments and killed him to get them, not to mention stop the rise of another Iron Fist. I'm here because there's a fragment in New York. You're here because I might need an extra set of eyes...and there aren't many that I trust. I might be able to tell you more on the way, but for now, you'd better understand we're racing against others and that I'm your one shot at answers."
Orson already knew what he'd say. Honor and Vengeance both demanded nothing less.
"Fine. But you said 'on the way'. Where are we going?"
Orson gave Danny a grin that had no place on a face that old.
"Where all the best stories start, kid. We're headed to a bar."
3x Like
"From Qurac With Love" Part 2
U.S.S. CHESAPEAKE
Luxor-class Helicarrier
Somewhere over the Atlantic
A fog of solid white rolled off the carrier deck, revealing a pristine sky of blue and an endless horizon as the winds cleared away the clouds from the massive ship moving over the ocean below. Her image reflected in the glass, Rita Farr lookout out and could only sum up what she saw in one word. "Unbelievable."
"I know, right?"
The voice, behind her, caused an involuntary shudder even before Steve Dayton could continue. "I mean, where the hell is that intern with my coffee?" Steve Dayton demanded, as the man stood in the center of a military plot and map room in his Armani finest.
Turning, the brunette starlet hesitated a moment before she finally spoke. "Speaking of, Steve..."
"What?"
The response had come so quick that he'd interrupted her. Starting again, Rita tried, "Steve..."
"What, Rita!? God!"
Now they were just talking over each other. Shoulder slumping, the woman gave a heavy sigh. "Steve, why is Garfield here?" she demanded bluntly.
Raising his eyes up from the plot in front of him, Steve was absently toying with a cufflink as he looked back at the woman. "Well, first of all, Rita, did you see that kid fix the copier? I mean, if we get into a Xerox emergency here, I definitely want that kid on our team."
A Xerox emer... Reaching up a hand, Rita pinched the bridge of her nose in vain effort at heading off a rising headache. "How did I know I was going to regret asking that question," the woman posed aloud.
"...second, what if we're in the middle of Hydra agents in the Qurac Congo and I want a triple, no-fat latte with caramel drizzle? Who's going to get that, Rita? Huh? Who's going get that? You? God, Rita, take the star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame out of your ass and think about someone else for a change!"
The fingers pinching the bridge of her nose came away, as the woman planted her face in her hand. Then took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I have... no response to that," the woman answered flatly.
"...and, you know, he maybe speaks Swahili, Lingana, and Arabic. So, you know..."
"What!?" Rita's head snapped up, her eyes darting around as though just realizing that someone wasn't in the room with them. "What happened to Mahmoud?"
"Killed in a car jacking in Manhatten," Steve answered with a shrug. "It was a week... month ago. The office sent a card. I think."
Rita ran her hands through her hair, turning back toward the window out into the sky for a moment. Glancing back over her shoulder, the woman asked, "What about that ex-SEAL? What's his name? Dave? Frank?"
"Bobby," Steve corrected with perfect aplomb. "Shooting accident on the range."
"Really?" Rita uttered, finding herself stunned at the news. Two S.H.I.E.L.D. linguists gone... just like that? "Wow. That's a string of bad luck."
"I know, right?"
"Here's your coffee, Mister Dayton."
The boy was dressed for travel. An athletic track suit now dressing his form with a pair of what looked like vintage Jordans. That was probably the Garfield equivalent to Armani. Accepting the offered cup, Steve saluted the kid. "First class, Garfield."
Then, he took a sip. "Oh my god, Garfield. What... what the fuck is that? Folgers?"
"...it's all they had, sir."
Lowering the cup down, Steve put one arm straight out, finger extended. His voice boomed ominously as he commanded, "Get the FUCK off my helicarrier."
Garfield's jaw went slack.
Rita just blinked, then planted her face back into the palm of her hand. "Steve, what... does that even mean?" the woman asked, realizing it was more of a rhetorical question if anything. "We're seriously, like, thirty thousand feet here."
"Right, thirty thousand feet, and it's fucking Folgers in my cup," Dayton spat back vehemently, staring daggers at Garfield even as he growled in response to Rita's commentary. "Which, let me tell you, is NOT the best part of waking up."
With a loud, exaggerated sigh, Rita Farr shook her head and started for the exit.
She got three steps before Steve called after her. "Rita."
And she kept walking.
"Rita!"
Her hand grabbed the door handle, pulling it open.
"RITA!"
Siloutted in the frame of the watertight door, the brunette turned her head sharply to scream back, "WHAT!?"
"The fuck are you going?" Steve asked.
"Getting away from you," she shot back, slamming the door hard behind her.
"Pfft," Steve uttered, before glancing over toward Garfield with a shrug. "Women, am I right?"
4x Like
THE PENTAGON
U.S. Department of Defense
Arlington, Virginia
"The pod is roughly three by four meters. Scans have revealed an interior volume of..."
"We've ruled out a nuclear strike?"
The Joint Chiefs were assembled in a conference room, screens lit with various angles of a live feed that was streaming from the Army National Guard base in New Mexico, where the Kryptonian pod had been transported from the landing strip for initial study. A NASA flight surgeon had been brought in from Metropolis to oversee the procedure, a measure that the DoD had acquiesced to only because the doctor in question was a military officer.
As far as General Samuel Lane was concerned, this was a strictly military operation now.
"...ultrasound measurements indicate a fluctuating mass inside the..."
The flight surgeon's voice narrated the images surrounding the room. The microphone near the general muted as he posed the question to the National Security Advisor. A mousey, meek politician who seemed to shrink under the weight of Lane's glare. "Are you joking?" the man stammered, before quickly regretting the question.
Sam Lane never joked.
Clearing his throat, the advisor started again. "The Russians would have a field day. Say we're violating New START. And then there's the Chinese, the North Koreans. We'd have almost no support from NATO..."
"Fuck NATO," Lane growled, a baritone rumble as he looked around the room. "Gentlemen, if there's another Superman in that pod, we have a problem." One Kryptonian was one too many. There were too many unknowns with Superman. Least of all, vulnerabilities. How could they defend against Superman?
"We're operating on the assumption that there's someone in that pod," a Coast Guard officer said, piping up from the back end of the table. "My understanding is that the Richards' expedition was only green-lit because the going assumption was that this was a part that had fallen off the alien ship."
"And if it is a lifepod, we now face the possibility that this was an object deliberately launched into orbit," another voice, a Marine Corps officer, interjected. "We might have just picked up a grenade, ladies."
Listening to the debate, Lane's finger reached across for the button on the microphone. "What's this assholes name?"
"Donovan, sir."
"Donovan..." Lane echoed, as though it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Depressing the button, Lane's voice resonated through the speakers overhead as he asked, "Doctor Donovan, in your opinion, is there a lifeform inside of that pod?"
There was a crackle of static and a pause. On the screens, a man in a aluminum-like hazard suit stopped his work in order to turn and face one of the cameras.
"Sir, the data lends itself to no concrete conclusion at present, but..."
"Best guess, Commander," Lane snapped, cutting the man off.
"No, sir. I don't believe there is a lifeform aboard the pod."
Lane looked at the Marine. The Marine looked at the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard was looking at the National Security Advisor. And the National Security Advisor looked like he was ready to piss himself if he didn't get out of this room soon. Depressing the button a second time, Lane answered, "You don't?"
"I think there are two lifeforms, sir."
Taking his finger off the microphone, General Sam Lane -- along with all of the assembled Joint Chiefs -- looked over at the National Security Advisor.
The silence was uncomfortable to say the least. "Perhaps... an accident in-- involving one of our... nu... nuclear silos," the man stammered, pulling out a handkerchief as the sweat starting running off his forehead.
The Army Chief of Staff was locking his sights on Lane. "What do you propose? The Manhatten Project in the middle of Colorado?"
"This is an election year," the National Security Advisor managed coherently, swabbing at his face anxiously with the cloth. "The President must have plausible deniability."
"Bob," Lane's voice cut in, turning attention to the Chief of Naval Operations. "What if we put it at the bottom of the ocean?"
The Admiral gave Lane a quizzical look. "And do what? Hit it with a torpedo?"
That, and a cup of really hot coffee, were going to do absolutely nothing to Superman from what they'd observed.
"Not just a torpedo," Lane answered flatly.
The room fell silent again, until the National Security Advisor was the one to finally break the ice. "North Korea lost a sub not too long ago, if we place it in the South China Sea they couldn't easily pin it back to us."
It was the National Guard who voiced the dissent.
"I look around this room and I wonder, what happened to America?"
All eyes in the room swept to the back of the room, where the Coast Guard and Air Guard were quickly distancing themselves from the Army Reservist who, for his part, seemed to be wondering what was wrong with everyone else. "You know, this is a race we know nothing about. We know nothing about what's inside that pod. What is it. Who is it," the man said, even as he looked around the room and realized he was totally alone in what he was saying. "And we're sitting here, reacting out of fear, just wanting to... lash out and destroy what may be our one opportunity to greet an extraterrestrial race with, I don't know... what's on the Statue of Liberty? Give me your tired, your weary, your poor..?"
Lane laughed. A short, gruff, hollow sound. Standing, the General leaned over the table and answered clearly, "Today, gentlemen, that sign reads No Vacancy."
The room stood at attention, chairs scraping against the floor as all of the officers stood. Looking around at his officers, Lane raised a finger to point at each one in turn. "Now, I want that piece of shit taken out of NASA's hands and no one, no one knows it was ever here," the General stated, pausing only to get a nod of agreement out of the National Security Advisor. When he'd gotten it, Lane looked back and up and added, "We'll take it out back and we're going to put a nuke up it's Super-ass, and it can go to hell."
As he started for the door, the man stopped for just a moment, leveling a glare straight at the National Guard Chairman. "I want one thing to be very clear, gentlemen. That pod is a clear and present danger to these United States."
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May 2nd, 2016 ♦ Bludhaven, New Jersey
The back roads outside the suburbs were empty as the car went barreling over an unpaved section of Highway 70.
...I like smoking lightning... heavy metal thunder...
A two liter four-cylinder roared over the dirt and gravel, the hubcaps spinning clouds of dust in an expansive wake behind where the red hatchback coupe was prowling along the edges of town. It was the 1973 Ford Pinto. Steppenwolf blasted from the 8-track deck in the dash, as the boy at the wheel had one hand on the wheel, one hand on the stick, a foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. The seat was as far forward as it would go, a pair of old phone books wedged between the seat and his butt in order for him to see over the dash.
To be certain, the Redbird was a complete and total piece of shit.
It was also something of a labor of love, as working on the car was a seemingly endless project to occupy the child.
When you lived in a graveyard, projects to take your mind off of things were a must.
Engaging the clutch, the boy spun the wheel and gently applied the emergency brake as a drift stick, taking the car into a controlled vertical slid as he executed a sharp turn. Downshifting, the boy let off the clutch and punched the gas, feeling the tires spinning as the car struck pavement and took off.
He'd tracked Mark to a warehouse on the old Waterloo Docks. Safe bet was that's where the heroine was moving in and out of, allowing him to take out the dealer and the supply chain all at the same time.
Cutting the headlights, the Pinto shuddered along until it arrived at a fishing pier that had been shut down since the late 1960's, when it had been a popular children's swimming hole. That was before the Environmental Protection Agency or water quality testing, which had summarily condemned the river for chemical runoff. But the old pier still offered a vantage point on the docks across the river.
He parked the car outside of an old wrought iron fence that was falling off its hinges. The chain and lock were probably the only thing still holding it upright. Without pause, the child passed straight through the metal bars as though they weren't even there. As he did, his form shifted as though his shadow had come alive.
The shadow seemed to become tangible, black as the night and red like blood. It spread across his body, as a domino mask appeared across his eyes -- which glowed with an eerie light. Heavy chains hung off his form, as though he'd broken free of some hellish bondage, clinking lightly as he walked.
The planks of the old pier had rotted completely through. The boy stood out on a pylon, out toward the middle of the river, and took a seat as he stared across at the warehouse.
There was a light on.
Someone was expecting a delivery.
As he waited, the young Hellspawn pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds. Tapping the pack against his knee, the boy pulled a cigarette free and slipped it between his lips. A flicker of hellfire glowed at the tip of one finger as he lit it up and drew in a breath.
All he could taste was ash in his mouth.
Forcing air from out of dead lungs, the child corpse exhaled into the night air, flicking some of the burning embers off to fizzle in the water below. And settled in for a long wait.
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Hexaflexagon
Member
Seen
7 mos ago
May 2nd, 2016 ♦ 3:00 AM ♦ Monterey, California
Lorena Marquez should've been sleeping. Instead she was riding down California 1 on a bike trying her best to get the hell out of Monterey. It was for the same reasons she had tried to run away the last ten times, her parents were fighting again. They were always fighting about something: money, the car that always had one tyre on the road and other one in the shop, and of recently just one another in general. She knew kids whose parents had gotten divorced before, they had normal lives and everything. But it just wasn’t something that happened to you, it wasn’t something that you had to deal with. It wasn’t something that you had to wake up to in the morning. So she chose to ignore it, drown it out in any way she could. Sometimes though when they thought she was sleeping, the arguments would get worse and worse until they just seemed to swallow up the whole damn house. Tonight was one of those nights.
So there she was riding down the highway at an hour considered obscene by most. White earphones tucked into her ears (bought a week ago at the 7-Eleven and already falling apart at the seams) as she peddled down slick asphalt. Music blasting as loud as her phone could go. It didn’t have any lyrics, just noise on top of noise getting steadily more complex, time signatures jumped all over the places while melody and countermelody were up against one another’s throats with razor blades. She didn’t want to pay attention to words or artist's intent, she just wanted to get lost in the sound of it all. She wanted to get her mind lost on anything else beside the argument that was without a doubt still raging at her house.
Sixteen, it was supposed to be something of a big deal but her sixteenth birthday had come and gone like all the others. She just continued to count down the days until she turned eighteen, until she was free of that house, free of her parents and could do whatever she really wanted. For now though she would stick to riding her bike down the side of the highway. It reminded her of when she was little and her father would take her out in his old red pickup truck out past Swanton where it just seemed to be the two of them and nobody else in the world. He would fish and she would just sit there and talk to him, maybe chase the seagulls around and play in the water. The fresh pacific breeze dancing playfully around them. The truck was gone of course, her father had to sell it awhile back to pay the mortgage besides, he never had time to go fishing anymore. The memories still comforted her though when she needed them.
Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed as two forms were jettisoned out of the water and into the air. Thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her, she slowed down and peered over the side at the bay. Moments later two large forms hit slapped against the sand like hunks of meat hitting the counter before the butcher chops them up. She peered into the darkness seeing what could only be described as two human like shapes.
And for a moment the girl stood motionless unsure what to do. One hand automatically began sneaking down to grasp at her phone, the response being drilled into her brain from a young age. Fingers froze as soon as they grasped at the hard plastic case. She could end it right there, call up the police and they could come and deal with whatever the ocean had just spat up. She could continue with her plan to run away from her parents, eventually grow tired and realize she had been stupid and have to peddle all the way back to her house. Or she could go and investigate herself... She had to make sure it wasn’t just some driftwood before she went and bothered the police about it right?
Lorena parked her bike on the side of the road, flipping the kickstand up in a rush before it came tumbling down. Sneakers hit the sand sinking in part way, small granules getting inside and rubbing against her socks as she made her way down the beach.
In his dreams he was always a child again. His mother was calling out to him to come in for dinner. Her hair fiery red hair skipping in the summer’s breeze. In his dreams she was always smiling, always kind, young, and full of life. She wasn’t like the tired old woman that he had met later on full of sorrow and sadness. And he ran after her on his tiny little toddler legs but the closer he got the further away she always she seemed. Until just like that she was gone and he was tumbling through darkness, tumbling, tumbling, and tumbling some more until he hit the ground a world away.
Eyes shot open as air filled his lungs, not water but fresh air. Hands found shaky purchase on cool sand, without much effort Orin slowly pushed himself out of the sand and into a kneeling position. His eyes adjusted to the scene around him, he was on a beach somewhere. He tried to focus past the pain that was flaring up on the left side of his head. He turned to see the other form that had washed up on the shore next to him. Pale skin, sharp ears, jet black haired slicked backwards. Namor, the one that had up to recently been trying to kill him.
Slowly Orin made his way over to the his fallen form and without much grace flipped the young man onto his back. Blood streamed from a deep gash on the upper left-hand corner of his face from when the seabed had collapsed around them. When the two of them had nearly died because of Orin’s half-brother Orm who had played them both like the fools that they were. He pressed two fingers against the man’s neck feeling and there it was.Badumpbadumpbadump. The pulse was strong despite the trauma has body had been through. Orin could at least gave the young man that, he could sure as hell take a beating.
His mind drifted back to the events the lead him there. Orm, he had once considered the man the closest thing he had to a brother. They had toppled kings together, they had saved the oceans time and time again. Was all of it a lie? He dared not to think about, lest his entire being became filled with frothing unadulterated rage. So he silenced that part of him the best that he could, the part of him that wanted to turn around and leap back into the ocean and rip Orm’s head from his body. Charging in now would only get him killed. He needed a plan before he started charging in. Problem was Orm was always the one with the plan, he just hit enough of the bad guys to make the plan a reality.
He heard it first, the sound of footsteps displacing sand. Orin’s head snapped in the direction of the sound where he saw a source of light coming straight towards him, the bright sphere bobbing up and down erratically. Reflexively he reached for his trident usually strapped to his back but he found nothing. Orm had has trident, he had given it to Orm and the bastard used it to nearly try and kill him. That was okay though, he didn’t need the trident to defend himself. You didn’t become king of the oceans without learning a few tricks.
The light then spoke out to him. “Yo! Are you guys alive down there?” the light asked as it closed the distance. English, the light spoke English. At least Orin remembered how to speak English. Soon Orin could see the form of a teenage girl from behind the light holding up what seemed to be a small rectangular device that fit into the palm of her hand.
Orin pushed himself up and onto his feet brushing the sand off of him. The girl tilted her head following his head upward and he rose to his full height dwarfing her in the process. “We are fine. Thank you for your concern child.”
“Dude. I’m sixteen not five, not a kid.” The girl responded with a sharpness to her tone that Orin was not used to. “You sure? Cause I saw you like get spit out of the ocean. I might of almost flunked out of health class, but I know that’s not good for you.”
“I assure you, we are fine.” Orin insisted, but the girl was too busy looking at Namor and the gash in his head. Orin stepped between her and the boy’s body speaking again more sternly. “Where are we exactly child?”
“Monterey... California? You sure you didn’t hit your head or something, like your friend over there?” The girl asked eyebrow raised as she pointed between Orin's legs at Namor.
California... The last time he had been in California was when his father was still alive. His father was doing some work with the staff at Birch Aquarium in San Diego. He tried to rack his memory for the lessons his father had taught him about California. Though it was hard going that was some time ago and his memories on the surface world had become increasingly faded the more time he spent down in Atlantis. He could barely remember his father’s own face at this point.
“Is Jerry Brown still your governor?”
“No? I mean not since like my parents were still in school... Just who are you exactly?” The girl explained starting to slowly regret not calling the police earlier.
“I’m Orin, King of Atlantis.” Orin responded nonchalantly even as the girl took one large step backwards.
“Sureeeee. And I’m the Queen of England.”
”Well that’s just ridiculous. Why would you be in California?”
“Oh yeah, I’m the ridiculous one. Not the crazy man that washed up on the beach at three in the morning claiming that he came from Atlantis.” She fired back heatedly. “The Darling it's better. Down where it's wetter. That Atlantis.”
“Yes. Atlantis like I told you.” Orin responded exasperated.
“Well I'm sorryyy. But I can't just believe you are from fucking Atlantis.” She responded but much too her annoyance Orin was looking back at the sea, right hand against his temple with his eyes closed. “Wait... What the hell are you doing?”
“Showing you.” Orin explained as he closed his eyes and reached out into the surrounding area around him. He could feel them, all the creatures of the sea just waiting beyond the reaches of the shore. The sand crabs laying in their burrows, the small fish swimming just a few feet ahead of him in the water, he could feel all of them like he was at the center of a web stretching out infinitely into every direction. All he had to do was pluck the strings.
So he did.
The girl watched in silent awe as the very ocean around her which seemed calm and without life mere moments ago rustled as dozens of creatures began swimming towards the shore. Crabs, fish, and even sea gulls all coming to cluster around the man who stood there hand outreach as if he was summoning them all to him. She had never seen so many animals in one place before, let alone sea creatures and this close to the beach. They all seemed to be trying to get closer to the man, to be able to touch him. Then he dropped his hand and turned back to face her, and the fantasy vanished. All the creatures immediately began to scurry, swim, or fly away in a flurry of movement and soon it was just her and him once more.
“H...How?” She asked mouth slightly open in shock.
“I’m their king.” Orin explained with a small smile barely ghosting his face. ”Now tell me is there someplace my friend and I can recuperate for the night?”
“I’m guessing that you don’t have any money do you?”
“King’s don’t need money.”
“Yeah, kind of walked into that one didn’t I? So hotels and shit like that are out...” She explained scratching her head. An idea was already dawning upon her but she didn’t really like it. “I mean... we have a shed in our backyard that we really don’t use anymore. You guys could probably sleep there for a night.”
“That... could work.” A shed was no bedroom in the royal palace but he wasn’t about to look a gifted horse in the mouth.
“Alright, well my parents are probably still arguing, so I can sneak you in.” The girl explained playing with her hands. “I mean we should probably go now if you're ready.”
“I agree.” Orin replied as he walked over to the unconscious Namor and easily lifted him up and onto his shoulder.
“My name’s Lorena by the way. Lorena Marquez.” She explained as she began to walk back up the beach towards her bike, Orin following in step.
“Well then thank you Ms. Marquez. I will remember you when I return to Atlantis.”
“Hey. If you're the king down there or whatever. Why are you up here?” She asked flicking her head backwards at Orin. The man’s face looked decidedly tired as he turned away from her.
”It’s a long story.” Orin replied bluntly.
“Well it’s a long way to my house.... And you know since I’m helping you, you could at least fill me in on this shit.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I said no child.”
“Come on. And I'm not a kid.”
Orin let out a defeated sigh as he looked down at the girl. “Well it all began some time ago.....”
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GreenGrenade
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0-24 hrs ago
M A Y 1 S T, 2 0 1 6
Albert Lim arrives home with a bruised cheek and a cut lip. He wipes the blood from his chin before he steps inside the building, pulling his hood up as far past his face as possible; the last thing he needs is for his mother to catch wind of his injuries. It had taken her a month to even consider letting him step back into the outside world after the Invasion. She only needs the tiniest of reasons, he knew, to force him back into isolation. Striding into their apartment with his battered visage on display is not something he can risk.
He climbs the four flights of stairs to his home with a grimace that travels through his entire body. It had only taken two hits for him to collapse onto the ground (the very same hits that seemed to colour his face so vibrantly) – the rest of the beating was dished out with shins and feet, no doubt dyeing his ribs with varying shades of purple and blue. His thoughts bitterly turn to one of his tormentors, Brian Williamson. His voice echoes through Albert’s mind, deep and nasal. “C’mon, Chink,” it says, “What’cha gonna do, huh? Take a swing, I dare ya, Miyagi.” Albert shakes his head. Williamson wouldn’t say that. Two slurs within three sentences is too creative for the guy.
If only Williamson knew what Albert could do now, he thinks. If only he knew that when the Kryptonians invaded, and the Flash and Kid Flash were fighting the man in yellow, and Jay Garrick was doing his best to keep people clear of any debris, that Albert was at S.T.A.R. Labs. If only he knew that when the particle accelerator exploded, even though Flash and Kid Flash tried to contain the blast, Albert was caught in its middle. If only he knew that when the lightning struck Albert, it did more than give him third-degree burns across his back. If only he knew that now… before, during and after the beating… Albert had powers. And that the only reason why he hadn’t used them, was for fear that he might have killed him.
Albert avoids his mother that afternoon. He skips dinner. He doesn’t say whether he’s okay when she knocks on his bedroom door. He just tells her to leave him alone.
Albert Lim doesn’t wake up the next morning. At the stroke of midnight, a man comes into his room and takes him into his next life.
He climbs the four flights of stairs to his home with a grimace that travels through his entire body. It had only taken two hits for him to collapse onto the ground (the very same hits that seemed to colour his face so vibrantly) – the rest of the beating was dished out with shins and feet, no doubt dyeing his ribs with varying shades of purple and blue. His thoughts bitterly turn to one of his tormentors, Brian Williamson. His voice echoes through Albert’s mind, deep and nasal. “C’mon, Chink,” it says, “What’cha gonna do, huh? Take a swing, I dare ya, Miyagi.” Albert shakes his head. Williamson wouldn’t say that. Two slurs within three sentences is too creative for the guy.
If only Williamson knew what Albert could do now, he thinks. If only he knew that when the Kryptonians invaded, and the Flash and Kid Flash were fighting the man in yellow, and Jay Garrick was doing his best to keep people clear of any debris, that Albert was at S.T.A.R. Labs. If only he knew that when the particle accelerator exploded, even though Flash and Kid Flash tried to contain the blast, Albert was caught in its middle. If only he knew that when the lightning struck Albert, it did more than give him third-degree burns across his back. If only he knew that now… before, during and after the beating… Albert had powers. And that the only reason why he hadn’t used them, was for fear that he might have killed him.
Albert avoids his mother that afternoon. He skips dinner. He doesn’t say whether he’s okay when she knocks on his bedroom door. He just tells her to leave him alone.
Albert Lim doesn’t wake up the next morning. At the stroke of midnight, a man comes into his room and takes him into his next life.
M A Y 2 N D ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y H I G H ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y, M O
I never really liked school. Whether it was kindergarten or elementary school, the thought of going there seemed almost as terrifying as the thought of staying at home. I’d never really been able to put my finger on why – for most kids it was because they hated their teachers, or because they dreaded schoolwork – and while I was one of those kids, those reasons were never really the ones that made me despise the place. As I thought on it more and more, I began to realise just what it was that did. My parents were never the most attentive bunch; Dad was too busy dancing his dance with booze and easily-earned money, and Mom was too worried about what the rich family from across the street thought of her to share much of her time with me. See, the thing is, school was never this hell where the principal was Satan and the teachers were his demons-in-arms; it was just another place my parents took me so I wouldn’t bother them for a couple more hours.
“Boo-hoo, Wally,” I hear you say, “You had crappy parents. Welcome to the club.”
Yeah, okay, fair. But you didn’t let me finish.
I never really liked school because it was another naughty corner my parents put me in when I was “being a nuisance,” as Mom put it, or, as dear old Dad would say, “a disgrace to the West family name.” But I never thought I’d find another reason to… not… like it, let alone one bigger than “Mummy and Daddy didn’t have time for me.” And guess what?
Yep. You got it. On the first Monday of May, 2016, I found one.
A month and one day had passed since the Kryptonians decided to flip humanity their collective birds, and society was recovering about as well as you’d think (hint: not very). Imagine a beehive. The bees are buzzing along, minding their own business, making honey and doing other bee things, when all of a sudden a big, scary, alien bear comes along and scoops up their sweet syrup, accidentally killing their queen in the process. The bees are angry, and they start attacking the bear, but not before it decides to throw their hive onto the ground and empty its bladder all over their home. Hell, it thinks, why not take a dump while it’s at it? The bees are so angry now that not only are they hostile towards big, scary, alien bears, but to any poor metasquirrel they happen to know of, too.
That’s the state the world was in in that month of May, and the twin cities of Central-Keystone were no exception. In addition to the whole evil Supermen thing, there was also that of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explosion, and the man calling himself Professor Zoom. Eobard Thawne, who claimed to be the man who killed my uncle Barry’s mother, and who also claimed to hail from the twenty-fifth century, used the Kryptonian Invasion as cover for his attack on the second Flash. Knowing full well that Barry and I would be busy trying to save anyone we could from the Kryptonians, he activated S.T.A.R. Labs’ particle accelerator, which was only weeks from completion. It exploded, energies previously only theoretical in nature spilling out through rips in the fabric of reality. With the original Flash, Jay Garrick, there to help us, Barry and I managed to contain the explosion to a couple of blocks… but the damage had been done, and Thawne disappeared without a trace.
The Gem Cities were in a state of paranoia they had never been in before, and it was spilling into their schools in bucket-loads. Central City High was one such school, and on its first day back since the Invasion, everyone was forced to see it for themselves.
We were all gathered in the gym. Hundreds of students filled the bleachers, talking with a kind of energy I don’t think anyone was expecting. To return to school knowing that your summer would be non-existent is generally a mood-killer – I, for one, was pretty bummed out – but the place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, and it was contagious. Despite the fact that I’d been separated from my usual circle of friends (I’d arrived late, as a good speedster’s alter ego always does), I happily chatted with the girl sitting next to me, elbows propped up on my seat’s backrest.
The stage at the far end of the gym was set up for a presentation, images projected onto the large screen that hung above it: a picture of Central City, post-Invasion, all debris and distraught men and women, with one word written in bold, red letters: ‘CRISIS’. A man in his thirties stood at the microphone in front of it, clean-shaven and hair shaped with wax, dressed in a uniform with ‘SFH’ emblazoned on his left breast pocket. He smiled at us students, gaze travelling over us before he turned to look at our principal, Mr. Lampert, who was seated on the stage’s left with the rest of the teachers. Mr. Lampert gave him a nod, and SFH-Man once again greeted us with a smile.
“Hello, everyone,” he said into the microphone, his voice booming throughout the gym. “If I could have your attention, please.”
The chatter died down.
“My name’s Gardner Kolins. I’m a volunteer working for Stand For Humanity, a foundation you may or may not have heard of. We provide for those who might have lost anything in situations involving mutants, masked vigilantes or any other extranormal individuals and groups – the recent catastrophe that came with the Kryptonian invaders being no exception. In light of recent events, your school has asked us to come and talk to you about the dangers “superheroes” such as Superman pose for society, and how you can keep safe if you ever find yourselves stuck in the middle of a conflict between such a person and other, usually powered, people. In a world where more and more of these beings are popping up every day, it’s very important that the public learns of how to endure the inevitable damage these so-called heroes inflict. So I ask that you all listen. It could be matter of life and death.”
“Now,” he continued, pointing up to the screen, “Who here can tell me what “crisis” means to them?”
“Boo-hoo, Wally,” I hear you say, “You had crappy parents. Welcome to the club.”
Yeah, okay, fair. But you didn’t let me finish.
I never really liked school because it was another naughty corner my parents put me in when I was “being a nuisance,” as Mom put it, or, as dear old Dad would say, “a disgrace to the West family name.” But I never thought I’d find another reason to… not… like it, let alone one bigger than “Mummy and Daddy didn’t have time for me.” And guess what?
Yep. You got it. On the first Monday of May, 2016, I found one.
A month and one day had passed since the Kryptonians decided to flip humanity their collective birds, and society was recovering about as well as you’d think (hint: not very). Imagine a beehive. The bees are buzzing along, minding their own business, making honey and doing other bee things, when all of a sudden a big, scary, alien bear comes along and scoops up their sweet syrup, accidentally killing their queen in the process. The bees are angry, and they start attacking the bear, but not before it decides to throw their hive onto the ground and empty its bladder all over their home. Hell, it thinks, why not take a dump while it’s at it? The bees are so angry now that not only are they hostile towards big, scary, alien bears, but to any poor metasquirrel they happen to know of, too.
That’s the state the world was in in that month of May, and the twin cities of Central-Keystone were no exception. In addition to the whole evil Supermen thing, there was also that of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explosion, and the man calling himself Professor Zoom. Eobard Thawne, who claimed to be the man who killed my uncle Barry’s mother, and who also claimed to hail from the twenty-fifth century, used the Kryptonian Invasion as cover for his attack on the second Flash. Knowing full well that Barry and I would be busy trying to save anyone we could from the Kryptonians, he activated S.T.A.R. Labs’ particle accelerator, which was only weeks from completion. It exploded, energies previously only theoretical in nature spilling out through rips in the fabric of reality. With the original Flash, Jay Garrick, there to help us, Barry and I managed to contain the explosion to a couple of blocks… but the damage had been done, and Thawne disappeared without a trace.
The Gem Cities were in a state of paranoia they had never been in before, and it was spilling into their schools in bucket-loads. Central City High was one such school, and on its first day back since the Invasion, everyone was forced to see it for themselves.
We were all gathered in the gym. Hundreds of students filled the bleachers, talking with a kind of energy I don’t think anyone was expecting. To return to school knowing that your summer would be non-existent is generally a mood-killer – I, for one, was pretty bummed out – but the place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, and it was contagious. Despite the fact that I’d been separated from my usual circle of friends (I’d arrived late, as a good speedster’s alter ego always does), I happily chatted with the girl sitting next to me, elbows propped up on my seat’s backrest.
The stage at the far end of the gym was set up for a presentation, images projected onto the large screen that hung above it: a picture of Central City, post-Invasion, all debris and distraught men and women, with one word written in bold, red letters: ‘CRISIS’. A man in his thirties stood at the microphone in front of it, clean-shaven and hair shaped with wax, dressed in a uniform with ‘SFH’ emblazoned on his left breast pocket. He smiled at us students, gaze travelling over us before he turned to look at our principal, Mr. Lampert, who was seated on the stage’s left with the rest of the teachers. Mr. Lampert gave him a nod, and SFH-Man once again greeted us with a smile.
“Hello, everyone,” he said into the microphone, his voice booming throughout the gym. “If I could have your attention, please.”
The chatter died down.
“My name’s Gardner Kolins. I’m a volunteer working for Stand For Humanity, a foundation you may or may not have heard of. We provide for those who might have lost anything in situations involving mutants, masked vigilantes or any other extranormal individuals and groups – the recent catastrophe that came with the Kryptonian invaders being no exception. In light of recent events, your school has asked us to come and talk to you about the dangers “superheroes” such as Superman pose for society, and how you can keep safe if you ever find yourselves stuck in the middle of a conflict between such a person and other, usually powered, people. In a world where more and more of these beings are popping up every day, it’s very important that the public learns of how to endure the inevitable damage these so-called heroes inflict. So I ask that you all listen. It could be matter of life and death.”
“Now,” he continued, pointing up to the screen, “Who here can tell me what “crisis” means to them?”
* * *
It started like that, and as Kolins talked through his presentation, it only got worse. Baseless criticisms against heroes were disguised as facts; statistics were thrown in our faces to hammer home the “reality” metahumans and superheroes were “bringing to our doorsteps”; Kolins provided commentary laced with mutant and xenophobia with a conviction that seemed to win over at least half of the gym. But it wasn’t that that disgusted me – not the most, anyway. It wasn’t that he omitted practically every good deed any superhero had ever done, twisting their acts into crimes that they deserved to punished for. It wasn’t that he was so completely racist the swastika practically etched itself onto his forehead, however subtle he may have been, or that his entire lecture relied on shock value and images of death on the screen. It was that when I looked over to the right, a few feet past him where the teachers were sitting, that I saw most of them nodding in agreement. It was that when I looked at the other students, I saw some of them look at Kolins like he was the second coming. It was that I could almost see their hate for people they weren’t even trying to understand as it gripped them like a vice – not that it needed to. Most welcomed it with open arms.
And so I found a bigger reason to dislike school than “Mom and Dad didn’t do parenting.” Maybe it was the optimist in me, or the fact that I was a superhero myself, but I liked to think that we, as people of Earth – humans, metahumans, aliens, whatever – were stronger than our fears. That we were bigger than hating on what we didn’t understand. On May 2nd, 2016, school showed me just how wrong I was. And I hated it for that.
I didn’t wait for Kolins to finish his presentation. As he talked about the total deaths caused by metahuman-related incidents since the turn of the century, I got up. I walked the length of the gym to the exit, and I stepped into the silence of the sunny outside world.
It was music to my ears.
And so I found a bigger reason to dislike school than “Mom and Dad didn’t do parenting.” Maybe it was the optimist in me, or the fact that I was a superhero myself, but I liked to think that we, as people of Earth – humans, metahumans, aliens, whatever – were stronger than our fears. That we were bigger than hating on what we didn’t understand. On May 2nd, 2016, school showed me just how wrong I was. And I hated it for that.
I didn’t wait for Kolins to finish his presentation. As he talked about the total deaths caused by metahuman-related incidents since the turn of the century, I got up. I walked the length of the gym to the exit, and I stepped into the silence of the sunny outside world.
It was music to my ears.
Ruby No One Cares
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0-24 hrs ago
Carol Danvers stood where sunlight and A/C clashed, the door next to her kept open by a door stop. Her mind had long gone absent, thinking of far off things, the empty glass soda bottle in her right hand tapping against the railing of the fifth floor balcony and outdoor lounge--killing time as she waited. The strange sensation of processed air-conditioned air mixing with the fresh Southern Californian air tingled her nostrils, the clash of chilled air with warm lazy Sunday morning air making her feel a woman caught between two realities.
A feeling that was anything but new to Carol.
The trip to Los Angeles was short notice, something Carol hadn't minded at all, considering the sheer amount of boredom that resulted from sitting about the Avengers complex not doing much of anything useful. So when her phone lit up with the invite to LA, she didn't hesitate. She'd lost her golden aviators somewhere in flight over Colorado, crossing the Rockies. Gave her an excuse to buy new ones once she had gotten to LA; she found a new pair in the Howard Hughes center, where an oversized outdoor mall met an oversized movie theater and span of restaurants nearly as far as the eye could see. Wearing an old favorite pair of blue jeans, a white tank top whose straps mixed with a white bra, and a vintage leather bomber jacket gifted to her from an old Vet. Right now she was little more than a tall blonde in a city with countless tall blondes.
Since the start of her public life as Captain Marvel, there had been precious few moments of getting to blend in, of just being a wallflower. Growing up, Carol was always used to a certain amount of attention, a certain level of white noise ever present in her life. It had only increased when she got to the Academy, and again increased when she got out to the Fleet. But none of it, not the attention she got for being attractive, not the attention she got for being a female pilot, not even the attention she got for being an attractive female pilot--none of it entered the atmosphere that was the attention she got as Captain Marvel.
"There are star athletes, then there are celebrities, then there are royals and presidents--and THEN there are superheroes."
That's how the Uber driver put it to her on the way over. She took an Uber, a new(ish) grey Civic driven by a charming young artist based out of Compton named Kahlil, in an attempt to keep a lower profile than zooming around the city in the air would allow. The moment young Kahlil learned she was on her way to the posh headquarters of Daystrom Media Enterprises, he began telling her all about how superheroes were the new top tier of famous in the world. That it made sense for Captain Marvel to meet with DME.
To that, Carol explained it was a meeting set up by a friend, not a power move. In truth, Carol hadn't even asked many details when she was told about it, a fact that quietly ate away at her after Kahlil put the spotlight right on her. The friend met Carol at the DME building on Sunset; Tiffany had every bit of glamor that Carol did not: where Carol was in jeans, a tank top, and a leather jacket her model friend was resplendent in a tight, sleeveless, dress adorned in metallic beading of purples and reds and blues. Her dark brown hair long, impossibly straight, and shining bright.
They barely got in the building before their voices got quiet, and tense. Facing each other, ignoring anyone else. Carol wasn't siked about being paraded before a talent management agency. Tiffany wasn't siked about Captain Marvel, her friend, being wholey dependent on the US Government P.R. machine. Options were never a bad thing, Tiff argued--right?
"Right." Carol finally allowed, partially sighing the word, her blue eyes watching as Tiffany turned and greeted young scions of DME; wearing various designers in various states of business casual. Next, they descended upon Carol, shaking hands and exchanging quick introductions before the meeting on the fifth floor with their bosses. The pitch was impressive enough, even Carol had to admit. They showed her what DME could have done for Captain Marvel in the wake of the Kryptonian invasion--their only true slippage coming when Carol admitted she wouldn't have wanted to do so many interviews.
One of the DME bosses had simply smiled at Carol's reservation: "What about just a morning show, a late show, and your choice--Charlie Rose?"
...and, well, she did like Charlie Rose. Oak table, black background, serious (enough) topics and conversations. As it was Captain Marvel had only been available to the press once, during the press conference that introduced her to the American public, and the world as a whole. DME called that decision by the Government a mistake. That it "robbed" the world of a golden opportunity to get to know the newest superhero, and one of it's few great superheroines. At the end of it, the overly glamorized and overly educated talent agents promised to turn Captain Marvel into "the heroine that your nieces could be proud of."
Carol didn't say it--she didn't have to, Tiff did: "Maisie and Claudia Danvers are proud of their aunt."
"And so there are people out there asking if Captain Marvel is even a hero--some claim she's an alien, some she's a government weapon. Yet if the US Governemnt had done their job right the first time when they introduced Captain Marvel...would your little nieces have even ever heard people ask such questions about their beloved aunt?"
Tiff and Carol exchanged a look, before the meeting ended for Carol; Tiff stayed in the room a little while longer to talk without Carol, gathering contact details and setting up a second meeting, Carol going outside on the balcony to wait and consider whether or not she even wanted to be part of a second meeting. Newly purchased aviators back on, tapping the now empty bottle of the coca-cola she'd gotten in the meeting, waiting.
When the girl appeared in the door, she appeared with a rueful smile on her pretty, painted, red high glossed lips. "So, hey. I'm sorry if that caught you off guard. I tried to warn you."
She had, too, Carol remembered. Over the phone, Tiffany had started to tell her that what she wanted to set up for Carol might make the pilot "feel out of place." Tiff was the glamor girl who enjoyed the jetsetter lifestyle. Carol had never exactly been the type. Being courted by one of Hollywood's biggest talent agencies? It was strange, and it would make waves. Carol was certain she'd hear about it from someone in the government, maybe even Stark. Was Captain Marvel going Hollywood?
Carol snorted, waving her hand, the one with the empty bottle. "It's okay, Tiff. You tried to warn me, right? And some of what they said in there made sense--I'm starting to realize the DoD hasn't done Captain Marvel a lot of favors so far." She shrugged, quickly, dismissively. "But I don't know if the answer to that is this."
"This?"
"Going Hollywood."
Tiffany Saunders laughed, loudly, and leaned in to steal a hug from the taller blonde superhuman woman. "Only you would consider this going Hollywood, Carol."
Carol relented, the light, sweet, scent of Tiffany's perfume filling her nostrils, Tiffany's arms simply looping around Carol's waist: allowing Carol to hug her shoulders, and whisper in her ear, "Thanks, Tiff. Seriously, for looking out for me, and for looking out for Captain Marvel."
The hug unwound, but the young woman gave a tug to Carol's jacket. "Stay tonight? There's a pizza place in West Hollywood you'd love, I know you would, and then maybe we could head down to the beaches? Or maybe..." Her voice trailed, as her eyes read Carol. Bittersweet became her smile, Tiff's tone staying unpressured, staying casual. She knew now Carol wasn't staying. "Don't worry about it. I adore you, I'm happy to look out for you, and Captain Marvel. Would you like me to take that, for you?"
Carol had all but forgotten about the glass coke bottle, and that Tiffany could always tell when Carol wanted to fly. Literally. Apparently Carol got fidgety, and closed up and quiet. Half blushing, Carol handed over the bottle. "Thanks, you." A quick lean in and Carol's lips pressed to Tiff's cheek. "Call me when you get back into the City?"
The City, she said, meaning New York City. "Absolutely." Tiff nodded, and Carol smiled, sneaking one last cheek kiss before her blue eyes went skyward, and her body soon followed--making a quick detour through the Hollywood sign before going up and up, skyward, and eastward. Tiffany Saunders watching her go, the model's big brown eyes turning yellow and alien as Carol left the lower layers of the atmosphere.
A feeling that was anything but new to Carol.
The trip to Los Angeles was short notice, something Carol hadn't minded at all, considering the sheer amount of boredom that resulted from sitting about the Avengers complex not doing much of anything useful. So when her phone lit up with the invite to LA, she didn't hesitate. She'd lost her golden aviators somewhere in flight over Colorado, crossing the Rockies. Gave her an excuse to buy new ones once she had gotten to LA; she found a new pair in the Howard Hughes center, where an oversized outdoor mall met an oversized movie theater and span of restaurants nearly as far as the eye could see. Wearing an old favorite pair of blue jeans, a white tank top whose straps mixed with a white bra, and a vintage leather bomber jacket gifted to her from an old Vet. Right now she was little more than a tall blonde in a city with countless tall blondes.
Since the start of her public life as Captain Marvel, there had been precious few moments of getting to blend in, of just being a wallflower. Growing up, Carol was always used to a certain amount of attention, a certain level of white noise ever present in her life. It had only increased when she got to the Academy, and again increased when she got out to the Fleet. But none of it, not the attention she got for being attractive, not the attention she got for being a female pilot, not even the attention she got for being an attractive female pilot--none of it entered the atmosphere that was the attention she got as Captain Marvel.
"There are star athletes, then there are celebrities, then there are royals and presidents--and THEN there are superheroes."
That's how the Uber driver put it to her on the way over. She took an Uber, a new(ish) grey Civic driven by a charming young artist based out of Compton named Kahlil, in an attempt to keep a lower profile than zooming around the city in the air would allow. The moment young Kahlil learned she was on her way to the posh headquarters of Daystrom Media Enterprises, he began telling her all about how superheroes were the new top tier of famous in the world. That it made sense for Captain Marvel to meet with DME.
To that, Carol explained it was a meeting set up by a friend, not a power move. In truth, Carol hadn't even asked many details when she was told about it, a fact that quietly ate away at her after Kahlil put the spotlight right on her. The friend met Carol at the DME building on Sunset; Tiffany had every bit of glamor that Carol did not: where Carol was in jeans, a tank top, and a leather jacket her model friend was resplendent in a tight, sleeveless, dress adorned in metallic beading of purples and reds and blues. Her dark brown hair long, impossibly straight, and shining bright.
They barely got in the building before their voices got quiet, and tense. Facing each other, ignoring anyone else. Carol wasn't siked about being paraded before a talent management agency. Tiffany wasn't siked about Captain Marvel, her friend, being wholey dependent on the US Government P.R. machine. Options were never a bad thing, Tiff argued--right?
"Right." Carol finally allowed, partially sighing the word, her blue eyes watching as Tiffany turned and greeted young scions of DME; wearing various designers in various states of business casual. Next, they descended upon Carol, shaking hands and exchanging quick introductions before the meeting on the fifth floor with their bosses. The pitch was impressive enough, even Carol had to admit. They showed her what DME could have done for Captain Marvel in the wake of the Kryptonian invasion--their only true slippage coming when Carol admitted she wouldn't have wanted to do so many interviews.
One of the DME bosses had simply smiled at Carol's reservation: "What about just a morning show, a late show, and your choice--Charlie Rose?"
...and, well, she did like Charlie Rose. Oak table, black background, serious (enough) topics and conversations. As it was Captain Marvel had only been available to the press once, during the press conference that introduced her to the American public, and the world as a whole. DME called that decision by the Government a mistake. That it "robbed" the world of a golden opportunity to get to know the newest superhero, and one of it's few great superheroines. At the end of it, the overly glamorized and overly educated talent agents promised to turn Captain Marvel into "the heroine that your nieces could be proud of."
Carol didn't say it--she didn't have to, Tiff did: "Maisie and Claudia Danvers are proud of their aunt."
"And so there are people out there asking if Captain Marvel is even a hero--some claim she's an alien, some she's a government weapon. Yet if the US Governemnt had done their job right the first time when they introduced Captain Marvel...would your little nieces have even ever heard people ask such questions about their beloved aunt?"
Tiff and Carol exchanged a look, before the meeting ended for Carol; Tiff stayed in the room a little while longer to talk without Carol, gathering contact details and setting up a second meeting, Carol going outside on the balcony to wait and consider whether or not she even wanted to be part of a second meeting. Newly purchased aviators back on, tapping the now empty bottle of the coca-cola she'd gotten in the meeting, waiting.
When the girl appeared in the door, she appeared with a rueful smile on her pretty, painted, red high glossed lips. "So, hey. I'm sorry if that caught you off guard. I tried to warn you."
She had, too, Carol remembered. Over the phone, Tiffany had started to tell her that what she wanted to set up for Carol might make the pilot "feel out of place." Tiff was the glamor girl who enjoyed the jetsetter lifestyle. Carol had never exactly been the type. Being courted by one of Hollywood's biggest talent agencies? It was strange, and it would make waves. Carol was certain she'd hear about it from someone in the government, maybe even Stark. Was Captain Marvel going Hollywood?
Carol snorted, waving her hand, the one with the empty bottle. "It's okay, Tiff. You tried to warn me, right? And some of what they said in there made sense--I'm starting to realize the DoD hasn't done Captain Marvel a lot of favors so far." She shrugged, quickly, dismissively. "But I don't know if the answer to that is this."
"This?"
"Going Hollywood."
Tiffany Saunders laughed, loudly, and leaned in to steal a hug from the taller blonde superhuman woman. "Only you would consider this going Hollywood, Carol."
Carol relented, the light, sweet, scent of Tiffany's perfume filling her nostrils, Tiffany's arms simply looping around Carol's waist: allowing Carol to hug her shoulders, and whisper in her ear, "Thanks, Tiff. Seriously, for looking out for me, and for looking out for Captain Marvel."
The hug unwound, but the young woman gave a tug to Carol's jacket. "Stay tonight? There's a pizza place in West Hollywood you'd love, I know you would, and then maybe we could head down to the beaches? Or maybe..." Her voice trailed, as her eyes read Carol. Bittersweet became her smile, Tiff's tone staying unpressured, staying casual. She knew now Carol wasn't staying. "Don't worry about it. I adore you, I'm happy to look out for you, and Captain Marvel. Would you like me to take that, for you?"
Carol had all but forgotten about the glass coke bottle, and that Tiffany could always tell when Carol wanted to fly. Literally. Apparently Carol got fidgety, and closed up and quiet. Half blushing, Carol handed over the bottle. "Thanks, you." A quick lean in and Carol's lips pressed to Tiff's cheek. "Call me when you get back into the City?"
The City, she said, meaning New York City. "Absolutely." Tiff nodded, and Carol smiled, sneaking one last cheek kiss before her blue eyes went skyward, and her body soon followed--making a quick detour through the Hollywood sign before going up and up, skyward, and eastward. Tiffany Saunders watching her go, the model's big brown eyes turning yellow and alien as Carol left the lower layers of the atmosphere.
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HenryJonesJr
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2 yrs ago
Screens flicker to life in the room as the blond woman is roused from sleep. She stretches out and drops to the floor for a set of pushups to shake the sleep off of her. The screens meanwhile displayed the news from the past night. The continued cleanup of the Kryptonian invasion continued to dominate headlines. From government agencies across the world harvesting Kryptonian technology to the continued horror stories of the mass loss of life, there was nothing else anyone wanted to speak of. It was possibly the defining moment of human history up to that point, if Stephanie Carter was being honest with herself.
The Kryptonians had changed everything, but they were defeated. There were other threats that were now moving in the media shadow the invasion had cast over the media landscape. Steph knew The Commander and HYDRA would be moving pieces to to take advantage of being out of the spotlight.
Unfortunately for them, Captain America and the All-Star Squadron were on their tail. At least it was her and the All-Star Squadron for now.
“We want you on the Avengers, Cap,” Maria Hill’s words rattled around in her brain. “After this, Superman will be under scrutiny. We need someone similar to inspire hope. You can do that. Take some time and think about it. It’s an open invitation.”
They wanted her to be a figurehead. Hell, they always wanted her to be a figurehead. That’s the reason they had created her to begin with. She was to be the perfect little soldier on the frontline of the new superpowered wars. She was going to be the new version of her father fighting the Nazis.
Except, as she had come to find out through her conversations with Nick Fury, Steve Rogers was one of the most insubordinate soldiers he’s ever seen. Steve would strike out on his own with the Howling Commandos whenever he saw fit, and no one really ever questioned him because he got results. That’s why she went rogue to expose the HYDRA infiltration of SHIELD. She wasn’t sure if the entirety of the double agents had been caught, but at least she now felt confident SHIELD wasn’t a hive of corruption.
Now Stephanie was her own woman with her own mission. That’s why she hadn’t accepted a membership with The Avengers yet.
She turned the screens off in her quarters and headed to the training room. As the door to the main facility opened, a voice said from beside it, “You’re up earlier than normal.”
“And yet you still someone woke up before me,” Steph responded to Nick Fury, who was sitting outside her quarters. “Do you even sleep?”
“Can’t sleep,” he shook his head. “Too much work to do.”
“You got something for me?” Fury had been searching for clues as to where Pat Dugan, SHIELD scientist and weapons expert, had been taken following his abduction and the killing of Starman. Dugan was a brilliant inventor, and had been working on a battle suit of armor for SHIELD peacekeeping forces. HYDRA no doubt wanted it for themselves.
“Maybe,” he sighed and handed her a folder. As she began to flip through it, he explained, “That new HYDRA asset you ran into when Dugan was taken? He doesn’t seem to be new at all. Seems to have been behind a rash of assassinations during the Soviet era, always against targets that threatened to turn the world back to democracy. He was known as ‘The Winter Soldier’.”
“Can’t be the same guy, can it? He’d have to be over eighty at this point,” Cap commented on the years of the Winter Soldier’s suspected kills.
“Hey, I should be close to that, too,” Fury winked with his remaining eye. “You and I both know fact is stranger than fiction.”
“Still, physically he seemed to be in his thirties at the most,” she shook her head. “Of course I didn’t see his face.”
She remembered that day like it was yesterday. The Soldier was fast, even faster than she was. He moved with the precision only granted through years of intense training. He gunned down Starman, a veteran hero, like he was a boy playing with toys. When he came after Steph, she had felt something she hadn’t in her entire career up to that point: Fear. She was afraid of The Winter Soldier, and he would have killed her if Courtney Whitmore, Dugan’s step daughter, hadn’t taken up Starman’s staff. The girl managed to turn the tide, and Cap managed to survive by the skin of her teeth.
“Well, whatever the case, it’s a lead,” Fury shrugged. “We’ve been able to come up with nothing regarding HYDRA’s base of operations. If we can find anything in Russia that could lead to them-”
“It’d be worth the time to look,” she nodded. “I’ll assemble the team.”
“Are you gonna take Whitmore?” Fury asked with a raised eyebrow.
Stephanie pondered the question. Courtney was a willing and eager girl looking to learn how to be a hero. But she was inexperience. That could equate to problems.
“I don’t think it’d be a good idea,” she shook her head. “The last thing I need is a teenage superpowered kid setting something off in Russia. Putin’s already a nutjob. I don’t need World War III starting over an unscheduled visit by the All-Star Squadron. But I want her training while we’re gone. Mind taking care of that?”
“And here I thought I was done training blond teenagers how to be a super spy,” he sighed.
“Hey, you signed up for this,” she smiled at him. “I’ll see you when we get back.”
**********
The Quinjet flew quietly towards its destination with the All-Star Squadron in tow. The four members of the away team, Captain America, Black Widow, the Falcon, and Snake Eyes, sit around the briefing table in the middle of the sophisticated jet, which flew itself through SHIELD’s amazing computer technology.
Steph stood and looked around at her team, “You’ve all been briefed, but I wanted to talk to y’all before we got there. This is a deep cover mission. No use of powers or force in public. Try to stay inconspicuous. Nat is our lead. She knows the country better than the rest of us. Question and Snake Eyes will stay with the jet until we find something solid. Understood?”
The team nodded in unison, “Good. This is our chance. HYDRA let somethings slip and we need to hammer them for it. It’s time they’re on the run. Let’s find ourselves some snakes, Squad.”
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coGM
GreenGrenade
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0-24 hrs ago
@Ruby
Cue the music...
M A Y 2 N D ♦ S . H . I . E . L . D . H E A D Q U A R T E R S , A V E N G E R S C O M P L E X ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y, N Y
Cue the music...
M A Y 2 N D ♦ S . H . I . E . L . D . H E A D Q U A R T E R S , A V E N G E R S C O M P L E X ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y, N Y
Tony Stark always had an answer.
It had always been this way. Even before he was old enough to design his own tech (eight, if he remembered correctly), he was thinking of the pathways, of the branches, of the tens of thousands of millions of possibilities the future could take shape from. He’d produced concepts of a multi-touch screen smartphone a decade before Apple introduced the iPhone; he knew how to develop plastic without fossil fuels long before LG Chem and KAIST University published their findings in 2009; by the age of fifteen he’d designed the weapons that would see his company thrive for many years to come. If someone asked him now of what he thought the future looked like, he would tell them that within a year China would become home to the world’s largest megacity; that within two there would be a drug to prevent obesity; that by 2020, holographic TVs will have gone mainstream, and that in that same decade over thirty thousand drones would be patrolling America’s skies; he would tell them that by the fifties – not those gone by, but those of this century – robots would be a common feature in the households of many, and that A.I. would be as commonplace as computers are now.
This was what he did. He observed. He calculated. Human nature was, at its very essence, predictable. All he had to do was take note of the patterns, of the details hidden within every day’s headline, and voila. Just like that.
Tony Stark always had an answer. When Pepper Potts asked him, “Why am I here?” as they walked through the crowded halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan headquarters, it was no exception.
“You’re my Girl Friday, Pep,” he said, winking at a not-unattractive blonde as he strode past. The suitcase containing his Iron Man armour was heavy in his hand. “I need you with me.”
“Right,” she rolled her eyes, “At a meeting for the Avengers. I can see my uses here as clear as day.”
“Mhm. Stand there and look pretty, and glare at Hill whenever she does that scary thing. You know the drill.”
“Wouldn’t Happy be better suited for this, then?”
“Looking pretty?”
“No, the glaring. I have looking pretty covered, ass.”
“Happy? Glare? Have you seen him try to be intimidating?”
“… Point.”
They entered a large conference room, a long, glass-topped wooden table at its centre. Jessica Drew and Carol Danvers sat on its left-hand side, the former tapping her nails impatiently on its reflective surface. Nathaniel Adam, on the other hand, who sat opposite them, stared straight ahead of himself; an unnerving, metallic statue.
An unnerving, metallic, radioactive statue.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s eagle watched over them at the far end of the room, perched above a large screen which was, for the moment, blank. In front of it stood the appointed leader of the Avengers Initiative. Next to her stood a man who looked like he belonged in a nursing home. The top of his scalp shined in the light; grey patches on the surrounding area and an impressive moustache that brushed his upper lip were the only spots of hair he had left. Maria Hill scowled. “Stark. So glad you could join us.”
“Good to see you too, Hill. You look lovely.” He set his suitcase down, taking a seat next to Adam. “Nate. Jess. Danvers.” He propped his legs up on the table, crossing them over. Jess looked at him in bewilderment. Nate glanced at him, expression unreadable.
“And who’s this?” asked Hill, nodding at Pepper.
“Pepper Potts. His personal assistant, Agent Hill,” she said, all smiles, standing behind Tony with her hands behind her back.
“Lucky you,” Hill drawled. “This,” she motioned towards the elderly man, “Is Stan. He’s from the PR department.”
“Hi there,” said Stan. He even waved.
Tony raised his eyebrows.
“Stan’s here to talk to us about our public image. I expect you all to give him your full attention.” Tony didn’t have to look. He could feel Maria’s eyes dig into him. “Take it away, Stan.”
“Right, yes,” said Stan, leaping into action. He held a remote in his hand, and he clicked a button; the screen behind him came to life, displaying an array of graphs and statistics that Tony didn’t care for. “Following the Kryptonian Invasion, public opinion on superheroes has understandably dropped, eh… pretty dramatically. I don’t know why, myself, I think you’re great, but people like Superman aren’t really beacons of hope anymore. You guys (and gals, beautiful gals) are the Avengers, you’re the last line of defence, and the public needs to trust you, they need to see that you’re not just these people with powers that could destroy us if you wanted to, so the people at PR have put together this plan that I think could really help you all out here, so without further ado – ”
“ – Yes, thank you, Stan, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Tony, walking to stand in Stan’s place.
“Stark…” warned Hill. He waved her off.
“Thanks, Stan, I really appreciate your dedication. Why don’t you go to Pepper over there, leave her your address. I’ll send you a fruit basket, maybe a cheque. There you go, buddy. Thank you.”
“Stan, you really don’t have to…” Hill pinched the bridge of her nose.
Stan did.
“Here’s the problem, people,” said Tony, clasping his hands together. “We’re a team of superheroes. The first big-name superhero team since the Justice Society (except for Hill, don’t know what she’s doing here). But what are we doing? We’re sitting around on our asses waiting for something to happen in a facility belonging to the world’s largest intelligence and espionage organisation. When people hear ‘Avengers’, they don’t think of us. They think of scary, back-stabbing spies and a guy called ‘Deathstroke’. What we need to do is separate ourselves from S.H.I.E.L.D. We need our own base of operations, our own identity, our own brand – yes, Hill, we’ll still be S.H.I.E.L.D., but we won’t be hiding anymore. Like Stan said, after the Invasion, people don’t trust us anymore. We need to give them a reason to.”
“And where do you suggest we put this new base of operations?” asked Nathaniel.
“Stark Tower.”
Jess threw her head back as she erupted in laughter, smacking the table with her right hand as her left clutched her stomach. By the time she finished, tears were streaming down her face, which had turned as red as a strawberry. Tony frowned. Pepper was allergic to those.
Jess wiped the tears off with the back of her hand. “Ohmygod,” she gasped, “Ohmygod. Tony. Anthony. Edward. You’re full of shit.”
“So I’ve been told,” he agreed. “We replace ‘Stark’ with our logo. I already have floor plans. All I have to do is give the word, and my guys will have everything ready within a month, two at most. Your own rooms, a training facility, everything the team could ever need – all out of my own pocket, at no expense to S.H.I.E.L.D. or the government. Think about it. This’ll do wonders for our publicity (well, not as much as actually doing something, but I’m getting there). Hill?”
She stared at him with embers in her eyes, the gears in her head turning with considerable effort. Eventually, “… I’ll see what Director Wilson thinks, but I’ll need more information.”
“Check your inbox. Already there.”
“Fantastic…” she muttered.
“Alright. Now, onto the good stuff.”
At his end of the table were a series of USB ports. Reaching into his inside pocket, Tony extracted a drive, plugging it in. On the screen behind him appeared a photograph of a group of men, all carrying weapons that looked alien in design. They… did not look friendly.
“They call themselves the Bastard Sons of Wilbur Day. Y’know, Stilt-Man. That one guy the Justice Society used to fight a lot. They are anti-superhero, anti-establishment, anarchist techno-terror cell wannabes that have recently come across the means to become a very real danger. The weapons you see them holding are courtesy of the Kryptonians that engineered what could have been a mass extinction event. I don’t know where they got them, but they have ‘em, and it turns out that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s had them under surveillance for some weeks now.”
Hill’s eyes widened. “How – ”
“Later, Hill. For now, I say we go kick some terrorist ass. They’re in Red Hook. Hope you’re all ready.”
He eyed the other Avengers, a smirk working its way across his face. “Avengers… Go.”
No… Something about that doesn’t sound right.
It had always been this way. Even before he was old enough to design his own tech (eight, if he remembered correctly), he was thinking of the pathways, of the branches, of the tens of thousands of millions of possibilities the future could take shape from. He’d produced concepts of a multi-touch screen smartphone a decade before Apple introduced the iPhone; he knew how to develop plastic without fossil fuels long before LG Chem and KAIST University published their findings in 2009; by the age of fifteen he’d designed the weapons that would see his company thrive for many years to come. If someone asked him now of what he thought the future looked like, he would tell them that within a year China would become home to the world’s largest megacity; that within two there would be a drug to prevent obesity; that by 2020, holographic TVs will have gone mainstream, and that in that same decade over thirty thousand drones would be patrolling America’s skies; he would tell them that by the fifties – not those gone by, but those of this century – robots would be a common feature in the households of many, and that A.I. would be as commonplace as computers are now.
This was what he did. He observed. He calculated. Human nature was, at its very essence, predictable. All he had to do was take note of the patterns, of the details hidden within every day’s headline, and voila. Just like that.
Tony Stark always had an answer. When Pepper Potts asked him, “Why am I here?” as they walked through the crowded halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan headquarters, it was no exception.
“You’re my Girl Friday, Pep,” he said, winking at a not-unattractive blonde as he strode past. The suitcase containing his Iron Man armour was heavy in his hand. “I need you with me.”
“Right,” she rolled her eyes, “At a meeting for the Avengers. I can see my uses here as clear as day.”
“Mhm. Stand there and look pretty, and glare at Hill whenever she does that scary thing. You know the drill.”
“Wouldn’t Happy be better suited for this, then?”
“Looking pretty?”
“No, the glaring. I have looking pretty covered, ass.”
“Happy? Glare? Have you seen him try to be intimidating?”
“… Point.”
They entered a large conference room, a long, glass-topped wooden table at its centre. Jessica Drew and Carol Danvers sat on its left-hand side, the former tapping her nails impatiently on its reflective surface. Nathaniel Adam, on the other hand, who sat opposite them, stared straight ahead of himself; an unnerving, metallic statue.
An unnerving, metallic, radioactive statue.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s eagle watched over them at the far end of the room, perched above a large screen which was, for the moment, blank. In front of it stood the appointed leader of the Avengers Initiative. Next to her stood a man who looked like he belonged in a nursing home. The top of his scalp shined in the light; grey patches on the surrounding area and an impressive moustache that brushed his upper lip were the only spots of hair he had left. Maria Hill scowled. “Stark. So glad you could join us.”
“Good to see you too, Hill. You look lovely.” He set his suitcase down, taking a seat next to Adam. “Nate. Jess. Danvers.” He propped his legs up on the table, crossing them over. Jess looked at him in bewilderment. Nate glanced at him, expression unreadable.
“And who’s this?” asked Hill, nodding at Pepper.
“Pepper Potts. His personal assistant, Agent Hill,” she said, all smiles, standing behind Tony with her hands behind her back.
“Lucky you,” Hill drawled. “This,” she motioned towards the elderly man, “Is Stan. He’s from the PR department.”
“Hi there,” said Stan. He even waved.
Tony raised his eyebrows.
“Stan’s here to talk to us about our public image. I expect you all to give him your full attention.” Tony didn’t have to look. He could feel Maria’s eyes dig into him. “Take it away, Stan.”
“Right, yes,” said Stan, leaping into action. He held a remote in his hand, and he clicked a button; the screen behind him came to life, displaying an array of graphs and statistics that Tony didn’t care for. “Following the Kryptonian Invasion, public opinion on superheroes has understandably dropped, eh… pretty dramatically. I don’t know why, myself, I think you’re great, but people like Superman aren’t really beacons of hope anymore. You guys (and gals, beautiful gals) are the Avengers, you’re the last line of defence, and the public needs to trust you, they need to see that you’re not just these people with powers that could destroy us if you wanted to, so the people at PR have put together this plan that I think could really help you all out here, so without further ado – ”
“ – Yes, thank you, Stan, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Tony, walking to stand in Stan’s place.
“Stark…” warned Hill. He waved her off.
“Thanks, Stan, I really appreciate your dedication. Why don’t you go to Pepper over there, leave her your address. I’ll send you a fruit basket, maybe a cheque. There you go, buddy. Thank you.”
“Stan, you really don’t have to…” Hill pinched the bridge of her nose.
Stan did.
“Here’s the problem, people,” said Tony, clasping his hands together. “We’re a team of superheroes. The first big-name superhero team since the Justice Society (except for Hill, don’t know what she’s doing here). But what are we doing? We’re sitting around on our asses waiting for something to happen in a facility belonging to the world’s largest intelligence and espionage organisation. When people hear ‘Avengers’, they don’t think of us. They think of scary, back-stabbing spies and a guy called ‘Deathstroke’. What we need to do is separate ourselves from S.H.I.E.L.D. We need our own base of operations, our own identity, our own brand – yes, Hill, we’ll still be S.H.I.E.L.D., but we won’t be hiding anymore. Like Stan said, after the Invasion, people don’t trust us anymore. We need to give them a reason to.”
“And where do you suggest we put this new base of operations?” asked Nathaniel.
“Stark Tower.”
Jess threw her head back as she erupted in laughter, smacking the table with her right hand as her left clutched her stomach. By the time she finished, tears were streaming down her face, which had turned as red as a strawberry. Tony frowned. Pepper was allergic to those.
Jess wiped the tears off with the back of her hand. “Ohmygod,” she gasped, “Ohmygod. Tony. Anthony. Edward. You’re full of shit.”
“So I’ve been told,” he agreed. “We replace ‘Stark’ with our logo. I already have floor plans. All I have to do is give the word, and my guys will have everything ready within a month, two at most. Your own rooms, a training facility, everything the team could ever need – all out of my own pocket, at no expense to S.H.I.E.L.D. or the government. Think about it. This’ll do wonders for our publicity (well, not as much as actually doing something, but I’m getting there). Hill?”
She stared at him with embers in her eyes, the gears in her head turning with considerable effort. Eventually, “… I’ll see what Director Wilson thinks, but I’ll need more information.”
“Check your inbox. Already there.”
“Fantastic…” she muttered.
“Alright. Now, onto the good stuff.”
At his end of the table were a series of USB ports. Reaching into his inside pocket, Tony extracted a drive, plugging it in. On the screen behind him appeared a photograph of a group of men, all carrying weapons that looked alien in design. They… did not look friendly.
“They call themselves the Bastard Sons of Wilbur Day. Y’know, Stilt-Man. That one guy the Justice Society used to fight a lot. They are anti-superhero, anti-establishment, anarchist techno-terror cell wannabes that have recently come across the means to become a very real danger. The weapons you see them holding are courtesy of the Kryptonians that engineered what could have been a mass extinction event. I don’t know where they got them, but they have ‘em, and it turns out that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s had them under surveillance for some weeks now.”
Hill’s eyes widened. “How – ”
“Later, Hill. For now, I say we go kick some terrorist ass. They’re in Red Hook. Hope you’re all ready.”
He eyed the other Avengers, a smirk working its way across his face. “Avengers… Go.”
No… Something about that doesn’t sound right.
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Ruby No One Cares
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Carol felt her face do what the faces of none of her other teammates were doing after the Stark Tower reveal: nothing. No laughter, no incredulous outburst, nothing. Carol was harder to get a read on than an F-22 gone full stealth mode. She knew it, and she liked to use it. Sometimes it made her seem distant to some, other times it made her seem mysterious--either way it never left anyone a great opening from which to read her. And without a proper read on her...it was easier for Carol to keep the bitches on their toes that way.
In fact, Carol didn't say anything until Stark's screwed up his attempt at a team slogan. How could a man be such a, technically, genius, and yet so practically, well, not?
"Alliteration, Stark. Like this," she paused only long enough to stand, and let her blue eyes flash across each and every super powered member of the team--unpainted lightly glossed lips curling at their edges, a smile forming with each syllable: "Avengers, assemble." Standing hadn't been an accident, after dropping the alliteration Carol quickly turned to the one true civilian in the room: Ms. Potts.
"Pepper, was it?" Carol still wore the smile; bright and friendly it gave no indication of what she was about to do next. The red haired assistant nodded quickly, her eyes sticking to Carol out of sheer anticipation. Carol didn't make the woman wait long, "So, yeah, it's actually illegal for you to be in this meeting." By the time Carol was done speaking the sentence, her eyes had already shot from Pepper, to Tony, and back to Pepper. "I'm pretty sure Tony never explained to you that these meetings are as Top Secret as it gets, so--"
So just stand there and don't say a word right now, Stark. Please, Christ.
Pepper Potts took it in stride. With the three inch heels the woman wore, Carol was almost shocked to see her take anything in any kind of stride. "Ooh, you know, I think Tony did forget to mention that." Pepper shot a sharp look to Stark, before turning for the door.
"Ha, yeah, that Tony...we won't keep him long. Be right out." When the door to the room opened, Carol instructed a guard to show Pepper to the nearest lounge. Staff Sergeant Compton his name tag read, 'Danny' as Carol called him--she knew most of the uniformed staff on a first name basis, the civilians she was still getting to know. The idea of moving to Stark Tower...didn't make her feel good. It'd take her out of her comfort zone, out of the immediate vicinity of uniformed personnel.
Then again, the thought occurred, that might be one of the reasons Stark wanted the team to move.
She closed the door carefully, and turned back to the meeting. Wearing white Nikes, navy blue sweat pants with big block gold lettering down the side of her legs that read, "NAVY", and a gold colored Navy PT top, her mind was already on changing. On stepping into Captain Marvel, physically and mentally. "Stark, we aren't the Beatles, and you're sure as shit not Lennon--so keep the girlfriends out of the studio."
There wasn't even irritation in her tone, just minor amusements that quickly faded as Carol mentally gave way to the Captain. "I assume you've got the area they're in staked out? We'll know floor plans, locations of targets, what the numbers are? More importantly, any chance you got a line on how they came by these weapons? 'The means', I think you called them?"
“You offend me, Danvers,” said Stark, hand held over his heart, “Of course I do. J.A.R.V.I.S. is sending you all that info as we speak. He’s working on ‘the means’, but like I said, I’m not sure about them. Yet. I was hoping to, y’know, beat it out of them.”
Like a Vice cop, it wasn't so much the product that interested Carol, dangerous as this particular product was, but the supplier and the supply chain. If the intel was good it gave Carol a new appreciation for Tony Starks--and new ideas for ways he could contribute to the team. If the intel was good; and the only she'd know that was by having boots meet ground. She felt her body tingle, a feeling that seemed to start in her chest and spread. It was time to move. It was time to get things done.
More importantly, it was time to fly. "Why thank you, Stark. Apparently I need to change. Excuse me."
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GM
Prologue: From Russia Without Love
Gotham City, United States
May 2nd, 2016
His meeting with Bruce had been about as the best as he could’ve hoped, and while he felt a little at peace following the conversation he almost felt like he had in turn made Bruce feel worse. He almost had a mind to go back into the Batcave and give him reassurance, that he need not to take all of his sorrow for him— even if that would’ve just ultimately irritated the caped crusader. But he never, not once, felt an argument with Bruce was toxic or wasted time. He was the closest friend he had that actually knew him for all that he was outside of his family or Lana that accepted him for who he was— and what he was. Towering over the Gotham skyline he began to make motion back towards Wayne Manor until a sharp scream filled his mind.
The scream cut through Clark’s mind, interrupting his train of thought. There was no thinking to the scream of terror— he had already made a beeline for it.
Touching down in southern Russia, somewhere near the Kazakhstan border, the first conflict of the day begins. Clark’s brows narrow as he sees what had caused the scream: a Frankenstein-like monster stitched throughout his whole body with a massive bulk to him. A woman in a white labcoat is trying to scramble back as fear completely overtakes her. A reasonable sense of fear. He threw his arm out in an attempt to reach out to the creature to stop the scene from getting exponentially worse; speaking his words carefully hoping that what was before him spoke Russian. Hoping it could understand him and not enact viciousness and murderous action upon the helpless scientist. Though if his father's old monster movies from the 50's taught him anything, the scientist probably set off some sort of chain reaction incidentally or on purpose. He really hope he was wrong on that regard because he wasn't sure he could lecture someone with his current state of mind.
“Stop!, what are you doing?”
The words crack forward like lightning and the creature (mutant?) turned its head at the figure that stood behind him that dared to grab him. There was a grumble from its lips.
“Die.”
“DIE! DIE! DIE!”
Well. He definitely knew he spoke Russian.
The concrete cracked as the creature slammed Clark’s face repeatedly, with each motion exponentially stronger than the last. Clark felt like he should’ve been used to this sort of reaction given his experiences with the likes of Solomon Grundy; but he really wasn’t. There really wasn’t much getting used to with the equivalent of a real life ogre throwing you around like a ragdoll when you were as strong as Clark was. A heavy breath left him as he shifted his energy and despite being face-down flung himself upwards back-first as quickly as possible.
The movement caused the creature to stumble and lose hold of his head, which was good… because that was enough of that.
“A bit of a temper, huh. That’s okay. I’ve got one too.” Clark grinned in mid-air as he cracked his knuckles.
AAAAAH!
The scream cut through Clark’s mind, interrupting his train of thought. There was no thinking to the scream of terror— he had already made a beeline for it.
Touching down in southern Russia, somewhere near the Kazakhstan border, the first conflict of the day begins. Clark’s brows narrow as he sees what had caused the scream: a Frankenstein-like monster stitched throughout his whole body with a massive bulk to him. A woman in a white labcoat is trying to scramble back as fear completely overtakes her. A reasonable sense of fear. He threw his arm out in an attempt to reach out to the creature to stop the scene from getting exponentially worse; speaking his words carefully hoping that what was before him spoke Russian. Hoping it could understand him and not enact viciousness and murderous action upon the helpless scientist. Though if his father's old monster movies from the 50's taught him anything, the scientist probably set off some sort of chain reaction incidentally or on purpose. He really hope he was wrong on that regard because he wasn't sure he could lecture someone with his current state of mind.
“Stop!, what are you doing?”
The words crack forward like lightning and the creature (mutant?) turned its head at the figure that stood behind him that dared to grab him. There was a grumble from its lips.
“Die.”
“DIE! DIE! DIE!”
Well. He definitely knew he spoke Russian.
The concrete cracked as the creature slammed Clark’s face repeatedly, with each motion exponentially stronger than the last. Clark felt like he should’ve been used to this sort of reaction given his experiences with the likes of Solomon Grundy; but he really wasn’t. There really wasn’t much getting used to with the equivalent of a real life ogre throwing you around like a ragdoll when you were as strong as Clark was. A heavy breath left him as he shifted his energy and despite being face-down flung himself upwards back-first as quickly as possible.
The movement caused the creature to stumble and lose hold of his head, which was good… because that was enough of that.
“A bit of a temper, huh. That’s okay. I’ve got one too.” Clark grinned in mid-air as he cracked his knuckles.
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