[IC] One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

[Hound55]

T H E ‘ E M B A S S Y ‘

---

^{Four Months Ago | Manhattan, New York}

The man stood in their living quarters sweating in his armour, whilst Booster and Ted gave furtive glances between each other.

“See, the thing is-- We’re not really looking for a ‘sword guy’…” Ted said, trying to break it to the man gently.

Booster looked back down at the résumé the man had brought in, “Curriculum Vitae” was written large across the top, with the ‘C’ in a truly elaborate exhibition of calligraphy.

“Well, Thor is a 'hammer guy'. And he’s very much ‘In’ at the moment.” Dane Whitman offered in rebuttal.

“That is true.” Ted accepted, holding out a finger. “He IS a hammer guy. But he can also spin his hammer around and fly off with it. If you wave that thing about can you fly with your sword?”

“Like a helicopter?” Dane looked down at the Ebony Blade.

“Sure—” Ted perked up, trying to get Booster on board with some level of interest. “—if that helps. Like a helicopter.”

“Well, no.” Dane said glumly. “It’s a sword.”

“OK. I’ve heard he can spin his hammer around and open up portals. Can you do that with your—what did you call it? Ebony Blade?”

“No.” He once again admitted.

“So, it’s pretty much just good for. Slashing and stabbing, I suppose?” Ted asked.

“Well, AND I can hit things with the flat part too…”

“Well, that’s even sadder.” Booster broke his silence. “Because it’s not even a sword then. You’re basically just holding a metal stick if you’re just going to hit things with the flat.”

“In some ways that’s better anyway…”

“Maybe you could come back in a few weeks and cut the girls’ birthday cake…” Booster offered. Trying to find a way to make the visitor feel useful.

“I keep telling you. They’re not twins. They have different accents for crying out loud. Ice is from Norway, Fire is from Brazil. They’re not related. I don’t know how to make this any clearer for you. I don’t know why you keep tripping up over this!” Ted turned and yelled at Booster. It was seemingly not the first time he'd had to have this argument.

“…after all, the curse on it will just push it to make me kill more if I use it to spill blood…” Dane continued.

“So you mean that sex kitten thing they have where they dress ali—”

“Dude! That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about there! And they don’t dress alike!”

“Well, not alike, alike. But you know. They dress similarly… simpatico. I don’t know. They kind of match.”

“They don’t match at all, what are you even talking about?!”

“…like that time I fought the wicked Mordred and gave him a debilitating blow, before learning the full extent of the cost in using the Black Blade. Ever since then it’s bloodlust has been ebbing away at the edges of my mind…”

Max Lord walked in the room and grabbed an apple off the kitchen counter whilst the pair of Blue and Gold heroes argument was in full swing.

“You know. Style. Not colour, I mean obviously they dress in different colours. But they kind of always just seem to wear something that just ‘goes’ with what the other one wears. Not that you would notice aesthetic…”

“Hey! I notice everything!”

“…sometimes I wonder if I should just cut myself, just to see if that could quell the blade’s dark pull…”

The pair turned and stared at the third man still in the room.

“…wait, did you just say your sword tells you to kill people?”

“…And that you’re constantly considering self harm..?”

“No way our insurance covers that…” Max said, crunching through the apple.
“…and he’ll drive our medical premiums through the roof with the psych bills alone. *Mmm-mm* Cut him loose.”

---

T H E ‘ E M B A S S Y ‘

---

^{Three Months Ago | Manhattan, New York}

"--And you will not touch it. Again, because my uncle gave me that." Ted demanded, inserting the 9 ounce disc.

"Again with that? Your uncle gave you everything! You can't claim sentimentalism over everything!" Booster complained from the lounge in front of the television set.

"Five things. Ted corrected. "He gave me five things," counting them off on one hand as he started the Laserdisk player. "The hat; which I've already lost, the Scarab; which L-Ron lost, the model toy car replica of the Scarab he drove on the classic 'Blue Beetle Power Hour' tv show; which I still have... which NONE OF YOU WILL TOUCH - L-Ron, I am particularly looking at you," He pointed at the team's robotic member. "The Criterion Edition version of 'Karl LaFrey and The Plunderers of the Ark of the Covenant' on LaserDisk… and the LaserDisk player he bought for me to watch it on, when he had to go meet with the Producers somewhere around here in New York and they announced there would be a sequel."

Booster opened his mouth to reply, but Ted cut him off.

"Five things. Three of which remain. You will not use the LaserDisk player, and you will not touch the disk. I've seen you try and use the waffle iron."

_{"...well who can figure out that thing anyway. It doesn't even have an autocook function."}

"Literally children... Replied Bea, impatiently waiting for the movie.

"Exactly. Thank you." Ted said, flamboyantly gesturing to Fire as evidence in his argument.

"No. The pair of you. You're literally children."

"Oh_…"

"Metaphorically." Corrected Hank, not looking up from his laptop.

Bea's right hand burst into emerald flame as she scowled at Hank Pym, who continued working obliviously.

"C'mon Ted! Start the movie!" Janet called out, ending the fight before the combustible situation could grow further.

A brief jingle played from the wall console's intercom system, causing everyone in attendance to groan. The Superbuddies marketing jingle appealed to nobody, and proved an exception to the negotiating rule that 'if nobody leaves happy, then you've probably made a good deal'. Suddenly Max Lord's face appeared on the display, as he had apparently started talking before the receiver had picked up.

"...so you all need to be there before Emergency services can respond, because as we all know..."

Ted clicked the intercom call button on and off a few times until it blasted a long chirp.

"Ahh! What was--?"

"I told you before, you have to wait until the screen flicks over and the bar at the bottom says it's 'OK to talk'. We didn't get any of that."

"Unbelievable. We have two or three supergeniuses on the team and we can't get a comms system that works properly.

"The comms system works fine when used correctly. Hank defended his own work.

"He's right, Max. The problem with designing idiot proof products, I find, is that nature just keeps designing better idiots. Whether they're people who can't program the clock on their own video player, or set up their own printer... Or sometimes nature will even send to the future to bring back strains of superidiots who can't even use a waffle iron properly..."

"Hey! You can't hit me with the same line twice in less than two minutes! That's not fair!" Booster protested.

"What is it, Max? Where's the call?" Janet asked, putting everyone back on task.

"Thank you. A number of our clients in the financial community have called through to inform us of some nutcase marching down Wall Street making demands."

"Some nutcase in a suit? In Manhattan? Can't Spidey just go deal with it? We're about to watch--"

"'Spidey' isn't being paid by our clients to deal with this kind of situation--." Max Lord scowled. "--and neither will we, if we continue that attitude. Now the guy's calling himself Major Disaster. 'He says he'll bring the whole thing crashing down if the banks don't pay him ten million dollars to walk away'. I don't know if he means the stock market, or the buildings, or what he's referring to, but if we don't make a presence before Emergency Services make the scene it will not look good. Max got more exasperated as he went on, yelling at the monitor by the conversation's end, before pounding on his desk with a fist, quickly ending the call.

"Alright, movie's on hold, I'm bringing the Bug around now... This should take us no time at all." Ted said, fiddling with his wrist controls.

[Byrd Man]

---

Trinity Baptist Church
Ivy City
Washington D.C.
5:20 PM

“I tried to talk to someone at the social security office the other day, but all they could do is just put me on hold. You believe that? I spend two years in goddamn Iraq, in a tank, for this country and all they can do is just but me on hold for three fucking hours--”

Steel stared absentmindedly at the Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. He was only half listening to Broderick bitch and piss and moan. Even barely paying attention, Steel could tell it as the same list of grievances he always brought into the meetings. After two years of this he'd discovered that group therapy was just one long vent sessions, especially considering what they were there for. This wasn’t AA or anything where you gave yourself over to a higher power in hopes of not relapsing. This was all about putting your stories out there instead of keeping it in. You had to share and let it all out, you had see you weren’t the only one fucked up in the head by what you’d seen and done. That was the only way to beat PTSD.

He looked up and took in the usual surroundings in the church basement. The dull concrete walls with affirmational posters taped to them, a table with a coffee pot resting on it filled with the worst coffee known to man and a half eaten box of stale Krispy Kreme donuts. They were gathered in a circle of squeaky metal folding chairs. Each chair was currently filled with the ass of the same old fuck-ups. Each and every one of them were like Steel, flotsam and jetsam from the great liberations of Iraq and Afghanistan.

Maybe not the same old fuck-ups, thought Steel. There was a new face at the group today. Steel looked at him at the corner of his eye. He wore a suit, a decision that made him stick out among the jeans and heavy metal t-shirts most members of the group favored. Even Steel looked dressed down in comparison. He still wore the dress shirt and dark jeans from his morning meeting, but he’d taken off the tie and rolled up the sleeves to the elbows for a more casual look. He normally didn’t roll up the sleeves. Doing so exposed his metal hand and the strap around his wrist that secured the prosthetic in place. But he was in good company. He wasn’t the only man here short a limb or appendage.

“Sarge,” Dr. Weiss said softly after Broderick’s ramblings had finally petered out. “Anything you’d like to share about your week?”

Steel shrugged and finished off the last of his coffee with a grimace. “Not really. Started a new case today.”

He saw some of the other group members perk up at the mention. They knew that Steel worked as a PI and although he never revealed details of his work to them, they always hoped he might let something occasionally slip.

“Any trouble sleeping or dreams?”

Two nights ago he’d dreamed of Fallujah and woken up in a cold sweat screaming. Almost sixteen years since that brutal house to house fighting and Steel couldn’t shake the images of him running down a narrow alley as bullets whizzed and snapped over his head. Nor would he ever forget the shock of impact running up his leg as he kicked in a door and cleared a small house of combatants. And hearing Lance Corporal Stevens gasping for his last shallow breaths and calling out for his mother as he died. That, he knew, he'd take to his grave.

“No,” Steel lied. “Business as usual this past week.

---

Steel was on his way to his car when he saw the new guy leaning against a Chevy truck smoking a cigarette. The guy perked up as Steel passed by. He pulled a pack of camels out of his breast pocket and shook it at Steel.

“Want one?”

“No thanks. Used to smoke, but that was a long time ago.”

He was intent on not stopping until he was in his car, but the new face had other ideas. He stepped away from his truck and followed Steel.

“Probably impolite to ask, but how did you lose the hand?”

Steel stopped just short of his 4Runner and turned to face the stranger. He crossed his arms and looked the guy over.

“Who do you represent?” Steel asked.

He saw a look of confusion pass along the guy’s face. He was either a damn good actor or genuinely confused. He wouldn’t put it past him to be a good actor. The recruiter types were always damn good salesmen.

“You wouldn’t be the first headhunter to some around a PTSD support group, trying to scrape the bottom of the barrel for some PMC or security firm. Think you can tempt some lost soul into merc work. Usually Doctor Weiss gets them the out of there before group stars.”

“Look, I’m legit.” He said that as he shoved the cigarette in his mouth and searched his pockets. “Got assigned to the group. Look, I’m still active duty.”

He pulled out his wallet and passed Steel his DoD identification. It showed that Richard Flag III was an OF-5 in the US Army and still active duty. Steel handed it back after he was satisfied.

“Colonel Flag,” he said. “You’re a bit overdressed in that suit and tie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Flag said with a shrug. He leaned back and exhaled a column of smoke into air. “I’m stationed at the Pentagon and didn’t want to come in my ASU--”

“Yeah that wouldn’t go over well with this crowd.”

“--and the suit was all I had.”

“Word of advice?” Steel said with a playful smirk on his face. “Don’t go around telling other people in the group you’re a colonel or that you work at the Pentagon. You’ll get guys like Broderick trying to pass you letters and trying to ask for favors on every little thing.”

“Duly noted.”

Flag flicked the stub of his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out.

“Who assigned you to the group?” asked Steel. “This thing is run through the VA so we don’t get much active duty types here.”

“It’s part of my transition into civilian life,” said Flag. “As is the new job in the Pentagon. Got to town about a month ago and I was recommended to attend group therapy if I want to retire from active duty and take on my new job.”

“I’d ask,” said Steel. “But…”

“Yeah,” Flag said with a laugh. “Classified stuff.”

Steel leaned against the hood of his 4Runner and started to roll his sleeves down.

“You seem to be in a better place than I was when I left the service,” he said without looking up.

“What branch?”

“Marine Corps,” said Steel. “Left as an O3.”

“I’m sorry?” said Flag.

“Marines,” repeated Steel. “Medical discharged as a captain.”

“No, I meant I’m sorry for you,” Flag said with a grin.

“I’m gonna let that go because you outrank me,” Steel said with a sideways glance at Flag.

“I thought you were enlisted. They kept calling your 'sarge' in the meeting.”

“Sargent is my first name,” said Steel. “So Captain Sargent Steel. A bit confusing.”

“Thank god you weren’t an enlisted,” said Flag. “First Sergeant Sargent Steel? Like something out of Catch-22.”

The two men shared a laugh that lapsed into an awkward silence that usually accompanies a first time conversation when it reaches a lull.

“You know you never told me about your hand,” said Flag.

Steel let the silence linger. He looked down at his feet before looking up at Flag.

“All due respect, Colonel, there’s a time and a place.”

Flag held his palms up in a gesture to acknowledge he was backing off.

“You’re right, Sarge. Time and a place.”

“Tell you what, though,” Steel said as he crossed his arms. “Since you’re new to the area and probably need to meet some people, I’ll tell you about it if you come out to my local VFW. Post 341 near the Maryland line, only about five miles from here on Kenilworth. Me and a few other guys, not the ones from the meeting, get together and have some beer on Thursdays.”

“Why not?” Flag asked, clearly to himself. “Are they all marines?”

“Afraid so.”

“Well, good. It’ll be a change from the Pentagon being the smartest one in the room…’

---

Georgetown
6:34 PM

Steel started up the stairwell to the apartment complex’s third floor. The building seemed to be one of the typical apartments that sat in the shadow of a major university and catered to its students. No doorman or any real security because guests and residents were coming and going at all times. The cracked paint on the walls and stained floors showed that it wasn’t that well maintained, but its occupants really didn’t care about that kind of stuff. Even in the early evening the air was already filled with the smell of marijuana and the sounds of loud rock and hip-hop music. Steel had no doubt this place would turn into one raucous party within the next few hours.

He felt a small pang of sadness. Steel never went to college. He’d enlisted in the Marines straight out of Woodrow Wilson High in Northwest DC. He had the grades for college, but not the money. At most he could have done community college. A place like Georgetown was so unattainable it might as well have been the moon to a District boy like him.

But kids like Jeremy Mitchell, Georgetown was their birthright. Georgetown was one of a selective group of universities in America that always catered to the elite. Places like them -- Harvard, Yale, Stanford, etc. -- managed pulled off a massive PR coup on their image by convincing the country, and the world, that you had to be smart to get in. In truth these bastions of higher learning were no more motivated by the almighty dollar than any other institution in this country. They gladly opened their doors for the nation’s blue bloods and nouveau riche, after all new money spent just as good as the old.

Steel found 3F and knocked on the door with his prosthetic hand. The metal against the door always made a louder sound. After a few moments Steel heard something unlock from behind the door before it cracked open. A young man stared at him through the crack. Even with the small opening he could smell the powerful odor of weed wafting through. His ears picked up a familiar sound from within the apartment.

“Is that Bad Brains?” he asked.

“Who are you?” the kid asked, ignoring Steel’s questions. He scowled at Steel suspiciously. He was supposed to know Steel was coming. But if the scent coming from inside the apartment was any indication there was a good chance he wouldn’t remember his own name if Steel asked.

“The guy looking for Jeremy,” said Steel. “Wideman told me he would call ahead and let you know.”

A look of recognition passed on the kid’s face. “Oh, shit. That’s right. Hol up--”

A second later he opened the door wide for Steel to enter.

“Come on in, bro, my name’s Brett.”

Steel stepped in. The decor was pure college kid. Dirty carpet, fast food wrappers and styrofoam carry out boxes as far as the eye could see, lawn chairs and milk crates for furniture, and walls with the usual pictures of scantily clad females and movie posters slapped on them with clear tape. It didn’t seem to matter what year it was, Reservoir Dogs posters were always in fashion on male college students’ walls. The most expensive thing in the room was the television and gaming system. Steel had no doubt the 75 inch flatscreen and xbox were the two things in the apartment that were the most cared for. The TV was currently displaying a music streaming app and “I and I Rasta” came out of its speakers.

“Good choice,” said Steel. “Ever listen to Fugazi?”

“Yeah,” said Brett. “Red Medicine’s the shit. So are you like a cop?”

“Private only,” said Steel. “So I don’t care about the fact this place reeks of weed.”

“It’s legal in D.C.,” said Brett. “Simple possession up to two grams. And that’s all in the house. I’m pre-law, man.”

Of course, thought Steel. He figured a third of Georgetown's undergrads were pre-law, the other two thirds were probably business and poli-sci respectively.

“What can you tell me about Jeremy?” Steel asked. He pulled out his phone and hit the voice memo app. He made sure to hold it close enough to pick up Brett’s words over the noise of the music.

“He’s a pretty cool dude,” Brett said with a shrug. “Even with all of his problems we get along pretty good. We’ve been roommates for three years now. Ever since the summer between freshman and sophomore years, when we could move off-campus for housing. Three years with the same roommate is like, thirty years in college years.”

"Problems?" asked Steel.

"You know what I mean," Brett said with a knowing look.

“You said you’re pre-law. Jeremy is an art history major. How did you two guys meet?”

“Had the same English class freshman year. Got paired off for peer editing and we just clicked.”

“I know about Jeremy’s dad and what he does, what do your parents do for a living?”

“Lawyer,” Brett said sheepishly. “Both of them. Dad is a divorce lawyer and mom is a corporate lawyer.”

Steel resisted the urge to smile. He could see Brett’s future clearly. He’d be at some white shoe law firm right out of law school, on the partner track of course. One day in the far future this stoned out kid jamming to Bad Brains would be some federal judge, in a position where he could do damage until he either died or retired. That was what places like Georgetown offered. It wasn’t so much education as it was entrée to the elite circles of privilege this country had to offer.

“Let’s talk about drug use, mainly Jeremy’s. I don’t care about weed. I’ve already been briefed on Jeremy’s troubles. Already told you I’m not a cop. I was hired to find him and that’s all I’m here to do. Is he into more than just weed?”

Brett’s sheepish smile seemed to evaporate at Steel’s question.

“Yeah,” Brett mumbled. “He uhh...he used to be into scripts. He’d get popped with xannies, percs, some klonopin. Eventually he stepped up to heroin. I know he used to snort it but the last few weeks I was worried he’d started arm popping.”

"What made you think that?"

"It's too hot for long sleeve shirts," said Brett. "But Jeremy was rocking them all day every day."

“You ever do any heroin with him?”

‘No,” Brett replied too quickly. “I do coke at parties, but I never touched anything that hard.”

Steel didn’t reply. He just silently stared at Brett. He knew silence could be as effective as any shouting or threats of violence. Let people get uncomfortable enough and they would eventually tell you what you wanted to hear, if just to stop the silence.

“I had some snorts with him a time or two, okay?” He finally said. Just the admission seemed to relieve the kid. "But that's it... don't tell my parents, please."

“I'm not reporting to them, Brett," said Steel. "Do you know where he copped from?”

“Not around here,” said Brett. “He got too well known in the area, always getting busted. I went with him a few times to these projects down in the southeast to get a speedball. Some street corner real close to the Virginia line.”

Steel had a rough idea of where Brett was talking about. The Washington Highlands area had an unfortunate reputation for crime and poverty. While the District’s most violent days seemed to be a thing of the past, the violence of the 80’s and early 90’s were still alive and well in Washington Highlands.

“You know about Jeremy owing anyone money?”

“No, that was one thing he’s always good for,” Brett said with a harsh laugh. “See his dad stands up in congress and talks a good game about personal responsibility and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, but Jeremy is firmly wedged on the family tit.”

“Seems like the good congressman is a man of many contradictions,” said Steel. “Know anything about Jeremy’s lovelife? Any girlfriends...or boyfriends?”

“There was some girl he made eyes at who he’d see around campus. Some hippy dippy chick. Can’t remember her name, just that she worked in the college bookstore. He bragged he was fucking her. Don’t know how much of that was bullshit.”

“Was Jeremy known to lie?” asked Steel.

“Exaggerate is more like it,” Brett shrugged. “Like to play himself off as something more than what he was. His dad was famous and powerful, sure, but around here you got a lot of old money. And Jeremy’s family were just a bunch of Tennessee rednecks before his dad got into politics. Nothing special. But he liked to play it off like he was a southern Kennedy, like he had his dad’s ear and was an actual advisor or some shit. He was just a fucking borderline junkie on his way to flunking out of college.”

“Well I think you’ve given me a lot of good information, Brett. Let me get your number. I’ll be in touch if I have any follow up questions.”

In his car, Steel let Brett’s last words on Jeremy sit with him for a long moment. Inflating your importance wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In this town it was a prerequisite to get anywhere. But throwing in drugs into the mix...maybe his disappearance was more than just a simple drug bender? Maybe the kid had gotten high and bragged to the wrong person on the wrong street corner.

Steel checked the campus bookstore’s hours on his phone and saw it had just closed. He’d have to try again tomorrow. In the meantime, he could spend the evening doing research and reaching out to his MPD contacts. See what they knew about the drug scene in Washington Highlands.

[HenryJonesJr]

H E L L B L A Z E R

---

^London

As the man walked the streets of London he pulled the trenchcoat closer to his skinny body against the cold. It was early for there to be a chill in the air, but here it was nonetheless.

London had changed so much from the days of his youth, and not in the ways the bloody Tories whinged about nonstop. He didn't care if some bloke from Poland wanted to open a shop, or if some poor souls from the Middle East came as refugees. He liked a good sausage and falafel now and again. What John missed about the old London was the grit and the grime. He missed the city before it became New York of Europe. Hell, at this point New York had more grit to it. Now all London had were posh flats, posh people, and posh pubs. You really had to search out a dingy pub for a flat, cheap beer. It sickened him.

John leaned against a traffic light pole and lit up another cigarette before taking a long drag as he waited for his ride. Next to him, a woman waiting to cross the street gave him a dirty look. He couldn't even have a smoke in the city anymore in peace. He hated it here. At least in America they'd yell at him and he could get in a good screaming match. Here they were too damn polite to say anything, but not polite enough to let him know with a look.

Before long, a familiar cab pulls up, and John hops in the back. As it begins to move away, he presses his middle finger against his temple and gives the woman a nice salute as they pull away.

"Christ, John, would you put that out?" Chas Chandler grumbled from the driver's seat of the cab.

"Bollocks, Chas, not you too," John sighed and rubbed his temples.

"I'm going to have plenty of other fares tonight. And they're not going to tip if the cab smells like a bloody ash tray," Chas shot back at him. Chandler was John's best, and most likely only, friend. They had grown up together on the streets of London, crashing punk clubs when they were underage and getting in other kinds of general debauchery.

"Fine," John relented and toss the smoldering stick of carcinogens out the window. He watched longingly as it bounced off a curb and fell down a sewer grate.

"Where to?" he looked back, his round face and dull, brown eyes already looking tired at the beginning of what was sure to be a long night for the cabbie.

"The Bar," was John's only answer. He knew Chas would understand. It was the place that he had taken John the most all these years. The Bar was a place that people, and things, like John could hang out and relax in. It was a place where the people who knew how to peel back the veil of the world could congregate and talk about their work without prying eyes or judgement. Plus they had cheap beer and still let you smoke inside. What wasn't there to like?

"Just a social call? Or is this a work related visit?" Chas asked as the lights of nighttime London passed over the cab in waves.

"Don't right now, if I'm being honest," John shrugged. "Got a message that someone wanted to meet me there tonight."

"Sounds like a trap to me," Chas shook his head.

"Nah, not there. That would just be asking for trouble," Constantine waved off his friend's worry. "'sides I'd have the advantage there. Some of the people can stand to be around me there."

"Lucky you. I would hate to be up against a man and those who can barely stand the sight of him," Chas chuckled as the cab pulled off a street and into a darkened alley. Off a short, iron rod above a black door hung a little metal eye. The sign for The Bar. Some say that the wanker who wrote those wizard books visited here and got the idea for one of her own locations. John didn't know if that was true, but the bartender swears it is, and claims she stiffed him when he wanted a small taste of all that money she made. So he cursed her recently. What little John knew of the news led him to believe that part was true.

John stepped out of the cab, "Thanks, mate. Don't wait up."

"Whenever you say that, I always end up with a call at four in the bloody morning," Chas sighed.

"I'm nothing if not consistent," the warlock smiled devilishly as his friend drove off. He made his way towards the door, and when he stepped through he took a deep breath. The damp, musty air of the bar hit him like a hug, the slight whiff of sage beckoning him in further.

John headed towards the bar, passing small antechambers off the main passage ways. From inside he heard whispers, and saw the odd pair of eyes, some with some very unnatural colorings. None called out to him, or gave him trouble, but he could feel their stares as he passed.

Reaching the bar, the bartender nodded and slid a beer his way. John took a nice, deep gulp, satisfied by the, if he was being generous, cool, carbonated piss.

Before he could take another one, a voice next to him drew his attention, "John Constantine?"

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, worried it was going to be an ex. Instead he founds someone new. A woman with chocolate skin and a tuft of frizzy hair pulled back into a bun. On her arms, bare in the vest she wore, were swirling tattoos of occult symbols. He though it was a bit much, but he did admit she fit in well here. And yet...she didn't. There was something about her energy. A stiffness to it that he couldn't place.

"Hello, love," he smiled and turned to her. "You the one that sent me the message? Because I have to admit I would not mind having a few more drinks with you."

"Yea, you're Constantine all right," she fished a bifold out of her pocket and flipped it open, the SHIELD logo flashing across his face. There it was. "Agent Pandora Peters, SHIELD."

"Christ, I don't know what someone told you, but I didn't do it," he sighed and took another sip of beer.

"I'm not here for something you did. I'm here for your help," she responded, taking a sip of her own drink, some kind of whiskey according to John's nose. "You came...well I won't say highly recommended."

"Don't you people take care of the super heroics? Not sure what you need with someone like me. Wouldn't Strange or Fate make more sense?" He was already annoyed. What the blazes did SHIELD want with him?

"They...my bosses, that is, don't believe me," Peters sighed. But it wasn't a sad sigh. It was a desperate one. "So I got your name from a friend. But I am not wrong and I am not crazy. I need someone to help me, and if it has to be you, it has to be you."

"Okay, love, enough flattery," he rolled his eyes. "What are you goin on about anyway?"

"I had a vision," she shook her head. "A few weeks ago. I have them, now and again, being psychic and all. Low level. Nothing really special, but it's there. This one was different though. It was just...darkness. Black as black can be. But the screams. The screams never stopped. Screams of pure, unadulterated terror. That's all there was...at least the only thing I could see or hear. But there was something else. A presence. Something that felt like...hunger. Hunger and malice."

John took all this in, listening, drinking, and smoking. Psychics had visions. Some of them meant something. But if what she had seen was true, it meant that something bad was on its way. It was also odd that this was the first he heard of it. Not that he was really plugged in with the psychic community, but still, something like this would cause waves.

"Let's say I believe you," John finished his beer and waved for another one. "Did whoever recommend me tell you about my fee?"

"I work for the government, money isn't an issue," she shook her head.

"Good," he nodded. "Now where do we need to go to start looking for...whatever is going on."

"New Jersey."

"Oh bloody hell."

[GreenGrenade]

Keystone City
Kansas
1970

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man in the turtle costume, “This is a robbery.”

For the men and women in Lampert Fox and Company’s Belmont branch, this was, of course, just another Tuesday. Keystone City was no stranger to this kind of thing. It hadn’t been for over three decades. Since before America joined in on the Big One, the hard-working citizens of this fair town had become well-acquainted with unfortunate circumstances like these. They supposed that it came with the territory, really. Where lightning strikes, fire follows.

But the fire so far had been mediocre at best. All style and no substance. No pizzazz. These people, they saw costumed crime every day and they shrugged. Laughed. Waited impatiently for it to be over. They didn’t shudder, or cower, or cry. The problem was, they had no respect. No respect for the game. And who could blame them, with the all the bozos running around these days? What, were they supposed to be intimidated by the Eel and his grease gun? Was the Rag Doll going to stretch the fear of God into them? And what was the Shade going to do? What exactly did he have to terrorise Keystone with?

“Oooooh, look at my shadows?”

Pffft.

No, what this town needed was someone who knew how to play the game. Someone who was more than just his gimmick, who put as much effort into his schemes as he did to acquire the one hundred pound shell on his back that made walking maybe a little too hard to be worth it. Someone who was made of the right stuff, the stuff that gets you in the history books.

Someone like the Turtle.

And so he walked into that bank, and he announced himself with confidence, because he’d planned this, and he had goons, and by God was he going to show Keystone City what he was made of. As the patrons of Lampert Fox, America’s seventh-largest bank holding company, laid down on the ground with their hands behind their heads, the Turtle dragged his feet with purpose towards the Belmont branch’s manager, staring up at his immaculately groomed face with a triumphant sneer.

“Empty your safe,” he said. “All of i– ”

He didn’t get to finish his well-rehearsed demand, on account of the bank very suddenly transforming into the inside of a police car. He became keenly aware of a pressure around his wrists, which he came to realise were now behind his back. On the window nearest to him leaned a helmeted man dressed in red, a large yellow lightning bolt streaking down his torso.

“Those handcuffs aren’t too tight, are they, son?” asked Jay Garrick.

The Turtle peered over his shoulder, trying to get a good look at his hands. He couldn’t see past his shell.

“They’re fine,” he said, then spat, “Flash.”

Garrick nodded, satisfied.

“That shell,” he said, “What are you called? The Turtle?”

“Yes,” he beamed. “Your greatest enemy. The yin to your yang.”

Garrick chuckled. “Are you, now?”

The Turtle nodded.

“Well, Turtle – from one archenemy to another – let’s agree not to see each other again for some time, okay? I don’t want to see you doing this kind of thing again.”

“Oh-ho, don’t you worry, Garrick,” said the Turtle, using his shoulder to wipe away some spittle, “We’ll be seeing each other again soon. You may have beaten me this time, but mark my words, Flash – I, the Turtle, your greatest enemy – will clash with you once more. Our battles will be legendary. Keystone City – no, the world – will hear of our magnificent throes for an eternity to come. You’ll see.”

“Hmm. I sure hope not, son.” Garrick smiled. “You take care, now.”

He tipped his helmet, and in a blink, he was gone, leaving nothing but a cool breeze as the air rushed in to fill the space where he stood just a moment ago. The Turtle leaned back as far as his shell allowed, feeling a smile form on his lips. The famous Flash, stopping him on his first ever heist. This surely could be nothing but a sign of his own greatness? A sign from above that he was, indeed, made of the right stuff? The stuff that gets you in the history books? The stuff that gets you respect? That makes you into a legend?

“Oh, yes, Jay Garrick,” said the Turtle. “We’re going to do this forever, you and I.”

---

Central City
Missouri
Sometime Later

“Hello, sir. How can I help you today?”

The lady smiled sweetly behind the counter’s glass divider. It was an artificial smile, loaded with saccharin, and he did not want it. It insulted him. It made him angry. He felt the urge to slide a shell bomb through the slot in the glass, blow that stupid smile off her face, but it occurred to him that he didn’t bring any with him, and that while he enjoyed robbing people, murder was bad. This realisation made him angrier. He scowled.

“Woman,” he said, “Do you see what I’m wearing? Do you see this shell on my back?”

“… Yes,” she said, her smile briefly faltering as she took notice of the costume she’d tried so hard to ignore.

“So why don’t you tell me…” he coughed, “How you can help me today?”

“Uh…”

This was taking too long. His knees hurt. If he waited for her to put two and two together, they might just break.

“I’m robbing you, you fool. This is a robbery. Hurry up and empty your safe. I don’t have all day.”

Garrick could be here at any moment. Staging this in Central City would only buy the Turtle so much time – a few seconds, at best. If this broad didn’t get a move on, he’d be caught before the chase began, and there was no fun in that. No glory. Garrick had bested him last time, and he wasn’t about to let that happen again. He’d been unprepared, but now, he had a plan worthy of his nemesis. He set the traps, prepared for every eventuality. Every eventuality… except for this one.

“Woman! The money!”

“Sir…” she hesitated, “Is there anyone I can call for you? Someone to help you get home?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I– ”

“The only people you should be calling are the police! This is a robbery!”

She glanced sideways at her boss, who’d stopped serving his customer to observe their exchange, brows furrowed in bewilderment. He returned her glance and shrugged. She picked up the phone next to her computer station, dialling and placing the receiver over her ear. The Turtle seethed silently as she waited for the call to go through.

“Uh… police, please. Thank you. Uh, hi– hi, yes, I’m calling from the Hayes Street Lampert Fox. There’s a…” her eyes met the Turtle’s, and she quickly looked away, turning her head to speak quietly into the phone so that he wouldn’t hear her. “There’s a… gentleman in a turtle costume threatening to rob us. He told me to call you. No, no, he hasn’t threatened anyone. I… I’m not sure. I think he’s confused. Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”

She lowered the phone and faced the Turtle again.

“They’re on the way, sir. They want to talk to you.”

The Turtle glared at her. “Tell them to get bent.”

Now that the blasted woman had called the police, it would only be a matter of time before Garrick showed up. The Turtle turned his back to the counter, knees aching all the while, and sighed. He’d been so convinced that this time, he’d be the victor – this time, he’d show Garrick – but it was no matter. What’s done is done. All that was left to do was to let his traps do their work, and put on a good show.

Wind filled the bank, following a blur of red through the dull interior. It sped from corner to corner, covering every inch of the space, customer and employee alike holding themselves for dear life as the gusts threw their hair and rustled their clothes. The blur came to a stop a few feet away from the Turtle, and the criminal steeled himself for a confrontation with his sworn enemy.

“Is everyone alright?” asked Garrick.

“Oh-ho-ho,” answered the Turtle, “You never cease to amaze me, Flash. I was sure my traps would cause you some trouble, but here you stand, unharmed. Well done, hero.”

“Traps?” asked Garrick, “What traps?”

What was he talking about?

“The traps, fool! The ones I set for you! The ones you evaded so expertly! That you disarmed, using your ferocious speed!”

“There were no traps, sir,” said Garrick. “I searched the building. It’s safe.”

That didn’t make any sense. He remembered setting those traps. He did it himself. Carefully placed, meticulously planned, all to make Garrick’s life just a little bit harder. They had to be there. They were there. Garrick was losing it. More than that… something was different about him. His helmet was gone. A mask hid his face. The lightning symbol that had stretched diagonally across his torso was now smaller, centered on his chest. He seemed taller, somehow, a little thinner. Since when had Garrick changed costumes? Since when did he look so…

The Turtle squinted.

“You’re not Garrick.”

“Garrick?” asked the man, “You mean, Jay Garrick?”

The Turtle glared at him.

“No, sir,” he said. “I’m not.”

---

Keystone City
Kansas
Further Down the Track

“He did it again, Jay.”

Barry Allen cupped the mug of black tea in his hands, resting his elbows on the antique wooden table in Jay’s dining room. Jay sat across from him, nursing some tea of his own. The man was fast approaching his one hundred and tenth year, but he didn’t look a day over fifty. His eyes still carried the shimmer of youth, and he held himself with powerful shoulders, straight-backed and relaxed. His hair was grey, but full. He’d taken care of himself over the years.

Barry sometimes wondered if he’d share Jay’s longevity. It seemed to him like a gift sometimes, to grow old with the world.

Most of the time, it seemed lonely.

Jay sipped his tea. “Who?”

“The Turtle.”

“Ah.”

“He’s getting worse, Jay. He’s less and less lucid with every stick-up.”

Barry placed his mug on a coaster, absent-mindedly twisting the golden ring on his middle finger.

“He keeps thinking you’ll show up. He tries to draw you out by holding up a bank, and when he realises that I’m not you… When I met him at Hayes Street, he remembered. But it’s been taking longer and longer ever since. It took us two hours before Wally managed to talk him down today. He broke down, Jay. One of these days, he’s going to hurt himself. I mean… does he have a family? Does he have someone to take care of him?”

“No.” Jay shook his head. “He has family, but they checked him into a nursing home some years back. They don’t visit much.”

“Yeah, well,” said Barry, “Someone should.”

He took a sip from his tea. It tasted bitter.

“What should I do, Jay?” he asked. “He keeps forgetting. I… I honestly don’t know what to do.”

Jay rested his cup on a coaster and sighed. The youth briefly left his eyes, and for a moment, he looked tired. He’d given up superheroics at the tail-end of the eighties, and Barry felt that a part of him had always regretted it. Helping people was a part of who Jay was. That urge had been what compelled him to don his costume on the eve of the Second World War. Barry could tell that it hurt him to know there was so much he could have done for people like the Turtle, had he not retired. It was a guilt that often had Jay considering entering the fray again, despite Barry’s assurances that he and Wally had it under control, that Jay should let himself relax for once. And though Barry would hate to admit it, he sometimes thought that it would be nice to have a guiding hand out there with him. It sure would be nice now.

“We’ll think of something, Barry,” said Jay. “We always do.”

---

Keystone City, Kansas
Now

“Where’s Garrick?” yelled the old man. “I want Garrick!”

He stood hunched in his costume, spittle running down his chin. What was once a vibrant green was now dull and faded, crusted a pale yellow with age. Thin strands of white hair fell in a patchwork along the sides of his head. He shook slightly, playing a dangerous game of balance with his weakened knees. The shell he once wore fifty years ago was no longer there. He wouldn’t have been able to stand.

“He’s not here, sir,” said the Flash. “It’s just me and Kid Flash. Remember? Jay doesn’t do this anymore.”

They evacuated the bank as soon as they arrived. Barry and Wally made quick work of it together; they needed to get the Turtle alone. Too many people confused him, and they wanted to avoid overwhelming him as much as possible.

“You’re lying!” yelled the Turtle. “I saw him weeks ago!”

Wally looked at Barry in exasperation.

“Jay’s been retired for thirty years, sir,” said Barry. “Please. Let us help you.”

“No!”

The Turtle’s voice was strained.

“I’m not leaving! I’m his nemesis! He’s my… he has to be here!”

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

“He has to!”

As the Turtle began to cry, Barry felt at a loss for what to do. Looking at Wally, he knew his partner felt the same. They’d faced the Rogues together, saved people from car crashes, collapsed bridges, and blazing homes – but faced with this, it all seemed so small. How were they supposed to help here? What could they do for this man? With his speed, Barry could spend hours within the confines of a second. But even with all that time, he couldn’t think of a way to help him. For all his power, Barry felt powerless.

The old man’s frail shoulders shook with every sob. Standing there in the middle of the empty bank, he looked terribly alone. Barry couldn’t imagine what it felt like, to wake up one day and forget all the time that’s passed. To forget people, experiences. To be forgotten. To the old man, Jay Garrick was still the Flash. He was still a young, spry costumed crook. All he knew were the days before Superman, before Jay receded from the public eye and retired to his and Joan’s rowhouse, spending his wife’s last years with her before she passed. He only remembered the chase. He only remembered his friend.

Behind them, the bank doors swung open. With a gentle smile, Jay stepped through, dressed in jeans and a tucked shirt. Barry thought he saw a hint of sadness hiding behind his smile, and as Jay walked towards them he nodded, as if to say, It’s okay. I’ve got this now.

He stopped in front of the old man, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m here, son,” said Jay. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

The Turtle looked up at Jay, his eyes red.

“Garrick?”

“It’s me, son.”

“I knew you’d come. They said you wouldn’t, but you did.”

The Turtle grinned, lonely yellow teeth smiling up at Jay.

“My greatest enemy.”

“That’s right. Your greatest enemy,” said Jay.

He wrapped his arm around the old man’s shoulders, guiding him towards the bank’s exit.

“C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“Okay.”

“You can tell me all about what you’ve been up to lately. I’ll make some tea. Do you like tea?”

“I love tea.”

Jay smiled. “Good man.”

They walked out of the bank that day, and Barry and Wally turned their attentions to other crises. They never did need to talk the Turtle down again. Every few days, Jay would visit the nursing home and make his old nemesis some tea. They would sit down and drink, and talk. Sometimes they’d play chess. Jay let him win. After his visits, Jay would often tell Barry that he regretted not doing this earlier. He wished he’d thought to visit him when his episodes first began. It felt good to keep him company. By being there, Jay helped the Turtle remember. Helped him feel a little less alone. But Barry knew that it was also helping Jay.

When he spent time with the Turtle, Jay felt a little less alone, too.

[Natty]

As Billy Kaplan stared up at the behemoth of a man before him, he uttered the whisper of a prayer in Hebrew. He had no idea who or what a Tempus Fuginaut was but having a golden-skinned being appear before you shouting your name was clearly a sign for the worst, especially in his line of work. His mind rushed back over everything the giant had said. Careless Actions. The comment stung. It was clear that what he had done to the Terror Twins was even worse than either he or Teddy had even imagined if it had put him on this guy’s radar.

“What do you want?” Billy nearly stuttered as he spoke. It had taken a lot of willpower to open his mouth, let alone ask a question.

Tempus Fuginaut, as he referred to himself, simply looked down at him for a moment, as if questioning why someone so clearly beneath him had dare talk back. Billy expected the worse, yet no untimely death seemed to come his way. Instead, Tempus Fuginaut opened their mouth to speak once more.

“I will show you.”

Before Billy could even utter any form of protest, the world around him lurched violently.

The skyline darkened, quickly filling with the twinkle of stars. New York was gone none, leaving a void of space below him. Billy panicked, flailing his arms around him as he prepared to fall, yet by some miracle found himself floating in place. He gasped in amazement, his eyes taking all of the beautiful emptiness around him in. The stars were like scattered moondust in the sky. He’d never expected it to look so peaceful. He knew in an instant that this sight would never escape Billy’s memory.

He found a dazed smile escaping across his lips. If only Teddy was here to witness this with him.

Tempus Fuginaut simply looked down at the teenager, a smile of bemusement crossing his face at the sight of Billy’s adjustment to his new surroundings. It was odd to see such a regal looking being smile like that. It almost humanized them. Billy almost felt at ease for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun. Almost.

Billy nearly vocalized this thought, until the being began to talk again, with the booming tone of Tempus’ voice merely adding a god-like atmosphere to the space around them.

“The world is forever a place of wonder, but with that wonder comes chaos.” As he spoke, Tempus gave a wave of his hand, and Billy watched as the vastness around them shifted, as if a movie projector were casting an image against the darkness. Billy recognized a great deal of the projections before them; he had watched the events in a state of terror long ago on his TV screen. The great beast Starro rising from the depths of the ocean. The alien attack on New York City. A green giant rampaging through a city. Other images he did not recognize quite so much. Parents rushing to save their infant child as their planet crumbles around them. Great battles of the Gods. A crazed scientist left for years on a barren wasteland by his team.

And then finally an image of Billy himself from earlier that day, the bodies of Tommy and Tuppence Terror lying unconscious below him. Billy shuddered to think of the other clips of himself misusing his abilities that could have appeared.

“Where the Monitor’s and Watcher’s jobs are to watch and observe all of reality, I must preserve it.” Tempus Fuginaut continued, unfazed by the images beyond him. “Sure, other beings help…”

At this, the images shifted. The clip of Starro moved to show the might of the Justice League facing the tentacled creature down. The Avengers arriving to fight off the invasion above Manhattan. A young metahuman feeling the vibrations of the world himself. No, not just one world. The vibrations of all worlds. There were more like him too, all throughout the multiverse. Even an anthropomorphic duck wearing a 3-piece suit. It was a big universe. Filled with heroes.

Billy found himself spinning on the spot in order to take it all in before they shifted into nothingness once more.

“But I heal the tears in space-time and prevent them from happening.” Tempus stood tall and bold, radiating power as he spoke of his part in the world. “I seek to keep the universe in complete harmony until the Demiurge is born and can recreate it in his image.”

It was a lot to take in. Superheroes he understood. He had been watching caped crusaders fighting criminals for years, and even been doing some of the fighting himself. It was second nature now. This on the other hand? This was different. This was otherworldly.

“What.. What’s the Demiurge?” The first of a great number of questions on his mind.

A smile formed upon the golden man’s face once more.

“Take a look for yourself.” He said, gesturing upwards towards the vastness of space before them.

Billy did not see it at first. He just found himself staring at the twinkle of the starlight, expecting another image to appear like before. Then he really began to see the stars, and how they were aligned in the darkness. The shining speckles twirled and danced along the sky in various patterns, forming lines. The lines of a face. The curls of hair. It was soon clear whose face it was bejewelled into the universe itself. It was Billy’s.

Why was it his face?

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. It was if they had gotten lost in this starry reflection before him.

“Yes Billy Kaplan. You are the Demiurge.” Tempus’s words snapped Billy back to reality slightly. “The sentient life force of the Universe itself.”

“No… No I’m fucking not.” Billy declared loudly, turning to Tempus. He was shaking now. “I’m barely 18. I’m still a kid. You’ve got this all wrong sir, I-“

Tempus raised a hand, cutting him off, further adding to Billy exasperation.

“You may be young now boy, but it is your destiny. You only have a glimpse of your truth power currently, but it is growing by the day. I shudder to think of the damage possible by such power in the hands of someone so young and inexperienced.”

“Then what on earth do you expect me to do?” Billy exclaimed, waving his arms out in front of him in confusion. If what he could now was only a snippet of what was to come, then he wanted out.

“Train. Stay here with me and I will teach you all there is I know.”

Billy scoffed loudly at the thought.

“I can’t stay here… I have a life. I have Teddy.”

“You think that this Teddy is more important than the universe itself?”

“Teddy is my whole universe.” Billy stated adamantly, clenching his fists. He knew it was selfish. He obviously knew what the right decision was here. But he couldn’t stay. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t a God. “I want to go home. Now.”

Tempus pursed his lips, glaring down at the teenager. Billy held his own and glared back. But it was not strength that fueled him. It was fear.

At last Tempus Fuginaut gave up.

“Fine. But in time Billy Kaplan, you will accept your fate.”

“Good fucking luck with that.”

With a wave of the giant’s hand, the world around Billy shifted once more. Gone was the beautiful background of stars. Now Billy was back on the rooftop from before, the wind rushing around him.

He stood silently, his eyes gazing over the city absentmindedly. The ring of his phone soon brought back into focus. He rushed to pull it from his pocket. It was Teddy, worrying where he had gotten to. He sighed a breath of relief.

Whatever it was that was happening, at least everything with Teddy was ok.

[Simple Unicycle]

_{Location and Time: New York City; Mr. Greene's Goods - 1:31 PM}

Issue #1: Routine

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Exhale

"No miss, we don't sell diapers, I'm sorry." I reply to the customer.

Behind her amber-tinted shades encrusted with plastic gems, I can see her eyes narrow. "I come here all the time and the first time I ask for a specific product, you don't have it?"

I've never seen this woman come to this store in my past ten years of working here. "We just don't carry them. There's a Walgreens a few blocks away. They should have some."

She scowls at me. Her expression would belong better on the face of a hotshot young socialite that's never worked a day in her life, not the poverty-stricken single mother working two jobs she probably is. "Well good then. I guess I'll take my business there from now on."

She pivots to the door and walks away. "Please come again."

The line of customers she was holding up moves forward, the first of them casting me a sympathetic glance as he places his six-pack of beer on the counter. I scan the item, swipe his card, and accept the payment on the register screen. "Have a good day," I say to him as he leaves.

Next customer. Scan the item. Take their cash. Put it in the register. "Have a good day."

Next. Scan the item. Swipe their card. Accept the payment. "Have a good day."

Next. Scan. Swipe. Ching. "Have a good day."

Next. Scan. Take. Ching. "Have a good day."

Next. Scan. Swipe. Ching. "Have a good day."

Before I know it, I'm on break halfway through my shift, smoking a cigar out front next to the ash tray. I've done this whole song and dance too many times to count over the last decade. This routine has become my entire life and my entire life has become routine. Why am I even doing this? I don't have much going for me in life. All I do besides work is wait to go to work. Is there something that I'm waiting for? Is there something I should go looking for?

I snuff out the cigar and walk back inside. Break's over. I'll save the existential ramblings for later.

Scan. Swipe. Ching. "Have a good day."

Scan. Take. Ching. "Have a good day."

Scan. Swipe. Ching. "Have a good day."

I repeat that routine for four more hours, and then it's over. I walk out of the store and start heading back to my apartment. Back to regularly scheduled brooding: what can I do to shake up this routine? I've done everything I can to leave my old life behind me, but everyday it seems to be calling back to me. It's a specter looming over me, howling my name. I've done my best to ignore its cries, but how long can I keep that up?

A scream in the alley across the road. There it is again, crying out to me. I glance over, see two men standing over another man, sobbing and shouting as he lays bleeding on the ground. I've managed to walk away so many times before. "It doesn't involve you", "they probably picked that fight", all sorts of placating excuses running through my mind. They used to help. Lately, they haven't been. And they sure as hell aren't right now.

I make a beeline right for the alleyway. The perps are two guys, both around half my age and around the same size as me. One has a baseball bat soaked in blood. The other? He's on the ground with a broken nose before he even has a chance to see me coming. Out of the fight before it even begins.

Slugger backs away from me and raises his baseball bat. He swings, I duck while raising a hand to catch the bat. The hit stings as it connects, the nerves in my fingers and palm screeching out, but I power through. I slap my other hand on the bat and pull. He jerks towards me and I bring a knee up into his crotch. The bat is in my hands now. I flip it around and grip the handle tightly.

Reel back.

Inhale.

Swing.

Exhale.

I don't give him time to get up. I bring the bat down on his head, then I do it again, and again, again, again, again, again. If his head was a watermelon, I think Gallagher would be proud. I give it one final swing. He won't be hurting anyone ever again.

I turn to his friend. He's backed up against a wall, blood streaming out of his twisted nose as he watches on in horror. I walk up to him, kneel down to be at eye level with him. "You see your friend over there?"

He jerks his head up and down.

"Do you want that to happen to you?"

He rapidly shakes his head no.

"Then get out of my sight."

He pulls himself up and sprints out of the alley. I don't think I've ever seen anyone run that fast outside of Olympic races. I turn back to the young man they were beating on. He looks up at me with a mixed expression of reverence and fear. I offer him a hand up and he takes it. "T-thank you," he says, his voice shaking.

"Don't thank me. Just get yourself to a hospital and try to steer clear of this part of town." He nods, then limps out of the alley. I look over at the corpse of the assaulter and sigh. Hopefully no one saw that. I tuck the bat under my arm and pluck a cigar into my mouth, lighting it. Inhale. Exhale. I leave it in my lips, keeping it held in place with my teeth, and start the walk back to my apartment. The streets are dead right now and I can't even begin to express how thankful I am of that.

It's only when I've stepped into my apartment and closed the door that the reality of the situation dawned on me. I killed a man for the first time in ten years. The mingled catharsis, regret, and disappointment is a strange feeling. I swore I wouldn't do this again. There was no reason to. Especially these days with all the heroes running around in tights. There's no need for a person like me anymore, if there ever was any need.

I clean the bat off with an old rag, then toss the bloody rag and my clothes into a garbage bag. They're ruined now. The bat finds a place in my closet and I find a place in my shower, rinsing off the excess blood. I watch the pinkish mixture of blood and water wash down the drain. Used to have to clean blood off myself every night. Some nights I just didn't. I'd like to say it was for a scare tactic, but in reality it was because my hygiene wasn't even existent anymore. I was a machine with one purpose: killing.

Would I really want to go back to those days?

Later on, I lay awake in bed pondering that question.

Do I really want to go back to those days?

Of course I don't. I left them behind me ten years ago.

Do I really want to go back to those days?

Maybe. Evil is like a plague. You wipe out all the rats and it's gone, right? But you're forgetting about the fleas, tiny, innumerous, too small for the folks in the big leagues. There has to be someone wiping out the fleas.

Do I really want to go back to those days?

... No. It's a fool's dream to go back to that life. To go back to the killing. I'm past my prime, if I went for the stunts I pulled in my youth I'd get wiped out before I could even tell what happened. I don't want to die. And that's the end of that.

I close my eyes, fall asleep, and dream of drowning in an ocean of blood.

[Sep]

MANHATTAN // NEW YORK CITY

This assignment was one that Agent Bishop liked to call an easy job. The individuals known as the Terror Twins had been on a rampage along the East Coast. This wasn’t the first time that Damage Control had been called in to tidy up after them, Red Team had been re-assigned to the Pyrios - The Helicarrier assigned to patrol the Americas and had been following their swath of destruction. So far Red had been deployed to five states following the seemingly random path of destruction.

Now the two perpetrators were currently in inhibitor cuffs and being moved into a secure cell for transport. Kate stood on a nearby rooftop bow in hand ready for trouble. Despite her statement that this would be an easy job, Red recognized her vigilance as a prerequisite for their positions. Since being assigned to the same team 73% of their encounters ended up in crisis, with 33% being the result of further complications with criminals or criminal organizations. Red turned his head as his audio-receptors picked up a creaking and groaning noise from the direction of the Washington Bridge. Motors, engines, and various complicated mechanisms as a red tornado formed around his legs, raising him into the air. Leaning forward he pushed his way towards the bridge. As he approached it he eyed it, meanwhile reports from the Brooklyn bridge continued so stream in as S.H.I.E.L.D units continued to engage A.I.M.

“Red? What are you doing buddy?” The ‘voice’ of his handler appeared in his head. She wasn’t actually speaking, her transmission was encoded into radio signals, and then the data sent directly to his head.

“I am detecting issues with the George Washington Bridge. My auditory sensors indicate there may be an issue with its structural integrity. I’m moving for a closer inspection now.”

“Bad day for bridges in Manhattan, huh? I’ll alert the units in the area.”

As he approached the bridge there was very little traffic on it, S.H.I.E.L.D units were at either side of the bridge and had been allowing traffic to trickle in order to prevent too much of a backlog while Damage Control units patrolled the bridge doing scans. The creaking continued with faint snapping. Before Red could get an accurate scan however one of the cables snapped, the bridge shook slightly. Followed by a second one. Red swooped down and grabbed one, reaching out his hand a gust of wind pulled the other into his hand.

Magnets powered up and his hands clamped down with as much force as he could muster. Motors in his torso working in overdrive keeping as much upward thrust as possible, he didn’t need to lift the bridge. Just take enough weight in order to prevent any more cables from snapping. “All S.H.I.E.L.D and Damage Control units. Clear the bridge immediately. I am unsure of how long I can hold up the bridge.”

[Retired]

D O O M P A T R O L

---

The cafeteria was a cacophony of silverware clinking against plates. The din of chatter rose above it as both students and faculty of the Future Foundation enjoyed their lunch. The smell of burgundy beef stew filled the air. From his table in the corner, far removed from the others, Clifford Steele watched and listened.

At one side of the large room, Cliff noted Malcolm Duncan. The students of the Foundation were mostly split into two departments; science and the arts, with a light sprinkling of other academic fields for good measure. Mal, barely twenty years old, had been admitted to the program under the latter criteria. An aspiring film director, the young mister Duncan sported a creative mind that the staff would cultivate and nurture and allow to blossom. And with the equipment and funding provided here, he would flourish greatly.

Still, the arts weren't Malcolm's only passion. Tall with a large, muscular frame, Mal reminded Cliff of his younger days as an adrenaline junky. The youth always sought out physical activities and thrived on competition. A member of both the Baxter Building's track and wrestling teams - as the institute prided itself on having both healthy bodies in addition to keen minds - Mal had the spirit of a true athlete. Clifford could remember when, just four years ago, Mal had joined the Future Foundation and immediately made a name for himself both by winning that year's wrestling tournament as well as producing an award-winning short docu-film based on the rise of the modern 'superhero' and their place in the world.

Cliff had given the star student a standing ovation on both occasions.

Next to Mal, and currently sporting the former's arm draped around her shoulder, sat Karen Beecher, the other half of the Foundation's young power couple. She was about a foot shorter than her beau and very slim, with her dark hair cut into a bob. Unlike her boyfriend, Karen had gotten into the Foundation based on her sharp intellect. Cliff didn't understand what, exactly, it was she was working on, but he knew that her latest project had become the talk of the faculty.

On the complete opposite side of the cafeteria sat Wyatt Wingfoot. At thirty-one, he was about a decade younger than Clifford. Wyatt was six-foot with long black hair, classically handsome features, and a well-toned physique that clearly wasn't just for show.

He also happened to be Cliff's replacement.

Six years ago, prior to the incident, Cliff Steele had operated as the Future Foundation's head of security. He had been in his mid-thirties then and a well-known adventurer who had traversed the world from the Amazon Rainforest to the Himalayas and everywhere in between. He had swum, unprotected, with sharks and free-climbed mountains just for the sheer thrill of it. A born daredevil, Clifford had only accepted the position at the Baxter Building at the promise of being able to participate and lead the greatest, most dangerous expedition possible. He had been on the job for less than eight months before the mishap that left him in his current state.

Then, Wyatt came in, hired while Cliff was still in a coma as his body slowly deteriorated. The younger man had taken his old position and had even joined in on Cliff's new role. Several of the adventures the so-called Doom Patrol had gone on in recent years had had Wyatt Wingfoot as a willing and able participant. And, just two years ago, the new head of security had been instrumental in fending off an attack on the Baxter Building.

Clifford scanned Wyatt. Healthy, strong, dependable. And his replacement.

He knew it wasn't Wyatt's fault. He understood that the man had done nothing to wrong him, had only ever been friendly and supportive. But, still. Cliff had been replaced in more ways than one.

He noticed Wyatt taste a spoonful of stew before finally turning away. Cliff's optical sensors looked down to the empty table before him. No steaming, delicious broth. Not now. Not ever.

Cliff leaned forward and carefully rested his metallic elbows on the thin tabletop, making sure to hold most of his considerable weight off of the surface, and set his head between open palms. Truth be told, it was a vestigial gesture more than anything else. With his new body, there was no need to rest as there was no chance of fatigue.

New, he thought. It had been nearly a full six years since the accident that had left his former body mangled and beyond repair. Nearly a full six years since Victor Von Doom had made the decision to replace Cliff's biological form with that of one entirely composed of nanomachines - save his brain which had miraculously been intact. Nearly a full six years since Cliff Steele had become the Robotman.

He didn't blame Victor. He held no ill-will or resentment towards his teammate and friend. In fact, Cliff was grateful to Victor for saving his life. And yet...

Cliff sighed deeply. Or, rather, his synthetic voice box approximated the sound of a heavy exhalation. Another vestigial habit of his and one he would likely never overcome.

Yes, Clifford Steele had been replaced. In more ways than one.

[The Man Emperor]

Vibe

New York City

---

"Hey, come out, you, no need to hide. I'll find you anywhere you go anyway, whether on this Earth or the next..."

Vibe looked around, searching for his prey... target. What was that guy's name again? Mirror Master? That's a rather descriptive name for him; that man used mirrors as portals, and when paired with his now imprisoned girlfriend Top, caused a very annoying rarefaction effect that was worse than vertigo or the ass kicking that they did individually. Fortunately, Top, or the Top of this universe anyway, had been captured a few days before after trying to rob a banks. Banks... why is it always banks?

Why was he doing this? Maybe to impress Gypsy, who has a stainless record of having absolutely no one escape her grasp, and maybe her dad too. Josh was very intimidating. Always has been. Breacher was getting old, though, and by the looks of it, he is going to lose his powers soon, just like every other Viber that got too advanced in the years. Maybe he'll get less scarier.

"Come on, just go out already, and maybe I'll rethink giving you to the Earth 19 people, those are really bad when it comes to your type, but yeah, you don't want to come out, so I'll give you to them, just because she told me to."

There seemed to be no activity whatsoever in that abandoned warehouse, save for Vibe's walking and the occasional scurrying of rats. Whatever happened to that... oh.

There was that man's dead body, lying on the dirty floor in a rather expansive pool of blood with several knives stuck on his back. It was strange, though, as it looked like they were flung at his behind all at once, what with the perfect positioning and the equal depth that they were embedded unto his flesh. Spooky.

"Oh my God, this was NOT what I expected..."

Yes, Vibe was a hunter. Yes, he sought for those that broke the laws of space and time and those that consorted with them, but not once has he killed anyone. Not on purpose.

And now, this man deserves a far more respectable resting place.

[Bounce]

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| Armed Forces Retirement Home
_{| Gulfport, Mississippi}

Patrick O’Toole had been a character in his youth.

A Brooklyn native who had lied about his age in order to join the Army during the Second World War, those who had served with him wouldn’t know a Patrick O’Toole. They knew Knuckles. Knuckles O’Toole, the Brooklyn brawler.

Officially, Patrick O’Toole had fought in the war in Europe, become a decorated sergeant, served as a drill instructor for a time before retiring from the Army. He didn’t really talk about it with his wife or kids, or grandkids, because that was how it had been. Loose lips sink ships. No one talked about the war, even though they’d all been living it.

What wasn’t in the public records was the fact that Knuckles O’Toole had been one of those enamored and foolish wartime youths who had been inspired by Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos to form a group they’d called the Young Allies. Fools, the lot of them.

And no better friends.

Today, Patrick O’Toole was ninety-eight. The oldest living veteran inside the retirement home. Soon to be ninety-nine. His wife had passed five years earlier, his children had all moved away, and so he spent the twilight of his life as alone as when he’d snuck away to join the Army at fifteen.

Back then, in 1943, Knuckles had met one other kid who had snuck away to the war.

“We were...” the old man began, trailing off as he raised a spindly, frail arm. His skin was translucent with age and marked by spots. It was a far cry from the heavy handed mitts that once fought their way through ranks of Nazi soldiers. “Where were we?” the man asked, seemingly talking to himself, as he tried to recall the details of the memory that had come to mind. “Marseilles. We were in Marseilles and Tubby... you remember Tubby?”

Turning his head, the aging spectre of Knuckles O’Toole looked over and down at Billy Batson. A young kid with a bedhead mop of black hair and eyes that were as blue as the sky. Midwesterner, the sort who was Minnesota nice by nature, from Fawcett City, Ohio. In more than eighty years, that face hadn’t changed. “Yeah,” the boy said, wistfully, as though sharing in the memory of yesterday. “Yeah, I remember Tubby.”

“Tubby wanted to crawl up a... a...”

The old man stammered, his mouth falling open as the memory seemed to fade on his tongue.

“It was a church bell tower,” Billy supplied softly.

“It was a god damn church bell tower,” Patrick echoed, as though now invigorated. Arms outstretched, the man seemed almost a shadow of his former self as he said, “And there he is, with his fat ass, trying to shimmy up this wood scaffolding...” the man uttered, lapsing into a familiar laugh.

Then the laughter became a cough, which seemed to wrack the man’s entire body.

Reaching out with one arm, the boy placed a hand on the man’s back. The truth was, what Billy saw was more than just the shared memory. Pulmonary hypertension. He could see it. See the threads of time starting to fray and shorten as they extended out from Patrick O’Toole.

The man wouldn’t live to see his ninety-ninth birthday.

Could Billy change that? Reverse the ravages of time and ease the burden of age on Knuckles’ body? Yes. All that, and more. Restored youth. Renewed vigor. With but a whim and the word, Billy could change it all back to the way it was -- to the way that he remembered him -- with but a snap of his fingers.

He didn’t.

He wouldn’t. Which was not to say that it was not, still, more than a passing thought. After all, if one had the power to do something, to change something, wasn’t it at least worth a thought?

You are not entrusted with the Rock of Eternity that you may install yourself as a god, Billy Batson. You are the guardian of man’s mortal life. Never forget that. One before you once thought himself a god, and was brought low by it.

The lessons of the past. Which were no less the lessons of the present.

As the coughing fit subsided, the man emerged back into the cloud of confusion that had first greeted the boy. “Billy?” Knuckles uttered, as though looking at the youth for the first time. Then, seemed to have at least the wherewithal to realize that wasn’t true. “Who was we talking about again?”

A pained smile tugged at the sides of the boy’s face. “Tubby,” the boy supplied patiently. “You were talking about Tubby.”

“Huh. Tubby,” the old man echoed, sinking back into the seat. “Ol’ Tubby...” he murmured, his eyelids starting to flutter. “He died in... seventy-nine?”

Had it been a question? Or a memory? In either case, Patrick’s head rolled back as the old man fell into a quiet sleep.

A heavy, wearied sigh slipped from out of the young boy. He remembered vividly the Brooklyn native who had taught younger Billy Batson how to fight. Like, really fight. The kind of fighting where your life is on the line. Because their lives had been on the line and it had been Knuckles’ strong hands that had carried their asses out of the fire on more than one occasion.

A hand brushed across his shoulder. Turning his head, Billy looked up to see one of the nurses motioning him out of the room. “He talks like you were there,” the woman -- Annie was her name -- remarked as the two stepped out into the hallway.

“He says I remind him of someone he knew then,” Billy answered cryptically. This particular ward of the retirement home was the assisted living section. It more closely resembled a hospice, with a nursing station monitoring the rooms.

Waiting for the inevitable.

“Anything you want me to help with before I leave, Ma’am?”

“I just appreciate your spending time with them,” Annie answered, as the woman made her way back behind the nursing station. “I know they appreciate it as...”

She’d glanced up then, trailing off as she realized that the boy was no longer there. Turning her head to the left and right, she was presented with an empty hallway.

“I swear that kid’s a ghost.”

| Normandy American Cemetery & Memorial
_{| Colleville-sur-Mer, France}

“I saw Knuckles today.”

A tear slipped down the right side of the boy’s face. Craning his head back, the youth drew in a breath as, for a moment, the myriad of emotion seemed ready to overtake him.

He didn’t know what to say.

Should he say anything?

He was here. It seemed he needed to say something. “Seven kids, thirteen grandchildren, and now he’s got five great-grandchildren. I think he’s done well,” the boy said. Then, paused with a pained laugh as he added, “I think he’s done the best of all of us. Who’d have imagined, right?”

Another tear slipped down his face. He continued to stare up, but couldn’t help the fact that he was crying openly now. It was a pregnant pause before Billy found the courage to look down again.

At his feet was a simple headstone. It was identical to rows and rows of white marble headstones. He knew the names of many. Some better than others, but these had all been a band of brothers. The Americans who had died fighting in Europe against the Third Reich and Axis Powers.

Brothers and Sisters.

Elizabeth Lawrence
Women’s Airforce Service Pilots
Our Liberty Belle

“They’re everywhere!”

“Snipers in the bell tower! Toro, can you..?”

“I’m pinned down. We’re in a crossfire!”

“Billy, you have transform.”

“We’re too close!”

“They’re mowing right over us. IT’S A TRAP!”

“Billy, just say it!”

“I can’t.”

“You’re the only one who can! Billy, say it now!”

“God... fuck...”

“BILLY!”

_{“Shazam.”}

He remembered.

He remembered all of it.

He could still hear the echoes of the German machine guns. Shells exploding in massive clouds of earth, as the tanks had rolled into view, blocking their only escape. It was supposed to have been a simple assignment, a rendezvous with British intelligence.

The whole thing had been a set up.

But the sound he remembered the most was the thunder, when the flash from the lightning had cleared. And he would never forget what he saw when the smoke had cleared.

Billy had been the one who had pulled them out of the fire that day, but he’d only managed to save less than half of them. Toro. Knuckles. Tubby. Wash Jones.

The strength of Hercules. The wisdom of Soloman. The speed of Mercury. Billy Batson had the power of the gods themselves at his command. He was tasked to be the savior of humanity. And, in the end, he couldn’t even manage to save his friends.

Lizzie had been pressed up against him. They’d been pinned down, taking cover together with German fire coming from both sides.

It was different then. The power hadn’t been Billy’s, it had been the wizard’s. Billy would say the name and the power would come down and literally strike him like a bolt of lightning. Which was every bit as fearsome and destructive as it sounded. He’d learned early to be careful of when and where he transformed, or even adapted it to be a weapon when he’d had to.

“Billy...”

In mid-air, a holographic window seemed to appear, containing the image of a horse-like alien.

When Billy had looked up, he wasn’t sure just which of the two of them were more startled.

“...are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Billy tried to utter, though he’d choked on the word even as he brought his arm up to wipe at the tears running down his face.

He wouldn’t have believed him either.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Still wiping at his face, the boy straightened up to ask, “What’s up?”

“Friday just picked up some trace energy readings. We believe that there is a Zn’rx ship hiding on the dark side of your moon.”

Billy was still having trouble with Earth geography. And the hundred-however-many nations. Keeping up with the different alien nations in the galaxy was, frankly, more than his brain seemed ready to handle. “Is this bad?” the boy asked finally. Might as well get to the point of it. It was either a good thing... or it wasn’t.

With aliens, he honestly was never sure what constituted good or bad.

“Potentially. The Zn’rx are space-capable, but quite primitive even by human standards. I do not imagine that they are here to open peace negotiations.”

Great. If it wasn’t Hell on Earth, it was the threat of alien invasion. What ever happened to the days when stopping a single nation dictator was all that being a hero required?

The air around the boy seemed to shimmer. His clothing and form crackled with an electric energy, as a red costume emblazoned with a golden lightning bolt appeared. As a white cape draped over one shoulder, the boy said, “Well, we should probably ask them.”

“Are you certain that you are okay?”

“Just... catching up with old friends,” Billy offered cryptically, before glancing back up toward the sky. “Dark side of the moon? See you in a bit.”

The holographic window blinked out of existence, giving Billy another moment of privacy in which to glance around the cemetery and memorial one more time.

Then he turned his head back toward the sky.

_{“Up, up and away.”}

[HenryJonesJr]

---

^{Over the Pacific Ocean}

Another hologram of the large SHIELD cargo plane was displayed in the center of Strike Team A's quinjet. While the autopilot kept the smaller, faster craft rocketing towards their target, the strike team sat ready for the final briefing before they caught up and head to execute a dangerous, mid-air mission.

"You're all familiar with the cargo planes," Steve began the walkthrough. "I don't have to give you a play by play here. We've been doing this long enough that we don't have to need one. Sam attaches the Quinjet by the top hatch, Choi gets inside and lets us in. Piotr and I lead the charge, Vivian and Joe secure the package while the rest of us secure the plane. Any objections?"

"Nah," Colossus shook his head as he began to stretch in preparation for battle.

"However many beekeepers we have to deal with, we deal with them," Steve continued. "We're professionals. We've done this before, we'll probably have to do it again. But we're not letting AIM get away with this tech. The more we starve them out, the more desperate they get. We're going to win this war, everyone. I promise you that."

As much as he believed that, it was a line that was growing stale. He saw it in the team's face when he said it. They had been fighting AIM for years. Every time they seemed to be getting the upper hand, MODOK or Arnim Zola seemed to slip through their fingers at the final moment. It was maddening, but something Steve was used to. Zola had learned a lot from his old boss, the Red Skull, who also was slippery as the devil. But the Invaders and Howling Commandos had eventually gotten that bastard, and the A-Team will get AIM. It was just a matter of time.

"You know, I forgot how much I missed those speeches," Sam chuckled. "That was shorter than your usual though. You getting tired, old man? Need to take a rest before we join the Mile High Fight Club?"

"Shut up, Sam," Steve shook his head. "There's just not a lot to say at this point. Everyone here knows what they have to do."

"Sure...but you're still Captain America," Wilson gave him a smirk. "Even if some of these guys are from places not wholly on the up-and-up, they still know you're a living legend. No reason not to give them that."

His friend was right, of course. Sometimes the unending fight wore on him, especially when his teammates weren't always agreeing with the direction of their missions.

"I guess that's why Fury really put you on the team," Steve laughed. "To be my sidekick."

"Hey, I am no one's sidekick. Partner. You got that," he jokingly pointed his finger in Steve's face.

"I can live with that," the man who was Captain America agreed.

Suddenly, an alarm went off in the cockpit and Sam took his seat, "We're coming up on the plane. I'm sure they'll have at least some countermeasures active, so you all better strap in!"

Cap took the seat next to Sam as the rest of the team followed his instructions. As the clouds parted in front of his eyes, the SHIELD cargo plane came into view. The black, hulking aircraft looked like a whale suspended in the air, somehow cutting a more awkward figure than even the Helicarriers did in flight. The cargo shuttle was at least ten times the size as the Quinjet, and moved like it. Strike Team A's craft was like a shark cutting through the air, heading towards slower prey.

But the whale was not defenseless. From below the wings popped two laser turrets that began firing a line of intense heat towards the approaching craft. With the skill he was known for, Sam Wilson threw the jet into a spiraling ascent. Through the spinning viewport at the front of the craft, Steve could barely make heads from tails, but he did manage to catch the beams barely miss the wings of the Quinjet. Without warning, Sam had the craft dive back towards the cargo plane. The speed of the maneuver was too quick for the turrets to compensate for, and with a surgeon's precision, Sam had locked the Quinjet's boarding clamps into the roof of the plane.

"Easy like Sunday morning," Wilson had a cocky smile on his face.

"You need to warn us before you do that next time," Crimson Fox responded, and Steve looked back to see her looking more green than red.

"We need to do that one again," Falsworth smiled broadly. "We're going to have a joy ride sometime, kid."

"Game faces, everyone," Steve said, standing and affixing his shield to his back. Next to him, Piotr stood and metal quickly spread over his skin as the mutant activated his power. Choi fiddled with his power belt, Union Jack checked the ammo in his guns, and Crimson Fox made sure her gloves were on snuggly. "You know the mission. You know your jobs. Now let's go pop AIM one in the jaw."

"I'll wait here incase we need to make a quick getaway," Sam nodded as the rest of the strike team made their way towards the boarding chute.

In the middle of the jet, a small opening telescoped out of the floor, revealing a top entry hatch to the plane. Atom nodded to the rest of the team, before dropping down to the other craft. The way the Quinjet was designed blocked the massive amount of wind from blowing the superhero off and into freefall, the nose pointed down in its boarding configuration. Suddenly, Choi disappeared from sight as he shrunk down to enter the inner workings of the craft.

Within moments, the hatch sprung open, and almost instantly Colossus jumped in, with Steve not far behind. Steve's feet had barely hit the deck below when the AIM soldiers inside began firing their plasma weapons at them. The shots harmlessly bounced off of Rasputin's skin, while Cap kept his shield primed to deflect any that came his way.

"Four in front of me," Colossus said clamly. "Two to my right. One in front of you."

Captain America took a peak over the shield to spot the one Beekeeper, named for the bulky, armored hazmat suits the AIM soldiers wore, in front of him, and the slanted wall next to that soldier. When the soldier dropped his weapon to reload, Steve yelled, "Now!"

In a maneuver practiced to the point of perfection, Steve threw his shield as hard as he could, striking the man in the head. The wonderous shield ricocheted off his skull, struck the wall, and pinballed between the two men to Steve's left. It flew back towards Rogers, but instead of catching it, he gave the edge a roundhouse kick towards the four that had been firing on Piotr. Giving the big man a warning, Steve yelled, "Incoming!"

Colossus, surprisingly nimble for his size, slid with his foot first, the shield missing his head by a hair on its continued journey. He popped up after it had cleared him, and continued rumbling towards his foes. The shield took out two of them before returning to Steve, and Piotr took out the other two, slamming them into the ground with one hand each.

The two men nodded to one another as Choi reemerged from his shrunken state, "Well, that was dramatic."

"Do not act as if you are not impressed," Rasputin responded bluntly.

"Well done, darlings," Vivian purred. "Now, the limey and I are off to do our jobs while you stand here and flex."

Steve nodded to them, "Good luck. We'll try and secure the cockpit."

The team split up, and Rogers's portion made their way forward toward their destination. The first new bulkhead they passed through, however, told Steve this wasn't going to be easy. There, waiting for them, were half a dozen more Beekeepers. Without hesitating, Steve flung his shield at the one closest to him. It thunked into its chest, and dropped them to their knees. But as the shield came back, he was amazed to see the Beekeeper instantly get back to their feet.

Not only that, they took off in a dead sprint towards Steve. He barely had time to catch the shield and raise it to deflect a surprisingly powerful blow from his enemy's bare hand. Steve swung out of the way as Colossus's fist slammed into the face shield of the Beekeeper's helmet. The material shattered from the blow, and what Steve saw below had his eyes wide with surprise.

"Well, that's new."

Staring back at him was a face that was modeled after a man, but was clearly mechanical.

AIM had androids doing their dirty work now.

[DocTachyon]

---

_{Location:Gotham City, New Jersey - Midnight}

Issue #1

---

Bruce listened to the drips of water echoing in from the farthest reaches of the Batcave, the steady hand of time eking out the cave’s chambers and curves, as the cave’s inlets had done for a millenia, and might continue to do for a millenia more. These were some of the few nights he really could hear the water anymore, usually instead there was always the clack of bo-staffs and the thunder of eight pairs of moving feet, his students stepping through their drills and exercises, pounding out their mark on the cave as much as the water’s flow behind every wall.

But tonight, there was quiet, but for the sluice of long-trapped cave waters and the whirring of the Batcomputer’s processors before him. The Batcomputer lived in the shell of its old self, a metal facade nestled into one of the cave’s corners, marked by screens of all shapes, sizes, and kinds, from the CRTs of days gone by side-to-side with high refresh rate digital monitors. The guts of the device had been torn out and reconfigured countless times over the years. It was retrofitted almost yearly with Waynetech processing units or anything of value other tech magnates had to offer. But, on the outside, it was still the same old Batcomputer, with thick clacking keys and hand-size buttons that had seemed almost futuristic for their time, but now sat heavily in their casing, thick with years of collected dust and wear.

Tonight, Bruce’s fingers tapped against the old keys, bouncing across his network, skimming GCPD data and what S.H.I.E.L.D. reports he could wrest from their crack cybersecurity team. More often than not, these were his nights as Batman -- hunched over his desk with a pot of coffee and braces for his hands that irritated his skin but kept his wrists firmly in place. He was piecing together those leads and intel that could give the rest of the Batman Incorporated team something to work from. Normally this would be Barbara’s job, but she was away, in the clutch of the stars on Bruce’s orders, working to ensure the success of his ‘Watchtower’ Program. He had determined that it would suit her, but since his talk with Jim, Bruce found himself glancing at the reflection of her first Batgirl suit in the dull screens of the Batcomputer. It was lit behind a glass pane at the far end of the room alongside the cavalcade of other defunct uniforms, left to collect nothing but dust and the ogling eyeballs of the young wards that passed the display case.

Most of the youths that came Bruce’s way were angry; loaded guns that needed direction and restraint, but Barbara was always different. Self assured and headstrong, ready to change the world by any means necessary, even if it meant a kooky costume and training from a nutcase dressed like a bat. Bruce thought that the Watchtower could give that to her, the world entire within her grasp. But there was a certain magic to the costume. The moments of weightlessness above the Gotham skyline, and the sight of the glittering beauty of the bay beyond. It was almost enough to distract from the muck and violence below.

“Access: A-004; Robin.” The Batcomputer’s mechanical voice chirped. Footsteps started down the Batcave’s long, stone cut stairwell that led from the broken grandfather clock in the manor to the fluorescent lights and sweat-and-oil smell of the Batcave.

“Damian,” Bruce swivelled in his chair to face his visitor, his son: Damian wore the Robin suit differently than his brothers had. Gone were the bright reds and yellows of the costume’s youth, instead replaced with swathes of black and green that wrapped up and around his body, as tall and wide as Bruce was, culminating in the dark hood that hung over his brown features.

“Father,” Damian’s fist thumped to his chest in greeting, hitting the gold ‘R’ symbol just over his heart, “the children are ready.” Bruce cocked an eyebrow.

“And are you?” Bruce asked. Damian stiffened, hiding his tension quietly as he had been taught, in the folds of his crossed arms and the gentle sway of his body from side to side. Sometimes, Bruce though, he looked less like a Robin and more like a bird of his own feathers, moving to whatever breezes suited him best.

“As ready as ever,” Damian reported. Damian’s eyes were concealed behind his green domino mask, but Bruce knew he was already scanning the Batcomputer’s readouts, counting down the seconds until his pupil’s body camera footage began to wink onto the screen.

“The kids will do fine,” Bruce said.

“That is the hope, yes,” Damian said. He forced a smile as Bruce turned back to face the bulk of the Batcomputer.

Bruce keyed a blue button the size of his hand and static fizzled across the Batcomputer’s assorted monitors in a wave, static giving way to all angles of Gotham’s harbor district. Some were from rooftops, sequestered among cranes and warehouses, watching the streetlights flicker into the night. Others were lower to the ground, hugging corrugated shipping crates spray-painted in garish colors, keeping eyes on anything and everything that moved. Each readout came with a name, a number, and a biometric panel -- heart rate, blood pressure, and all assorted vitals were accounted for. For this mission, it would be the children’s main lifeline.

Bruce reached forward, and stopped just short of pressing his microphone and giving the go-ahead to his operatives, their pupils. Damian had arrived to observe his student’s progress, but…

“Where’s Tim?” Bruce asked. In the reflections of his monitors, he saw Damian’s hand come up to stroke the beginnings of a beard forming at his chin.

“Red Robin said he had a ‘Hot Date’ tonight,” Damian grumbled, “and insisted we go on without him.” Bruce tapped the frame of the Batcomputer for a moment, and looked into the middle distance, his eyes settling on the flickering corner of an older monitor, winking back at him. Perhaps this was his way of protesting, Bruce thought. He had always wanted more safety nets for the kids, not this, not a real mission. Perhaps he was lying in wait out there, beyond the gaze of any of his students, waiting for the moment when they should need him. Once this was said and done, they’d need to have a talk. Bruce reached forward over the Batcomputer’s keyboard.

“Batman to Signal. Give me a sit-rep,” he said.

“Signal to Batman,” a green light sprung to life on one of the monitors as his first student’s voice came from the Batcomputer’s speakers, weighed down by a thin layer of static, “both teams are in position around the diamonds. No sign of our thief yet -- only real movement out here has been dock workers and homeless guys.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Signal, you have full operational control. Good luck. Batman over and out.” Bruce released the microphone and settled back into the arms of his chair.

“Guarding against a super thief that will never come,” Damian remarked, “you think that’s how it will go?”

Bruce steepled his fingers and let his eyes dart from monitor to monitor, listening to their radio chatter and watching every mite of movement. “No,” Bruce smiled, “not for a second.”

[Zoey Boey]

H A R L E Y ☺ Q U I N N

Doctor Harleen Quinzel, PsyD, skipped down the poorly lit streets of night time gotham. Her light blonde hair was tied into two long pig tails, one died pink, the other blue, with a matching color scheme for her eyeliner. Her outfit was quite simple, just a black sports bra and black gym hipster shorts, a red skirt and red crop top hanging rattily over both. Her right arm was in a cast. She was humming a tune, and in her left arm a baseball bat occasionally ringed against a metal fence post. Tucked against her chest, held aloft by her cast, was a bucket of ice cream.

Her sneakers scuffed the pavement as she came to a stop outside an abandoned, wrecked townhouse. The entire thing was overgrown with vines and plants, the bricks crumbling to dust.

Harley smiled, hopped up the broken steps, and rapped her pale white knuckles on the door. It swung open a few moments later, a flower emerged from the door frame and sprayed Harley in the face. She coughed, waving away the poison. The door was still open, leading into the absolutely swamped interior of the building. Rolling her eyes and smirking, she put on a dumb founded face and began to walk like a zombie down the twisted corridors. Alluring music echoed down the hall, and a femine voice beautifully sang a siren's song. Flowers twisted and writhed in a mesmering dance. Harley stomped down the hallways, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes.

Eventually she came to a large lobby like room where a pool had been created out of the center desk. The entire area was flooded. Large plants, ginormous creations, curled up the walls and swayed in tune to the singing. Various civilians and two cops danced in a circle with dumb smiles on their faces, holding hands and giggling together. Harley, pretending to be under the effects still, wandered into the middle of the room.

There, sitting in the pool with her arms over the edge, sat Poison Ivy, the enchantingly beautiful green lady super villaines. She looked over at Harley and smiled, but Harley could tell she didn't recognize her.

"Well, hello there." Ivy purred. Vines crept up Harley's legs and wrapped her arms against her torso. "Aren't you just a cute little thing?" Harley was lifted and carried closer to the forest nymph. "I'd love too- HARLEY!?" Poison Ivy threw her arms into the air in surprise and Harley was hurled across the room at a speed high enough to kill or seriously injure most normal people. She hit the wall with a thud and bounced, rolling to the ground, groaning in pain and laughing in delight at the same time.

"Ohh, ohohoho...oh, man. That's too bad. I liked where that was goin'." Harley clutched her cast that carried her broken arm and scooped up the ice cream bucket that she had dropped. She left her bat on the ground, for now. With a smile she got up into a crouching position. Poison Ivy would be bright red if she could turn that color anymore, and she was covering her face with her hands.

"Ugh! You are unbelievable!" Ivy chastised, sinking under the water's surface. Harley chuckled and hopped over the precipice of the circlular desk Ivy had made into her pool and sunk into the water, clothes and all.

"Been tellin' ya for years, Pamela. Ya need glasses! You're short sighted." Harley pulled down the skin of her cheek to make her eye look bigger.

"I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you without- without the-" Ivy emerged from the water and pointed at Harley's head. Harley ran a finger through her pigtails and shrugged. "Without the little jinglies, I know. No hat. No mask, no suit."

Ivy's eyes widened and she gasped. "I can't believe it. You actually-!?"

"Yup. Me and Mistah J? We're through. For good this time." Harley cut the air with an invisible knife. Ivy rushed forward across the pool and gave Harley a big hug. "Oh, Harley! I'm so proud of you!" Harley laughed again and looked Ivy in the face as they pulled apart.

"What's up with ya, Ivy? Seem to be in a good mood today." She quirked her head to the side.

"Oh, yeah. I'm high right now." Ivy said, sinking back to her corner of the pool, eyes closed. "Sorry I'm not as bitter as usual." She joked. Harley seemed taken aback.

"Wow! You figured out how ta get yaself high? Ain't there a joke about God makin' a rock so big even he couldn't lift it or somethin'?" She looked tilted her head again.

"Oh, I don't know. Doesn't sound like a very good joke, though. But yes, I did. I tried it on myself, and a diluted version on these...people." She waved to them dismissively. "And on you. I could give you the strong version, if you'd like."

"Naw, naw, I'm good for now. Need a clear head, 'cause I've been doin' some thinkin'. What's up with these guys, anyway? Thought you hated people." Harley glanced around as a police officer held his partner of his head.

"I do. I thought I might like them more if they learned to appreciate nature as much as I do. But no, not really. They're still pretty annoying. None of them are even that attractive." She said flippantly.

"Oh, yeah, I get it. So that was special treatment just for me, then." Harley said, smugly sticking her chin up. Ivy closed her eyes again and face palmed. "Ugh. You yourself said I needed new glasses. Clearly I do. Besides, if I had known it was you I would have thrown you much harder. Because, you, you know...tend to Bounce. But enough about me- you and Joker. You really dumped his sorry ass?" Ivy asked, leaning forward.

"Uh huh."

"Oh, no, he didn't do that to your arm, did he?" Ivy asked, her face twinged with concern and pre-emptive anger.

"Naw, that was me. I got drunk and got into a car accident on the way over here. This cast is just some lady's dress she left out to dry." She admitted with a shrug.

"Oh, poor girl." High Poison Ivy leaned forward to see Harley's arm but then looked around. "Leave us, you oafs. Go home and forget this ever happened, and don't come to this part of town again. I wish not to see you anymore." The party-goers seemed disappointed but trotted obediently out the door.

"Yeah, you oafs! Get outta here! Ya bums!" Harley called after them before looking back at Ivy with a self-satisfied look. Ivy rolled her eyes and then travelled closer to Harley, removing the cast and holding her broken arm. Surprisingly, it doesn't look that bad, but it was definitely broken.

"Like ya said, I Bounce. SHIELD-o prolly got me on a list, somewhere. It ain't too bad- never is, with me." Harley bragged.

"That's objectively untrue."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Batgirl punched your lights out plenty of times."

"That's- that's different. She hits real hard. And many times ovah, not just once. I can only Bounce so many times." Harley defended herself.

"Right. So it's only not bad when you get drunk and fling yourself through your window because you're dumb enough to not where your seatbelt." Poison Ivy chastised, already commanding her plants to concoct a potion.

"Wha- I did not go flyin' out my window!" Harley protested.

"So what's that glass sticking out of your shoulder?" Ivy indicated the small shard of glass with her eyebrow.

"That's...that's uh...okay." Harley finally came clean with a sheepish look.

"You're tough, Harley. You Bounce back. But you're not invincible, and you need to stop acting like you are." Poison Ivy ran some liquid over the broken arm, and Harley grunted as she felt it snap partially back into place.

"Yeowch." She said, rolling her shoulder. "Well, gee, sorry grandma. I'll be more careful next time." She plucked the glass out of her shoulder. There was a trickle of blood but moments later it sealed itself up. Over her several year stint as a supervillain she had picked up a few tricks, aswell as naturally being born with an X-gene that activated upon an unfortunate plunge into a vat of "chemicals." The ability to Bounce, and make other things Bounce. Definitely the most fun superpower of them all. Poison Ivy also gave her a dangerous potion that would kill most people and terrify most other people away. A rare concoction that permanently granted Harley a substance in her body that could regenerate almost all wounds very quickly, and gave her additional durability and enhanced strength.

"Good." There was one final snap, and Harley's arm was as good as new.

"Whaddya doin' in here, Ivy? All by your lonesome? I know it's been a while since we last saw each other. Whaddya been up too?" Harley asked as Ivy slid back to her side of the pool.

"Oh, I don't know. No one ever listens to me except you. The world is still going to shit. Batman stopped my plans over and over again. I only barely escaped last time. I don't know, Quinn. I'm just not feeling it anymore. Feel like nothing's changed. I've been doing this whole supervillain shtick for a long time." Ivy shifted, casing her eyes downwards a tiny frog leapt up on her raised index finger.

"Aw c'mon, Ivy. You ain't a villain! You're a hero! You're tryna save the world! What's more heroic then that?" Harley asked, trying to reassure her friend.

"No, I'm a villain. I'm morally right, but the definition fits. I'm trying to uproot (Ha!) the world as these so called heroes know it. Some people need to die. Or at least I thought they did. Clearly nothing's gotten better. So I've...just been hanging out, I suppose." Poison Ivy said.

"What about you? Now that you've dumped the Joker?"

"Well...I dunno." Harley said with a shrug, her voice getting quiet. "I've been...I've been thinkin' about gettin' into the hero business." She admitted, her pale face flushing a little red. Pamela blinked, narrowing her eyes and raising an eyebrow.

"Huh. I...I never pegged you for the type."

"Y-you don't think it's stupid?"

"No, it's pretty stupid." Ivy responded bluntly. Harley laughed, but her face fell nonetheless. "But when have you ever let that stop you before?" Ivy added with a smirk.

"Aah..." Harley's face brightened and she smiled wide, thinking about that. "...ahaha. Ha-ha, hahahahaahahahaaah! Haha!" She laughed joyously, her giggle fit wracking her whole body in the way that it always did. Unlike her crueller male counter-part, Harley's laugh could actually brighten a room instead of bringing terror. Though, she could certainly do the latter, depending on what she was enjoying at the time.

"Oh, man. When ya right, ya right. Thanks, Pam. You always know what to say." Harley's heart swelled with confidence. "Okay. I'm gonna do it. I'm really gonna do it. I'm gonna show those bums out there what Harley Quinn can really be. Not some sidekick, not some boring two-bit criminal. They're gonna love me. There's gonna be Halloween outfits with my name on 'em! They're gonna give me a key to the city! By the time I'm done, Batman will be nothin' but a footnote on my heroic legacy! I'm gonna save the friggin' world and make a boat load of cash doin' it!" By the end of her speech she was standing and shouting, her fists clenched triumphantly in the air.

(Oh God, what have I done?) "Um, that's great Harls. But, uh...how? Most people think you're just the Joker's looney girlfriend." Ivy said, trying to reign in her friend. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to work. Harley put a hand to her chin, thought for a moment, then shrugged.

"Haven't thought that far ahead yet. I'll figure it out. I'm gonna put a crew together. Maybe I need to take a roadtrip outta Gotham to get some perspective, see what's out there. Maybe I'll start by icin' some jackass that has it comin'. Whatever I come up with, when I'm done, I'll come back here and help you outta your funk, too." Harley Quinn stepped out of the pool, soaking wet, her smile bigger and brighter than ever. She fetched her baseball bat and rested it on her shoulder, and placed a hand on her hip. Ivy couldn't help but giggle at the sight, Harley's enthusiasm was infectious.

"Well, all right. I look forward to it, Harleen. Good luck out there." She said. Harley nodded and began to strut out the door before she stopped and turn around.

"Oh. I brought ya some ice cream." She pointed at the tub sitting on the edge of the pool.

"Huh? Ice cream?" Ivy squinted at the tub like she just noticed it. "Is it vegan?" She asked.

"Wuh-" Harley was confused. "Whaddya mean? It's ice cream."

"But is it vegan?" Ivy asked again, seeming a little irritated.

"Well- I dunno. I didn't know there was such a thing as ice cream with meat innit."

"That's not- Is it made of cow milk?"

"Probably? What other type of milk is there?"

"Then it's not vegan. It comes from a cow. That's animal byproduct."

"Oh, come on, the cow's still alive! Ice cream shouldn't count!"

"Oh, really? How would you like it if I kept you in a cage and milked you all day long!?"

"..."

"Oh, for fuck-" Ivy stammered, momentarily flustered. "Look, there's almond milk, and coconut milk that can be used to make ice cream. That's vegan ice cream."

Harley laughed a dismissive bark. "Yeah right. Coconuts don't have boobs, they can't give milk."
"Oh my G- are you rea- it's ground up coconuts, it's a byproduct of the fruit!"

"Then it should be called coconut juice. Ya gonna drink apple milk? Orange milk? No."
Ivy clenched her fists under the water and sneered. "Just leave! Just go! And take your slave cream with you!" Ivy commanded with a straight armed point out the exit corridor.

"Alright, alright! I'm goin'! Yeesh!" Harley raised her free hand defensively and gathered up the ice cream, shuffling herself out the door. "Bye Ivy!"

Poison Ivy scoffed into her facepalm. "Bye, Harley." Then, she was gone, and Ivy was left to her lonely peace and quiet. Meanwhile, Harley, a new woman, skipped out of Ivy's place and took a big whiff of the smoggy Gotham night air.

"Okay, world. Wait 'till you get a load-a this." Then she turned and vanished into an alley, one of the many back passages she knew like the back of her hand.

[mickilennial]

“A Crescent Moon”
Part 1

---

The dreams are back.

Terrible, unintelligible dreams. A nightmare. A nightmare from Khonshu.

But I know it’s a nightmare from Khonshu, because… he was there.

The last time I can remember seeing Khonshu was months ago. The week I had sought out a cult of lunatics operating underneath Queens like a bunch of goddamn morlocks. Cannibals. Cannibals who targeted people in the night who happened to turn the wrong corner at the wrong time. People who they thought would be missed. It was a mistake that quickly caught up with them.

It puzzles me why I haven’t been able to hear Khonshu for this long, but I can’t question him. I won’t. Not when he shows me images, abstract as they might be, on a daily basis. Tonight he showed me New York in peril. Times Square on fire. Skeletal birds flying backwards, underwater. Distorted screams of terror and anger. A dark howl that brought me to my knees before feeling every bone in my body twist and jerk. The only thing distinct I can remember beyond Khonshu’s figure was a few buildings in Queens before a blood-stained door is slammed shut. There’s not much before it all rewinds to Khonshu who points outward before my eyes jolt open in my apartment.

“…as the police investigate a warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen that was burn—”

Click. My TV cuts off as I slam my hand on the remote as I stare dead-eyed into my ceiling.

I need to start looking into strange activity in Queens.

My attacks on the Maggia will have to wait.

I should’ve expected Khonshu to speak up, in his own way, eventually. I need to commit the images given to me to memory and solve this problem before it becomes somebody else's.

The Daily Bugle only covers my kind of crazy if I let it get out of hand or it flies in front of Jameson’s nose. I’m not under a microscope like the kid in red or anyone else for that matter. I was an urban legend before the Chitauri decided to say hello to my neighborhood. Or at least I thought so. SHIELD made it seem like they knew everything about everyone. Didn’t matter who you were as long as they had a play to call you up. Surrounded by gods and science accidents I felt like I was the sane one. Me. The one with the god in his head. But I guess there's a first time for everything.

I move off my bed... and headfirst into the floor. There is an aching pain in my skull and I can't tell if its the bad scotch or the prophetic nightmares.

Probably both.

I call out for Marlene.

After a few seconds of silence, I realize she’s not here. She's not going to turn the corner with some painkillers in hand and I can get up to my feet and prepare for the next fight with any form of hope for the future.

Marlene is gone.

She’s been gone for sixteen months and she is never coming back.

[Zoey Boey]

B L A C K ⧗ W I D O W

in collaboration with @Mao Mao

Agent Briana Ayers stood near a black minivan, designated for diplomatic missions, with notepads for the security team. She was assigned to debrief them about the strange invitations that ended up at embassy offices across Africa. One of the diplomats, an American, that received the invitation was waiting in the van. In fact, the diplomats invited to Wakanda represented five of the ten major countries in the United Nations. No one else was allowed besides security, but they were required to be searched before entering both the plane and palace grounds.

Briana saw both Black Widow and U.S. Agent exiting out of the SHIELD headquarters. She approached them and introduced herself, "You must be the security team. Were you briefed on the assignment?"

Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, came to a stop and nodded. "Yes. But there can never be too much repetition." She said politely. As someone who had dealt with self-destructing messages her entire life, being told her orders more than once was a luxury. Natasha held her hands behind her back, while US Agent crossed his arms.

Ambassador Aiden Fitzgerald was still trying to make sense of his story. It was hard to believe, after all. Even SHIELD didn't believe him until other diplomats confirmed the invitation. He was caught off guard when the van door opened, but relaxed when it was just Agent Ayers. She made her way to the passenger seat while the security team entered the van. Then, he saw Black Widow. It was surprising to see an Avenger so close, but it was so relieving that he was essentially protected for any possible threat to his life.

"Black Widow?! I-I can't believe you're here!" Aiden extended his hand out to her. "My wife is going to freak out when I tell her about this!"

Natasha smiled politely back, accepting the Ambassador’s handshake. "I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Fitzgerald, sir." She said. It was a feeling she still had to get used too, people reacting to her like this. Even if it was based on ignorance, since she doubted most people would trust her if they knew of her past.

US Agent shuffled in as well. Natasha looked at Walker and raised her eyebrows, and he rolled his eyes. "We’ll be here to make sure everything goes smoothly.” She explained, turning back to the Ambassador. Also, it was a bit of a PR move, but she wasn’t complaining. An easy but not boring assignment was just what she needed.

“Good.”

The minivan began driving off and heading towards the airport that the invitation said to go to. Agent Briana turned around and handed them the notepads. It contained statements for witnesses that received the invitations before they dissolved. Along with footage showing the individuals that delivered them to the embassy offices. “These notepads contain more information regarding the invitations along with the diplomats targeted. All of them are part of countries in the UN Security Council. We’re still figuring out why them, but we have a few theories. Ambassador, share your story with them.”

Aiden took a deep breath and started to tell his story. “Yesterday, I was returning to the office for trade talks with Madagascar. I was notified that a letter of credence was waiting in my office. It was a surprise for me, but I thought it was nothing too serious. When I opened the envelope, I immediately saw it. It wasn’t like invitations that I received before. It was animating the message and info. But before I could’ve shown it to someone, it dissolved in my hand! I thought it was an acid attack, but it didn’t melt my hand off.”

“Our technicians think that it was some sort of pre-programmed molecular disassembly.” Briana added.

“At first, I thought that I had gone mad and made the whole thing up. But thankfully, other diplomats reported the same thing and I felt relieved. Now, I’m here on a special mission to establish relations with Wakanda.” Aiden finished his story and quickly added in his thoughts. “You know, when I saw the words ‘King of Wakanda’ on the invitation, I honestly thought it wasn’t real.”

Black Widow scanned through the documents while listening to the story, nodding along. "That sounds like a very high tech piece of paper. It seems to me like the Wakandans have a flair for the dramatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was only the first step of an impressive set of escalations." Natasha said, looking up at Aiden, Briana, and then US Agent. If her geo-political instincts were right, then it looked like the third and funnest option was becoming more and more likely. What was Wakanda up too, all by herself with no one watching her too closely? Black Widow liked to think she was above base thrill-seeking as a part of her work, but even she had to admit she was getting excited. She glanced over to Walker, who only seemed to be annoyed.

“Why’d they have to be all mysterious? Couldn’t they just come out and say what they want?” He asked.

“You have to consider the fact that their isolationist policy has been enacted since their independence. They denied foreign aid and refused to join both the United Nations and the African Union. Now, this could be our chance to convince Wakanda’s new king to reconsider his country’s policy.” Aiden answered.

“Or maybe he’s reaching out to us.” Briana interrupted him as she was staring at the airfield. There was a futuristic private jet with the color schemes of Wakanda’s flag painted on. As the minivan approached the jet, there were other diplomats boarding the jet and being searched by the rather out-of-place security. But nothing unusual stood out. When the minivan stopped nearby, the SHIELD agent turned to the passengers.

“Be extra careful. Make sure that you contact us once you land on the other side.”

Natasha nodded to the SHIELD agent, and then to Walker. Switching into a fully professional persona, she stepped out of the van first, then followed US Agent. Afterwards she went to the Ambassador’s side of the van and opened the door for him, keeping an eye on the airplane and the surrounding area for any potential threats. Her situational awareness was instinctual, she could maintain high levels alert without ever being mentally exhausted. A skill many people underestimate in its importance. ”Right this way, sir.” She said, coolly but with a reassuring authority. Inwardly she wondered if she could relax a little bit, but she didn’t want to let an ego get in the way of her job. Just because she was an Avenger didn’t mean she shouldn’t pay mind to the basics of security. She wanted to do SHIELD proud.

The troop approached the airplane and Natasha looked to the nearest member of Wakandan security. ”I’m Natasha Romanov, the security leader for Ambassador Aiden Fitzgerald. This is my associate, John Walker. We’re here by the request of the King of Wakanda.” She stood with her arms folded in front of her. A polite, respectful, but practical pose to ensure she could switch into a combat stance or draw her pistol in a fraction of a second. Right now though, she would let the Wakandans take the lead. This was, after all, their show. They had brought the impressive jet and sent the mysterious letters.

Security Chief Aviwe scanned the security team and then whispered to one of the guards to watch them. She made sure that they were unable to listen in and called General Okoye. But to make sure that outsiders were unable to listen in, she began talking in Wakandan.

Meanwhile, Aiden and his security waited in awkward silence for the chief to return. He noticed how their uniform incorporated both traditional and modern wear without appearing too foreign. To him, it was unusual in a good way. Aviwe returned and turned to the guards, “The security team has been approved. Scan them.”

Immediately, two guards pulled apart their spears and advanced towards them. Then, they used the tip as a handheld metal detector. Aiden was the first to be scanned and he was good to go. But, it began to beep repeatedly when it scanned both Natasha and John, but Aviwe avoided it and stared at the outsiders. “You can keep your weapons, but you will surrender them once we land. If you understand, follow me to your seats.”

”Of course.” Natasha said, impressed by the operation. Those spears had some fancy tech. Metal detectors. They must have dozens of different models for different uses. No doubt they were more than just ceremonial. It had been a long time since she had not been able to understand a language. She understood most of the major ones. One thing about Africa though was the sheer volume of unique languages. No one could possibly understand them all unless they had some sort of power related to it. And unfortunately, the UN had no translators trained in the Wakandan language.

She was surprised they were letting her keep her weapons on the plane. That was a good sign. Still, she had to be wary. Fortunately they couldn’t confiscate her lethal hand-to-hand combat skills. Well, they could but...not without a diplomatic incident. Natasha smirked briefly to herself, enjoying her own humor.

John Walker nodded seriously and followed Natasha onto the plane. Natasha glanced around, exploring the environment with her eyes.

The first thing that they noticed was how massive it was inside for being a private jet. There were enough for the diplomats and their security escort. And each one of them was waiting in their seats for takeoff. When Aiden and his security team sat down at their seats, the guards entered and took their positions throughout the jet. Then, a voice began to speak on its PA system. It asked for the passengers to prepare for takeoff. And within moments, the jet took off and began heading for its destination.

Natasha sat down across the from Aiden, her presence reassuring. With a sigh she settled in, adjusting her weapons so she could be comfortable. She saw Walker sit down a few seats ahead, the back of his helmeted head looking out of place in the luxurious atmosphere. She did as well, with her black and red tactical suit. But her red hair was well-kempt and formally tied up into a bun. She looked over out the window as the Switzerland headquarters fell farther and farther away, as they zoomed over the Mediterranean Sea and into Africa itself, the continent from which all human life first emerged. Natasha wondered what the Wakandans had in store for everyone. She looked forward to finding out.

[Pacifista]

_{Location: Belize City, Belize}

A Green God, A Green Devil – 1.02

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: 1.01

“They’re not my kids,” admitted a bulky man wearing only shorts and a loose, open shirt.

His partner in guard duty, resting by the door in a folding chair with an AK at his side, couldn’t hide a light grimace and roll of his eyes. Slouching down, he reached a lanky arm to scratch an itch on his back that didn’t want to go away. Trying to keep his mind of things, Arnold pulled a phone out of his cargo pants, skimming through a mess of apps in search of a time waster, something to keep his mind off things.

Hearing some slur or curse word echo out from behind him, Arnold turned his head. Newer to the group, having come around from El Salvador, he hadn’t fully acclimated to the norm. Looking out from the entryway, he saw the moored ‘Indignation’, their shipping vessel, and the stretches of warehouse around it dedicated to either storage (a crane bolted firmly in the ground propped nearby), or production, makeshift rooms with walls of translucent plastic letting off fumes of god knows what the chemists were working on. The voice actually seemed to come from the catwalks above, a few men patrolling, except two who were in each other’s face, the prior insult having developed into a budding fistfight. Another voice called out, the two looking over to the room mounted to the corner of the rooftop ceiling, seeing their employer in its open window, before reluctantly separating.

Arnold didn’t care for the work, but it paid well and it was easy. People were smart enough not to fuck with any kind of cartel usually, and between pilot and navigator, they could avoid any patrols and generally keep out of danger on the open sea. Considering how various local families benefited with members in other regions working for their sake, the area was pretty quiet and generally overlooked, and many of there spots elsewhere were no different. Considering the poison, or whatever it was, that got made and passed around to allied or unaffiliated crime groups for use in warfare, Arnold generally didn’t feel too bad about what they did, even though he knew it wasn’t right. But that was before today, when their boss ordered an abduction. Children, innocent children. Swallowing, he shook his head and went back to his phone. If he thought any more about it, his anger would bubble, but he knew it couldn’t go anywhere, else he’d be shot dead and left as fish food in the middle of the ocean.

As if to purposely pull his attention away, there was a rapping on the door. Two knocks, the fist requesting a welcome. Arnold looked to his shift partner, just as confused, before the two stood, grabbing their rifles. It wasn’t their usual procedure, and they hadn’t gotten word from any lookouts over their walkies yet.

“What the fuck is that by the door?” crackled the devices scattered around the warehouse. Arnold took it back. Look to his partner, they flanked the side door, the larger shutter nearby rusted closed and in no need of use. Reaching his hand for the door, Arnold gently twisted it.

The world came down around him. With a crash, the sheet metal walls and the door separating them from the outside crumbled down, flattening the two guards. The force dislodged dust untouched in years, debris partly obscuring a massive form as it shuffled in carelessly. Standing tall, the Hulk’s disgruntled gaze elicited grunts of surprise. But the Hulk did not turn his attention on them, they were bugs. Rifle fire raining down, the Hulk winced at the noise as he walked, unfettered. Occasionally a hand would brush away at an itchy spot that had recently met several bullets that had been traveling at 700 meters per second (only to stop dead, bouncing off his skin like it was a BB gun against tires). Mosquitoes were more dangerous to men in comparison, but unlike these gunners, mosquitoes were quiet.

That made Hulk mad.

Looking to a gun poking out of the plastic wrapped lab, Hulk reached in and yanked a screaming man out. Tossing him up and catching him again like he was a baseball, he turned to the catwalks. Pulling his arm back, he sent the man flying. He crashed into the railing, made of reclaimed scrap as it was, and shook the whole walkway. The two gunners behind the railing were knocked back as their shielding buckled and broke, the man shaped projectile knocking them down. Rocking back and forth, weak ties shattered, bolts knocking loose, the walkway they were on spilled them off unceremoniously. As the walkway hung, dangling above the ground, its former occupants lay on the floor, broken.

The rest of the warehouse had gone quiet, those remaining too starstruck to think about retaliating. Only one of them was capable of looking on without shock or distress. Those kind of things were alien to Jagger. Casually sitting in his office, one hand loosening the collar of his cheap dress shirt and briefly adjusting a gold chain, he merely watched as the Hulk moved about, ripping open the lab and kicking down tables of valuable equipment and product as if searching for something. Jagger looked to his right hand, the man expressing what he recognized to be bewilderment, fear, and anger. Jagger knew it wasn’t the time to put on any of those masks: he was calm, he liked being calm, and if there was a time for calmness, this was it.

“He wants the kids.” Jagger knew. The Hulk wasn’t a user, that was for sure. The musculature was too clean, refined. Even true Venom had a tinge of the aberrant in those utilizing it, let alone Jagger’s knock off. But there was an appeal to that. Looking down at the boat, still docked, unnoticed by the Hulk, he saw a few heads poking out, trying to get a bearing on things. Before any more violence broke out, Jagger spoke into his walkie, “Let the kids go.” A moment past, the Hulk looking around at the walkies echoing his voice, before he turned his gaze on him, standing by his window. “Just spook them a little first.”

The Hulk bared his teeth, moments before gunfire echoed from the boat, followed by children screaming in terror. The Hulk looked on, feet shuffling as he went to move into action, but hesitation reeled him in. Daring just a bit, he placed one foot on the boat, his weight shifting the whole thing, more cries of shock coming out. He retreated back a step, before a green eye glared up at Jagger, the boss feeling an uncharacteristic chill tingled in his neck. One he’d only felt twice before. Once was first time he stared down the barrel of a gun as a child, a brief feeling that went away the follow minute while he was beating the teen’s face in with a pipe. The second was when he watched Hurricane Iris rip the world around him apart, the one time in his life he felt truly helpless. And so Jagger smiled, letting the beat of his heart overcome that chill. He was deeply looking forward to the chance to bring this monster to his knees.

[mickilennial]

“Intergalactic Space Crusaders”
Part 1

---

“Well. This is a big rock.”

Sojourner Mullein mused as she approached the piece of rock that was in the immediate domain of the rings of Saturn.

“Correct. It is similar in scale to the one that destroyed Cyza Uranlax 6.”

Jo nodded, understand the weight of the situation. Cyza Uranlax 6. Hit by an inorganic object that caused a planet to excise all life from its surface upon impact. It was a basic frame of reference for anybody who had been a cadet and stuck learning about Green Lantern protocol, jurisdiction, and galactic history.

She called up her lantern, restoring her energy to full power. It was going to take a lot to take this down with no other support. Could Superman even breathe in space? She didn't know. She wasn't sure Superman knew. That left her by herself unless J'onn showed up, which she didn't anticipate happening. Gosh, she wished this was something that had happened before Sinestro had lost his god damn mind and went dark into deep space. The last time she saw her former partner he was staring down a Skrull battleship in the neutral zone.

“Have any other lanterns responded to the alert?”

“Sinestro's replacement is still in-training for this sector. Somar-Le and Dalor of Sector 2813 have not responded at this time. Arisia Rrab and Ebikar Hrui of Sector 2815 are on their way. They will not make it on time.”

“Just me and impending doom. Got it. Cool.”

She took a hefty breath as she punched her closed fist into the lantern as the glowing ring and lantern glowed in the darkness of space.

Just part of the job. She knew that.

As she moved her hand away from the lantern and it vanished back into its pocket dimension, she focused on the inbound potentially-earth-destroying object as her eyes glowed brighter and brighter. Sinestro would’ve said something pragmatic and cold in the face of this she was sure. “Whose will is stronger, young Lantern?” echoed in her mind, though Sinestro had never led her against a gigantic asteroid before. She chuckled as she began channeling her will through the ring.

Before long the energy construct had warped itself around her into a form of a giant armo of gigantic size.

It was the first thing that came to her mind; and it was time to kick rocks.

“AYA. Hypothetical question. Charging into the weakest, central point of the asteroid will divert its course and avoid the problem, right?”

“Hypothetically.” The AI paused, as if mocking her, “Calculations would say so, yes. But the debris would be flung in various directions in the sector at equative speeds. You would have to do ‘clean up’.”

“Good enough for me.”

“My program is speculating that this was not a hypothetical question.”

“Yeah, well, shut up. Got a date with the rock and I'm not talking about the actor.”

As AYA noted her response the construct around her clenched its fists as they flew forward as fast as they could. By the time they collided, by all estimations, she would be punching the rock at full velocity in front of Jupiter. NASA was certainly going to have a field day making sense of what nearly just happened. But at the very least Earth didn't have to have a second ice age so soon.

Thank Oa for that.

[webboysurf]

_{San Antonio, Texas - Present Day}

Issue 1.02.01: This is a Hold Up

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.01.06: The Outlaws

Violet sighed as she knelt down next to the other hostages. She placed her hands behind her head, and watched as the bank robbers began going person by person down the line, stealing handbags and wallets. Violet grimaced as she saw them getting closer and closer. She took a deep breath as they finally arrived to her. She felt the cold steel press against the back of her head as the individual leaned forward, his hot breath rolling over he neck. "Purse, wallet... Everything in the bag."

Violet took a deep breath. "No... I think I'm good."

The next moment was a familiar blur. She was yanked up to her feet, a gun placed to her head, as there was shouting. Violet kept her eyes closed as she was dragged towards the front of the bank, in sight of the gathering cops and onlookers through the glass front doors. She looked out at the gathering SWAT trucks and the like, seeing the guns turning in their direction. She took a deep breath, shut her eyes again.

In the next moments, things were a blur. She heard the power being shut off, but then heard a hail of bullets behind her. Violet's eyes bolted open as she turned her gaze over his shoulder. She saw some flashes of light coming from the upstairs balcony as one of the fellow bank robbers began firing at something out of sight, only for the criminal to fall back as as an arrow pierced his shoulder. The robbers aimed their guns up towards the balcony, just as two figures emerged from the shadows. One was a man clad in a red jumpsuit, sporting a quiver and backwards hat as he looked down at the scene from behind a pair of wrap-around red sunglasses. The other individual sported a red hoodie and a red mask to obscure his entire face, two sidearms brandished. The bank robbers looked up shocked for a moment. Violet's eyes locked on the man with the bow and arrow for a moment, before her eyebrows knit in frustration as the gun pressed against her head was aimed towards the balcony. "Shit."

The bank robbers, frustrated by the situation, began opening fire. Roy and Jason quickly vaulted over the railing towards their targets. With ease, Roy knocked back two arrows and let them fly while in mid-air, impaling two of the bank robbers in their shoulders. Their guns slid across the ground as they released their grips to clutch at their bleeding wounds. Jason, on the other hand, wasn't as merciful. He let loose a barrage of bullets at two other bank robbers, and they fell limp to the ground. All that was left was the man holding Violet hostage. Roy and Jason both aimed their weapons at him. "Put the gun down and no one else has to get hurt, man."

The bank robber opened his mouth to speak, but only let loose a loud grunt as Violet thrust her elbow into his gut. In one swift motion, she moved a hand up to grasp at the gun he was holding, ripping it away and using it to club her captor across the jaw with a quick spin. He hit the ground hard, clearly unconscious. Violet turned her gaze back towards the two vigilantes, sighing as she walked past them. "We need to move, now."

Jason turned his gaze towards Roy, his expressionless mask somehow sending the message of confusion to his partner. The archer simply shrugged his shoulders in response, forcing Jason to call out, "What, no thank you?"

"You're welcome." Violet moved towards the back of the bank, opening up a door into a maintenance closet. In the center of the small room was a large uneven hole and some debris, a clear sign of a tunnel having been blown open. Violet looked back towards the two vigilantes. "We need to move. Now."

Roy's face was washed over with understanding as he swore under his breath, jogging forward to meet his sister. Jason turned back towards the former hostages, who were starting to slowly rise to their feet confused. His voice was harsh and gutteral as he shouted at them. "Go. Now." He walked backwards towards the closet, sliding his guns into holsters on his belt.

Roy looked down into the hole that gave way to a shallow tunnel, then back at his sister. "Career criminal, huh? That's what you do now?"

Violet rolled her eyes, kicking off her heels and jumping down into the tunnel, looking back up to her brother. "Lecture me later. Sometime after we avoid getting arrested."

Roy turned his gaze away to Jason as he approached, gritting his teeth. "Fucking... alright. Move." Without another word, Roy quickly jumped in to the tunnel behind Violet, and Jason followed. Violet led the way down the rather smoothly crafted tunnel, moving at a light jog while ducking her head to avoid smashing it on the low ceiling. The only light came from glow sticks lining the sides of the small tunnel casting an eerie green glow.

The others followed, Jason calling up ahead with his modulated voice. "You were a plant."

Violet shook her head as they continued forward. "Please, I'm much more than that." She continued until the tunnel seemed to reach an end with some sort of strange covering. She quickly lifted a hand to press against the top left of the panel, and a click was heard as it swung out. On the other side was a wine cellar, with a table set up with a few white chef's coats and duffle bags set up. Violet turned her gaze towards the other two. "Just throw those on over what you've got, and throw the hero shit in the bags. You've got thirty seconds."

Roy and Jason took no time in quickly removing their respective "face coverings" and weapons, tossing them into their own duffel bags. Violet, in the meantime, quickly moved to push the large wine rack back to cover up the entrance to the tunnel as she threw on the white chef's coat over her white blouse. She slipped on some loafers that were off to the side and moved towards stairs on the other end of the room, lifting her wrist to check her watch. "Time's up. Let's roll."

Roy and Jason finished adjusting their chef's jackets as they brought the bags, following Violet up the stairs into a kitchen filled with chefs hard at work. Violet seemed to duck through the line cooks with ease, while Jason and Roy kept bumping and squeezing past the kitchen staff. Violet walked through a door on the other side of the kitchen and out into a back alleyway, where a blue sedan was parked and waiting for her. She looked back at the other two as they caught up, shaking her head. "I'll meet you two at the diner on Elston in two hours. Try to be on time for once, Speedy." She leaned forward, kissed her brother on the cheek, and then quickly opened the driver's side door and slammed it behind her. The car sped off and turned right out of the alleyway as police cars and sirens screamed past the alleyway in the opposite direction. Roy and Jason were left standing there dumbfounded for a moment.

"Did she just-"

"Yeah... that's my sister."

[Retired]

D O O M P A T R O L

---

Susan Storm could hear the telltale notes of a violin accompanied by flutes from down the hallway. As she walked down the wide, immaculate corridor and neared the source she brushed her golden locks behind her right ear, tilting her head towards the sounds. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major as performed by Joseph Joachim, the young scientist identified. Sue had heard the composition more times than she could recall in the last handful of years and she knew it's meaning all too well.

Good, Sue thought. He's in an excellent mood today.

In all the time she had known Victor Von Doom, he had always been a lover of classical music. And, almost a decade-and-a-half since their first meeting and nearly five years since their first date, Susan could tell how the man was feeling based entirely on his choice of composition. This particular piece, she knew, indicated he was in high spirits. The first time she had heard this particular violinist's performance had been the day following the first kiss she and Victor had shared. The latest was during their exploratory voyage into the Microverse the previous year.

Given Victor's recent frustrations over his current project and its elusive solution, the lightly dancing concerto was a pleasant and welcome surprise.

She stepped through the open doorway of Victor's personal laboratory. His "castle" as he called it. The Future Foundation boasted many spaces dedicated to scientific research and development, including the central room that took up the majority of the fourth floor that had been assigned as the testing facility for the Doom Patrol upon the group's formation. Victor, though, had always preferred tinkering in his smaller - though still substantive - lab tucked away amongst a corner of the fifth floor.

Unlike the main facility, Victor's laboratory was largely devoid of technological marvels that the former room displayed. Instead, here the walls were proudly adorned with art. Large canvas paintings, charcoal sketches, and sculptures alike covered nearly every visible space from the hallway to the central area where Victor sat. Sue recognized numerous famous works and pieces from the Birth of Venus and The Persistence of Memory by painters Sandro Botticelli and Salvador Dalí respectively, to some of Georgia O'Keeffe's charcoal drawings, to the classic image of The Nefertiti Bust sculpted of limestone settled into a recessed shelf in the wall.

Every one of them was a replica. The most expertly done replicas she could imagine existing, with every single piece of art displayed in the room entirely indistinguishable from the original. Susan doubted even Botticelli himself could be pressed to find a discernable difference. And each of them had been painted, drawn, or sculpted by Victor Von Doom.

Sue mused that, in another lifetime, had Victor taken a different path in life, he would have made an impressive criminal and perhaps the greatest forger in history.

As she neared closer to Victor's desk, where she could see the dark-haired man hunched over and hard at work, Sue's eyes drifted up to stare briefly at the massive portrait mounted directly above the desk. It covered nearly the entire expanse of the wall and was visibly dominant amongst all of the other art pieces present. The painting depicted a woman in her mid-twenties with shoulder-length, sun-touched hair. Striking sapphire eyes that slightly peered down as if watching over Victor as he worked, and a subtle, soft smile that Victor had often described as "a heart melter" completed the beautiful piece.

Susan's lips uplifted to match the painted smile. Her hair was longer now, but Victor had done such an amazing job capturing the image of his model that it was impossible not to recognize the visage of Sue Storm. There had been a time where she had genuinely been embarrassed by the portrait, or at least by its dramatic prominence. She had more than a few times over the last four years when it had first been erected onto the wall urged Victor to paint a smaller, subtler version if not remove it entirely. But now, Susan couldn't deny she appreciated the display, though she would never admit that out loud. After all, of all the replicated famous pieces of world-wide renown Victor had done over the years, her portrait was still to this day the only original painting he had ever completed.

At the same moment that she rested a gentle hand atop Victor's shoulder the melody of the concerto immediately died down. Sue wasn't surprised. No matter how engrossed in his work he became, Victor had never failed to notice her presence. Early on in their relationship, Susan had attempted numerous times to teasingly sneak up on the man by using her abilities to bend light around her body, rendering herself invisible, but Victor had still known she was there. Once or twice he had even played along with her ruse, feigning surprise, but Sue could tell he had known.

It was one of the many things she adored about him; how well Victor knew her.

"Hey, handsome." She leaned down and kissed his left temple. "Hope I'm not distracting you."

Victor's fingers were a blur as he continued typing away. Susan glanced at the multiple screens before him and noticed the rapid scroll of mathematical equations. For several seconds there was no response to her words.

Then, the clacking of his fingers against keys ceased and the numbers and symbols on the screens slowed to a halt. Victor pressed a single button to his right side and the computer monitors went dark.

Spinning around with a wide grin across his face and excitement in his eyes, he spoke. "You are many things, Susan, but you are never a distraction."

Sue didn't bother to conceal the smile his words gave her. Even after years of being together, Victor's compliments and affirmations made her heart soar. He never once made her feel unloved or like she came secondary to anything else. She was his world, his soul, his desire. Those were the words he had spoken to her on that incredible day just eight months ago.

"Joseph Joachim, huh?" She said, her eyes searching his.

Victor chuckled lightly. "You know me too well."

"Should I break out the champagne, or?"

"Susan," he said rising out of his chair. "You should definitely break out the champagne."

"You've done it?" She asked with wonder.

"I'm very confident."

Susan's smile deepened at that. Victor was almost always very confident.

"I bet," she said teasingly.

"It's now only a matter of adapting my newest calculations to the drive. Shouldn't take more than a day or two at the most. Then we can begin our proper test run," he elaborated.

"The boys will be excited to hear the news, I'm sure," Sue added as she slowly rocked forward onto her tiptoes.

Victor took a half-step toward her so that their torsos brushed together. Lowering his head to match her slighter stature, he spoke in a softer tone and peered deeply into her blue eyes. "I suppose we should celebrate the occasion, then."

"Yes," Susan agreed as she moved forward to press her lips against his. "We should definitely celebrate."

Sue Storm felt her fiance's hands encircle her waist and heard the soft swell of music fill the chamber again. Victor Von Doom was certainly in an excellent mood that day, and so too was she.

[webboysurf]

I R O N M A N

_{Stark Tower, New York City - Present Day}

Issue 1.01.02: That's My Tech

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.01.01: Never a Dull Day

"JARVIS, I need energy readings ASAP. Tell me they don't have a working reactor." Tony watched as the light inside of the cannon grew, beginning to spill out from the edges of the barrel. As the light seemed to be reaching a breaking point, Tony shifted his arms, causing him to spin towards the left. He managed to duck out of the way just in time as a large beam of energy shot out of the cannon. Tony recognized it as a repulsor blast, and watched as the energy shot out into the sky above, missing any skyscrapers due to the angle. Tony shook his head. Too close.

"Sir... the energy readings appear to be inconsistent with your Arc Reactor. It appears they are using some sort of industrial battery that is draining quickly."

Tony continued rocketing towards the truck, flexing his fingers and toes ever so much to increase the power of his repulsor thrusters. "Let's go with the standard fireworks, JARVIS." A small slot opened up along the back right shoulder, revealing a small cluster of missiles in the armor. Tony's eyes locked on towards the large van mounted with the cannon, aimed more towards the front cab of the van. As his eyes hovered over where the driver was, a red circle locked in on the location. Without another second's hesitation, a single rocket shot out fast towards the van. It broke in through the front window as Tony steered his course away from the van and towards the armed terrorists, the explosion ripping the van apart. Tony landed with one knee and one fist planted on the ground, the glowing blue eyes of the suit turning up and passing over the several hostiles who seemed to turn their own gazes towards each other in confusion. "Come on, this is not how you ask for directions to the zoo."

The terrorists raised their rifles up towards the Iron Man, letting loose a hail of bullets. Unsurprisingly, the bullets simply ricocheted off the metal armor. Yet, they continued firing until their clips had been unloaded. Seeing as they didn't even get a scratch on him, they seemed to be taken aback with a level of fear. Tony, with a bemused smirk underneath his mask, raised his hands up with his palms facing out. "Alright, my turn." Moving like a well oiled machine, the Iron Man fired repulsors to pick off the terrorists one by one. Within a matter of seconds, they all were on the ground motionless. Tony shook his head and sighed, turning back towards Stark Tower. He looked down at his wrist, a set of commands appearing on a superimposed holographic keyboard. He tapped away at the commands with his right hand, before pausing to speak. "Alright, Rhodey, crisis averted. You can go ahead and have your janitors clean up the mess."

"I appreciate it, Tony. I've got agents en route. My strike team is making their way up the stairwell now to the Penthouse, so you might want to get there ASAP if you want an alibi."

"Ten-Four."

Without another second of hesitation, Tony flew back off towards Stark Tower. He again weaved through the city with ease, making a quick approach to his personal landing pad and rushing into the chamber. Within seconds of locking the boots into place, various mechanical arms removed the armor in its entirety. He stepped off the platform, ran down the stairs of his penthouse office, and made his way to the bar to pour himself a drink. As soon as the whiskey began to touch the glass, a boot kicked in a door near the elevator and a team of four SHIELD agents, with weapons drawn, stormed in. Their eyes quickly scanned the room, and two agents quickly moved up the stairs to keep an eye on the balcony. One of the agents approached, holstering his sidearm. "Any disturbances, Mr. Stark?"

Tony finished pouring his drink and lifted a hand towards his throat, making a fairly realistic choking sound as he answered in a raspy voice. "Sore throat." The agent took a step back, nodded and lifted up his hand to make a circle motion followed by a point towards the door. Wordlessly, the SHIELD agents nodded and left the Penthouse to leave Tony Stark to his drink in peace.

Or so he thought.

Tony walked over towards a couch that sat in front of a large flat screen projected tv on the wall, the volume automatically turning up as he sat down. It was news coverage of the press conference taking place downstairs. Pepper was nailing it, spouting something inspirational about the Stark legacy and their goal in ensuring a "Greener Tomorrow." She loved that catch phrase, but it had too much of a Banner spin for Tony to be entirely on board with it.

He downed what was left of his drink and was moving to get up when static interrupted the broadcast, the colored bars seeming to signal a technical error. That is, if it weren't for the large symbol superimposed on top of them. A symbol that Tony Stark was all too familiar with. Involuntarily, Tony dropped his glass. He didn't hear the sound of the glass shatter on the floor beneath the couch. His eyes and his memories were locked on the logo.

The Ten Rings were back.