◼ G M (s): Master Bruce & Sep ◼ C O N S U L T I N G G M (s): DocTachyon ◼ G E N R E: Fandom ◼ T Y P E: Collaborative Linear Sandbox
"To me, writing is fun. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you can tell a story." S T A N L E E ( 1 9 2 2 - 2 0 1 8 )
I N T R O D U C T I O N: I N T R O D U C T I O N:
W E L C O M E F A N S O F D C, M A R V E L, A N D A L L C O M I C S A L I K E !
Ultimate One Universe: Emergence is a roleplaying game based loosely on the canon of DC and Marvel Comic book superheroes, with their accompanying supervillains and supporting characters all playing a narrative factor dictated by the players. Merging the two universes (hence the 'One Universe' moniker), the idea is to create a cohesive shared experience where players build relationships, rivalries, and anything else in between for fiction's most legendary superheroes, working together or standing apart to solve obstacles that are larger than life and threaten both their respective cities and humanity as a whole.
Where the 'Ultimate' part comes in is that players also dictate exactly how these characters are written and representative of their larger ethos. Should you wish to combine the backstory of a chosen hero character with one of their alternate universe interpretations, invent modernizations of what already exists, or take a 'What If?' approach to the whole thing and wildly mix it up, you're allowed to do that. Or you can literally play the character as they're classically perceived. The only stipulation is that the chosen mantle is represented accurately at its core - IE: If you're called Captain America, you can't suddenly be a Russian agent. You have to represent some part, big or small, of who Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or Sam Wilson are during their fictional appearances when acting in the role.
S U M M A R Y: S U M M A R Y:
The year is 2024. For most of mankind's history, it has been largely assumed that superpowers and those who wield them were merely an invention of popular fiction. Going back to the days of the Greek pantheon and the Norse Gods, those with abilities far greater than that of mortal men were deemed impossible in reality. There were once rumblings of something greater for humanity being developed during the heyday of World War II, but as far as that was ever proven, it was mere propaganda to sell war bonds and comic books. Titles such as "The Invaders" and "Captain America & The Howling Commandos" were just tools of the U.S. Army to raise the spirits of their brave soldiers abroad, and the accompanying movies and television series based on them were disposable children's entertainment.
Then the 1960's came about, and the world was introduced to the concept of genetic mutation. Though the capabilities of their "powers" were debated hotly in Congress, the fact remained that some individuals could briefly defy the laws of physics and channel energies that seemed to break what little humanity understood about science. By the time the 1980s rolled around, however, the situation was mostly controlled: through a collaboration between the United Nations and such ambassadors as Professor Charles Xavier, mutants were both given safe harbor protocols and a mandatory drug inhibitor to allow them to better integrate into the larger society. The 1990s all but eradicated the supposed threat of mutant annihilation, and few mutants began popping up at all.
Something has changed. When a terrorist attack by a deranged engineer calling himself The Toyman unleashed chaos across the city of Metropolis, a mysterious man in red in blue seemed to appear out of nowhere and vault into the skies to combat this threat. A green-skinned behemoth had been sighted all across the American countryside, not unlike the cryptid legends of the Bigfoot and the Moth Man, and leaving tangible destruction in its wake. Criminals harboring dangerous weapons and illicit drugs were suddenly being targeted by a shadowy wraith that most described as being inhuman, like a giant-sized bat. A young man wearing a brightly colored uniform had begun interfering in police matters, leaving some sort of 'webbing' behind in his wake and scaling up walls. And at the center of it all seemed to be a question lingering on social media: were those Captain America & Invader comics some sort of biography all along?
This is the Ultimate One Universe. One week in, and barely anyone has the answers. But make no mistake: everyone is going to be changed.
Aboard the Lex-7 Series G Monorail was a glimpse of the variety of citizens on their post-sunrise commute to work. While some were still using the twenty-minute, fully suspended ride above Centennial Park to catch up on some desperately missing hours of sleep, there were also those in the back of the car who subtly worked on tidying themselves up for the office. Teenagers and children, some attended to by a parent while others woefully weren't, lined the side seats. And then some were forced to stand, each a variety of unkempt or visibly exhausted, journeying on their way back from working the overnight shift in either Suicide Slums or the neighboring county of Midvale. Very few would ever speak to eachother, inherently understanding the intricacies of the early morning etiquette: don't speak, never stare, and most importantly of all, absolutely do not bother. This was a brief break from the crushing realities of trying to live in a place that prided itself on being "The City Of Tomorrow." Where the jobs - when you were fortunate enough to find them - worked you past your limits to just to earn a decent living.
Clark Kent knew this. He'd been living around it his entire life. Too many people are overworked, and never in a position to break up the cycle. Even as he stood quietly at the back of the car -with his arm pressed against a guard rail, preparing to exit for his forthcoming stop - he could tell that this was going to be an all-too-repetitious morning commute if he didn't take some time to plan out a better route to the new job.
"This is Cat Grant, and you're watching us live, right here in the heart of beautiful downtown New Troy! As always, I'm here to bring you the best - and juiciest - stories from all across the Big Apricot, brought to you from the ever-reliable newsdesk of The Daily Planet News Network. So as we always say here at Good Morning, Metropolis, on with the show!"
Clark raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed with the boundless energy on display from the woman on the overhead television. More impressed when he suddenly remembered that, technically, she was now his co-worker - or he was her's. In truth, Kent figured that he was too low on the totem pole - it was debatable if he was even really considered an employee of DPNN. And much to his annoyance, he still hadn't built up enough accreditation or experience to go out and secure a job that suited him better. Nor could he exactly list his particular skills on an application with any relevance.
The meekly mild-mannered intern had been suggesting to his mother that he take his driver's exam and save up enough money for a starter car, but she always had two counters to that: one, having a car in a city like Metropolis would only make things slower. The reason that the Lex-7 had become such a widely used method of transport is because the city was notoriously drowning in traffic every day. Even with widened lanes and some of the finest subway terminals in the country, too many people were out there at any given time. By the time Clark would leave his apartment and make it to the Ordway Bridge, just East of New Troy, he'd be risking an hour and a half travel at minimum.
"Hey, buddy. Sorry to bother ya, but I couldn't help but notice... s'that a Luthorcorp badge?" "Huh? Oh, yeah. I work in their IT department." "Nice. Must be a sweet gig."
Clark snuck a glance over at a couple of seats in the front, inadvertently picking up the conversation of their occupants. One of them was visibly a construction worker or something similar, while the other was dressed in a well-kept suit and tie. Very much on two opposite sides of the income bracket, and it was almost comforting to see them have to take the same public transport.
"So, hate to bother ya again, but I was curious..." "What do you want to know?" "Well, the thing they keep sayin' on the news. About those hackings. The guy sounds dangerous." "Oh, the guy on YouTube? Nah, I don't pay attention to it. He's just some nutcase who's got a beef with the guy that runs the place. And even if he was dangerous, us wage-slaves are below his priorities." "Huh. Guess that makes sense. Still, you guys aren't a little spooked?" "Hardly. We get death threats every time Mr. Luthor announces a new military contract. It's always just a bunch of noise by a few trolls online." "That's a relief. They played some of his latest video on last night's Daily Planet. Sounded like he was gonna bomb the building or something." "Not likely. Eventually the 'Toyman' or whatever he's calling himself will find something else to complain about."
Clark turned away, trying to prevent himself from staring too long. From the sound of it, it wasn't a matter that concerned him anyway. The man working for Luthorcorp said it best, those sorts of people always seem like they're trying to vent entirely unrelated frustrations out on the world. There was always a part of Clark that felt deeply uncomfortable with his own inherent curiosities, that even listening to such a passive public conversation was some deeper violation than it was. But that just made him think of his mother's second counterpoint to getting a license.
Being that he didn't need to do any of it. By the time that he'd stepped out of his front door, he could be infront of The Daily Planet News Network's building in seconds. A minute, tops. He could vault through the air and supplant several football fields. He could zip through traffic so fast that he'd be virtually invisible. There were many options, and Clark knew that she was right. But what she could never understand - what nobody had ever been capable of understanding - was that little gestures like this were what made Clark feel the most at peace. The normalcy of just having to go to work in the morning, doing it like everyone else did. If he didn't have this, he would never know what to do with himself.
Sure, he could defy the laws of physics by simply willing himself off the ground. He could probably even outrun a speeding locomotive, as his father used to joke to him when he was a kid. But in a city that was constantly monitored by camera drones, a result of Lex Luthor's well-known paranoia following the meteor attack of '94? Clark might aswell paint a target on his chest and strap a neon sign to his waist.
Or wear a big bright cape, he thought to himself with a quiet smirk.
No, this was how it had to be. He just had to get used to the flow of it and adapt, like he'd always done before.
ATTENTION. WE WILL BE ARRIVING IN THE DISTRICT OF... PLASTINO HEIGHTS. IN ONE MINUTE. IF THIS IS YOUR STOP, PLEASE PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE DEPARTURE. . Nestling his laptop bag underneath his arm, Clark secured the shoulder strap and quietly straightened his clothes. He'd have to take the bus from here and ride for an additional twenty minutes to New Troy, then walk a few more blocks to the actual Daily Planet studios. But at this point in his life, Kent knew the city like the back of his hand. He knew the right shortcuts and the correct sidewalks to traverse at this time of day. Even knew of a couple of subway terminals if he should get desperate enough to brave their assault on his sensitive eardrums.
If he was ever unprepared for a morning commute like this, part of Clark knew that he would never get ahead in life.
"Alright, people, let's get the evening broadcast squared away. What's the latest?"
Perry White had been a veteran of cable news for over forty-eight years. Legendary wasn't enough to describe his career. Once considered to be the controversially green successor to anchor-turned-primetime comedian Oswald Loomis, White had been given the assignment of a lifetime: with the world watching, maintain all composure and deliver the facts at nine o'clock every night. Following the first broadcast of The Daily Planet in December of 1978, he'd succeeded in a way that few could ever match. From the fall of the Berlin Wall to the death of Princess Diana of Wales, Perry had been long considered to be America's dad, remaining a constant source of stability in a world continually thrust into the unknown. When he announced his retirement as an anchor fifteen years ago, dignitaries openly wept. Enemies he'd made nodded their heads in respect. And when Metropolis, the city he'd proudly made home, expressed interest in throwing a parade? He responded by locking himself away to prepare for his next position: news director of The Daily Planet.
From the other side of the massive conference room, one of many faces in a sea of staffers, Clark could practically feel the authority White commanded. Even while shuffling through papers and forms, or scrolling past pages of notes on his Starkpad, several esteemed journalists seemed to hang on his every action as he discussed the coming day's priorities with those to whom it was relevant. Part of Clark's responsibilities with this internship was to observe, trying to take as much of a cue from what he witnessed as what he was told. And what he saw was an ability he was certain to never master: the ability to decide what the facts were and why they were important.
"I think we should stick with covering the Mayoral race, frankly. My guys over at the Bulletin say Siegel's ahead in the polls, and he still doesn't seem to be slowing down."
Perry shook his head. "Really? Because The Star seems convinced that Shuster has it. And both are claiming to have the data to back it up. It's not an angle if nobody can decide on the numbers. Anybody else?"
One of the field correspondents cleared his throat.
"City sewage crisis? There's a bunch of people in Lafayette claiming that the water's contaminated."
"That's already been debunked. Got ahold of the reservoir manager this morning. Plant's waterline was tested last night and came up with zilch."
"Then why the hell is it still brown? They're trying to hide that..."
"You questioning my sources?"
Perry raised his hands.
"Hey. Break it up. We're a news agency, not a locker room. If you want to contribute to the broadcast with fighting, talk to Lombard. He can probably you set up with a title bout by lunch."
Steve Lombard grinned at the other two. "My money's on Bostwick."
"Regardless, we're not running with that until we have a concrete set of facts. Produce a segment in the field and I'll consider it. But I want interviews, footage of the drinking water, the works. And I want both sides, Eddie."
"You got it, Chief."
The room suddenly went silent. Pins might aswell have actively dropped.
Perry narrowed his eyes as Ed Byrnes realized what he'd done.
"What's the golden rule?"
Byrnes sheepishly looked off. "Sorry, sir."
"Better. Don't let it happen again."
Writing down what little he understood to be happening with the established staffers' back-and-forths, including the note 'Chief = bad?', Clark glanced over to see one of the few members of The Planet he'd already met enter the room. James Olsen's eyes were locked so firmly on the monitor screen of his new camera that he barely had time to register a near-collision with a female correspondent. Clark nearly did a double-take whenever he realized that the woman, who'd noticed this and given an oblivious Olsen a fiery glare, was the same one that he'd seen on the news just an hour earlier.
"Olsen, I swear to God..."
Jimmy glanced up, confused. "What'd I do?"
"Mr. White!"
The entire room turned to the conference room entrance as Perry's personal assistant, Alice, entered with a phone pressed against her collarbone. Dashing directly towards the veteran newsman, she handed him the phone and whispered something into her ear. Before Clark could try and discern what was happening and listen to the whisper with his well-tuned ears, the assistant was gone and Perry had the phone locked onto his ear. Few could hear much, but Clark could tell that a frantic, albeit serious tone of voice was coming in on the other end. Perry's expression turned grim.
"You're sure about this?"
A brief silence before White sighed, shutting off the phone. More than enough information had been relayed.
"That was our man in Hob's Bay. There's just been an explosion at one of the Luthorcorp facilities. No injuries are reported yet, but it's big. Sizable enough to make headlines. We just found our top story."
Immediately, Clark was surprised to see how quickly everyone sprung into action. Most brought out their phones to get information from personal sources, while others stuck to their specific duties and began to compile information on the internet. Where the explosion was specifically, what facility could be stationed there, and how many employees were present at the time. It was all there in some form or another within half a minute. Clark genuinely couldn't believe how effectively the room was running.
White stood from his seat and slammed his palms against the mahogany table, commanding their collective attention.
"You all know your jobs, go do them. As for who I'm sending down there, I..."
"Car's already running. Just need a cameraman."
The conference room again turned their eyes to the entrance, where a woman in a black leather jacket, a purple button-down, and jeans stood with her arms folded against her chest. Her eyes stared daggers at White, seemingly the only person in the room who was entirely unintimidated by him. Perry's brow furrowed.
"Lois, you're an anchor. The only thing I want from you is to start memorizing the teleprompter."
"Which I'll start at five, like I always do."
"Precisely the point..."
Perry cleared his throat as Lois Lane narrowed her gaze. She knew that the old man would put up a fight, and she was fully prepared to make it one. But the longer that they squabbled over what she considered a mere technicality, the more of the story that they lost to every major news agency and paper in the state. It was a gamble that she knew he wouldn't want to take, given the nature of any potential piece involving the name Luthor.
"Look, maybe you can tag along for the next one, but this isn't a matter for an on-camera personality and you know it. I certainly do, given your job used to be mine."
"Uh-huh. And you listened to your producer when, exactly?"
Perry glared back at her, equally annoyed.
"You're staying."
"And yet... I'm going."
"Mr. White?"
Both Lois and Perry shot an unkind look towards Olsen, who stepped forward with a look of confidence and his camera at the ready. "Not to try and interrupt this... whatever it is that you and Lois are doing, but what if we just did a field piece on it and came back? I can shoot it, and she can report. Simple as sliced apricot, as the slogan goes."
White began to speak but went silent. Visibly mulling it over. Lois' demeanor briefly changed from one of pure ice to complete allegiance, mouthing the words 'thank you' to Jimmy as he smirked. Clark silently wondered if the two had done this exact routine before to get a story out there. It certainly felt like familiar territory.
"Dammit, fine. You two go and get me whatever you can. But under one condition."
White sat back down in his chair as Lois and Jimmy listened intently.
"You get a third. I don't want Lane turning this into her audition for the Peabody and I don't want you riding shotgun on this with no filter. This is something that needs to be handled delicately."
Olsen looked perplexed. "What, you don't trust us?"
"Not even a little."
"Uh... I'll go."
For the very first time, everyone in the room seemed to turn to the meek voice in the back. Clark nervously took a step forward, his hoodie and jacket combination not exactly inspiring the full vote of confidence that a more professional environment required. But he was nevertheless committed to whatever he had just volunteered for. White took one look at him and, for the first time since the meeting had started, had no idea what to make of what he was seeing.
"Who are you?"
"Kent, sir. Clark Kent. I'm the new intern."
Lois raised an eyebrow. "Intern?"
"Hey, I know you. You made the coffee."
Clark wordlessly acknowledged this, giving a small shrug.
"Well, what do you know? That's perfect. Desperate enough to make an impression, but not loyal enough to you two to let you call the shots. And I'm making it clear right now, you're not calling them. You're going to report everything to me the second that anything goes haywire."
Olsen raced over to Clark and immediately grinned back at Perry.
"Don't worry, we won't break him."
Perry and Clark both shared a look that communicated worry in that response.
"If we're done with the after-school special... Olsen, you know where my car's parked."
Without warning, Lois threw the cameraman her keys. He caught them without looking.
"You're driving. Intern's going in the back. I'll get the cliff notes. Do try and keep up."
Clark barely had time to blink before Olsen pulled him by the arm, joining Lois mid-sprint as the three of them ran out the door. He hadn't realized it at the time, but whatever he had just offered himself up for was likely to be the very start of his career in journalism. He didn't know whether it'd be the first of many such assignments or the very last that he'd ever see, but he had to admit, he was excited. No matter how things went, this was how he was going to get ahead in life. Taking chances.
At the very least, the day ahead was going to be eventful.
Keith Kincaid tore across the Alaskan wilderness as fast as his truck would allow. Even with the high beams on, Keith struggled to see through the storm blanketing the night. Snow spun out behind the tires as he took a hard turn on an unpaved trail. Even with the ice screws, Keith felt his tires sliding across the ice. Branches of evergreen trees splintered against his tailgate; just a foot more and it would've slammed into the trunk instead. With a strange of curses on his lips, Keith pushed the gear stick up a gear and kept going.
"You tryin' 'ta get us killed, boy?" Wilford grumbled from the passenger seat.
Cresting the top of the hill, they beheld the glory of the heavens: every color of the rainbow dancing in brilliant harmony. Even with the storm clouds overhead, the lights still managed to gleam brighter than he could ever remember. Something was wrong with the northern lights. Kincaid's team had been watching the magnetosphere above Alaska for two years now, and he'd never seen anything like this. It started thirty minutes ago, when all their equipment went absolutely nuts. There shouldn't have been an event tonight; certainly not one so potent. The data coming through was impossible. The team was talking about how their understanding of the Auroras was totally changed- moments before all their equipment died. Their prevailing theory was that a storm over the transmitter array had knocked out their connection.
The array facility came into view through the treeline five minutes later. Over two hundred antennae towered above him, like the spindly fingers of giants reaching into the heavens. Keith pulled in front of the transmission station- little more than a prefab trailer they'd brought in on the back of a semi. He grabbed his radio off the dash. With how bad the conditions were he half expected the channel to be dead. "Keith to base, do you read me? Over."
"Copy, this is Russell. You at the array yet? Over."
The connection was surprisingly strong. Hell, there wasn't any interference at all. "Yeah. About to head inside and see if we can't fix this thing. Over."
"Keep us informed. Out."
Keith made sure to button up his coat before he opened the door. The cold assaulted his senses. Ice in the air was like a thousand tiny daggers slashing against his face. On the other side of the truck, Wilford grabbed a shotgun before clambering out. Keith rolled his eyes. The mustached old man never went anywhere unless he was strapped, even if it was a fifteen foot walk to the building.
"Y'know, I brought the bear spray," Keith yelled over the roaring wind, holding up a black canister for the other man to see.
"Never seen no bear die when you put pepper in her eyes. Only makes 'em angry." Wilford responded as he scanned his surroundings over the barrel of his gun.
Keith made sure to push the thing down as he walked past, climbing the ice-slicked stairs up to the door. He pulled at it to no avail. Was it locked? No. There was ice built up all along the frame."Damn it. Really? Already?" He turned halfway to look at Wilford, who was now several paces away from the building and staring out into the dark.
"Hey, Willy, can you go get the ice pick outta the truck?"
The other man didn't respond. He just kept creeping back and forth over the same dozen paces. Keith's face scrunched up in frustration. It wasn't unusual for Wilford to be a little paranoid, but this was ridiculous. Keith trudged back down the stairs and through a foot and a half of snow to the truck. The crew had pulled the back seats out of the cabin and replaced them with a storage container for all their equipment. Keith started to open the door when he heard Wilford say something behind him.
'Can you hear the angel choir A million voices cry out and the sky bleeds at His coming Rejoice for the end is nigh all the world will quake before the conqueror's thunder The world is a song placed off-tune by an uncaring mother
"What was that?" Keith asked, turning. Wilford was gone.
"Wilford?"
The addled old man must've finally lost it. Went wandering off into the woods in search of his mythical man-eating bear. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if the scientific discovery of the century wasn't playing out just above them. Keith pulled open the toolbox and rummaged around until he found the ice pick. He grabbed a handful of other tools while he was here- might need them to fix the transmitter.
Halfway to the door, Keith stopped. "Damn it, Willy." He sighed, knowing full well that leaving somewhere out here alone was a death sentence. Keith grabbed his radio and held it close to his face, cupping his other hand around it to block out the wind. "Keith to base, we have a problem. Wilford's disappeared. Didn't say where he was going and I only looked away for a minute, but he's gone. Uh, over."
'Your friend is dead and you killed him your friend is dead and you're next do you know the way to Baker street? I'm lost and need to go home please don't leave me here alone We know now that in the early years of the twentieth century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man's Today is march 26, 1943 can you hear me? if you can please be patient i understand that you might do not be afraid This is KDKA of the Westinghouse electric and manufacturing company in East Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Don't bother running its everywhere and nowhere all at once Don't be afraid its just a shadow'
"Say again, base? You're breaking up. I can barely hear you, over."
'Good evening my fellow citizens You need to respond this government has promised has maintained the closest surveillance Please answer of the Soviet military buildup You need to answer please answer We meet in an hour of change and challenge in a decade of hope and fear in an age of both knowledge and ignorance I am speaking to you from mount Carmel center In the first chapter of revelation it says blessed is the man- blessed is he that readeth today and hear the words of this prophecy and keep the things that are written therein Do you know the sound a man makes when he dies Help me Its like poetry without words He's coming for it A last rite written in panic and fear, pure as snow'
Keith turned the radio off with fumbling fingers. "Broken. Stupid thing." Must be radio interference from the auroral event. It was plausible. Didn't matter. He needed to find Wilford and get out of this fucking storm already. Screw the lights. He just wanted to be inside again.
It wasn't hard to find Wilford's tracks: he'd left a ton of them all in the same place shuffling back and forth like he was. He must've kept dragging his feet as he left, too, because the path leading through the field of antennae barely looked like foot prints- more like he'd dragged a sled or something similar behind him. Keith knew he didn't have anything like that with him, though...
He lit up a flashlight and started after him. "Wilford! Can you hear me?!"
---
For the first time in fifty thousand years, Thor was cold. A bitter wind was howling in from the north. The snow was deep enough to swallow his boot when he took a step forward. Thor cast his eyes around the glade. The overcast sky blotched out the spare moonlight. Dark trees loomed as shadows all around him. Far away, mountaintops peeked through the falling snow. This place was unfamiliar to him. He had to imagine it was not so frozen as the icy cliffs of Jötunheim. Yet when he wandered in those hoary winters never did he shake with chill. Never did these strange little bumps cover his skin as they did now.
Thor clutched his crimson cloak tight around his bare arms, wishing he had begged furs from Odin before his banishment to this awful place. He trudged through the snow across the clearing, aimlessly.
"Has my father cast me so far that even you cannot see me, Heimdall?" He wondered aloud. His usually booming voice was hollow as the caves of Nidavellir. "Is this the domain of mine most accursed niece?"
Surely this was not Helheim, for he was not yet dead. He could still still the heat of his breath; still he felt the beating of his heart, quick and erratic. Nay, this was not Hel, nor anywhere on Niffleheim- for the great dragon Nidhogg would surely be here to devour him if it was. The skalds sing warnings of Nidhogg to all with aspirations of murder or betrayal in their hearts: the serpent will pursue them to the end of the realms to feast upon their corpses. A fitting punishment, Thor once believed, for who would are raise a hand against their own kin?
"Loki..." Thor choked on the name. The sting of the bitter wind grew too much, and he snapped his eyes shut. "Why did you lie to me?"
What sort of fool was he to strike down his own brother? Perhaps there was little love lost between them. Loki had always spoken out of both sides of his mouth. Every day he had some new mischief to make, and rarely was it harmless. Many gods were relieved he was finally dealt with, Thor was sure. That mattered not. Loki was still the boy he'd chased through the woods on the back of a stag. Thor remembered fondly the day he disguised himself as Freya and wed the giant Thrymr to steal back Mjölnir. Balder, Sif, the Warriors Three- they all thought the scheme ridiculous. It was only Loki who would accompany him. His brother even disguised himself as a bridesmaid.
A mournful smile crept up Thor's face even as tears streamed down his cheeks. Somewhere far above him there was a crack of thunder.
Lightning struck the ground before Thor, throwing him back off his feet and into the snow. Shock seized his chest as he opened his eyes and saw a crater where the bolt had landed. Within it sat Hammer of Gods, sparking, alive. Thor clambered down the side of the crater as fast as his unsteady legs would allow. He thought Mjölnir lost to him! Odin had declared him unworthy of her moments before thrusting him off the rainbow bridge. Perhaps his father had seen reason. Perhaps he understood that the killing blow was never meant to be such. Thor wrapped his hand around the familiar hilt and lifted.
Mjölnir did not budge.
The battle must've sapped more of his strength than Thor realized. He grasped lower down the shaft with his other hand, twisted his back foot into the dirt and lifted with all his might. The ground beneath him began to crack. Thunder roared over head as lightning lit up the sky. Still it would not move.
"Damn you," Thor snarled, and he slammed a fist into the snow. The stone beneath shattered, and Thor and Mjölnir alike went tumbling down into the dark embrace of the earth. They fell a great distance into a cavern far below. Dirt, snow and rock tumbled over head, burying them in the dark.
With a strength only a god could know, Thor tore himself free. He began digging in a panic through the rubble, blindly grasping for the weapon that had rejected him. It was all he had left of home. Even if it did not want him, he could not abandon it so easily.
Thor couldn't say how long he searched. The alien embrace of fatigue clung to his body like an unwanted cloak. He was moments from collapsing into despair before he spotted the faintest glow among the snow. Thor plied his way to it, and the glow revealed itself to be words etched upon the face of Mjölnir: Whosoever holds this hammer, if they be worthy, shall the power of...THOR.
The first thing that Nicky Francesco sees when he opens his eyes is me sitting in a chair a few feet away from him.
"What the hell is this?" he asks.
"What do you think it is, Francesco?"
"A kidnappin'? Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"No, I don't. Tell me what it is I've done."
"You've abducted a Goddamn made man! Whatever you do to me, the Saints are gonna pay you back ten fuckin' fold if I don't do it myself!"
"Can't be any worse than what they've already done to me." I stand from my chair and walk over to Francesco, circling him like a shark.
"You tryna scare me? I'll skin you alive, chi-" My fist slams into his nose.
"Who did the Saints send after Frank Castle and his family?"
"Jesus H. Christ- you broke my nose!"
"Did you hear me or are you just gonna keep crying?"
"Who the hell is Frank Castle?"
"Detective. NYPD. Led a raid on the cocaine operation running out of those factories in the Bronx. Same raid that Bobby Saint was killed in."
"Heh, right, that fuckin' guy... Castle, I've heard the name. Why do you care?"
"I care because I am that fucking guy."
"I don't know who killed your family. I didn't even hear about your fuckin' family till I saw it on the news. I'm just a soldier, I don't run nothin'."
"Then I guess I should just kill you right now and move onto bigger fish."
He laughs. "Bigger fish? I'm the biggest fuckin' fish you'll ever fry, zipp-" I sock him in the eye. "SHIT!"
"We're gonna be up all night until you tell me everything you know."
I stop looming over Francesco and walk over to a table I had set up earlier. A few options lay before me: a crowbar, some pliers, and a knife. Some small part of me was screaming not to do this. That Frank Castle was a good man with a wife and kids, that he wouldn't do this to anyone.
But Frank Castle is dead. He died with his family. I buried him today.
I grab the pliers and stalk back over to Francesco.
"Open your mouth."
He looks down at the pliers in my hand. "Wha-" I grab his jaw as he speaks, sticking my fingers into his mouth and pulling down to keep it open. I take the pliers and clench onto a molar.
A scream echoes throughout the warehouse.
"FUCK!"
"Who do you work under?"
"Christ, man, you're a cop! You can't fuckin' do this!"
"Consider me off duty. Now who's your capo?"
"I can't tell you!"
"You want me to rip another tooth out?"
His eyes widen and he looks at me in terror. I'm reaching a hand out to grab him by the jaw when he shouts, "BILLY RUSSO!"
Billy "the Beaut" Russo. I'd heard the name over the course of the last few years investigating the Saints and it was always in hushed whispers. Stories about a hitman who could take on any job and come out on top. He had killed hundreds of people if the stories were true, like some archangel of death.
"Did Russo kill my family?"
"You think that your family was worth his fuckin' time!? You stupid fuckin' gooAGH!" I force his mouth open again and use the pliers to grip onto one of his canines. Then I tug. Another scream.
"We've got plenty more teeth to go, Francesco."
"Stop, please, God, just fuckin' stop..." Blood dribbles out of his mouth as he starts to mutter a prayer.
I start lightly slapping him on the cheek. "Don't check out on me yet. You've still got one more question to answer."
"The fuck I do! You don't kill me, the fuckin' Saints will... Just kill me already you sick bastard!"
"Where can I find Russo?"
"He... I can't..."
"You want me to keep plucking out your teeth? Use that knife over there to slit your eyes in half? Pry your kneecaps off with a crowbar? Or do you want to tell me so I can just put a bullet in you and we can be done?"
"... The Stardust. He likes to spend time at the Stardust Lounge in Staten Island when he ain't workin'..."
"Good job."
I drop the pliers and pull out my Glock, levelling the pistol at his head.
"Jonathan Storm! Why is your ass plastered on every tabloid in New York?"
The demanding voice belonged to Johnny's older sister, Susan Storm. Clutched in her left hand was a Daily Globe newspaper with the headline: "NEW METAHUMAN SIGHTING: MEET JONATHAN STORM." Below, taking up the majority of the front page, was a candid photograph of the young man looking over his shoulder toward the camera with his bare keister on full display.
Johnny leaned forward, his blonde locks falling across his forehead, and peered intently at the paper, humming in mock contemplation. "If I had to guess, sis, I'd say it's because that's America's ass."
"Johnny," Sue started.
"And, I mean, can you blame them? I look good. Though, I wish they captured the other cheek. I've always thought the right side was just a little more firm——"
"Johnny!" This time, her shout silenced the younger sibling. "This is serious. Do you have any idea how truly serious this is? You just– God, Johnny, what did you do?"
Johnny frowned. His sister had a habit of overreacting whenever Johnny did anything remotely fun, and this was no different. It's not like he had committed a crime. Not this time.
A little over a month ago, Johnny, Sue, Sue's boyfriend, Reed Richards, and Reed's best friend, Benjamin Grimm, attempted a scientific feat that would have revolutionized how people thought about reality. Something went wrong, and instead of making a scientific breakthrough, the quartet became exposed to radiation from another dimension. This radiation, in addition to nearly killing them all, dramatically altered their genetic structure and caused a series of unique metaphysical changes. In the time since the incident, Jonathan and the others had been quarantined and subjected to so many tests that it practically drove him insane. After two full weeks of isolation followed by two more of poking and prodding, Johnny needed to get out and experience life again.
So, the other day, Johnny went out for some air. He just chose to do so while his entire body was engulfed in flames, and he rocketed through the sky for all of New York to see. The metaphysical change he underwent allowed him to convert his entire body into a state of plasma. This newfound metahuman status, though, came with a downside: his plasma form ignited when exposed to oxygen, and his clothes were not fireproof. The fabric had incinerated the moment he lighted up, and by the time Johnny had ended his flight of freedom and transformed his body back into flesh and blood, he was as naked as the day he was born. Dozens of onlookers, having followed the burning streak across the sky with their phones, perfectly captured this moment. From there, he could only assume somebody had sold the pictures to the tabloids.
Sue scolded her brother, “And how on Earth do they know who you are, Johnny? They have your name!”
Holding up his hands placatingly and flashing a grin at Sue’s accusatory finger in his face, he offered a simple explanation: “Easy, I told them.”
“You didn’t.”
“It's no big deal. There were these two girls who wanted my autograph. They thought I was one of those superhero people who’ve been in the news the last few days. Except they wanted to know why I didn’t have a costume. Or any clothes at all, really.”
Sue held up her hand and waited for her brother to stop rambling. Taking a deep breath, she spoke in a deliberately even tone. “Johnny. We were supposed to keep our conditions a secret until we knew more about the extent of the biological variations. You can’t just tell any pretty girl you see because you think they want to get in your pants.”
“Uh, I was already out of my pants when…” The younger storm trailed off as he noticed his sister’s expression.
Their mother had passed away when the two were young. While their father wasn’t distant per se, his career kept him busy, so Sue took on the domestic role and helped raise Johnny despite only being four years older. For fourteen years, Sue had not only put up with his tomfoolery but also displayed considerable patience. That patience, though, when it reached its breaking point, could whip into a fierce storm that engulfed everything around. Johnny had long since learned to shut up when that storm showed signs of brewing.
“Johnny,” Sue buried her face in her palms and rubbed her temples. “Okay. I’ll handle this. I’ll talk to Dad, and we’ll have the Future Foundations’ PR team put out a statement. But, Johnny, I swear to God, don’t you dare pull a stunt like that again. You can’t be using these abilities. Not until we’ve learned more about them.”
Johnny began to protest, but Sue silenced him with that same look.
“I know. I know it’s been a lot. It’s been a lot for all of us. Hell, Johnny, think how bad it is for Ben. He… well, he’s got it worse than any of us. So please, just promise me, promise me that you won’t do it again.”
Johnny hated lying to his sister. It always made his stomach seize up as the guilt ate at him. But he had grown accustomed to ignoring that sensation in recent years.
The Apartment of Barry Allen // Central City Issue #1: Check out these new threads.
Iris grunted slightly as she shimmied her waist into the tight cotton-leather hybrid fabric that made the costume. Barry explained that it was a hybrid of the same synthetic fabrics that made up Olympic runner costumes, which had some form of kevlar infusion. It was science beyond her understanding, all she knew is it was going to be better than running around in her normal clothes.
"How's it coming in there-" She had known Barry was elsewhere in the makeshift lab he called his home, yet he had been quiet for so long she had honestly forgotten he was there. "I'm no tailor, but I went with the measurements you gave me..."
She managed to coax the fabric past her waste, now pulling it over her torso. "So you're saying if it doesn't fit, it's my fault?"
Iris could practically hear the gears in Barrys brain grinding and churning as he struggled to think of a response. "N...No? Anyway, I've been running tests and I think you-" He was cut off as Iris pulled back the privacy curtain, having finally finished struggling with the costume. Cowl down, her hair spread over her shoulders contrasting with the yellow. She had to give it to Barry, the suit was surprisingly comfortable.
"Barry?"
"Hm?"
"You think I'm-"
The colour drained from his face. "Pretty-" As the last syllable slipped out of his lips his brain caught up with his mouth and the colour drained from his face before it was replaced with a scarlet that was far brighter than that in her suit. "I mean I'm pretty sure, that I think-" He tugged at his collar and Iris had to suppress a laugh as he coughed. "I'm pretty sure that you're not a mutant."
He turned around and walked towards his computer, turning the screen around to face her. On the screen was, what she was told, a blood scan. "Journalism major, break it down for me Bar."
Barry sighed as he clicked a couple of keys, highlighting several elements. "You're missing the X-Gene. It's the gene that all mutants have-" He slapped a couple of more keys and half the screen was taking up of an old picture of a 'Charles Xavier'. "-Professor Charles Xavier, who has basically cornered the research on mutants since the discovery of the gene, theorises that all mutants carry the gene. Some are activated at birth, some through puberty and some through moments of extreme stress-"
"Such as being hit by a bolt of lightning-" Iris interjected, Barry nodded.
"I agree with you, all the circumstantial evidence points to you being a mutant and yet-" He pointed back at the screen. "We can't argue with the facts."
"So, back to square one then."
Barry nodded. "The scary square."
Iris couldn't help but smirk slightly at his dumb joke. "Soooo...?"
"So you leave it with me. I've anonymously contacted someone at STAR labs to see if they can help." They both turned to the window as there was a loud explosion, which was followed by a shockwave that rattled the windows. Smoke could be seen in the distance. "Well at least you're already dressed for the job, there's an earpiece embedded in the cowl. I'll find out what you can."
Iris smiled as she pulled the cowl up, goggles going over her eyes. She stretched up and planted a kiss on Barrys cheek. "Thanks, you're the best." She walked towards the door, turning before she left. "It's a shame you're not a better wingman, only thing you can't do is find me a boyfriend-" She had barely finished the thought before she had disappeared in a flash of light.
Fourteen months ago. Charles Victor Szasz has sixty-three days to live.
"Vic, I'm not telling you to scrap the whole article, I'm just telling you that you need to change the title. Maybe ease up a bit, cut some parts out. We can't go around slandering the mayor," Oscar says. He's been pleading with me to change the contents of my article for a few days now. At first it was just some contention over the title, but now he was finding issues with the contents of the article itself. It was annoying having to deal with him in the past but now? Now I'm at my damn limit with his shit.
Time to put an end to this.
"You hear about how I got fired from the Gazette, Oscar?" I ask, leaning back in my office chair and crossing my arms.
"Uh... What?"
"You wanna know how I got fired?"
"Um. Okay. How?"
I give him a small smile. "Because my editor didn't let me have total control of my article's contents and so I kicked his teeth down his throat and watched him choke on them." His eyes go wide at that. I turn away from him and look at my computer. "And then I kept beating on him until the cops got here and it took four of them to pry me off of him. Have I made my point, Oscar?"
"Y-yes..."
I smile a little wider at that. I click the little blue submit button in the email box. "Good. Just sent you the final draft, took all of your notes into account. The ones I cared about anyway. Go put it through, I want it up on the site first thing tomorrow morning." I turn back to Oscar, smiling. He looks like he's about to shit himself.
"... S-sure thing, Vic." Oscar walks away, shivering slightly. I turn my attention back to my computer screen. "Mayor Fermin: Incompetent, Ignorant, or Insidious?" is the title of my latest work. I'm sure it'll keep Myra and the rest of Wesley's PR team busy for a few weeks. Someone needs to light a fire under Fermin's ass. The man's been in his position for a few months now and not a damn thing has changed for the better; crime rates at an all time high, no solution to the homeless epidemic, public infrastructure in shambles, and that's discounting the fact that he's in bed with the mob...
Okay, not a fact, not yet at least. Maxwell Bine getting released early from his six year stint in prison so soon after Fermin came into office? Not a coincidence in the slightest, I'm sure of it. I'm going to find proof and my new friend, the Faceless Inquisitor, is going to help me.
... The name is a work in progress.
---
Charles Victor Szasz has sixty-two days to live.
When I wake up the next day, my phone has a few hundred notifications. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and grin as I read them. Looks like the Hub City Gazette is trending right now, at least in Illinois. People are going nuts over this article, taking sides for and against Mayor Fermin. Couple of death threats here and there but that's to be expected on Twitter.
I've almost finished reading all the discourse when I get a text.
Do you really think I'm going to ignore you slandering my brother?
yeah
You are such a child. Meet me at Ceilo's Cafe in Hupert Square at noon. We are going to talk about this.
see you there babe
I get up and out of bed and practically skip my way into the shower. Things were finally looking up for me. Getting the recognition I deserve, Fermin under public scrutiny for the first time since he came into office. It was like a dream come true. And the look on Myra's face when she finally realizes her brother is the biggest piece of shit to ever take public office in Hub City? That's gonna make my day.
When I got to Ceilo's, Myra had a window table all to herself, waiting for me. I took a moment to admire her figure. Once we got this all sorted out, we were gonna just head back to my place and have a nice night to ourselves. Our arguments always went that way.
I take a few more steps forward. Her smile shifts to a scowl when she sees me. "Myra," I say, sliding into the chair across from her. I smirk at her glare. "Not really digging the vibes here. Feels like I need a beanie and an oiled up beard to be able to fit in. Maybe they'll settle for me starting up a tech com-"
"Don't. I'm not in the mood for your smartass shit, Vic." She pulls out her phone and unlocks it, before sliding it across the table to me. I pick it up; lo and behold, the Hub City Gazette's front page with article, my claim to fame, right at the top. My smirk widened into a grin as I looked over my work. "What the fuck is this?"
"My own Kentucky Derby. Something that will lay the groundwork for all pieces of political journalism to come," I say, sliding the phone back and leaning back in my chair.
She doesn't seem amused. "What it is is you dragging my brother's name through the mud like he's just some, some-"
"Some crooked politician, just like all the other no good bastards in City Hall. Just because he's your brother doesn't mean he's a good man."
"Don't you dare say that about him. My brother has done more for this city in the two months he's been mayor than you ever have, or ever will!"
"Right, right, really doing a great job at pocketing city funds, taking bribes, getting his mobster friends out of jail while he lets men like Hugo Wernher rot behi-"
"Oh, Wernher, again? That man murdered a cop, Vic!"
"Because that cop would've shot him and his wife if he didn't!"
"It's a miracle he didn't get the death sentence. You know I was the one who lobbied for that, right? Everyone wanted him sent back to Indiana so he could be put on death row there but because you were so insistent on it I pulled some strings to make sure the case remained in Illinois, and I-" she pauses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as she groans in frustration. "... Vic. I love you, but I can't... I can't stay with a man who hates my brother the way you do."
So this is it. She can't look past whatever brainwashing her brother has instilled in her.
Fine. Myra has chosen her side.
The wrong side.
"... Then don't," I say as I stand. I turn away from her and walk away, stopping at the front door of the cafe. In the reflection of the windowpane, I see her shocked expression, battling between surprise, anger, and sorrow at my response. Finally, she settles on a disgusted scowl, turning away. I walk out of the cafe without looking back.
That night I go out and beat up some street punks. It doesn't make me feel better.
---
Charles Victor Szasz has fifty-nine days to live.
I'm sitting at my desk writing a piece on Council Chairman Floyd's ties to the Chicago Outfit when I feel a presence behind my shoulder. I look behind me and see the Gazette's editor-in-chief Elizabeth McCoy looming over me. The look on her face tells me that something's wrong. "Vic, can I see you in my office?"
"Of course, Liz. Just let me finish up what I was-"
"Now."
... Guess she hasn't had her coffee yet. "... Alright." I save the document and get up from my chair, following Elizabeth into her office. A few of my coworkers stare at us as we walk by, whispering among themselves. Always a good sign.
When we get into her office, she walks around her desk and sits down in her chair. "Have a seat, Vic."
I take a seat.
"... Do you have any idea the shitstorm you've conjured with that piece on Fermin?"
"Yeah, hopefully soon we'll see him step down and-"
"Step down? I asked you to write me a piece on Fermin's fundraiser gala for homeless prevention and you give me a hit piece? What the fuck were you thinking, Sage?"
"I was thinking that it would highlight Fermin's shortcomings as may-"
"The man has been in office for two Goddamn months. You throw around conspiracy theories about how he sprung Max Bine from prison and pockets city funds like you expect a fucking mob with pitchforks and torches to march down to city hall and have him executed."
"I was just trying to get people talking-"
"Oh, you got people talking. You got lawyers breathing down my neck trying to shut this entire journal down. The mayor is going to sue if we don't take down the article and kick you out the door."
"And you told them you'd take their asses to court, right?"
She narrows her eyes at me. "Pack up your shit, Vic. You're fired."
---
Charles Victor Szasz has fifty-one days to live.
I've been sitting outside Samuel Starr's office with three other candidates for about thirty minutes. There were eight of us half an hour ago, but every single person that's come out of his office has done so with a sour face and quick feet. One guy left the office crying. I'd heard rumors about Starr being a hard ass and it looked like they were true.
Mr. Starr opens the door to his office, letting out a young man whose face was contorted into a scowl. "Sage! You're next," Starr says. I stand up and walk into the office, with Samuel closing the door behind us and taking a seat at his desk.
He looks at me for a minute and then says, "So you're the guy who wrote that article about the mayor?"
Great. Looks like I was about to miss out on another job. "... Yes. That was me."
His face morphs into a grin. "Can you write even more articles like that for me?"
I blink in surprise. Then I match his grin with one of my own. "That I can do, Mr. Starr."
"Call me Sam, Vic. I look forward to seeing more of you." With those words he stands and sticks his hand forward, which I shake firmly. He walks to the door of his office and opens it. "Position is filled. The rest of you can go home." He turns to me. "Show up on Monday at 9 AM sharp in your best suit."
I give him a salute as I walk out of the office with a grin. "Yes sir."
---
Charles Victor Szasz has twenty-five hours and forty-seven minutes to live.
I grip the lapels of my jacket tightly as I flatten myself against the dingy shack's walls, trying to listen past the sound of thunder in the distance. From inside, I hear a ball game playing on a TV with blown out speakers cranked to max volume. "Read 'em and weep," a man says and I hear three distinct groans of annoyance. Four men inside playing cards.
I move over to the front door of the shack and run a gloved finger over the splintered wood. All it'll take is one good kick and it'll shatter. I feel a ball of anxiousness build in the pit of my stomach as I back up and ready my leg to kick the door down. I might die here. But that's part of the fun, isn't it?
*CRA-ACK!*
The door breaks apart into chunks of wood and splinters. I march forward and point at the four men who've jumped up from their chairs and look at me in shock. "You've got something I want. And you'd better give it to me."
One of the guys, a man with red hair and a shit-eating grin, moves closer to me. "Fellas, you think he wants it? I don't think he really, truly wants i-" I slam a fist into his face and send him stumbling back into the old box TV they had set up. He slumps to the ground and the TV falls off the nightstand and onto his head, the glass shattering.
The other three jump into action, bum rushing me. One grapples with me and tries to force me to the floor but I slip out of his grasp and knee him in the crotch. I throw a punch that catches him in the ear and he backs away to clutch his head in pain. I grab him by the collar and send a few more punches into his face until he goes limp. I feel a pair of arms wrap around my neck before I can react and I find myself held in a chokehold. The thug squeezes tightly, yelling at his buddy: "Get this mask off him!"
The only other guy still standing steps in front of me and starts grabbing at my faceless visage. When it becomes clear he can't take off my mask he steps back in horror. "Holy shit, that's his fuckin' face!"
I raise a leg and kick the man in the chest, sending me and the guy with his arms wrapped around me neck to the floor. His grip on me loosens and I flip around to face him on the floor, slamming both fists down on his face over and over again.
A pair of hands grab me and pull me away from the man on the floor. I shake them off and twist around to face the last man standing, throwing a wild punch at him. I can feel his jawbone shattering against my knuckles and he's sent to the floor.
I stop and take a breather, looking around. That's when I see her: a woman in a red suit, standing in the corner and eying me with a curious expression. "Don't wanna get involved, lady? Smart."
She gives me a crooked smile and I feel a shiver run down my spine as she speaks. "I despise violence."
"Heard these guys' boss left his laptop here with them. I'll be taking it."
"Over there." She lifts a finger and points at the laptop bag sitting on a dresser.
"Thanks." I walk over the bag and grab it, slinging it over my shoulder.
---
Charles Victor Szasz has ten minutes to live.
I hop the fence and land on my feet, grunting from the impact that was softened by eight inches of snow. I tug at my scarf to tighten it as I march onward. Tonight's the night I finally get what I've been chasing for these past few months: proof that Mayor Fermin is in bed with the Gospel of Sinners. He and his associates were meeting with the head of the Sinners here, according to the info on the laptop I had stolen.
I see six figures up ahead standing around two cars parked right by the docks. There's no way to approach them without being seen, in fact I'm pretty sure the headlights shining directly on me means they can already see me. They don't start rushing for weapons immediately, even as I walk closer. Looks like they're just waiting for me.
The first thing I take in about them is the four men who look familiar. Pretty sure I've kicked their asses before... Actually, shit, I have. All four of them were the guys in the shack. The one with red hair, bandages wrapped around his head. A big guy with a drooping jaw that he rubs mindlessly as I approach. Two guys who look a little less worse for wear, save for their bruises and one's flattened nose.
I stand before them, readying my fists. "Ready for round two, fellas?"
They don't bother replying.
I notice the last two figures hanging back. An old man who looks kind of familiar, and a woman in red. The very same woman from last night.
I'll deal with them later.
I'm about to throw myself at the redhead when the old man speaks up. "Sister Shiva. Take care of him."
The woman in red steps forward. She has a small smile on her face.
"Back off. I don't want to hurt you."
"Don't you?"
She's on me in the blink of an eye, slamming a palm into my nose. I stumble back but she grabs me by the elbow and throws me over her shoulder and onto the ground. Her grip is still on my arm and she twists, an immense pain shooting throughout my entire body from my elbow. I feel her pull me up into a standing position, only for her to slam a foot right into my knee.
She throws me to the ground. Every nerve in my body is screaming out in pain.
"He is defeated. Shall I kill him?"
"No. Let the brothers have their turn."
A hand grips me by the hair and tugs before slamming my head into the concrete. I'm lying face down in the snow, a series of blows striking me all over the body. Every hit to the head feels like it's gonna make my brain seep out of the cracks in my skull. Every kick to the chest feels like my ribs are shattering. Every stomp flattens my organs.
"Does this amuse you?"
"Indeed. I am a fair man. I shall let them continue until every bone in his body is broken. Then I shall permit Brother Gun to shoot him in the head. Then we shall dump in the river. And then, if he arises singing Danny Boy, I shall give him anything he wants."
This isn't exactly how Michael Holt thought his Saturday night would go.
A few months ago and he'd have been working late or at a bar with Alex, practicing their inevitably failed attempts to chat up women. Oddly enough, most women aren't too keen on lines relating to quantum physics or cyber security. He was currently standing on a roof overlooking Metropolis, hunched down against a parapet. With a gloved hand he clicked the face on one of his new and improved T-Spheres and the four he had on the floor in front of him whirred to life quietly.
Moment of truth, he thought. He damn well hoped they had gotten the flight capabilities completely sorted out, otherwise he'd be making a leap of faith across two apartment buildings straight into a potential gunfight. A deep breath in and then raised his head to look across the gap. The Gazzo crime family was making a weapons trade with some low level hoodlums. Not the biggest news in the world, but if he managed to intervene now it might save someone getting a bullet to the gut later.
Michael reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a small inconspicuous white tub. Another of his new inventions, but one potentially a bit more dangerous for Michael to use than his Spheres, at least on his end. The balaclava he'd used previously was stifling, breathing in the thing was a nightmare let alone fighting in it. Plus, it could slip off at the drop of a hat and was far too easy for criminals to remove if they'd gotten the upper hand. Instead, he'd opted for a new high-tech nanogel he had personally worked on. He dipped his hand into the tub and spread it across his eyes and down past his mouth, forming a 'T' on his face. Of course, branding was important too.
He opened his eyes, now a singular solid red, and slid the tub back into his pocket. Environmental data was now being fed straight to his cornea, and the world seemed a whole lot brighter than it did before. He looked down at his Spheres as his mask powered to full functionality. A list marking the status of each sphere scrolled down the right side of his vision. Time to test his new gadgets. If they worked right, the slightest facial movement should control them to his will, if they didn't he'd have to go manual. Shouting out commands to his gadgets wasn't the best thing for stealth, but it was better than going in without them.
Michael rose to his full height as he signalled for his spheres to rise up next to him. The ghost of a smile played on his lips as they floated along next to him. Now for the field test, this next part was a lot easier to do in an empty warehouse 5 feet above the ground than it was across the gap in a building. Another deep breath as he stood on the edge of the building and leapt.
Ecstasy doesn't even begin to describe the feeling he felt as his Spheres shot their way under his feet and carried him swiftly across the gap. It was like being saved by an angel when imminent doom is on your doorstep. It felt like a mixture of surfing and rollerskating as he dove across and at the gangsters.
"The money's all there man, just give us the guns."
"Yeah yeah, we still gotta count you know? Yous guys ain't exactly the most respectable guys in the wo- what the fuck is that?!" Shouted the large Italian man as he spotted Mr. Terrific flying at him.
He was on them before they could react, jumping off of his spheres and slide tackling one of the hoodlums from behind before his spheres shot out at the other assailants, smacking them across the face and into their guts before whizzing off to attack from another angle.
Michael rolled forward towards one of the mobsters reaching for his pistol, wrapping his leg around and spinning on his shoulders to pull him into an imanari roll. It only took a quick burst of pressure to break the criminal's ankle and Michael rose quickly after, darting at another assailant close by and lifting him with a double leg before slamming him into the roof.
His spheres set about targeting any weapons they could detect as the fight went on. Every time a wise guy reached for his pistol it would be smacked out of their hand and dented inwards by the flying metal. Michael was like a panther prowling around the roof, knocking out or incapacitating each of the gangsters and snapping any of their weapons the spheres didn't get to before moving onto the next.
It was all over within 5 minutes. Michael stood panting on the roof as he destroyed the last of the guns that were meant to be traded. Not bad for a night's work. He got airborne again, calling Alex through the built-in communicator in his mask as he was lifted off of the roof.
"A, I stopped the Gazzo deal, heading back to base now."
"Nice one dude, have any trouble with them?
"Nah, Spheres worked perfect and those clowns weren't any troubl-"
Michael felt something hard and cold hit him in the back of the neck. It seemed he hadn't been as thorough as he could have ensuring he'd incapacitated all of the criminals and one had, in absence of a working gun, opted to throw the gun at him. If Michael could have a sense of humour about the situation he might have wondered why the guy had taken up crime rather than becoming a professional darts player, the guy had accuracy for sure. But unfortunately all he could think about was how he was rapidly losing balance on top of his Spheres.
This wasn't a wave he could ride. He fought to regain his composure but seeing another broken pistol whiz past his head sent him under the waves. The only thing he could hear next was the aggressive, horrible noise of wind whistling passed his ears as he fell.
Michael wasn't sure whether or not to call it lucky or unlucky this sound was only short lived. His spheres rushed to catch him, but unfortunately they weren't quick enough. He fell on his shoulder at the top of a fire escape and tumbled his way down the stairs, almost falling straight off the other end had his Spheres not managed to get there before him and cushion his falll against the railing.
He let out a sigh, both of relief and exasperation. No one said this was going to be easy, but did it have to be this hard? His communicator crackled to life.
"Yo, T! What happened man are you alright?" Alex hurriedly asked.
"I'm alright, man." He spoke, just before a wave of searing pain shot up his right arm. "Actually scratch that, I think I have definitely maybe broken my arm. Call the cops to clean up the Gazzo's and I'll make my way back home."
"Definitely or maybe? Can't be both bro."
"Definitely.
Sunlight poured into the tiny bedroom and Michael woke with a groan. He attempted to hold up his arm to block the sun from his eyes, but was only met with intense pain. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, sitting up and looking down at his bandaged shoulder. A leather jacket wasn't going to be enough. He needed some extra padding if he was going to be taking falls like that in the future.
He slid out of his bed and pulled on some jogging bottoms with his free hand before making his way to the living room. Alex was already up and tinkering with some gadget on their coffee table.
"Hey man." Michael spoke, Alex turned with a startle.
"Jesus Christ dude, stop sneaking up on me like that!" He said, Michael grinned moving over to the coffee machine and pouring himself a cup.
"What are you working on? We really got to get something on the market soon man, I can't keep living on cup noodles and tins of beans." This made Alex guffaw loudly at him, he got up from the couch holding the invention in his hands and turned to Michael.
"You're damn right we need to get something that will sell soon, if you weren't so busy going out at night fighting the Italian community of Metropolis we might have had something out weeks ago! Anyway, I've managed to get Terrifitech's first invention working! And, luckily for the both of us, you've just been gracious enough to suffer an injury that will work great for the first test!" Michael groaned.
"First of all, we are not calling ourselves Terrifitech. We agreed on Cyberwear. Second of all, this better not be another prank like that 'Voice-Activated Coffee Maker' you had me test."
Alex grinned mischievously. "Hey, that was a legitimate prototype! Just because it poured coffee everywhere but the cup doesn't mean it wasn't a solid idea. But no, this is for real. Check it out!" He held up a sleek-looking device that resembled an arm brace.
"This, my friend, is a state-of-the-art, pain-relief and mobility-enhancing arm brace. It's designed to support your arm and stimulate healing. Plus, it has some of our nanotech integrated for real-time diagnostics." He tossed it to Michael, who caught it with his good hand. The brace opened in half, and Michael clasped it around his upper arm and shoulder. There was a few seconds of momentary pain as the brace adjusted and resized to fit around him, and then nothing at all.
Michael stretched his arm, flexing the muscles with a smile on his face. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Alex, I can't deny it. Feels good as new!"
"When don't I outdo myself? Now hold still, I'm going to run some diagnostics on your arm to make sure the softwares working properly." He picked up a tablet from the coffee table and began tapping away on it. Alex's face suddenly grew very serious and a he began scatching his chin with a free hand. "Hmm, this is really weird."
Michael frowned. "What is it?"
Alex looked up with a deadpan expression. "According to this, you're going to grow an extra arm by next week."
Michael shook his head, grinning. "I have no idea how you can be so smart, yet such an idiot at the same time, Alex. It's truly a marvel of science."
The serene calm of the desert was suddenly shattered by a 15,000kg streak of lightning moving over half the speed of sound."Tower this is Highball, Highball calling tower, over." The pilot, Captain Hal Jordan said into his mask as he pulled it up to his face. It took a second before he got a response.
"Highball this is tower, we've got you on radar, you are looking 5 by 5 from over here. How is the new crate holding up?" Inside of the tower of Nellis Airforce Base was a number of the joint chiefs of staff, including the Chief Air Marshal. At the station was Carol Ferris, chief engineer of Ferris Aircraft INC. "Are you ready to make the push? Over." Inside of his Cockpit, Hal checked his instruments. Everything was so far looking good, but that wasn't surprising. Ferris were known for sturdy craftsmanship. This was the equivalent of a gentle stroll in the park as far as testing was concerned.
"Roger. All lights are in the green, looks like she's as ready as she's ever going to be. Over." Hal responded. The big concern wasn't so much it breaking apart. After all, this was a prototype, it was his job as a test pilot to try and break it. But the big concern was doing so in front of the woman who designed it. Especially when he had a date riding on this. He flicked the safety on the of the afterburners to make sure they were still in place "And our deal is still on. Mach 3.3 and you treat me to steaks?
Carol laughed nervously as several of the old men in chairs behind her seemed to grunt disapprovingly. "Mach 3.5 and i'll pay. She looked around, several of the other engineers monitoring the Jets systems quickly made some last second adjustments and gave her the thumbs up. "Highball this is Tower, you are go for test. Repeat you are go for test. Over."
Hal simply laughed as she mentioned Mach 3.5. He seriously doubted this thing could reach Mach 3.3 let alone 3.5. MiG 25 Foxbat held the current speed record for a fighter jet of Mach 2.83 in a dive. Carol was confident the new F-24 "Blackhawk" was going to be the fighter of the future. "Time to make a pretty ladies dream come true" He whispered to himself away from his mask, before strapping it on fully. "This is Highball ascending to 50,000ft where i shall commence testing." He reported as he pulled back on the stick gently. He didn't want to put this thing through any more stress than it needed to before something this... Well, frankly insane. But Hal had done stupider things when there was a pretty girl watching... That was a lie, but he probably would have done stupider things if a pretty girl had been watching when he was given $150m worth of equipment. After 20 minutes of gentle climbing, levelling out ever 10,000ft to make sure the engines were doing well enough. Here he sat, among the clouds, the black of the night above him, the rays of the sun on the other side of the planet BARELY just peaking over the horizon. He made the final preparations and checks, made sure he had his checklists ready in case anything went wrong... Not that he'd have terribly much time to go through them if he couldn't pull out of the dive. At least the last thing that would go through his mind would be Carol's plush, doughy ass... Followed by the canopy of the aircraft crumpling in front of him at 3 times the speed of sound. "Tower this is Highball, we are at optimal altitude, all systems continue to register green." He flicked the safety off of the afterburners. "Awaiting final clearance. Over."
Carol looked at the rest of the team, before double checking her instruments. Thumbs up from everyone. "Highball this is tower. You are go. Repeat you are go." Carol took a deep breath and hoped that 7 years and $3t of development wasn't about to smash into the desert floor along with a kinda cute jet jockey who refused to stop hitting on her.
Hal made the last possible checks as every single part of his body went numb from a combination of fear and excitement. He reached a tingly finger up and flicked the switch of the afterburners, before reaching down to the throttle and slowly pushing it up. Immediately he felt himself being forced back into his seat. Barely 5 seconds later and he felt the sound barrier smashing around him. With so little wind resistance up here, it was fairly easy. "Highball to Tower, we are at Mach 1 and continuing to accelerate." He reported. "All systems continue to register green." He sat there as he saw the world rush by him, one hand on the stick to keep her steady, the other slowly and cautiously pushing the throttle up. "Mach 1.7. Goodbye Lightning II." He laughed. There was another jolt about a minute later as he checked his speedometer. "Mach 2." Hal began to feel blood try to push to the back of his body, but luckily his flightsuit was compressing his arteries and making sure everything flowed at a constant and even rate so he didn't pass out. "Mach 2.6, Congrats, Blackhawk just became the fastest American Production Jet Fighter... Assuming the very handsome men sat behind you choose to go forward with her." Hal laughed. There was also a few courteous laughs from inside of the tower. He then saw a warning light on the console in front of him.
"Highball, your oil temp is starting to rise. Watch that." Carol stated.
"It's all good, Tower, it'll stabilize. Hal replied, as the jet reached Mach 2.7... 2.75... 2.78... 2.79... 2.8... "Looks like in level flight, 2.8's best we're getting." The speedometer ticked one last time over. "Correction 2.81. Permission to begin dive? Over." Hal asked.
Carol and the team monitored the data. He didn't have too long on the afterburners left. But everything was in surprisingly good shape to continue. There was a series of thumbs up from around the control room. "You are go to initiate dive. Pull out when you reach 10,000ft.
"F.A.B. Vergil." Hal laughed. "Highball beginning my descent. Over." He slowly eased forward on the control stick. Partially because the shallower the dive, the more time he had to accelerate before he was a bug on a windscreen, but mostly because the G forces were pushing against him on this. With Gravity's help the speedometer began to climb again. "2.85, goodbye Foxhound." Another jolt "Mach 3, about to leave the Valkyrie in the dust.
"Highball this is tower, abort the test immediately. I repeat, abort the test immediately." He heard come through his comms. He frantically looked around the cockpit for what the malfunction was.
"All my instruments are fine up here, she's going strong. 3.06, we've just left Valkyrie behind."
"Radar just picked up something entering your area. Abort." Hal quickly checked his instruments. It wasn't coming anywhere close.
"I'm not seeing anything. Maybe Towers equipment is faulty. 3.1." He replied. Looking around. As he looked out of the cockpit above him, he could see a bright, glowing meteor heading down. "Nothing on port, nothing starboard, nothing fore. He said. Technically true, technically not court-martialable.
"It's right ontop of you, abort the test now and take evasive action." Carol ordered.
"With all due respect Tower, as a captain, i do outrank you. I am not seeing any danger in continuing. 3.14 We are pie in the sky." He lied, seeing the very imminant danger coming towards him. But if he continued to accelerate at this rate, it should miss him. He pushed forward on the stick a little more to get even more speed out.
"IF YOU BREAK THAT PLANE YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN THE MILITARY FOR ANOTHER 500 YEARS BECAUSE THAT'S HOW MUCH SALERY IT'S GOING TO TAKE FOR YOU TO REPLACE THAT THING!!!" She roared at him, rather unprofessionally, Hal may add. The Chiefs behind her all looked at each other, a little scared of her, but mostly scared of flushing that much money down the drain. At that point, the instruments in the Tower all went dead. Nellis blacked out completely. There was a flurry of activity as the crews rushed to get the emergency backups working again. Of course, Hal had no idea of this, because he had his own set of problems to worry about. Including the fact that his own plane had gone dead at 35,000ft.
"Tower? Tower come in this is Highball! Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is Highball, we have lost control. Engine has died, electronics inoperable. Do you read me tower?" He called out. In his panicked state, he forgot that the radio was electronic as well and was also obviously dead. As the fireball came closer, he began to notice that... Wait, that's not a meteor... Wings, fuselage... That's a plane... No, too strange a design... Aliens? Well, he was right next to Area 51, maybe there was a mix up in booking airspace for test flights. The nose of the plane started to slowly pitch down as he accelerated due to Gravity. He tried to pick up the checklist, but the G's were too intense. "Dammit!!! He grunted, before grabbing the handle between his legs. He saw the altitude meter reach 10,000ft and he pulled as hard as he could. Instantly the canopy blew and a loud roar sent him hurtling safely away from his 500 years repayment scheme. The parachute deployed and he was throttled a bit as the air was caught in the super-highspeed-specialized parachute. He blacked out for a few seconds at this, but quickly regained consciousness. He down to see the rest of the plane smash into a desert mesa, while the UFO smashed into the ground not far from it. It took about 15 minutes for him to land. tucking his legs so he could roll as he hit the dry desert dust. He quickly detached the parachute and bundled it up before taking stock of the situation.
Well, the plane was a rightoff to start with. But the other one seemed to have smashed down relatively intact. Instincts and adrenaline took over as he began to run towards the UFO (Unidentified F****d Object). Getting close was when the tingly feeling returned. "HELLO!!!" He called out "ANYONE IN THERE!?!?!? He ran towards the front screen to see two people inside, flames around them. Climbing up, he put his boot into the screen, but as he did so, it didn't smash, but instead vanished, Hal falling through into the cockpit. These two were clearly very badly burned, their skin was all VERY pink, almost rosey, both of them. He quickly undid the straps holding the one in yellow in place, hoisting him over his shoulder, he carried the man out to safety away from the craft, before turning back, running back in and grabbing the man in the green outfit.
"Sin... Sine..." The man hacked and spluttered as he tried to talk.
"Don't try and talk, i've got you. Captain Hal Jordan, US Airforce." He quickly carried him out and lay him next to the first one. "Sorry, but i don't have a medkit or anything. There's little I can do until help arrives. But let's keep you talking. That's the one i do know. What's your name?"
"Sur... Abin... Sur..." He coughed out.
"Ah, another military man. Abin, what kind of name is that? Greek? Arabic?" Hal sat down next to them.
"Noti... No time..." He coughed, writhing around and trying to grab his own hand, before pulling off a green ring that was in it. "Gotta k... Gotta keep... Gotta stop... Him..." He began coughing hard as he weakly threw the ring at Hal. "Keep them... He can't... Don't let... Him... Tor lorek san, bor nakka mur" He managed to cough out, as suddenly there was a bright explosion from the ship, and 5 brightly coloured lights began to zoom out in different directions. A blue, a pink, a purple, a red and an orange light. Abin then began to cough harder and harder "KE-EEP HIM-STOP HIM- HE CAN'T! until one final last deep breath and then Abin fell silent and still.
"Abin... Abin, buddy, stay with me." He ran over to Abin and started slapping his face lightly, shaking him a little. He then started chest compressions. "ABIN, BUDDY, COME ON! He yelled. "ABIN! DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME!" He continued compressions for 10 seconds before he was distracted by a glowing green light.
"Hal... Hal looked over to see the ring that Abin had thrown at him it was now glowing and floating in the air. "HAL JORDAN OF EARTH. I SENSE GREAT WILL IN YOUR HEART! SAY THE OATH AND JOIN OUR RANKS!!!"
Hal instinctively reached out towards it as he felt his lips moving on their own.
"In Brightest Day, In Blackest Night No Evil Shall Escape My Sight Let Those Who Worship Evil's Might Beware My Power, Green Lantern's Light!!!"
In a bright flash of light, Hal was stood now wearing a green and black outfit with white gloves. The Ring on his finger glowing brightly. He looked down to see the man in yellow slowly start to rouse. "Wow, buddy, you need to lay still." He said, once again, going into protective mode, not focussing on the freaky ring that just pimped his outfit. The man slowly started to lean up.
"The ring... It chose you?" He asked. He then let his head slump back as he clearly tried to stiffle his tears, but that didn't work as Hal saw them flowing. "Abin Sur... Why...? He cried softly as he slumped back down.
Financial District // Central City Issue #2: Sorry sir, banks closed.
Iris ran through the streets, dodging between the pedestrians and weaving between the various cars and trucks. Every time she stopped to get her bearings, there were confused looks on the faces of the people on the street. Phones were pulled out, and photos snapped in the brief moments she was there before she continued her journey. Within moments she had arrived at the First Bank of Central City, usually closed on a Sunday somebody had decided to re-open it early with some explosives. Iris tapped her cowl around her ear, then again, and a third time before she finally heard the beep-eep of the comm piece. "Ba- Uh. I'm here. Someone has blown their way in, I'm going to go take a look-"
Before he could respond she clambered up and through the hole in the wall. Armed with assault rifles one of the masked gunmen stood watching their entry, two more at the main door, a fourth appeared to be unpacking rucksacks from a main bag near the entrance to the vault—no doubt to load up their ill-gotten gains. Iris stopped in the middle of the room as her earpiece buzzed. "Be careful."
"Hey guys."
"What the-"
"What was that-"
"Hey look-"
"WHO ARE YOU-?"
It all kicked off at once. They had seen the flash of light and felt the rush of the air as she had ran into the room. Though until she had come to a stop they hadn't understood what was going on. She heard the sound of safeties being knocked off as they raised their guns in her direction. "I'm the... the... well. I don't have a name yet, I'm still workshopping it."
"Lady you got to be kidding me." One of them spoke up, she could hear another approaching her from behind.
"I'm giving you this one chance to put down your weapons and leave. Nobody has to get hurt."
She heard the laugh behind her, and pulled herself to the side out of arms reach of her attacker. Grabbing his outstretched arm as she did so. Using all the lessons she learnt in her self defense class she pulled him with her, using her momentum. While he moved in slow motion she saw his eyes suddenly go wide before he went tumbling across the room. Grunting and groaning as he went. In shock at what she had done she raised her hands to cover her mouth to stop the gasp escaping her lips.
One of the goons ran over to him, while another two opened fire. She stepped out of the path of the bullets, ducking down below the second volley. Reaching them she looked around the rifles, flicking the safeties on and pulling the currently loaded magazines out of the weapons, throwing them to the other side of the room, undoing the belt of one of the two goons she wrapped it around his arm and his compatriot. Tying them together.
"Okay, is that enough or are we not-"
Bang
She ducked down as the shot whizzed over her head. This wasn't as easy as she thought it was going to be, turns out bank robbers were a lot more determined than she had ever imagined. Skirting around the edge of the room, she ducked below the handgun, pushing herself up and catching him in the chin with her fist. A stabbing sense of pain travelled down her wrist, and she instantly knew it had been a bad punch.
She'd have to remind herself to take up martial arts classes again.
That was four dealt with, that left- nope that was it.
Iris smiled to herself as she rubbed her wrist. The two gunmen she had tied together were still trying to undo the knot that held them together. The one she had knocked to the floor first groaned as he rolled over, the sound of police sirens growing closer and closer.
"Lady. You're in for it now."
She laughed. "Am I? I just took you all down without even breaking a swear."
"You missed one." Iris looked around the room, arching an eyebrow, and he tilted his head up towards the vault as he collapsed back down onto his back with a groan.
Turning she ran in towards the vault, though immediately as she stepped in she felt herself lose traction as her feet slipped out from underneath her. "What the actual-" slamming onto her butt her momentum carried her spinning along the floor. Pulling her limbs in as tight as possible to try and prevent as much damage as possible she careered into the far wall slamming into it with more speed than one should probably hit a solid object at. She groaned as she rubbed the back of her head, as from behind the open door walked a man dressed in black. Several canisters on his back, a gun in each hand with a crown emblem on his chest.
Looking down she saw the trail of liquid that she had slipped in, and she was just glad her suit had yellow in it because it was likely stained. Touching some with her hand she raised it to her nose, the smell. Unmistakable, and incredibly unlikely.
"Well I mustard-mit. Our meeting came sooner than I expected, but I relish the opportunity for you to face the wrath-"
The crowd let out a boisterous cheer as a streak of red emerged from the back of the plane overhead. It plummeted towards the ground before the man-shaped aerial vehicle reversed its thrusters, deploying air brakes from the back of its torso, gauntlets and greaves. Coming to a near stop, it landed on the concrete without so much as a sound, as though a pillow of air had cushioned it.
Cameras flashed as the helmet opened revealing the multi-billion dollar smile of Anthony ‘Tony’ Stark, genius inventor and heir to Stark Industries, the mass weapons manufacturer.
The self-proclaimed ‘Iron Man’ inherited the company following his father's death and following a partnership with Obediah Stane, they grew to new heights, absorbing the likes of Justin Hammer and his Hammer Tech along the way.
The suit’s helmet opened fully, followed by the cuirass and then the arms until Tony could freely step out. Straightening his suit and bowtie, Tony extended an arm to either side of his body. They were accepted by the three awaiting gorgeous models. Each of the ladies stood a head above the playboy, heels accenting their long legs that moved through the daring slits of their dresses as the billionaire walked forward, his eye candy strutting along beside him exactly as rehearsed.
Behind the show, several Stark Industries employees retrieved the prototype under the watchful eyes of Tony’s personal head of security, Harold Hogan, or as he was more affectionately known, Happy.
Reporters surrounded Tony and his entourage, microphones extended towards him as more cameras flashed while others continued to film.
“Mr. Stark!”
“Mr. Stark, Channel 5 News, care to comment on the speculation that you're profiting on people's paranoia?”
“No I don't care to comment, it’s a reality, not paranoia and no,” Stark flashed his perfect smile, “It’s not profitable, it’s very profitable.”
Taking hold of the two sets of arms, Tony led the women inside the convention center where his personal aide was waiting for him. Escorting the women backstage, Stark waited as Pepper straightened his suit one more time before he emerged onto the stage, a spotlight illuminating his entrance while applause rose to a defeating din.
Clapping along with the audience Stark cupped a hand to his left ear before encouraging the corresponding side of the crowd to cheer louder. Skipping across the stage to the right, Stark moved his hand to the opposite ear before playing the other side of the crowd off the first.
Finally having enough of his fun, Stark waved his hands downward, waiting for the crowd to quiet before tapping his mic on and projecting his voice through the massive venue.
“Do you know how many insurance claims were filed in the past week alone following mutant and metahumans-based attacks? Nearly a trillion in property damage from close to a million claims. Claims that could have been avoided if law enforcement were properly equipped to fight back against these powered individuals. If we could rely on our civil servants instead of vigilantes and the odd mutant with a conscience.” He took a deep breath, motioning to the slides above him.
"In the past, we put our trust in a man and his serum. But the manufacturing time, the human factor, it's too variable. The future," Tony paused, the curtain behind him drawing away, "The future is moving, marching machine, the War Machine. Project War Machine puts the power back in the hands of the people you trust, imagine one of these,"
Tony gestured towards the row of heavily armoured humanoids behind him. Each decorated for a different branch of the military, several done up in the colours of civil services. The various units were equipped with specialized arms and tools. Save for one in the center, coloured in a garish red and gold, the one from Tony’s grand entrance. That was the mascot, done up in Stark's own personal colours.
Beside Tony on stage was his beautiful personal assistant whom many considered the only reason Stark Industries stayed afloat after the death of Howard Stark. His personal aide, Virginia Potts or as Tony referred to her, Pepper was an alumnus of the University of Pennsylvania. Were it not for Pepper, Tony would likely have drunk the family fortune instead of investing his time and effort into his family’s company and partnership with the older man sharing the stage with him.
The larger balding man in question had walked onto the stage, applauding Tony while inciting the crowd to follow. Obediah Stane flashed a friendly grin akin to the kind you’d receive from a kindly grandfather while he was followed onstage by the recently acquired Justin Hammer; the new lead of Stark’s Research and Development team. The man put on a small show attempting what looked like his best impression of Stark’s antics before the crowd began to rapidly quiet, sending the man sheepishly hiding in Obediah’s shadow.
"And that's not all folks," Stane yelled over the applause, "We're going to be holding a test flight, and we're going to make it fun," He smiled, "I've called my friends over at Farris Aviation and they've lent me their best test pilot while Tony is backing his personal friend, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. Both of these men; along with some of their colleagues, will be the first to try out Stark's War Machines in a series of tests and challenges designed to put both the pilots and the suits through a series of arduous tests. From this boot camp, I'll get the joy of crowning my pilot 'Top Gun' and Stark Industries gets the benefit of putting together a comprehensive training manual to put the War Machine into the hands of your public servants."
"Pretty cocky about that victory, big guy, did you slip a little blue pill backstage?" Tony interjected, lowering his shades and obnoxiously winking at Stane, "But even with performance enhancers, I don't think Rhodey is about to let a civilian 'test' pilot with more crashes on his resume than years of experience beat him."
Strutting to the middle to the middle of the stage, Tony began to incite the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy before yelling over the increasing din.
“If you’re so confident about your winnings, then why don’t we bring our boys out here and show ‘em off a little, Rhodey looks damn good in uniform, get on out here Lieutenant Colonel,” Tony yelled waving to Captain Rhodes who was standing backstage shaking his head despite Tony’s persistent urging. Stane smiled, inside waving a hand to the right of the stage. A younger man with blonde hair walked onto the stage with a pair of black aviators and a brown leather bomber. A cocky smile hovered over his cleft chin while a wad of gum was smacked between his pearly whites.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce to you the ruggedly handsome Major 'Highball' Jordan! A civilian test pilot for Farris Aviation, the Major was honourably discharged from the Marine Corps before coming to work for Karl Farris and his successor, the beautiful Karoline or ‘Spitfire’ who will also be flying for us.” Stane stated, walking forward to shake Highball’s hand before doing the same to Karoline and kissing the brunette on the cheek.
“That’s Major Major Jordan, sir,” Major replied leaning towards the mic, the smack of his gum echoing across the crowd. “But you,” He winked towards a young woman in the front row.
“You can just call me mMmm Jordan.” He added prompting a small giddy shriek from the woman before he stood tall again. A loud cough came from the unusually quiet Stark before Tony rushed back to the center of the stage.
“That’s great your guy has this whole McConaughey-Powell vibe going on, but Rhodey is a decorated member of our Airforce, active, not discharged.” Tony interrupted as Rhodes walked onto stage followed by a woman in uniform with the name ‘Danvers’ emblazoned on her blues. “Rhodey was given a medal of honour last year due to his service in an engagement above Kahndaq, while Captain Danvers here was top of her class in the academy and is the fastest climbing recruit the Air Force has ever seen.”
“It’s an honour to be part of this test, Sir,” Danvers replied as Rhodes shook Tony’s hand.
“Stark Industries supplied the payload for my plane above Kahndaq that day and without Tony and his family’s efforts to keep our country safe, our land free, I wouldn’t have been able to earn that medal. The least I can do is ensure that Project War Machine is tested to its fullest to continue the protection of this great nation.”
"Then may the best pilot win," Stane replied, shaking Tony's hand, behind them, the suits suddenly flew into the air, their remote operators guiding them out over the crowd before the congregants erupted into excited cheers.
Black clouds, depositing another blanket of snow across the valley, have blotted out the night sky. The woods are pitch dark, a darkness that feels thick and heavy, and even without a heavy wind, the air is the kind of cold that kills in seconds. Most nights like this, every animal in the valley has either fled to warmer weather, or taken shelter in a burrow or cave. Anything living is staying as still as possible, trying to conserve as much heat as they can; not a single soul wants to be caught out in this cold.
For a hundred miles in all directions, the valley is still.
Most of it, anyway.
The sniper half-buried in snow has a high-powered rifle, the kind that reach out a mile or more on a clear day, and put a hole through anything short of tank armor. He and his spotter have IR scopes that cut through the snow, fog, and blackness like it's high noon. They could pick out a target on the other side of the valley and take its head clean off without them ever knowing something was wrong.
And they're facing exactly the wrong direction.
Creeping up on them is all a matter of patience. Move slowly but deliberately, no errant twitches or shivering--something that's easier said than done, given how goddamn cold it is. Keep low, keep your breath even, don't wear anything that can give off a glint of light...which means I don't bring out my claws until I'm already on top of them.
I take the spotter first, grabbing him from behind and putting my knuckles against his jugular. With a quick SNIKT, any cry for help he might give is drowned in a red gargle. As his body falls to the snow, the sniper turns, but I'm already on top of him. Pin him down with the left hand, and a thrust to the chest with the right, straight through the heart, follow with another through the forehead. Messy, but quick; he's dead in seconds.
I retract my claws and take a moment to go over their gear. No markings or badges, like I expected, but a lot of their gear gives them away.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath as what I find confirms my suspicions.
They're wearing state-of-the-art insulation suits, stuff that not only keeps the cold out, but keeps body heat in to reduce signatures on IR. They've got SDR and sat-com radios, which means they're linked to a wider satellite network. And if the M107 rifle wasn't a dead giveaway, the fact that they flew into the valley on a pair of small, agile helicopters-- Little Birds, I'd bet-- spells it out plain as day.
These guys are American spec ops. Or at least, mercs or other operators patterned off of them. If my last experience with Uncle Sam is any indication, these guys are all the best in their field. They've been given the newest and best equipment that the US's bottomless pockets can buy them, trained in extreme conditions and ordered to meet inhuman standards, then exceeded every one of them.
This was going to get really ugly, and really painful.
I take the sniper's rifle and start scanning the valley. To be honest, I never could shoot worth a damn, but the scope helps me see what I'm looking at.
Two squads of soldiers, six men apiece, advancing on a small cabin I'd put together as a safehouse for nights like these. The back line has five men with assault rifles-- the new SIG Sauer XM7s, by the looks of them-- and a sixth carrying a SAW light machine gun. They've set up a firing line along a high ridge with plenty of coverage of the cabin, covering the other squad as they move in.
The other six men, the ones advancing two-by-two on the cabin, are actually carrying what look like air rifles. One of them takes a moment to put a round in its chamber, and I see the fluffy fletching of a tranquilizer dart.
"They wanna take me alive," I say as I put the rifle down. "Cute."
These guys are professionals, but their brass pretty clearly didn't give them the full picture of what they're up against. Normally I'd prefer slipping away over getting into a fight with US troops, but I've already dropped two of them, and they don't tend to let that go easily.
Besides, whatever Uncle Sam wants with me, it's clear he wasn't planning on asking nicely.
I descend from the sniper's perch and down into the valley. If these boys came down here on a hunting trip, they're about to find out they're not at the top of the food chain in these woods.
"Alpha team, advance," Captain Joseph Bricklemoore ordered, watching the aerial drone feed miles away. "Confirm the asset is in the cabin, then secure. Bravo, eyes open, but do not engage unless fired upon."
Bricklemoore knew he didn't have to state the obvious to his men, but he couldn't help it; he needed this mission to go off without a hitch. He'd had to burn most of the favors he had in high places to even make this mission happen, up to and including slowing down the lines of communication just enough so that the request for authorization would only reach the Director's desk just after they had secured the asset and brought it in.
As far as the higher-ups knew, his men were conducting training maneuvers in Minnesota, not hundreds of miles into Canada. This was, by all rights, a renegade operation, one that would see him court-martialed or worse if it went wrong. But only if it went wrong. And what the Director and the top brass-- and his own men, for that matter-- didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.
Bricklemoore and his contacts had been able to track down a high-value asset, one that had been giving other teams the slip for ages. And he knew that the way things worked in this organization, he was going to have to make some big plays, deliver big results, regardless of whether the paperwork had been signed off on.
The Director didn't like him much, and the Assistant Director especially didn't like him. But when he brought in the asset that even she hadn't been able to capture, he couldn't wait to tell that fat bi--
"Sir, we've lost contact with Charlie team," one of the comms operators interrupted his thoughts. "Charlie two went offline, followed by Charlie one. Their vitals...they've flatlined, sir."
Bricklemoore frowned. "That's not possible. The asset is--"
"Contact! Enemy contact!" came Bravo One's voice over the sat-com. "Bravo Five is down! Requesting weapons free!"
"What the hell, what the hell, what the hell," Bricklemoore muttered, watching the drone footage as a figure moved through the woods, apparently not wearing any thermal gear despite the deadly cold, moving towards the firing line. Its posture, its movements were more bestial than human, a wild animal with a taste for blood.
"Repeat, requesting weapons free!"
Bricklemoore watched the monster as it vaulted from the ground, scaled a tree, then readied to pounce.
"Sir!
"Weapons free," he said. "Light him up."
"Uhhh, sir?" the comms officer said. "There's a call for you."
"I'm in the middle of something here!" Bricklemoore snarled.
"I know, sir," he said, "but it's from the Assistant Director."
The wild man in the woods no longer scared him. Not half as much, at least, as who was on the other line. As the monitors from the drone feed flashed with gunfire, Bricklemoore could feel his ambitions going up in smoke.
Painfully, he took the radio from the comms officer, and spoke. "This is Bricklemoore."
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Bricklemoore winced, then tried his best to put on a brave face. He could still salvage this.
"I'm securing a valuable asset, one that the MTF has labeled as a highly dangerous security risk," he began, then decided if he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound, "one that your teams have failed to locate, I might add."
"Do you really think we didn't know the asset was in the Canadian Rockies?" the Assistant Director responded. "We stopped pursuing the aaset as soon as it entered the area. That's a restricted area, Bricklemoore!"
"Yes, but--"
"Do you know what a restricted area is, Captain Bricklemoore?"
"...I--"
"Yes or no, Captain?"
"...y-yes..."
"Clearly you don't, because a restricted area is a place where our operators are forbidden to operate. And yet, I see fourteen of our operators-- excuse me, ten, no, nine and counting--operating in an area where they are expressly forbidden to operate. So, I reiterate, Captain, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"If we can still--"
"No, Bricklemoore, you can't," the Assistant Director cut him off. "I'd tell you to order your men to pull out, but it's too late. You killed them the moment you ordered them to go into those woods. From now on, the job of securing the asset is going to Colonel Flag."
"C-Colonel Flag, ma'am?"
"That's right. You've just made a mess that's too big for an ambitious dumbass like yourself to clean up. Effective immediately, I'm placing this mission under the jurisdiction of Task Force X."
"Nnnngh....son of a bitch got me good," I say through gritted teeth as I look down at the ruined pulp that was my lower intestine a few seconds ago, lying on my back until enough muscles and tendons form to let me stand back up. Next to me, the soldier with the machine gun gasps a few last times, his body rattling violently, then goes still. With that many shots on target, at that range, his gun cut across me right down the bone, and would have cut me clean in half if it weren't for the gleaming silvery metal that coated my exposed spinal column.
I roll over onto my belly, and white-hot pain shoots through my body as I pull myself across the ground, open wounds dragging across gravel and bark, away from the dead gunner and towards the dying squad leader.
"Hgggk...Momma...I don't....I don't...." he's muttering to himself. He hasn't got long. I crawl towards him until I can look him in the eye.
"Who...who sent you?" I ask. He's fading, so I grab his head with one hand and turn him to face me. "Who sent you?"
"Can't...can't tell..." he says through ragged gasps. "Asset...too important..."
"Asset?" I ask. "Why come...after me...now?"
He looks at me, confused.
"You?" he says, wide-eyed. "Don't even...know...who th...the fuck...you are..."
He tries to take in another breath, then he goes still.
"Then what the hell are you..." I say, as I look up at the cabin, "doing here...."
At 2,080 feet the Tokyo Skytree is the tallest structure in Tokyo, and Japan by default. From where I'm squatting atop of it, the entire city is spread out before me. 13.6 million people in the city, three times that amount if you include the metro area. To think, she started out as two fishing huts in the twelfth century. I remember seeing her devastated by firebombs 80 years ago. Every night American bombers flew overhead and rained down destruction. Hundreds of thousands died in the fires and entire parts of the city were erased from the map. Considering what happened to my other children during the war, Tokyo got off light. It makes me a proud father to see how much she’s recovered in the decades since. I know she’s proud..
You see, the city speaks to me. I don't mean in that poetic license way that singer-songwriters wail about, I mean literally. Tokyo is speaking to me right now. A building two blocks away says it has rusted rebar in its foundation. A nightclub in Roppongi whispers out warning Yakuza gangsters are there to torch the place. The subway train at Shimbashi Station is proud to announce that it has arrived a full five seconds ahead of schedule. The train at Mitsukoshimae Station accuses the train at Shimbashi of being a show-off.
Before I could intervene in the squabbling, the hair on the back of my neck started to prickle. Halfway across the city, lamp posts and mailboxes were calling for help. I leapt from the top of the tower and fell through the air at speeds approaching terminal velocity.
The ground was rapidly approaching when I held my hand out. The street split open in a portal just as I hit the road. A half of a second later, I popped out into the street at the other end of town and fell into a warzone. Tokyo Metropolitan Police were in the middle of a shootout with men firing semi-automatic weapons from behind the safety of a minivan. The city hissed that the men fighting were interlopers.
“避難する！” one of the police officers shouted at me in Japanese.
I ignored his order to evacuate and instead leapt into the air. I caught the top of a lampost in my hands and swung my body upwards. My bare feet found purchase on the top of the post and looked down at the scene below.
Four men in suits wearing balaclavas and firing AK47’s took turns blasting off suppressing fire to keep the police in tactical gear at bay.
~They stole from me, Lord Hawksmoor,~ an old and distinguished voice whispered into my ear, patrician in both its tone and disdain. ~They destroyed my vault, tied up my patrons, and robbed me. 2 billion Yen.~
The voice belonged to the Shoko Chukin Bank, one of the country’s oldest and most prestigious financial institutions. I know very little about money – never needed it – but I know a big number when I hear it.
I waved my hand and opened up another portal. I leapt through it and came out of the portal feet first behind the group of bank robbers. I drove one of the gunmen into the back of the van with my feet before flipping to the top of the van to face the other three. A hail of bullets ripped into me, knocking me back off the van and down into the street with a dull thud.
I wasn’t dead. God’s can die, but not from gunfire. Doesn’t mean we can’t feel pain. And getting tagged with fifteen or so rounds of automatic gunfire was indeed painful. No blood was drawn, but there was plenty of bruising and coughing. While I lay on the street and tried to catch my breath, I heard it.
SHICK
Shouts from the bank robbers in a language that was definitely not Japanese, followed by gunfire. There was the sharp snicker-snack of a blade striking bone and ripping through flesh. A cry of pain from one of the men and I stood up and saw her.
Behind her was one of the gunmen on his knees, a bloody stump where his left hand had once been. The two remaining robbers aimed for her, but she moved like lightning. In an instant, both men were on the ground with severed hands.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
She remained silent as she sheathed her swords and walked up to one of the bleeding, moaning men. He said something that I recognized as German, but it was mumbled. She withdrew her blade again and put it to the bleeding man’s throat. The two exchanged words in German, but I was distracted. My eyes went to one of the severed hands. The cut had been surgical and smooth. I crouched down to examine the hand. It had been severed just below the wrist. Wrapped around the wrist was a tattoo, one that led to the palm and showed the green and black of a hissing cobra.
For the first time in over a millenia, I felt uneasy. I recognized that symbol, what it stood for, and who was behind it. Cold sweat began to form on my back and slowly roll down. That snake, brought me back to Egypt, a blood red solar eclipse, plagues of locust, and the end of the world...
“Katana, at ease,” a voice barked from behind me. I stood and turned.
An American man wearing a suit and tie stood with an unlit cigarette dancing at the corner of his mouth. Flanking him on both sides were the police. Tokyo's finest and enough weapons to retake the Philippines were locked on to me. The American looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Hmmm, pretty underwhelming,” he said. A small smile danced on his lips as he spoke. “I would figure the God of Cities would strike a more intimidating figure. Mr. Hawksmoor, my name is Sarge Steel. Can I interest you in a little chat?”
Peter sat atop Steinway Tower soaking in the vibes of the full length of Central Park, a hotdog scooped from a swing-by of 'Frankies on the Go' in a gloved hand. His mask peeled up, with the new vocal nodes left away from skin contact, exposing his fresh face to the winds of the altitude from the supertall spire.
"Now that's a view you can't buy." The teen uttered. "Coupled with a meal even I could."
A perfect afternoon. The kind of view that helped Peter mull over problems, followed by the web-swing home to help forget them.
And money would solve most of them.
He'd been privvy to the family's book-keeping the last year and a half. Aunt May had wanted to keep them from him - 'he's too young, there'll always be time for that later', but it had been important to Ben that he have a tangible sense of the daily responsibilities that came to the home.
Over the last six months, it was less that they'd show him to keep him informed, and more they'd rely on his keen eye and mind to do the final checks on the figures.
A large chunk of the lump sum they'd received when he had passed had disappeared in funeral fees. Peter's medical bills from the field trip to Oscorp was another hit, albeit in some ways timely. They were leaking money. Not a lot. But steadily. And beyond that, they really should have some kind of emergency funds as well.
He needed a job. He'd been talking a lot about unpaid internship and how much it could help him with his college applications. He was targeting a scholarship to ESU or MIT, with CalTech also a consideration. But that had field had narrowed to ESU with Uncle Ben's death. He couldn't leave her alone now.
And even that was going to be a tricky bullseye to hit, despite his grades. He began to feel guilty over all of his talk around the dinnertable about the internship. The school had approached him with a few choices - Oscorp, which he now viewed as off the table, and a second fringe candidate which seemed more appealing the more he thought on it.
Dr Curt Conners worked in a smaller lab for an unlisted company 'New U Technologies'. He was a former ESU alumnus himself and considered in very good standing. So much so, he still lectured in two specialised fields of advanced biochemistry a year - whether this was to maintain a connection to the graduate pipeline, or to keep his tenure and qualifications in check, Peter couldn't be sure, but it meant that the relationship with his target school was still there one way or the other.
It seemed a perfect offer for his own specific situation, and he was extremely grateful when Mr Warren informed of the internship offer.
But that would take time. And time he could be earning money.
If he had a job. Which he didn't. But certainly should have.
The smartboard in his brain had lines through MIT and CalTech, a circle around ESU - but tangents from a growing string of extracurriculars he'd likely have to cull which were propping up his academic scholarship bid were on shaky ground from the potential hit to his spare time.
Internship, Science Club, Science Olympiad, he'd participated in a National Science competition practical and theory test and received a high distinction and fell within the top 2 percent in the country, he was in Midtown High's Winemaking Club which he was told looked good and took very little actual time, because a lot was waiting on fermentation - the biology and chemistry of it all, and then there was his website.
He had been working on a website of his own construction that carried his own science and tech blog and vlog. He'd started to add photos and short video glimpses of himself and the other types in colourful costumes he'd run into along the way in a different part of the site. It had boosted traffic a bit, or perhaps it just drew more eyes to the site and his blogwork, it was hard to tell just from the basic counters, but the site seemed to be growing a little in popularity. Most of the work had been done as far as the infrastructure, and it just required basic maintenance and fresh content. Which he didn't mind doing and didn't take long, but it was still time.
Time when he was already going to be getting spread more thin as he'd have to get himself a real job.
Speaking of... no point having the opportunity go to waste.
He waved, as a helicopter stopped it's flyby to turn back and spend a lengthy period of time watching him. He gave a wave, pulled the mask back down below his mouth, and then got to his feet.
"You waiting for me to dance for you?" The adult voice came through the voice modulation. He tapped out a few steps and finished with a flourish.
"What, you never seen a superhero before? Welcome to New York." A quick two finger salute to the temple as he took two steps forward and dove off of Steinway Tower, to the gasps of the pair in the helicopter.
As the late webline grew taut, he let out a joyful yelp, and began to ready himself for his close up. Swinging past a phone webbed to a highrise on a speedy pass, which took today's video automatically picking up the motion as he swept through.
He launched a web at a light pole and, never breaking momentum, flipped over it and went flying back in the direction of the building, scraping the phone off the building with a single wall-crawling palm, before continuing on his way.
He hadn't had them long, but he couldn't imagine these powers ever getting old.
S P I D E R - M A N S P I D E R - M A N
Peter swung down to the bodega on Jamaica Avenue slowing his momentum with a hop and a skip. He entered the establishment with a telltale bell ring and walked to the refrigerated section at the back of the store. He pulled down the handle, self-pouring a slushee and looked through the frozen shelves as the machine went to work. Aunt May would have worked hard on dinner, but perhaps he could pick something up on the cheap for dessert.
Soften the blow when he tells her he's going to put off unpaid internship, and with it possibly giving up his chances at Academic Scholarship to the college of his choice, to pursue paid work which the household really needed from him. He couldn't imagine that going down well. She could be selfless to a fault.
Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked.
Peter sighed and scooped his cup off of the machine. A friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man's work is never done.
"Hands where I can see them! Away from the Alarm button! Empty the till in the bag! Hurry! Do it now! N--!"
He was interrupted by the long sound of slurping from a straw.
The barrels of the sawn-off shotgun were quickly turned in the direction of the masked hero.
"Get on the ground! Get down! Get down or I'll pump you full of lead!"
Peter pulled the mask back down over his face. The vocal nodes coming into contact with his throat again.
"No, you won't." He placed the cup down on a shelf behind him.
"I will! I'll--"
"See, I've got this weird Spider sense thing that tells me when I'm in actual real danger, and it's giving me nothing right now. So either that gun's empty, or you have no intention of actually shooting it."
"Well-- I'll do it I swear! I'll pum--"
"And you wouldn't pump me full of lead either. They don't sell lead based shotgun cartridges anymore. Haven't for years, if you'd bothered to buy shells to load that gun yourself. It'd probably be steel or tungsten, something like that, doesn't give off the same ring though. Not as intimidating. If there were shells in there in the first place, that is. Like cocking the gun. But you thought it'd sound intimidating enough to just cock the shotgun and start yelling, yeah?"
He could see sweat start dripping through the stocking on the man's head. This wouldn't take long. It was all under--
Suddenly, Peter's Spider-Sense blared! His right lens went askew with his brow raised, as he looked behind the till at the man working the counter drew steel.
The teen's hands raised. "No! Wait!"
The shotgun barrel turned. A trigger pulled. Peter turned and drop-kicked the man, launching him out of the bodega onto the sidewalk in a hail of shattered glass, as the bullet past where the man had just stood and destroyed a shelf full of snacks, and embedding itself in the wall at the back of the store next to the slushee machine he'd stood by moments earlier.
The man got to his feet with a groan and scurried down the street, much the worse for wear.
"He-- He was about to stand down! He was going to go!"
"Sure. Sure he go today. Then he come back again next week. Rob me when you not here. Or shoot me, then empty the till himself. Why you stop me?" The man replied in broken english.
Something about the situation told Peter that wasn't the case though. He'd felt he could actually get through to the man. And if he ever was coming back now, with the knowledge there was a gun behind the counter and someone who'd intend to use it, he was pretty sure it wouldn't be with an unloaded gun or an unwillingness to use it.
"You could've killed me. Or anyone else in your store. I was just back there!" He replied.
"No! I'm good shot. I'd have hit! Good shot! You helped him get away! Broke window! You pay for that!" The increasingly agitated bodega owner yelled back. "Still owe from last week! Tried cash check! Bank wouldn't take!"
"Wait... You tried to cash that? You went to the bank and tried to cash a six dollar and eighteen cents check made out to 'Spider-Man'? I thought that was a celebrity thing. It was from your own check book, I'm pretty sure that's not how checks work." The teen replied, scratching his neck in thought.
"Celebrity?"
"Yeah, you know. I sign the check, you laminate or something and put it on the wall with a photograph, and it's like you have the celebrity's signature and a picture with them, like 'Robert DeNiro shops here' or something."
"Oh! Photograph!" The man reached behind the camera and pulled out a bulky old polaroid camerera with an obnoxious flash.
Peter stepped back, gave two web-shooting gestures and posed. "I know the mask gets in the way, but I assure you I'm smiling as wide as I can." He said, his voice clearly affected by an overly widetoothed grin. The owner snapped off a photograph with the audible sound of the shutter, and held out a waiting hand for the photograph.
"No! Mister DeNiro very good. Mister DeNiro ALWAYS pay. Mister DeNiro good man."
He shook the polaroid as it rapidly developed.
"Wait-- You know Bobby DeNiro?"
"You no call him Bobby! Mister DeNiro good man. We spoke about you and how check bounce. Ask him if usual for celebrities to try to get out of paying. He say 'No'. Call you an asshole. Mister DeNiro good man. Always pay."
He stuck the photograph up on a board which said 'Do Not Accept Checks From These Customers'.
"Oh come on!" He exclaimed as his picture went on the board. "Robert DeNiro called me an asshole?"
"Good man. And Mister Scorsese agreed. You. Asshole. Always pay!"
"Robert DeNiro and Martin Scorsese both go to this bodega..?" Peter scratched the back of his head.
"Good man. B--"
"You mean, GoodFella..."
"Good man. Both. Always pay."
"Alright, alright already. I'll pay. I just don't have anything on me at the moment, because I thought it was like a celebrity, store credit thing."
The shopowner tore out another check from his book, which he seemed to have waiting in a holster.
"Well, now that's not gonna work is it? We did that already. That's just gonna bounce again. I can't believe you tried to cash a check from Spider-man for six dollars and eighteen cents..."
"You pay!"
"Yes, I know! I know! I pay. I pay-- I mean, I'll pay. I just don't have cash on me."
The shopowner gave him the eye. Holding him in intense scrutiny.
"Look... You tell me how much I owe. I'll go home, come back and pay in full with exactly that much cash."
"No! You pay!" He got agitated all over again.
"I'm trying to pay! I just don't have it on me, and another check would bounce! I'd come right back!" Came the teen's exasperated explanation through the adult voice modulation.
Once again the shopowner gave him the eye.
"Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents."
"So three hundred for the window and then... two lots of... six dollars and eighteen cents." He held a hand out across the counter. "Right?"
The shopowner took his hand, and held a finger up, never breaking firm eye contact. "You pay. You come right back!"
The youth nodded solemnly.
He stepped outside of the store onto the broken glass of the storefront.
"Definitely need a job..." He concluded, as he fired a webline in the direction of home.
B E T T E R O F F A L O N E B E T T E R O F F A L O N E
"Frank... You're sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure, Dave."
"No second thoughts? None at all?"
"If I had second thoughts, they died with Nicky Francesco."
"Right... Right. Okay. I think I know how to help."
Dave is still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he sits down at his computer. I don't think he was too happy to be woken up by me showing up at his apartment at 1 AM. He was probably even less happy after I told him that I had just killed a man. But even still, he's my best friend, and he has my back.
I'm not too sure what he's doing with his computer, but he opens a program and I see a window open and hundreds of lines of code scroll by in the blink of an eye. After a few moments, he's on the landing page for the NYPD's internal database. The fact that he had something ready for this makes me quirk an eyebrow. "You just happen to have access to the station's database at home?"
Dave scratches the back of his head. "I, uh, like to do some research. About the guys we're trying to lock up."
I'll just leave it at that. Can't look a gift horse in the mouth. "Look up Billy Russo. I need everything we have on the guy."
Dave clicks through a few pages then types the name into a search bar. He pulls up Russo's file, a few pages worth of background and crimes he had committed. He's never been arrested, so in lieu of a mugshot all we have are stills of surveillance camera footage. Billy the Beaut was a name that struck fear in the criminal underworld. I'd seen some of the aftermaths of his murders in the flesh. He liked to mutilate his victims' faces, gashes and cuts akin to a jigsaw puzzle. Should have known he wasn't the one who killed my family; we were able to have an open casket funeral.
His story was simple: former marine, comes home after a few tours, finds new work with the mob. He's been at it for fifteen years, working his way up the ranks until he was a capo, one of Saint's top enforcers. Has soldiers under his command, but he likes the dirty work. He's a killing machine, cold, efficient. One of the worst killers out there. But I'll be worse. You have to be to go after these kinds of men.
"We don't have an address for him, but it seems like he spends most nights at a bar in Staten Island. The Stardust Lounge."
"I know. Francesco told me right before he died. That's where I'm heading tomorrow night."
"Place is owned the Saints. Walking in would be suicide, Frank."
"It might be. But they won't expect it."
"Just don't get killed."
"I won't." I walk towards the front door of Dave's apartment and open it. "Good night Dave."
"... Night, Frank."
--- T H E N E X T N I G H T . . .
I get out of my car and glance up at the neon sign declaring "The Stardust Lounge" in swirling cursive letters. There's no bouncer out front, just a metal door plastered with a sign reading "NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMISSION". Through the blackened windows I can see the silhouettes of the patrons: playing pool, sitting at tables, leaning against the bar. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell that this place is a den for mob activities, which means that everyone in there is probably packing heat. Going in through the front door would be suicide, like Dave said.
So I'll take the back.
I walk around to the back of the building and see a man in chef's whites smoking a cigarette by the back door, which is propped open by a red brick. I step up next to him and press my Glock to the side of his head. He freezes, the cigarette falling from his lips and onto the asphalt. "You work here?" I ask.
"Y-yeah."
"You got a family?"
"I-I got a baby girl at home."
"Then run. Go home to her and thank her every day for saving your life." I lower my gun. The man takes my advice and books it to his car. I watch him run, then open the back door and step into the kitchen.
The kitchen staff is so hard at work that I pass through without a glance in my direction. I step out of the kitchen and into the bar proper. The bar is nowhere close to capacity, only about ten men in the room: the bartender, three playing pool, two leaning against the bar, three sitting around a table, and one in a booth in the corner. The guy sitting on his own in the booth? Billy Russo. I'm gonna have to chat with him. Alone.
I step forward, pulling out my twin pistols as the jukebox switches tracks.
I fire at one of the men at the bar. His brains splatter onto the guy next to him as he collapses into a heap on the floor. Next shot takes out one of the guys playing pool. It's only after the two shots have been fired that the rest of the men in the room notice me and start pulling out guns of their own. The bartender takes a bullet to the chest before he can pull out a double barrel.
A cacophony of gunfire erupts as I roll behind the bar, bullets whizzing past me. I stay ducked down behind the bar and blind fire over the counter, hearing a shout of pain and a thud as a body drops to the floor. I grab the shotgun the bartender was going for and spring upward onto the bar, unloading one of the barrels and blowing apart one of the mobsters' heads. I fire the second shot at another bastard who goes flying as the shot hits him in the guts.
I throw the shotgun at a mafioso's head and pull out my pistols before diving off the bar, firing as I soar through the air. Two men go down before I hit the ground. I pull myself to my feet and stalk over to the guy who took the shotgun to the face. I dump a round into him, then turn to see Russo still sitting in his booth, silently sipping a beer and watching the events unfold.
"Gotta say, that was pretty impressive," he says, standing from the booth and walking towards me. As soon as my left hand goes up to fire he whips out a gun of his own and shoots the pistol out of my hand. "But I'm pretty impressive myself."
We both charge forward and fire, narrowly ducking away from each others' bullets. We're face to face now, throwing punches with our free hands and narrowly knocking the other's gun hand out of the way before we can fire. I duck down into a crouch and sweep his legs out from under him, sending him to the floor. He fires and hits me in the thigh, making me fall to the ground as I shout in pain.
We both roll onto our sides and fire at the other, the bullets seeming to graze each other; his knocks the gun out of my hand while mine hits him in the shoulder. He hisses in pain, clutching at his wound, while I get up onto my feet and kick the gun out of his hand. I pick him up by the lapels of his jacket and drag him over to the window, slamming him against it. The glass cracks slightly under the force.
"Well, looks like you got me right where you want me Officer Castle," he says, grinning. I take a hand off his jacket and sock him in the face. He grunts, but doesn't say anything else.
"So you recognize me. I was hoping you would."
"How could I forget you? You're the one that killed the boss' boy."
"And you sent one of your men to kill me and my family. Next time, you should do it yourself. Last guy was a sloppy shot."
"That or you're just a tough motherfucker." Before I can respond, he brings a knee up into my gut, making my grip on him loosen. He tries to grab at me but I regain control quickly, throwing another punch at his chin and snapping his head upwards. "AGH, FUCK!" I tighten my grip on his jacket and force him down to his knees. "Jesus... You gonna fuckin' shoot me or not?"
"No. I'm not." I think of what I could do to him, ways to inflict punishment for his crimes. Killing him would be too easy and it wouldn't mean anything. I need him alive. I need to send a message to the Saints.
I look at the crack in the window.
I turn Russo around and grab him by the hair, before slamming his face into the glass. Again. And again. And again. The window shatters, chips and shards embedding into Russo's face. I grab one of the shards and jam it into his cheek, dragging it down his face slowly. Russo screams and yells and curses and cries as I take that beautiful face and rearrange it into a jigsaw puzzle.
The screams go quiet and turn into a low, painful moaning as he goes slack in my grasp. I drop his limp body to the floor. He's still breathing but he probably isn't happy about it. I turn around and pick up my guns, sticking them into their holsters as I take in the scene of chaos I had just created. Bodies on the floor, pools of blood seeping out of them. There's nothing but eerie silence; the jukebox had taken a bullet in the fight.
I feel sick. I try to fight back the rising bile in my throat but I fail, falling to my hands and knees and vomiting. I wipe a string of saliva away from my mouth, shuddering as the adrenaline wears off and I take in what I've just done. I've killed people before. Told myself I didn't enjoy it. I try to tell myself that I don't enjoy this either, but I'd be lying.
I bring myself to my feet and walk out of the bar.
It had been a week since the incident. Hal sat in his Quarantine booth after having been exposed to the crafts exotic energies. At least they had given him a TV to watch while in here. Watching the Stark Expo only served to make his blood boil. Rhodes and Danvers he had worked with before, different squadrons and little more than a "Hi how are you" handshake at a few of the big officers hullabaloo's but he had heard they were good people. But Jordan... Jordan was a different story. A hotdogging womanizer with no moral scruples, disobeying orders, pushing crates far beyond their safety limits in order to impress the girls, buzzing the control towers, Hal had done all of those things himself but here he was locked up in Alien Central, while there was a Major, getting a promotion and now a chief test pilot of Stark's new Mutant-Buster battlesuits. Now, Hal didn't really have a problem with Mutants, mostly he just saw them as anyone else armed on the streets of America. Some who are gonna shoot up a school, some who are just gonna carry it around their entire lives without using it. But it was still a lucrative job and there he was. Some prissy ivy-leaguer who's daddy probably bought his position. He couldn't help but flip the TV the bird. But as he did so, he looked down at the ring on his finger. Shortly after he had gotten here, the ring seemed to have run out of juice and he hadn't been able to do anything with it. The boys in the lab tried to take it away from him for study, but the moment anyone took their eyes off of it, i was back on his finger. It seemed to phase through reality itself or teleport or something, but it just kept ending up back with him.
Getting up from the bunk, he had choices galore. Read that magazine for the 17th time, watch one of the other 3 channels, or maybe have his 3rd shower of the day. It was just as he was about to take his shirt off for that 3rd shower that there was a knock at the door. "Come in." He replied. At that point, the door opened and a guard walked in.
"Captain Jordan, your quarantine is officially over and you are being summoned by the chief." He said, saluting him. Jordan saluted back before following him.
"Honestly, i'd have accepted a summary execution before staying in there longer." He groaned, finally being allowed to walk around and stretch his legs. He was lead to an office several floors up. "So, which Chief is it?" He asked, before being shown into the room. Inside of the room was a comfortable sitting lounge with leather sofa's and everything. There were a couple of guards, some guys with weird symbols on their jackets, the Alien in yellow he had rescued, and on a monitor was THE chief. As in, the Commander-In-Chief. Hal immediately stood to attention and saluted "Mr President."
"At ease, son." The president replied, Hal took the opportunity to sit down. "Well, gentlemen, we're in a dally of a pickle here so i've had the call in the best of the best of the few as possible. God knows can't let this stuff get out. You've signed your NDA's, right Captain?" The president asked looking at Hal. Hal nodded in response. "Good man. This is Agent May of our Strategic Homeland Intelligence Evaluation and Logistics Division." He motioned over to the woman sat on another sofa in the jacket. Yeah, now Hal recognized that logo. Usually a couple of those guys hanging around the base just before he went on sorties with mutants involved. "Our visitor has a heck of a tale to tell. Want to fill Captain Jordan in on this?" He asked. The alien in yellow nodded, before getting up.
"Hal Jordan of Earth, my name is Thaal Sinestro of Korugar. I have come to your planet because of a grave threat not only to you but to the entire universe." He said. "I will first thank you for my rescue as well as the kind hospitality your government has chosen to show me." His ring started to glow as a hologram of a immense being weilding a hammer appeared "Ronan the Executioner. Formerly one of the chief enforcers of the Kree Empire, ever since their war with the Thanagarians ended in a truce, he has since gone rogue. Deeming any and all of the universe to be unworthy of remaining alongside the Kree. His government has officially denounced his actions, but they have also done very little to try and stop him."
"Oh, that ol' chestnut..." Hal shook his head.
"Ronan is exceptionally strong and determined. He has been searching for the power to wipe out some of the other alien races of the galaxy. That is what lead him to the Lantern Rings... He tricked us. A trap that isolated us and destroyed us. But i was able to get all 5 of the other rings before he could get his hands on them." Sinestro pointed to the ring on Hals finger. "In total, there are 7 Lantern Rings of Power. Each dedicated to a different emotion, each powerful enough to destroy a planet or banish evil from the galaxy, depending on who's hands they are in. I weild the Gold Ring, it represents the ability to instill great fear in those who would serve evil. You, Hal Jordan have been chosen by the green ring. It represents Will. Pure, unadulterated will, to do what is necessary in the universe."
"I feel honoured... Did it choose me because of Abin-" But before Hal could respond, Sinestro interrupted.
"Abin Sur died a hero, defending what he knew was right. One of the greatest souls this universe has ever known. You, Hal Jordan, are now in charge of keeping his legacy alive." Sinestro and Hal stared at each other intently, both trying to get in the others head, but it was Sinestro who decided to move on. "The other rings are Blue that represents hope. Red that represents righteous rage. Star Sapphire that represents love. Indigo that represents compassion and Orange that represents the insatiable avarice for justice. I, however, have no idea what happened to the rings, i can only assume they were scattered in the crash." He sighed, but Hal piped up at this point.
"Wait, i remember seeing them. When Abin died, he said something about he can't be allowed to use them. He said something and then there were 5 lights that shot off in different directions. Blue, Orange, Pink, Red and Purple." He said, Sinestro stared at Hal for a second, silently.
"Clearly in his final moments, Abin felt the need to scatter the rings in case we were followed by Ronan or one of his men." Sinestro sighed.
"A wise precaution. If what you say about these rings are true, then we are very lucky that it was you and Abin that had them in your possession." The president replied. "So, Mr Sinestro, how do we plan to gather these rings? And how would we choose who wields them?"
"That, Mr President, is both an easy and difficult answer. The rings are currently searching for those who may use them. They will seek out those best suited to their use, who feel the strongest of their set emotions. Red will seek out a champion of Anger, Indigo a champion of compassion, etc. And in the meantime, i suspect Ronan is on his way, if not right now, then as soon as he has picked up our ships trail. But we must be cautious with the rings. In their tempremental phase like this, they may grab ahold of anyone feeling strong enough emotion and drain them to continue their search."
"That sounds incredibly dangerous, we have to warn the public." Hal stated.
"It sounds a lot worse than it is. They will transform people into some sort of Pseudo champion. Force them to feel their emotion at their absolute zenith, then drain that energy from them and leave. The victim in this scenario will be left rather weak, but nothing a few days of bedrest won't cure. There is little foreseeable chance of actual fatalities."
"But what if it's someone who's already rather weak from disease or something. Or heaven forbid, the opposite. What if it grabs one of those hyper-powerful mutants and makes them go on a rampage. There's a few mutants out there who're probably angry enough that if the Red ring grabs them, they could kill people." Hal reiterated.
"We are quickly approaching rampant speculation." The president stated. "Mr Sinestro, please do answer Captain Jordans question though." Sinestro looked at the computer screen, then to Hal, then back to the President.
"I don't know... But if they are as powerful and as angry as you say, then it may be entirely possible."
"That's a worrying answer, Mr Sinestro, but i appreciate your honesty." The President sat and thought for a second. "But this is why Agent May is here. Captain Jordan, I am hereby officially giving you an effective immediate leave of abscence from your duties in the United States Airforce while you focus on personal matters. I am then unofficially giving you orders to accompany Agent May and Mr Sinestro to S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters in New York City where you will coordinate efforts to hunt down these power rings and recruit anyone who these rings choose." Hal put his hand up and the President stopped to allow the question.
"What's the official story on the plane going down?" Hal asked.
"Technical fault with the plane itself, don't worry, this won't effect your military record." The President replied.
"Is there any way we might be able to say that there was no test flight? Just sweep the whole thing under the rug?" He asked. "I just don't think it's too fair for Ferris Aircraft to take the blame for this. Also, they are a fairly large manufacturer of our military jets, we can't afford to shake public trust at the moment, can we?" Hal said, putting his best foot forward, also hoping to save Carol and her family some face. The president thought for a second, before relenting.
"Alright, Captain, have it your way. But remember we are walking on eggshells here. If this is done quickly and quietly enough that Ronan doesn't discover the rings were ever here, then we can discuss moving them to whichever planet Mr Sinestro would like. If not... Well, we'll make decisions as they come. In the meantime, i am going to quietly kick some extra military funding for Stark Enterprises Mobile Battle Suits. If these rings are as dangerous as you say and can truly choose anyone to go on a rampage, then we may need some extra precautions on our streets. Good hunting gentlemen" The president saluted to the room with Agent May and Hal saluting back, Sinestro looked around and awkwardly copied the hand manoeuvre before the president signed off. Agent May turned.
"Gentlemen, if you would please follow me, we have a plane waiting. Your possessions have already been packed." She said, before looking Sinestro up and down. "We may need a disguise for you."
"Why?" Hal asked. "All i see is a minor skin mutation on an otherwise regular human being." He smiled. Sinestro stared at Hal for a second, before his ring glowed and in an instant, Sinestro seemed to change to look like a regular human.
"Alright, we'll sort you out with ID in flight. As well as brand new NDA's." She replied, before starting to walk, followed by the 2 Lanterns.
"Trust me, i've seen enough freaky stuff that's getting me sent to the nut house if it ever comes out. I ain't telling nobody nothing."
“Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Stark has left the building.” The announcer’s words echoed before Stark as he and Stane exited the AUSA24 stage before rejoining Rhodey, Jordan and the other pilots they had brought along. The audience applauded again, prompting Stark’s attention as he turned his eyes back to the stage.
Bolivar Trask of Trask Industries Inc. had taken to the stage while a very large prototype was brought out behind him. Stark studied the automaton, his ears listening to every word as Trask explained his own vision for the mutant problem they were facing.
“The Sentinel Program completely removes the human problem, simply speaking the Sentinel scans a person down to their DNA to determine if they possess the ‘mutant gene’. As more information becomes available about these ‘metahumans’ we will be able to have the Sentinels find a link between them to also discover and register them. All extrahuman individuals would be registered to a database, not unlike a gun owner’s registry and neighborhoods would be informed of mutants living on their streets.”
Trask’s words gave Tony pause. It was a damn good idea, one he wished he had thought of first. War Machine was going to be seen as purely reactive in comparison to Trask’s forward-thinking. A completely proactive countermeasure, no human error and more importantly no human sympathy.
“What are you thinking, my boy?” Stane asked before looking over Tony’s shoulder towards Trask’s presentation. “The purple is a bit garish for my taste, nothing about that design is subtle.”
“We need to get War Machine more proactive, I think we should double our efforts into the AI component of the suits. Between Ivo’s ‘Amazing Android’, the Anti Metahuman Adaptive Zootomic Operation, and now Trask’s Sentinels, I’m worried we’re going to be written off as reactive and ineffective.”
“The military likes the suits, Tony, they don’t want androids or giant robots.”
“Chicks dig giant robots, Big Guy,”
“Tony, you’re spiralling, stay the course and weather the storm. I’ve gotten us this far, trust me, we are the answer they want to the mutant problem.”
“I’m pulling up J.A.R.V.I.S. in the car and we’re going to look at V.I.R.G.I.L. again, I want to make sure everything is ready for our summer camp. Can’t afford to Hammer this up.”
“Tony,” Obediah scolded, “I told you to stop using Hammer’s name as a verb, especially in that connotation.”
“Must have Hammered my mind,” Tony yelled emerging from the Walter E. Washington Convention Center into the throng of waiting reporters. Cameras flashed as microphones were shoved towards the group before Tony stepped away allowing the others to depart unharassed to their vehicles while he soaked in the attention. Ignoring the microphones Tony waved and smiled, blowing kisses over the gathered reporters and spectators.
“Yeah, no, no comment, thanks, bye!” Tony stopped as a head of gold attached to a pair of mile-long legs caught his eyes.
“Send the car around,” He snapped his fingers back towards Stane who rolled his eyes with a subdued groan as Tony spun on his heel, opening his suit jacket and striking a pose for the blue-eyed woman. “Oh and tell Jordan he’s buying drinks for making me endure that awful line,” Stark snarked while he flashed a sneer to Obediah before addressing the reporter with a quick eyebrow, “Hi there, you, I’ll answer.”
" Mr. Stark thank you, any comment on the notion that Project War Machine is just Top Gun for bored billionaires with too much money?" The blonde reporter asked, a slight accent annunciating the nasal consonants of her speech.
Stark peered over his red-lensed sunglasses at the reporter before flashing his perfectly smug man-made smile. His eyes darted down to the ID badge strategically placed between her exposed cleavage. The name next to a more modest photo read 'Ali Anovna'. Hungry blue eyes trailed the perfect hourglass figure before returning an answer.
"I assure you, I'm hardly bored, I have a date tonight with a tall, leggy, blonde, half... is that a Ukrainian accent, Miss Anovna?" He asked, taking a step towards the reporter. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
"It is," She replied, some bashfulness filling her voice as she soaked in the billionaire's blatant advance.
"Cocktails at eleven then, the Waldorf, that’s where I’m staying,” He said, placing a room card inside her ID badge holder. “I'll have Pepper send you over something real nice." Tony replied before he leaned into the microphone, "And secondly if it is Top Gun, then I guarantee you there will be volleyball, it will be sweaty and shirtless and I will be joining in and streaming it for all." He laughed, pushing the sunglasses up before turning towards the luxury supercar awaiting him.
Thor didn't know how long he knelt in the snow beside Mjölnir. Memory was a prison unto itself in this dark crevice under the earth: Thor could play at doing things different over and over again until the end of time. That is, he once could have- now that he was stripped of his hammer, his godhood was more frail than ever before. Winter's bite was now a threat he could not ignore. So he summoned what strength remained to him and rose, setting forth into the lonely dark.
The land opposed him at every step. Snow clung to his boots like the clawing hands of the damned in Hel. It was hard to navigate here by night, even with the Bifrost lingering. It was somehow too blinding to behold directly yet too dim to light his way. All Thor could do was pick a random direction and pray fate was kind to him. Thick forest blocked his way, forcing him to bend beneath canopies or tear them up with his hands. Both were obnoxious novelties to the God of Thunder- he couldn't remember the last time he walked somewhere. Thor was the living storm. The sky was his domain.
"I deserve this," he reminded himself, "if not worse."
'God of Thunder...'
The voice scratched at the edge of his consciousness. Thor spun around with the force of a whirlwind, the snow around him flung into the sky in a twelve foot radius. Shadows leapt across the trees; the suggestion of wolves racing across the moonlight. No, not quite wolves. The shadows walked upright, as if they were men. Men formed of beast flesh. His fingers brushed against his side where Mjölnir once hung. When they found nothing but air they clenched into a fist. Fine. He may be without his weapon but it was not required to fell these monsters. He would tear them apart with his hands if necessary.
"Who dares challenge the Prince of Asgard?" Thor stepped forward, holding his head high against an unseen foe.
'Prince of Conquest. God of Death. Drenched in so much blood it could extinguish the sun. You truly are your father's son.'
Thunder roiled. Thor took another step forward, casting his gaze all around him to the empty woods. "Who are you? Who dares invoke my father's name with such lies?"
"S-stay away f-from me!" Someone screamed in the distance, and a loud bang followed. Thor tore his attention away from the bestial shadows to look. Perhaps a hundred paces away from him he could see the dull glow of what must've been lantern light. Its cone of light was pointed southward away from him, low to the ground and unmoving.
"Who goes there?" Thor shouted.
He waited several seconds for a reply. Only the howl of the wind called back.
Glancing back around at the trees, Thor found the shadows of the Man-Beasts gone. Even as he made his way to the light, he was careful not to keep his back turned to the dark for too long. Something was lurking in these woods- something all too malevolent for his liking.
The lantern had fallen in a stream bed frozen over by the storm. Thick brush gathered on other side of the stream, though the forest was not so dense with trees here. Thor stepped through the brambles, bending low to take up the device. It was like nothing he had ever seen: small, able to fit easily into the palm of his hand, and behind the glass face was no obvious flame to cast this light. He could sense the pulses of electricity contained within. His brother, Balder, once showed him a similar device he had found on a place called 'earth' in the realm of Midgard.
Searching the area with the the strange lantern, Thor spotted an iron club a dozen paces up stream. It was a metal rod stuck fast to a carved wooden handle. There were mechanical switches of unknown purpose near the grip. Mortal weaponry, he assumed. Casting the light further, he found a break in the ice. The brushes up the nearby bank were crushed and there were marks in the snow. Heavy, dragging prints, like something was carried this way. Thor bent low. He cast his light to the break in the frozen stream. Blood stuck fast to the jagged edge of the ice, yet he saw no body in the water. Perhaps the mortal had dragged himself out?
"Hear me: if you yet live and seek respite from your woes, reveal yourself. I will guide you from these woods. You have my solemn word."
'You won't leave these woods alive, butcher.'
Thor bristled. "Who dares-"
A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, seizing his voice in his throat. Thor looked down to see four razor-tipped claws sticking through his breastplate, coated with golden god-blood. The attacker pushed Thor down into the stream with a terrible strength. Ice shattered, and freezing cold water rushed down Thor's open gullet, choking him.
The god writhed, unable to find anything solid to push himself up against. His attacker wrapped its other clawed hand around his head to keep it beneath the surface. It must've had the strength of a frost giant to render Thor so helpless against it.
'Let us see if gods can drown, shall we?'
Darkness crept at the edge of Thor's vision. He kicked against the ice above him, trying to find purchase against it, only for it to shatter at the slightest pressure. His hands groped for the bottom of the stream bed, finding nothing. It was disorientating. Hardly could he tell up from down in the nearly pitch-black water. Indignation raged like a tempest in his breast. This was the peak of his humiliation. Cast from Asgard, stripped of his birthright and weapon, and now he faced death at the hands of some Midgardian beast. It was going to drown him. He who had soared in the space between stars. He who had commanded stormy seas for fifty thousand years. He was to be bested by a brook.
'Is this what mine actions have wrought? Am I owed such indignity, father?' He thought, consciousness slipping away.
A sudden, distorted bang sounded from above him. The weight on his back lessened as the claws vacated his shoulder. Another bang, followed by an inhuman roar.
In the seconds before his consciousness fled down river, Thor threw his fingers upward. They found purchase against a stone on the bank. With all the power remaining in his muscles, he dragged himself up and up and up until his head finally breached the surface. Thor took a desperate breath.
"You are one ugly sonofabitch, aren't you?!" Keith Kincaid shouted. He was scrambling backward up the stream bank, tearing through the brush as he tried to force another shell into the shotgun.
The man-beast loomed. It must've been over ten feet tall, all wiry muscle and bone. Dark red fur hung to its frame like a too-big coat. Its claws were huge, dangerous looking things, hanging from thin arms that were so long they dragged against the ground. Bony protrusions of half-formed hands littered its sides. The worst part was its face, though: its face was Wilford's, split straight down the middle in a gory heap so a wolfish maw could peak out. Even covered in blood and transformed into this horrible thing, Kieth recognized the old man's pale blue, paranoid eyes.
"Jesus. Wilford? Is that- don't-"
The thing that used to be Wilford leapt on Keith before he could fire again. Keith screamed. It pinned him down under its weight, one claw wrapped around the arm Keith was using to hold the gun, and the other outstretched behind it, ready to strike.
A fist seized the upraised claw. Keith could see the drowning man better in this light: he was tall, broad, and built like Arnie in Conan the Barbarian. His long, blond hair was matted against his scalp, and there was a fury in his eyes unlike anything Keith had seen before.
"Nay." Thor snarled. "Not him. Me. I am not done with you yet."
Twisting his body around, Thor lifted the Man-Beast off its feet and flung it into a tree fifty feet away. The monster flew so fast it was a blur before Keith's eyes, and when its body impacted the trunk exploded into splinters. The force of the blow sent out a shockwave that rocked the forest.
'You are not worthy of your strength. You never were. Murderer. Kinslayer.'
"I will not be mocked by some abomination!" Thor bellowed. He jumped, taking to the sky for dozens of feet before coming back down on the Man-Beast, feet first. Snow and dirt and splinters exploded in every direction.
'You were cast aside for a reason.'
Thor slammed a fist down against the monster's maw. "You-"
'He only ever loved you.'
He punched it again. Teeth shattered like glass. "Do not-"
'And you killed him for it.'
And again, blood splattering against the snow. "Know me!"
Again, again, and again once more. Every blow struck sent another wave of debris flying. Every tree for a few dozen meters lay on its side. Blood caked Thor's fists and chest. Beneath him was an unmoving pile of meat, lying in a crater that hadn't been there moments ago. Thor heaved every breath, falling to his knees atop the corpse. He loosed a long, pained howl that echoed across the valley.
Tot's eyes widen in surprise as he takes my figure in, his mouth going agape.
"Charlie?"
I smile. "Tot. Can I come in?"
Blinking, Tot opens the door wider and steps aside, muttering "Come in, come in..." I step through the doorway, patting the old man on the arm as I make my way through the foyer and into the living room. Nothing has changed in the room since I was last in Hub City; a large bookcase containing numerous novels, textbooks, and philosophical books is set up against the wall where someone else might put a TV. Two chairs sit a few feet across from each other, a recliner and an armchair, with a double shot glass of scotch and Rand's The Fountainhead sitting on an accent table beside the latter. I take a seat in the recliner while Tot takes up his chair.
I motion to the book. "Thought you hated Ayn Rand?"
Tot glances at the book then chuckles. "She always was more your speed, wasn't she? I suppose I was curious what you were always going on about."
I shake my head. "Not much of a fan anymore. Too... Self-absorbed. Ram Dass has become a favorite lately."
Tot nods with an impressed whistle. "Really? The hippie in the woods recommend him?"
I chuckle at that, nodding. "Yeah, he gave me a full itinerary of philosophical books to read through during my training. Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, you name it. The Zhuangzi was my favorite, I think, but Dass really..." I trail off, wanting to continue this pleasant conversation on what I had learned, but that wasn't what I was here for. "... I'd love to keep talking about this, Tot, but you and I both know that's not the most important thing to discuss right now."
The older man's smile slowly leaves his face, a grim expression taking its place. Tot nods, knocking down his double shot before speaking, "Yes. About Fermin?"
"About Fermin. What are things looking like since I left?"
Tot mulls it over, tilting his head from side to side as though weighing the thoughts in his mind. "The same as they always have been, Charlie. Only difference is you're back now."
I smile at that. "You keep my things like I asked?"
"Yes."
I stand up, the contented smile on my face betraying the fire burning in my eyes. "Lead the way."
Tot stands as well, pressing his back up against the bookcase. I join him and the two of us grunt as we begin to push the heavy hunk of oak aside, revealing the door hidden behind it. Tot pulls out a keyring, flips through until he finds the right one, then unlocks it and opens it, allowing me to enter first.
Our secret little haven also hasn't changed much, though there wasn't much to begin with. A simple chemical lab where Tot creates more pseudoderm and bonding gas for my use, though I note the workbench and assortment of tools that have been added opposite of the lab equipment. A trunk in the center of the room draws my eye, and I quickly step forward to open it.
Inside are my clothes, but on top of the neatly folded articles is a curious looking gun, the shape of a hair dryer with a three-pronged hook coming out of the barrel. I pull it out, eyeing Tot curiously. "Ah," he says, "I was working on that before you had to leave the city. Was supposed to be a surprise. With that, you'll be able to scale buildings much more easily, rather than relying on fire escapes as you so often have. You can give it a try later." I nod, pulling everything out of the trunk as I leave the room to shower and change.
The water on my skin almost feels like a baptism, cleansing me of the sweat and grime of the last few days, and with it my worries about returning to Hub City. I resolve myself to go with the flow, be the butterfly that Dragon called me. The man's worries matter not when against the carefree nature of the butterfly.
I start slipping my clothes on. I've lost some weight, so they're a bit bigger than usual, but even then the weight of the suit around me is a familiar comfort. The belt tightens up the pants. I never really needed it to keep my pants up before, but the buckle also housed a little secret: a compartment containing the canisters of bonding gas. I slide on the hat, then the trench coat. I dig around in the coat's pockets and find my leather gloves folded neatly in the inner coat pocket. I slip them on.
Only one thing left to complete the ensemble.
With the grappling gun tucked inside my coat, I step out of the bathroom, where Tot is waiting for me with a refill of bonding gas and my mask in hand. He passes it off to me and I quickly store the canisters before examining the mask, a small smile on my face as I do so. Two glass eye holes, able to see clearly around the layer of skin covering them up, and a thin filter for dust and toxins over my mouth. Pleased that the mask is the same as always, I pocket it and head to the door.
"Ready to go so soon, Charlie?" Tot asks.
I stop at the front door, glancing back at Tot from over my shoulder. "Need to remind some people that this city isn't theirs." I open the door. "I'll see you soon."
And with that, I take my leave.
--- O N E H O U R L A T E R . . .
A heavy rain drizzles down, soaking the pavement and drenching anyone walking along the sidewalk. Three men in a warehouse are unloading a truck full of crates, grumbling all the while. "Fuckin' hell..." one of the men grunts, setting the last of the crates onto the ground. "Alright, that's that then."
They don't even know that I'm watching from the skylight above.
I visited one of my contacts, Roscoe, an old hobo with a penchant for hitting the sauce. Despite that, he was a reliable informant most of the time, gave me tips about the Sinners' activities around the city. He told me that he was sleeping in what he thought was an abandoned warehouse, only to be woken up by the voices of a couple of men discussing the truck they were going to receive tonight. A hundred thousand dollars worth of product. "-flood the Wedge and Lucifer's Corner with enough heroin to fill Hupert River," Roscoe recalled one saying.
I open the skylight slowly, setting my grappling hook onto the roof and rappelling myself down into the warehouse. I drop down behind a stack of crates and flatten myself up against it. The tension inside me is close to erupting, the knot in my belly tightening and my muscles tensing. In just a moment, I'll commit myself; I'll burst out from behind the crates and do violence or have violence done to me. That I may die is of no interest to me, because in this moment, I am alive.
I hear footsteps. One of the men heading my way. Perfect timing.
I spring out from around the corner and grab the man by his arm, twisting him around. The other hand grabs the back of his head and slams his face into the crate which cracks from the force. I pull him back and let him go before delivering a roundhouse kick into the side of his head that sends him to the floor. I snap my head back in the direction of the other men who are staring at me in slack-jawed horror.
"Holy shit, it's the no-face guy!"
I rush and leap forward with a kick into one, sending him flying back. I whip around and throw a punch at the other man, then grab him by the arm and toss him into one of the crates, destroying it and causing plastic packages full of heroin to spill out onto the floor. The one I kicked is back on his feet now, pulling out a pistol from his waistband. I whip out my grappling hook and fire it at the man, the hook hitting him in the face and causing him to drop his gun. Taking the opportunity, I dash ahead and deliver a palm to the man's chest, followed by a sweeping kick that sends him to the floor.
I look back over to his buddy to see that he's still splayed on top of the pile of heroin, barely conscious. The one on the floor is trying to get up, so I grab him by the shirt and pull him to his feet. "Let me ask you a question," I say. "What do the Sinners gain in starting a heroin epidemic in Hub City?"
"I-I don't know! They never tell me shit!"
"Don't know? Or don't want to tell me?"
"I would tell you! I promise!"
"Alright. Tell me someone who does know."
"The Reverend! He's the one who ordered the shipments from Chicago!"
The Reverend. I had heard the title before during my investigations into the Gospel of Sinners' activities. He was the head of the organization, and it seemed like everything went through him in the city's criminal underworld. Now I just had to find out who could lead me to him.
"The Reverend. How can I find him?"
"Jake Mulligan! He's a top dog, one of the Reverend's enforcers!"
"Where can I find Mulligan?"
"He lives on Lemire Avenue! The fuckin' apartments there!"
"That was quick. No loyalty to your cause?"
"Man, fuck a cause! I just wanted to get paid, not go up against some faceless fuckin' freak! If sellin' that asshole out means I don't get my shit kicked in then I'll fuckin' do it!"
"Typical two-bit thug. Don't care about anyone but yourself." I slam the man into the ground, his head bouncing on the concrete and knocking him out.
At the top of a hill in the middle of a clearing, the small back-country shelter has a light on. Fourteen men just died because of it.
I stare at that lit window, a soft electric glow in the pitch black of the forest, and I feel my hands shaking. I'm partly shaking because my blood is still up, adrenaline shooting through my veins from the fight, and I'm partly shaking because I'm finally starting to feel how goddamn cold it is out here. Going to that cabin will get me somewhere warm...but it also means I'll have to face off with whoever's in there, whoever those soldiers risked coming into my territory to capture.
I take a look at the light at the hill, then back into the freezing chill of the woods.
"Hell with it," I mutter to myself before I start trudging towards the light, "Someone wants to use up all my heat, they're gonna have to fight me for it."
Back-country shelters like this one are made so lost hikers and wayward tourists can have a place to stay if the weather gets too bad. Most of 'em are just a little shed or hut, maybe a cot and a pantry full of canned food. I roam back and forth between a few of them in my territory, and go into town Every once in a while to keep them stocked up- my good deed I do for the privilege of being left alone.
I'd be tempted to say whoever's in the cabin was just some camper who got caught out in the snow...at least, if it weren't for the two squads of American soldiers who were staging an assault on it.
Slowly approaching the cabin, Claws out, I steel myself. Maybe this doesn't need to get ugly- a quick knock-knock, state your name, they tell me what the hell they're doing in my cabin and why the American military is after them, I send them on their way.
Shame it never goes that easy.
Carefully, I make my way to the door, and once I'm able to reach the know, I quickly open it and step inside, closing it shut behind me.
"I know someone's here," I say as I move through the front room, the single light coming from a battery-powered lantern hanging from the ceiling. There's a loud, low buzzing as a propane gas heater in the corner blows hot air (or as hot as it can manage) into the room, its coils glowing an angry red. Scattered across the floor there's a pile of blankets. And the air is heavy with the salty smell of sweat, mixed with something else. Chemicals that give off what's supposed to be the smell of...
*Sniff*
...coconuts?
"Just come on out," I say as I approach the smaller back room, little more than a closet with enough room for a person to lay down. "No need for things to get ugly."
Whoever's in the cabin with me, there really is nowhere for them to hide...
...except when I step through the door into the back room, it's empty.
"What the hell...?" I say, then I hear a creak as one of the floorboards shifts in the front room behind me.
Turning, I step back into the main room...and again, it's empty.
Before I can start searching, I hear something knock against the wall of the back room again. How the hell can someone be so damn bad at sneaking, and still get past me?
Slowly, I take a step back towards the doorway. "I'm not gonna hurt ya," I say, watching the thin wall between the two rooms. "I just wanna know what's...going..."
I step into the doorway, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a small, skinny figure moving through the damn wall.
"...on!"
On instinct, I lunge towards the figure, grabbing it by the throat with one hand, my other hand raised back to plunge my claws into it.
"Lemme go!" she yelps, kicking at me as she tries to break free. It's only once I've got her that I realize the person I'm throttling isn't some spec-ops spook...it's a teenage girl, scared out of her mind.
The kid is a freckle-faced brunette, wearing about five or six layers of fashionable 'winter' clothing that might keep out a chilly breeze. Her cheeks and nose are bright red, eyes bloodshot, a half-frozen drip of snot trailing between one nostril and her upper lip.
"I said lemme GO!" she shouts, and she slips out of my hand like she's not even there. The girl falls to the floor and scurries away from me.
"Easy, kid, easy!" I say, stepping back. "I'm not gonna hurt ya."
"D-don't get any closer," she says, putting on a brave face. Frantically patting down the pockets of her heavy coat, she eventually reaches in and pulls out a pocket knife. "I d-don't wanna hurt you, but if you come closer I'll...I'll cut you, I s-swear to God!"
"Okay, okay, I surrender," I say, putting my hands up to show I'm not a threat. Then I realize my claws are still out, and my arms are caked in gore up to the elbow. I retract my claws back into my hands, and I sit down at the opposite wall. "So. I don't wanna hurt you, and you don't wanna hurt me. How about we just talk it out, then?"
The girl doesn't answer. She just keeps the knife pointed at me, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
"We'll start off easy," I say. "What's your name?"
No answer. Don't give the enemy any information, right?
"Those guys out there," I say, gesturing out the window. "They were coming here after you?"
She hesitates, then nods. "...yeah."
"Any idea why?"
The knife in her hand trembles, and she shakes her head. "No," is all she says, then a few seconds later, she starts again and can't stop. "A few friends and I, we were j-just coming up h-here to go skiing. We'd rented a c-cabin a few miles from here, over near L-Lake Louise. We were j-just having a party, and th-then we see these..these helicopters f-flying towards us. These s-soldier guys, they started yelling at us, and then th-they started shoving us...and then th-they...they started shooting...and I just...I just ran, and I kept running and I-"
"Your friends," I stop her before she has a breakdown. "are they like you? Can they, y'know, do things?"
She sniffles, finally wipes away the snot drip, and shakes her head. "No. I don't know anyone else who's a..."
"A mutant?" I finish her sentence, then slowly draw and retract the claws in my right hand. "Well, you know one now."
Her eyes grow wide, and I can't tell if she's relieved she's found someone else like her, or afraid that she found out she's like me.
"The s-soldiers," she says, looking past me out the window. "Are...are they-"
"Yeah," I answer, looking away. "I got 'em all. Good chance they've got friends, though, and they'll be on their way before too long."
"...oh," she lowers her eyes. "What happens when they come back?"
God damn it. There it is. God damn it.
This isn't your problem, Logan. Those guys weren't after you.
You've been down this road before. You know what always happens when you try to play hero.
You can just walk on out of here. Disappear into the woods. Let this dumb snot-nosed kid figure her own shit out.
You don't have to get involved.
There doesn't have to be any more blood.
This isn't your fight.
....
....God damn it.
"I know a place," I say, hating every word coming out of my mouth. "It's a long way from here- way back East in New York- but it's a place for people like you...like us. Those assholes from the choppers won't go anywhere near it. I can get you there in a few days."
"New York?!" she starts. "But my friends are-"
"-probably either dead or being questioned in some black site," I cut her off. "Either way, there's nothing we can do for them."
She nods, and doesn't speak for a few minutes. She just puts on that brave face again, and chokes down the tears.
For a long while, the only sounds in the cabin are the buzzing of the heater, and the howling of the killer wind outside.
"Kitty," she says at long last. "That's my name. Kitty Pryde."
9x Thank
3x Thank
