[IC] Independent Comics Universe RPG

[Bounce]

I'm staring down the barrel of a .45.

Ask me anything about the gun. Every scratch, every nick in the brushed metal finish is burning itself into the back of my eyes. I want to take a step back, but he's shouting at me not to move. Move? I'm too afraid to breathe right now.

And why? Why am I afraid? I'm an unarmed, black, ten year old kid who has done nothing wrong. If we look at this situation objectively, there's no reason to be afraid. The gun is unnecessary in this situation. There's no reason for the cop to pull the trigger.

...who do I think I'm kidding?

The cop behind the gun is trembling. He's shaking so badly that I can't keep my eyes focused on the gun any longer. It's moving too much. He's a greasy faced, red headed, whitebread patrolman who probably spent his whole life in Woodcrest. He's totally going to pull the trigger. Why? Because I'm the first black youth he's seen that hasn't been on TV. Everything he thinks he knows about me he's gleaned from re-runs of Gangstalicious: Resurrection and YouTube videos of Kanye West's public spectacle at the MTV Music Video Awards. He's going to pull the trigger because the fear of not knowing what happens if he doesn't pull that trigger outweighs the fear of what happens if he does.

'Shooting while white' isn't a crime in or of itself. Getting shot while black? That's reasonable doubt. Why did the black kid get shot? Who needs facts to answer that question? Society has force fed people enough stories so the facts become less important. We can just fill those in. Gangs. Drugs. Gangs and drugs. Mix and match. You know you do it. You read the one paragraph news blurb in the paper about the black kid who got shot, then turn the page without batting an eye.

I'm about to become that black kid you read about. You'll spare a sentence about how the cop is on paid leave pending an investigation that will never be written about. No one will report on a story when everyone can conveniently contrive their own facts from skin color alone. You'll read my one paragraph story and then flip the page so you can check out when the premiere of Real Housewives of Topeka, Kansas airs.

So that leaves me just one choice. Do or do not. And the moment I realize what it is I'm about to do, is the moment when I realize: I'm in a nigga moment.

Man, how did it come to this?


B L A C K • P O W E R • F I S T • B E G I N S
part i

The Town of Woodcrest, Maryland
8 hours earlier...

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, I have a dream. Sometimes I think I understand what he meant. Sometimes, in my dreams, I see the land of harmony and justice that he spoke about and I think, wow, this is amazing.

Then I wake up.

The rhetoric and imagery with which Dr. King so eloquently spoke touches on an idea. That’s what makes it so powerful. Forty years later, we’re still awed by a speech given by someone on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial because it puts forth an idea that resonates with people of different walks of life. Who doesn’t dream? Who doesn’t want to believe in those dreams?

But we live in the real world, and that’s what makes waking up so hard.

I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering whether that dream could ever be more than a fantasy. Forty years later, racism isn’t any less relevant to social issues, merely more readily concealed. Forty years ago, Dr. King remarked about how a great American signed an Emancipation Proclamation, and yet at that time – a hundred years later – the Negro still was not free.

Today, a black man resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, something not even imagined in King’s time or any time before, or even after. And, yet, for all that supposed progress the nation’s prisons are overcrowded with African-American inmates. Over represented in prison populations, under represented in graduating high school and college classes, or economic classes. The ghetto remains synonymous with the black American. And the idea of the black American family is now replete with phrases like ‘baby momma’ and ‘baby daddy.’

Was this what Dr. King envisioned when he looked forward to the future and said, “I have a dream”?

The back of a man’s hand connected with a glancing blow against the side of my head. Bolting upright in bed, I reach a hand up to guard the ear that had just been boxed. Standing over me is the man known to me as Grandad.

“Boy, I know you’re not lyin’ in bed thinkin’ ‘bout no I have a dream shit again.”

Robert Jebediah Freeman had been a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Corps during the Second World War. Coming home, he stood witness to the Civil Rights Movement and now lived out his final days in retirement in suburbia.

There’s nothing I can say in this situation. He doesn’t want to hear it, and I’m tired of trying to convince him otherwise. I don’t know, but I do it anyway. “Grandad, I...”

“Nigga hush,” the man commands. The sight of a raised hand is enough to compel obedience. “Come get breakfast,” Grandad barks, turning and exiting out of the room. “And wake up Riley!”

Still rubbing my ear, I look over at the other bed in the room I share. My younger brother is a lump of bed sheets rising up in the center of the bed. I swing my legs off to one side and nearly slip on something on the floor.

It’s a flyer from the bookstore at the mall. Noam Chomsky’s doing a book signing for his latest treatise on western imperialism and anarcho-syndicalism.

...maybe I can talk Grandad into taking us to the mall later.

---

Undisclosed Location
The National Security Agency

It was an empty, unremarkable cubicle in a sea of identical cubicles. Just a desk, a phone, and a computer. The phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring. “Yes, sir?”

“There’s a problem in Woodcrest.”

“A problem, sir?”

“You don’t believe the problem is a problem?”

“I think with the right preparation, the problem could prove useful to us. Sow disinformation.”

“Our analysts disagree. There’s a book signing this afternoon at the Woodcrest Mall...”

“What makes you think our problem will be there?”

“He wouldn’t miss this.”

“Funny. I was just at the book store at that mall the other day. I didn’t hear anything about a book signing.”

“Our men inside the local political offices tell us that the Democrats and the Republicans will be showing up to protest, that should give you plenty of material to work with.”

“What kind of result do you need?”

“In a perfect world, we take them both down.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And the problem?”

“It won’t be a problem, sir.”

[Gowi]

The arrangement for the consul of “Freedom Fighters” as the group of mobians called it were to meet in the Mystic Ruins. The ruins—as old as they were happened to be a sort of ancient wilderness where it would be fairly easy to detect technological activity as the only settlements across the archaic jungles were small villages and hamlets originally hoping to live in peace away from the arm of aristocratic politics. In a way it was rather ingenious for Tails to set up shop in the Mystic Ruins though it did come with a danger as well. Isolating themselves as a base of operations made them an easier target for Dr. Robotnik’s raids if he had ever thought to attack them straight up if they become more trouble than they were worth. In addition to the Egghead himself the Mystic Ruins was home to a variety of creatures that the ancient civilizations call “obelisks of beasts” – but maybe all of that great monster stuff was a lot more story rather than reality? Sonic didn’t want to take his chances personally.

Tails believed the best course of action was to be quiet and careful about their approach; if they were going to do more damage to the good doctor then they couldn’t make mistakes or risk lives of other mobians by setting up shop in a severely populated settlement. As far as the other freedom fighters were concerned—it was an agreeable choice… to everyone but Johnny Lightfoot. Lightfoot never felt comfortable near anything that smelt of the abhorred technology that Robotnik created and Tails for the most part was the second coming of the man as he held several inventions he created to counteract Robotnik in addition to having a lot of Robotnik’s technology lying around to be studied by the two-tailed fox. Johnny was just too absorbed in his own emotional hatred, though Sonic understood his feelings given the circumstances. But sometimes you needed to chill out and take it in stride.

It is for the greater good. That’s something everybody could agree on. Sonic leaned back against an old pillar that came up from the tall jungle grass on a slight slant. It was pretty sturdy for its age and it gave some good support as Sonic looked over the rest of the freedom fighters that had gathered together. In addition to Johnny Lightfoot and Miles “Tails” Prower they also had a pretty good assortment of problem solvers. Amy Rose was a sort of odd one who devoted her time to two things: being Sonic’s “number one fan” and being the best expert they had on the Mystic Ruins and its folklore. He had pondered what threw him off about Amy but it definitely had to do with her interest in the weird sort of things—sorcery, evil spirits, soul reading… the girl was a bonified freak; but she was kind of cute.

Speaking of cute there was also one more lady of the group—but this one was more experienced in reconnaissance and combat. Definitely more on the Johnny Lightfoot side of personality problems and in a way she kind of scared Sonic personally. Sonic wasn’t sure if her real name was Honey or if she came up with it to push aside all of her past connections. Robotnik had ruined a lot of people’s lives and she happened to be one that was affected by that. Her skills were… pretty much in martial melee fighting and Sonic had once heard a story from Tails that she had taken down a tank-type badnik in one single punch. Scary stuff.

The meeting outside of Tails’ workshop was going pretty much how he had expected it to—Johnny and Honey wanted to physically hurt things right now, but Tails insisted on giving him more time as he scanned the island with what little power he had from the workshop, and Amy was studying some type of item that she believed had ties to the ancient people who lived in this valley for whichever reason. In a flash all of this impatience, study, and observations came to a sudden halt however when a loud noise cut through the nearby mountains with a sound that Sonic couldn’t quite describe—it was so loud and painful to hear it shook his very being. As the sound drew closer the rocks of the mountain in front of them by about a good mile or so was tore open from the inside by what Sonic immediately recognized as a new invention from Robotnik himself.

THWOOM!



“So he’s managed to rebuild his metal boat and make it fly, huh…” Sonic muttered under his breath.

“What is that?!” Tails said as he shot a glance toward this… thing.

“Whatever it is; it smells like Robotnik.” Sonic quipped before the rocks attached to parts of the emerging vessel began to drop—and drop hard they did.

“Look out!” Sonic yelled as he narrowed his brows—the rocks could crush his friends if they didn’t take cover now. It was a good thing he was the fastest thing alive.

[Zombiedude101]

Unknown

The flames died down, the searing pain which tore across his body becoming a dull sensation of numbness, the ringing in his ears from the gas explosion becoming a subdued note of quiet, until there was nothing but darkness which surrounded him. Grunting exhaustedly, Jackie forced himself to his knees as he glanced around, hoping to find something but to no avail - only a shroud of darkness. He was within its realm once again.

"You insulted my legacy, Jackie..."

He felt the voice's presence, yet this time it wasn't inside his head, but instead came at him from all over. That choking, black tone which seemed to take care in making every word as agonisingly grating as possible, as if the only form of expression it understood was one of misery, chaos and evil - but then, maybe that was all that the darkness truly understood.

"You betrayed my gift..."

It spoke again, and like before the voice came from around him rather than within. Glancing around, Jackie shouted back towards the darkness.

"What do you want from me this time, dammit?!"

Silence followed, the darkness gave no answer but for the echoes of his own voice. Even now, after all this time, Jackie still had no idea where he was, or what the darkness had intended for him this time. When he'd died before, he'd gone to his own personal hell, one where the Darkness had reigned and forced him to face its own nightmares, an eternal war on the frontline trenches of the First World War, where he'd also met his great grandfather, Anthony Estacado - also trapped here by the will of the Darkness. But he also remembered how he'd found a light in that same darkness, fighting at Anthony's side to its very core until he'd been felled by another one of its nightmares, but all the same he was able to force it into submission, giving him the chance to finally take his revenge against that rat bastard Uncle Paulie.

This time, the voice spoke from within.

"This is not your time."

And he awoke.

---

Aunt Sarah's

As he stirred from darkness, the faint aroma of fresh cooking entered his nostrils and gave him even more incentive to wake up. A familiar voice gave him the final boot.

"You wakin' up, kid?"

Blinking several times, Jackie dragged a hand along his jawline as a man recovering from a binge-induced hangover might, glancing over towards Jimmy who was seated at a dining chair just across the room. Clearing his throat with a grunt, he answered sharply.

"I don't think I'm dreaming, at least."

Cracking a wry grin as he always did, the Grape nodded.

"Least you haven't lost your spirit kid, I'll give you that one. Jees, you really are one tough son-of-a-bitch. Christ, I woulda' thought Chef Vinnie had managed to cook a final dish outta you, but after the boys found you all busted up they took you back here for your Aunt Sarah to take a look at."

The familiar name made him smile.

"Yeah, thanks Jimmy.."

Right on schedule, she stepped into the room. Aunt Sarah wasn't a particularly imposing woman in any respect, standing just over five feet with short, greying hair which matched her pink and black sweater and greyed out pants, but regardless she drew respect from all those who'd come to know her - even the Chicago Guys. A long time ago, she'd moved from her life as a token Southern Belle to marry a distant relative from the Estacado clan, a respected mob boss, but even with such distance Jackie had always been close to her - were it not for her age, she most probably would've adopted Jackie from the orphanage as a boy, and even then she'd often visited him and vice versa, exchanging Christmas and Birthday Gifts. After losing Jenny, she'd been the only family he had left - and he was fiercely protective of the old woman.

Jackie brought himself to his feet as she approached, quickly drawing her into a loving embrace as she spoke up with her faint, Southern Drawl.

"I was so worried about you, Jackie.. when Jimmy helped carry you in here, I almost thought we'd lost you again.."

"I know, Aunt Sarah. I'm sorry, things got a little uh..."

"Complicated? I suppose the family always will be, especially now that disgusting piece of work Franchetti is no long around to keep the rest of those animals in line... but you need to be more careful, child. You lecture me on how I should take things more easily and let you do some things for me, that I'm all you've got left, but that works two ways kiddo.... ever since my Jimmy passed, you and Jenny were always there to talk to, and now you're the only thing I have left. Please, promise me that you'll try and take care of yourself a little more, if I were to lose you too... it might break an old woman's heart."

He nodded with a faint, saddened smile across his fine.

"I promise, Aunt Sarah."

"See? That wasn't so hard. Now c'mon over to the kitchen, I've made you and the boys something to eat, you must be starving by now..."

Even now, he couldn't help but stifle a chuckle at his dear old aunt's optimism.

[Bounce]

“I know where I'm going and I know the truth, and I don't have to be what you want me to be. I'm free to be what I want.”
- Muhammad Ali

B L A C K • P O W E R • F I ST • B E G I N S
part ii

The Town of Woodcrest, Maryland
The Woodcrest Mall

Obi-Wan Kenobi said, your eyes can deceive you. But how are we to know when we are presented with real truth or the interpretation of a politically driven media that had made itself into a propaganda pimp?

Noam Chomsky was a Jew from New York, and he’d spent a lifetime trying to get people just to ask themselves that one question. It was one that he’d been asking ever since the United States had gone to Vietnam, decrying Communists while conveniently overlooking what was happening in Cambodia -- a place that U.S. media sources were curiously quiet about, particularly given the scope of the massacres and intellectual genocide that was taking place under the Khmer Rouge as a direct result of the political turmoil taking place in Vietnam.

Most people were more likely to be able to recall sports statistics from 1975 than to recount any details of the Khmer Rouge, even if they remembered hearing anything about it at all. And that was another part of the question posed by Noam Chomsky. There was the illusion of truth, and then there was distraction. It was classic slight of hand. Get people to look over here. Discuss Babe Ruth’s batting average and pay no attention to the dictator behind the curtain.

Not surprisingly, Noam Chomsky was arguably one of those most hated Americans since Jane Fonda visited Hanoi.

To the left of the bookstore was a crowd of young professionals wearing Obama and Believe t-shirts, holding signs that read: Freedom of Speech: The Right Not To Read and CHOMSKY: You Lie!

To the right of the bookstore was an older crowd wearing a mixture of Reagan, Bush, and McCain paraphernalia, NRA hats, and holding signs which offered parallels between Noam Chomsky’s beliefs and Communism. And Anarchism. And Socialism. All the great devil’s that America’s greatest generation had credited themselves with destroying.

It was one of those signs that a protested lowered to block the path of the big-haired youth who approached the narrow pass between the two groups.

The sign was painted red, with a big black cross painted across Noam Chomsky’s face. Grabbing one corner of the sign, the boy moved the sign out of his way. “Excuse me, sir, I’m trying to get to that bookstore.”

“Beat it,” the man wielding the sign barked harshly, sneering down at the youth.

“Fuck your attitude, man.”

That voice had George Washington University graduate student written all over it. Turning his head, the young boy saw a young woman who looked like a law office intern. “See, this is the problem with the Republican Party. You don’t know how to just talk to people like they’re, ohmygod, people or something,” the short-haired, college loan crusader tossed at the older man, before stooping down so that she could peer at the afro headed youth at eye level. “Hey, sweetie, can you come back another time? Liberals In Emancipation have declared this a special Free Speech Protected Zone. You know? You have the right to keep that shit to yourself and stuff,” the girl remarked with an astonishingly straight face for someone who'd just spoken against the very ideas she was claiming to uphold.

“Free speech protected zone?” Huey echoed, each word working in tandem with the next to voice the underlying context: How stupid are you really? As though to verify that question for his own morbid curiosity, the boy blurted aloud, “Do you have any idea how much damage that concept does to free speech?”

“These little shits don’t know what free speech is,” the old man barked from behind the black youth. “And, spoiler alert, free speech isn’t free. Or didn’t they mention that little detail in your political science debates? You want the right to free speech? Where were you in Saigon? Where were you in Desert Storm?”

From behind the young woman, a guy in a faded U.S. Marine Corps t-shirt raised a hand. “I was in Baghdad. Were you?”

“No one cares about Iraq,” the man barked derisely. “Conservatives Against Non-Citizen Enabling Radicals was protesting here first. Take your right to assemble somewhere that gives a damn!”

Turning to look back over his shoulder, the black youth looked up at the old, cantankerous man with a look that have been pity. “You realize that by protesting their right to protest and assemble, you’re directly undercutting your own political position... right?”

“I have the right to protest their right to protest, just like I have the right to own as many fully automatic weapons of my choosing,” the man snapped back angrily. “But that right is for American people, not those Dream Act hippy-immigrant motherfuckers. Their right of assembly ends at my ears, and I’m sick of hearing it.”

“So who gets to choose which ideology is right?” the boy posed rhetorically.

“We’ve got the guns don’t we?” the man retorted with a snort, leaning back to pop the NRA supporter pin on his hunting vest.

“Oh, here we go with the guns again,” the G.W. grad student opined dramatically with a sigh. “You know, that is exactly why our Founding Fathers totally supported gun control.”

“You know what your problem is...” the old man began, stopping himself in mid-tirade as he realized something was out of place. Or, rather, that something was missing. In particular, the black youth that had been there a moment ago. “Hey, where’d that kid go?” the man demanded.

Turning her head, the grad student pointed out the back of the afro-headed youth, now framed in the doorway of the bookstore. As he passed over the threshold, the boy was greeted by the latest books by the Rev. Al Sharpton, Ann Coulter, Bill O’Reilly, and Rush Limbaugh. Ignoring all of them, the youth tucked his hands into his pockets and headed toward a lonely Jew who sat alone at a table waiting to sign copies of a book that no one would buy.

Shrugging her shoulders, the grad student turned back toward the old man. “Eh, he’s black. It’s not like he can read or anything.”

---

The snap of a camera lens captured a black and white image of the young boy as he tried to reason with the old man.

Another caught on film a black youth offering another point of view to a grad student.

A third caught the boy shaking hands with the supporter of un-popular ideas.

With the right spin, that was all tantamount to material support for terrorism.

And they would ensure that it got the right spin.

[Enarr]

Lightning in a Bottle
"Sometimes things have to go wrong in order to go right." -Sherrilyn Kenyon

---

The Historical District, Empire City
3:30 PM

Huffing: The sound of a man pressing his legs down on a bike's pedals like a frenzied mother stomping out a cockroach. With sweat glueing his T-Shirt to his back, a muscular bike courier wipes his left hand over his shortly cut hair and then scrubs the moisture onto the front of his shirt. Placing his hand back onto the handlebar, he tightened his grip before arching his back and crouching forward and pumping his legs even faster.

Almost there, he'd thought to himself as he rode his back down the sidewalks of Empire City.
*******
Empire City
12:45 PM

"Is it possible to request a specific courier?" asked a man over the phone, a raspy voice delivering the question. "Well, I understand the need for privacy, but there is only one that I trust. Is Cole Macgrath available?"
*******
The Historical District, Empire City
3:35 PM

He'd been biking since One o'clock.

Cole Macgrath felt his calves stiffen as he swept his left leg across the pavement that made up Empire City's sidewalks. Sweat was saturating his shirt and his pants, to the point where everything in his pockets felt like an anvil tugging on his thighs. With a small box in his grasp, Cole lumbered towards a short set of stairs.

Three steps and a wooden door were all that stood between him and a finished job. It was almost fateful that he paused and looked up at the door because that was the moment that fundamentally changed his life.

Without any warning, Cole felt his clothes rip apart and a wall of kinetic force rammed right through his body, traveling as a wall of sudden deafness and destruction. As soon as it hit, Cole was thrown thirty feet through the air, arcing far away from the doorstep he'd been in front of, instead placed across a street that had been busy seconds before.

Though no one in the vicinity could possibly hear them, car alarms were ringing out like dogs barking at their neighbor. Bikers were instantly flipped on their sides and cars ceased to function momentarily as their motors were assaulted by what may as well have been the wrath of god.

Farther away from the blast zone, countless accidents and instant tragedies spawned. The area closest to the blast zone was instantly without power and gas lines were ruptured. Mighty towers were toppled by forces that they never could have been prepared for.

Where there wasn't the sound of alarms or mechanical alerts, the chaos caused by the tragedy was made just as loud by the sound of gunshots and cries of terror.

Away from the blast zone, pangs of distress were still felt. The city's tallest building, Abstergo Tower quickly evacuated it's publicly designated sections while locking down its private sectors. Criminals took advantage of the carnage by raiding establishments that were usually well-protected like banks with many policemen were in hiding, injured, or otherwise occupied. At the center of it all lay Cole Macgrath's body, still and cold.

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Cobra Commander

"Ground team," Cobra Commander said into the comm link. "You're go for distraction."

From above the streets of Washington DC in the Cobra helicopter, the Commander saw the bright plum of fire errupt from elsewhere in the city, marking where the ground team and set off the first of many improvised explosive devices. The Commander wanted the feds to think this was some amateur Jihadist setting off the explosives. That way they'd waste time in fanning out in a manhunt for their target instead of putting together a competant counter attack. He enjoyed how predictable the United States government was. If nothing else, he could always rely on them to act moronic.

"Infiltration team, get ready," Firefly barked as the helicopter readied itself to land on top of FBI headquarters. The chopper was outfitted with an FBI transponder code, ensuring they would have a smooth landing. Once inside, however, it would be a different story. Firefly called out, "Ground team says power will be out in ten seconds."

The Commander counted down the incriments in his head, and at the exact moment he finished, the city of Washington went dark. The FBI headquarters had a generator, no doubt, but the time it would take their security systems to come back online would allow the invading squad to enter the building undetected by the feds' cameras. The leader of the terrorist organization spoke calmly to his troops as the aircraft began landing, "The layout of the building has been uploaded to your HUDs. Fire in short, controlled bursts. Let the Americans panic. We are Cobra. We do not fear death."

"Yes, sir!" the Crimson Guard members responded in unison.

The helicopter touched down, winding down its engines as the Commander stepped out in front of his men. Without a word, the squad moved forward with their leader at the point. He didn't often step onto the battlefield, but when he did, he always made sure he was the one at the head of the column. It reminded him of the old times where he was the most feared killer in a region. Sure, people feared his appearance now, but few knew how supremely deadly Cobra Commander was in a fight. But tonight they would remember.

The Commander quickly cut through the lock on the roof's door with a shot from his silenced pistol, but not before checking what was on the other side using his helmet's infrared view. Bursting through the door, he fired two more silenced shots into the foreheads of the entrance's guards before they could gain their bearings. Holstering the pistol, he unhooked the high-powered rifle from his back and began moving towards his goal. Alarms began to blare through the halls of what the foolish Bereau believed to be a fortress. Agents began running through the corridors in a panic, not ready for the sudden incursion onto their hallowed soil. As they ran like the fools they are, they were picked off by the Commander's expert marksmanship, and if he happened to miss, one of his Crimson Guard was there to take the fortunate agent's life.

At a crossroads, the Commander motioned for half of his team to go one way, while he, Firefly, and the other half went in the opposite direction towards the end goal. He knew his men could take care of any pitiful FBI agent that got in their way, and splitting up ensured him an easier path to the X-Files.

"So really," Firefly said after firing a burst from his submachine gun, "what are these things?"

The Commander had always admired how calm his good friend could be in the middle of a fire fight. It was one reason he had kept Firefly around for so long. The man just knew how to handle himself on the battlefield. While others would be wetting themselves in fear, the headstrong demolitions expert would be laughing at them and ripping the throat out of an enemy. But this also meant he was always asking the Commander questions.

"You and I both know the world, the universe is more than what the common man thinks it is," Cobra Commander responded after scoring another round of headshots. "The X-Files contain some of the most easily attainable information on the subjects a normal man should not know about. I intend to find something that will bring this world to its knees."

"Well it's a good thing you're not a normal man, huh?" his friend laughed a sadistic laugh.

Before long they reached their destination, easily breaching the door, and firing two rounds into the gut of the lone agent guarding the room. The X-Files were housed in a small office, with nothing betraying the vast amount of knowledge hidden in the computers housed there.

"Not much to look at," Firefly shrugged.

"Don't judge a book by its cover, my friend," the Commander plugged the data device from his belt into one of the computers. Instantly it began leeching all the data held on the drive. "With what we get from this computer could remake the world as we have always dreamed."

"You're a fool," the wounded agent counghed from the floor, blood trickling from the sides of his mouth. "Whatever you find here won't help you. It'll end up killing us all."

"Lucky for you," the Commander fired another round into the agent's temple, "you won't be around to see that."

**********

The helicopter took off from the roof of FBI headquarters, the entire contingent of Cobra soldiers on board and unharmed. The Commander smiled behind his mask. His plan had gone off without a problem. Now came time for the icing on the proverbial cake. He flipped a detonator off his belt, flipping the cover open to reveal the ignition button. He pressed it with glee, setting the building off below in a brilliant blaze.

In a matter of minutes, FBI headquarters was nothing but a burning pile of ash and rubble.

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Leonardo

The Mousers were relentless killing machines, that much was for certain. Every time one of the turtles managed to cut down a group, another sprang up to take their place. It was as if they were self replicating. They weren't extremely resilient, but even Leonardo realized that he and his brothers would be overwhelmed before long. "Team, find an opeing. We're getting out of here."

"What do you mean we're getting out of here!?" Raph protested as he drove a sai through the eye of one of the mousers. "This is our home, Leo!"

"And it'll be our tomb if we don't get out of here soon, dude!" Leo shot back as he decapitated two robots with a swing of his blades.

"He's right, Raph," Donnie agreed with his eldest brother. "There's too many. They'll tire us out and trap us down here."

"Being shredded by walking garbage disposals isn't high on my list of ways to go out, bros!" Mikey yelled as he tossed a mouser at another one with his nunchaku, causing both to shatter.

"Rahhhh! Fine! Follow me," Raph cried out. Usuing his immense strenght, Raphael pushed back the wave of mousers almost alone, opening their escape through the back hatch of their home.

Once all four of the brothers were through, Leo slammed the hatch shut, holding the robots at bay for the time being, "Come on, that won't hold them for long."

"Where are we gonna go now? The surface?" Raphael asked, the frustration showing in his voice. "Cuz last time I checked we were supposed to, like, stay in the shadows."

"No, we should stay to the sewers," Donnie planned. "They're down here, but we can keep them contained here."

"Great, I've always wanted to be a rat in a trap," Mikey said dejected as he began to trudge deeper into the sewers.

**********

Baxter Stockman sat in the van he had rigged into a mobile control booth, smiling from ear to ear. Stockman had never been one to call himself giddy, but today he absolutely was. His mousers worked better than he had ever imagined they would. They were laying waste to this city that had treated him like an insignificant insect for far too long. One group had already put the Turtles on the run, another was following a large, mutated rat, and a third seemed to be headed for another, yet unknown signal. The fourth group of mousers were directly under Stockman's control, ripping through the concrete and steel of New York, heading for where he knew the mob goons that threatened him would be.

For once in his life, Baxter Stockman was in control.

**********

Splinter dashed through the sewer pipes, the sound of the mousers' metal feet clanging and echoing around him. He dared not look back, but he knew they were much too close for comfort. But he needed to keep moving. His mutant body allowed him extended endurance and speed, but even his legs would be screaming in protest if he had to out run these metal beasts for a prolonged period of time.

The ninja master slid to a stop under a sewer grate, springing off his strong legs, through it, and into the sunlight. Luckily he found himself in an alley next to April's house, and not the street. The last thing he needed at this point was panicked humans around him.

Splinter climbed up April's fire escape and rapped gently on her window. The teenage girl approached quickly, "Master Splinter! Come in where it's safe!"

"Nowhere is safe, April," the rat warned. "Those mechanical monsters are after the turtles and I. We need your help to stop them."

"Sounds like it's finally time for some action then!" Casey Jones's voice rang from the room as he came to the window as well. "We headed to StockTech, then?"

"That's the only place I could shut them down from," April nodded before they where interupted by the emergence of the machines that had been chasing Splinter. They pushed up from the concrete like ants emerging from a hill. "Looks like we need to move."

"Follow me," Splinter said, sliding the short sword that was hidden in his walking stick from its hiding place. "I will clear a path."

"Come on, Red!" Casey called to April, pulling her down the fire escape stairs, following Splinter.

[Gowi]

Thud!

It was done, the leader of the 49th Street Stompers laid dead in front of her. The sentence of The Shredder had been carried out and it had been far too easy, far too simple. Karai never hesitated in her duty and at this point in her life had become sort of desensitized to the ruthlessness and the savagery. As the daughter of The Shredder she was expected not to feel or hesitate which for the most part Karai gladly proved she was the glowing example of perfection. However, the feeling preluding her previous encounter with the stompers still persisted. The young girl had to wonder why her body ached the way it had and why the spirits were calling out to her. She couldn’t understand it and she did not want to. Tora had told her to be ‘at peace with it’ but that was very much easier said than done.

How long would it be before the feeling made her so uncomfortable that her father would notice and punish her for influencing her actions? When would it come to that? She did not want to fail her father once again as the last time she had he had given her something to remember such foolishness—a physical reminder of her failing him. The clawed scar still ran down her shoulder to the bottom of her left bicep. She was lucky he did not mark her for all to see… perhaps it was because she was his daughter after all?

<”Idiot.”> Karai cursed in her traditional Japanese tongue under her breath, reflecting on such speculative heresy was something her father could smell and not simply see. The Shredder had an ability of observation that few could compete with—one of the reasons why he was a terrible foe to go up with as he would analyze your every move and every possible follow-up to crush you. Something Karai had seen firsthand when a former clan member stood up against her father in a duel that would cost them their life.

Karai shook her head as she decided to move on—her mission was done, dwelling here helped no one so the best course of action was to leave, meditate, and return to her father. She would not ponder what effect the destruction of the 49th Street Stompers would have on the streets of New York nor the gang politics of their rivals, the Purple Dragons.

It did not concern her. They would all swear allegiance to The Shredder; in life or in death.

[HenryJonesJr]

Bigby Wolf
~Off With Their Heads~
-A Fables Tale-
Part 1

The Mad Hatter jabbered wildly to himself in the Fabletown holding cell as Bigby, Boy Blue, and Snow White watched from the other side. He had told his story quickly, or as quickly as possible for someone who had lost his mind long ago. The Hatter and the Hare had sat down for tea, which they did nearly all day, every day. Hatter noticed that there was no sugar on the table, and went to fetch some from the neighbors. When he returned, the March Hare had been decapitated, his head placed on the table, the cookies and biscuits they had put out now arranged skillfully around the rabbit's head like garnish. The Hatter claimed he had only been gone for a few minutes.

"Do you think he's telling the truth, Bigby?" Blue pondered from beside the sheriff. The kid was brave, and kept Bigby on the straight and narrow, but he had all the deductive skill of a potato.

"I do," Bigby lit up his first cigarette since starting the interogation. He had needed his senses clear while he talked to the crazy Fable. The wolf had sensed no wiff of wrong doing on him. "At least he believes he's telling the truth."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Snow interjected. "We can't let him go if he may have done it!"

"Relax, your highness," Bigby exhaled a great puff of smoke. "I'm keeping him here. While we're gone."

"And where are we going?" the princess asked haughtily.

"The Farm, of course," the sheriff matter-of-factly stated.

Blue shifted nervously in his seat, "Bigby, you know you're not allowed to go to the Farm."

He looked down at his deputy, "Which is why no one will know I'm there. You two will be the face of the operation. But considering neither of you know a clue from a hole in the ground, I'll hang on the outskirts and you'll report back to me periodically."

"I don't know," Snow was nervous. "If one of the Animals gets a sniff of you we risk the chance of an all-out revolt on the Farm."

"These are your choices, Snow," sighed Bigby. "Either you agree, or we leave a murder go unsolved."

The princess paced back and forth for a few moments before grunting in defeat, "Fine. But I say how far away you can stay. I decide what time of day our meetings are. I decide when we make an arrest."

"As always, you highness," Bigby mocked the royal Fable with a bow. "I am at your service."

"Don't call me 'your highness'," her pale cheeks flushed with color as she stormed back to her quarters to pack. "And don't bow!"

Behind the sheriff, Boy Blue could no longer stifle a laugh. A boyish chortle escaped from the lad, "Good one, Bigby."

"Don't let her see you laughin'," the wolf smirked. "If she does, you might be joining the rabbit."

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Buffy Summers

The Slayer walked quietly along the busy LA streets as people passed by, not even giving her a second look. She had died her striking blond hair a mousy brown since her "death" in hopes it would help her to be more inconspicuous. It seemed to work so far. She hadn't gotten the normal, creepy looks from the jerks in LA that she usually did. Still, it felt odd being here. The outside world, including the literal and proverbial Underworld, thought she was dead. She would never admit this to those that she cared for, but it was exciting. Buffy had never done this kind of clandestine mission before, and the new mission thrilled her, even if it meant making tough choices.

She was about to make possibly the toughest one, as well. Or, she had made it already. Giles was flying into LA tonight, and there was only one place in the city where the two of them could meet without drawing the attention of their enemies. Unfortunately, that place also happened to be the home and base of operations of her ex-boyfriend Angel.

The walk leading up to the old hotel was grown over with weeds, and a sign hung on the fence proclaiming the building to be condemned, but Buffy knew better. She had been here before, of course, on other occassions when she required Angel's assistance. Once she crossed the fence line, the grounds appeared to be maintained beautifully, and the building was lit with a warm, inviting glow. Buffy took a deep breath and pushed forward to the door.

Before she could knock, the door swung open, revealing the smiling face of Angel's friend, Charles Gunn, "Sup, Slayer?"

"Gunn," Buffy wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. He had gotten Angel and their friends out of so many jams, he was basically like family at this point. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged, a wry smile painted across his face, "slayin' demons. And the ladies."

"Smooth, you should open with that line," the Slayer chuckled weakly.

"I don't need a line," he walked her back into the old hotel's atrium. "Angel'll be right there."

Taking a seat, Buffy thought about all that had happened in this place. Gunn was the only one left of the Angel Investigations team. Wesley, Faith's old watcher and Giles's friend, fell in battle, and Gunn nearly did as well. Fred, the genius the team saved from a parallel dimension, had her body taken over by a living god named Illyara, who now roams the world doing who knows what. Lorn, and demon who helped Angel, had moved on to find his own path. And Cordellia...Cordellia was lost too. That one hurt Buffy the most, of course. The two hadn't always seen eye to eye, but she was still a friend. All of their losses had weighed on Angel, and Buffy cursed ehr pride for not checking in on him more. But she couldn't worry about that now.

She felt the familiar presence enter the room, and she stood instinctively as Angel came into view. He was garbed in black, as always, and his dark eyes peered into hers as they always did. She attempted to keep herself together, but no one threw her off like Angel did.

"Buffy," he said as he always had in a half-whispered tone. "You look good for a dead woman."

"I could say the same to you," she smiled weakly. "Or, uh, a dead man. Of course."

"I know what you meant," he smiled. "Giles is on his way. But in the mean time...you wanna talk?"

"Sure," she nodded without realizing she even said anything.

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Cobra Commander

He had spent the days since the raid on the FBI perched in front of the screens that lined the one wall of his command center. Guards came in to serve him food and drink when he commanded, and Firefly had stopped by. Other than that, however, the Commander had sealed himself away in virtual isolation. He read file after file, discovering all that the X-Files had to tell him. Each were more fascinating than the last, but his eyes kept coming back to one in particular.

The X-File said that in a remote base under Yucca Mountain, the United States government had been hiding something for decades. The information was spotty, at best, but the rumors circulating around Yucca said whatever was hidden there would change the world as we knew it forever. The people in the towns closest to the mountain claimed they had heard what sounded like great screams coming from its directions, and odd flashes of light in the night sky. They often complained of their electronics and radios acting odd during these moments. The Commander had no clue what was hidden under the mountain, but wanted to know more.

"So you get anything out of this damned wild goose chase?" Firefly asked as he entered the Commander's chambers.

"I have gotten several things from this mission, as a matter of fact," the Commander waved his arm, presenting the screens to hsi friend. "Now the question is where do I go first."

"Well, what were your-"

Before the demolitions expert could continue, the Commander's door swing open swiftly, revealing the masked visage of Destro. The man could show little emotion due to the metal mask he wore, but the Commander could feel the anger pouring off him in waves, "Leave us, Firefly. I must speak to the Commander alone."

The Commander motioned for Firefly to stay where he was, "Last time I checked, Destro, I gave the orders. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to Firefly."

"What I have to say, Commander," the notes of sarcasm and disrespect hung heavily on his words, "is that you are breaking our agreement by searching out for these...ridiculous weapons. Are my armaments not good enough for your troops anymore? Or should I take my business somewhere else?"

The Commander spoke in cool, confident, and malicious tones, "Destro, do not bring your spineless insecurities to me. Take them to the whore you sleep with from SPECTRE. Yes, I know. This is not a business. Cobra exists to reshape the world and bend those that live in it to our new order. If you have forgotton that, it is high time you remember. Your weapons are more than andequate, but we aim to change the planet, Destro. Sometimes that requires more than bullets and missiles, no matter how advanced they are. Now, leave. Go back to your factory, and continue making me weapons. Do not return here unless you are summoned. Do I make myself clear?"

Reluctantly, he saluted, "Yes, Commander."

Once he was gone, Firefly laughed, "Bit hard on the a-hole, weren't you?"

"I have not need for his petty problems. Men like Destro need to be put in their place periodically. Now, about retrieving my new weapon..."

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Leonardo

He could feel his muscles scream as he continued to run from the wave of mechanical mousers following close behind. His brothers flanked him, the sighs of fatigue beginning to show on their faces as well. They had gone longer in fights before, but that was against enemies that tired a lot faster than the mutants did. The mousers, on the other hand, were relentless and remosreless. They had no feelings, thoughts, or muscles to tire. They had their directives, and they were attempting to carry them out. Which, in reality, meant the death of Leonardo and his brothers.

"Leo," Donnie huffed as they ran, "we gotta come up with another plan here. They'll run us down eventually."

"Yea, like, I'm not big on the cardio, bro!" Mikey panicked.

As they continued to sprint down the sewers of New York city, something caught Leo's eye, "Raph, look up."

"Dude, if I trip I am totally kicking your ass!" the biggest turtle growled.

"Just look!" Leo commanded. When his brother glance upwards, he saw the same weakened water pipe Leonardo did. Without wasting a moment, Raphael jumped, slamming his shell into the pipe, causing it to burst, and a torrent of water cut between the mousers and the turtles. "Good job. Now let's get to Stock Tech. Master Splinter and April should be there by now."

**********

Baxter Stockman trudged through the sewer following a team of his mousers that had been following a seperate lead than the parameters he put forth. Stockman didn't make mistakes, so he knew it had to be something big. Could they have found another group of these mutated freaks? Or maybe some other, strange genetic code was scrambling their sensors. Either way, Stockman wanted to see this for himself.

The sewers were disgusting, of course. The air was thick with the smell of decaying matter, and flies flittered about like a black fog. But he didn't care. His mechanical miracles were leading him to a goldmine. He could feel it in his bones.

A wall crumbled as the automatons pulled down the already old and weakened bricks, and a green glow eminated from the anitchamber within. Stockman stepped through, and what greeted him on the other side dropped his jaw. It was clearly a dumping site for hazerdous materials, as there were dozens of glowing cannisters marked "TCRI". Baxter walked over, picking up a cannister and twirling it in his hands, "I wonder what you are..."

A crash behind him almost sent the tube falling to the floor due to his surprise, but Stockman caught it in the nick of time. He turned to fine a lithe, wiry, anthropamorphic cat smashing his mousers with ease, before turning to him, "Now I dunno who you are, but I figure these shiny bastards are your doing."

"I-I-I'm Doctor Baxter Stockman," the inventor attempted to act brave, failing miserably. "The mousers are indeed my creations."

"Yea, well, they've been tryin' ta kill me all day," the cat man, who Stockman now noticed was wearing an eyepatch, cracked his knuckles. "And now you and them have invaded my lovely home here unnanounced and uninvited."

"I didn't mean for them to come after you," Baxter began running the scenarios through his head. "You must share some genetic makeup with the Turtles and-"

"Wait," the cat stopped the man's stammering. "You were tryin ta kill da Turtles?"

"I was," Stockman smiled, and the cat smiled a fanged grin back.

"Well, den, Doc," he grabbed the cannister from Stockman's hands, "da name's Old Hob. I think we're gunna be good pals."

Before Stockman could respond, Hob smashed the cannister over his face, and the green ooze seeped into his bloodstream.

**********

The turtles emerged into the sunlight, shielding their eyes from the bright glare. The torrent of water had put a comfortable distance between their pursuers and them, allowing them to rest a bit on their way to Stock Tech. Waiting for them in the alley near the building were Splinter, April, and Casey Jones.

"I am glad to see you are unharmed, my sons," Splinter smiled at them.

Raph shrugged, "Those metal morons didn't stand a chance against us."

"Except for, you know, that time we ran from them," Mikey added.

"Sensei, we need to end this now," Leo said with urgency. "April, do you think you can shut them down?"

The girl shrugged, "I hope so. I know there's a failsafe, as long as Doctor Stockman didn't disable it."

"Then we must move," Splinter said.

The seven of them slammed through a back door of the Stock Tech building, revealing the army of mousers waiting for them on the other side.

"Of course," Casey sighed as he covered his face with his trademark hockey mask before brandishing a baseball bat, following the Turtles and Splinter into the fray.

[Bounce]

“It is often safer to be in chains than to be free.”
- Franz Kafka

B L A C K • P O W E R • F I ST • B E G I N S
part iii

The Town of Woodcrest, Maryland
The Woodcrest Mall

“Thanks for coming out, Huey.”

Noam Chomsky was well into his eighties. He’d already become a respected professor at MIT when his political views had taken the forefront of a well-established professional academic resume by the time of the Vietnam War when he’d come to prominence as a dissenter to U.S. foreign policy. And, so many decades later, remained as such.

The French had a proverb, plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose. It meant that the more things change, the more they tended to stay the same.

The French hadn’t been talking about America at the time, but their own internal politics of the era. But I can’t help think that if the shoe fits, feel free to put it on and lace that bitch up.

But, I’ve done my part. I’ve spoken the truth. I’ve preached the message of lies and misdirection... but there’s no one to listen. People turn to the news and it’s more reality television than reporting. So what’s the point of talking anymore?

At least I got Professor Chomsky to sign my copy of his book. As I turn my back and start to head out of the store, I tuck the autographed book under my arm and look back at the competing mobs of ignorance still protesting at the door. And what are they really protesting? They’re both making demands of free speech for themselves while seeking the power to deny it for others.

Eli Wiesel said, Once I thought that I could change the world. Now, if I scream and if I shout, it’s to keep the world from changing me.

I look back at Noam Chomsky.

Keep screaming, sir.

Instinct hits the moment I’m at the door. I want to put my head down and just not make eye contact as the combined political ignorance of a Democrat-Republican Wrestlemania cage match looms as the gauntlet between them.

I don’t.

I step into the valley of the shadow of ignorance with my head held high. Their boos are like a chorus ringing in my ears. Their hatred palpable, for I am proud to hold beliefs that are different from their own.

They may each claim this as the land of the free, but I am free of their claims.

Free to be who I choose to be.

I’m ten steps past them, when it hits me. Not inspiration, something literally hits me. It doesn’t hurt, but my free hand comes up to the back of my head anyway. A glance behind me reveals a crumpled up soda can, rocking back and forth as it hits the ground. The mob is celebrating and jeering.

I wonder if Lady Liberty saw this what she would think? Once, there was an American dream. A land of opportunity away from economic and religious oppression. Instead, it became a land where the oppressed could, instead, become the oppressor.

Welcome to the American nightmare.

On my way out of the mall, a toy store catches my eye. There’s an airsoft rifle on sale.

I can’t help the impulse to pick it up. To feel the weight of the plastic frame in my arms, the butt against my shoulder, and the look of the barrel-mounted sights.

Maybe this would be something that the mob would understand more than words.

Yeah. Maybe.

I put the rifle down, securing the book under my arm, and walk out of the store.

---

Action 5 News
Fair and Reasoned Reporting

“You’re watching Action 5 and this is a fair and reasoned Local Alert."

"Armed black youth gang at the Woodcrest Mall? This footage from an Action 5 follower is an eyewitness report."

"Here we see what appears to be a young man of possibly terrorist descent heckling an otherwise peaceful political protest."

"And this footage? This appears to be a dissident black youth meeting with known Palestinian supporter and anarchist, Noam Chomsky, a supposed New York Jew whose forgotten where he came from and should know better than to run his mouth."

"We warn our viewers at home, this next footage may be too shocking for young children. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, here we clearly see what appears to be a black gang member holding a rifle at the mall. You can see anarchist propaganda underneath his arm."

"Any Action 5 viewers who may be at the mall now are advised to take caution and immediately depart the scene. Mall security and the Woodcrest Police Department are responding."

"More information as our eyewitness reporters on the scene follow the chaos that has now erupted at the Woodcrest Mall."

[Gowi]

At least everyone was okay.

The thought passed the blue hedgehog’s mind in as he looked down at the ground of friends in front of him—rocks smashed into the ground behind him. Looking back, Sonic’s green eyes caught the large hole that had been part of a mountain only moments prior. What a mess. Shaking his head, Sonic’s eyes moved to the gargantuan flying machine that was above them by who knows at what length and he knew there was only one thing that they could use to cut off Robotnik’s flying machine and he spoke a question without skipping a beat.

“Is your new invention ready, Tails?”

A wild grin became present on his face, “The Tornado? You bet.”

“Good.” Sonic switched gears to his other mobian friends, “I’m going to need you guys to check the area for badniks, if I’m even thinking on the same wavelength as egghead up there he’s going to be dropping them—and there’s a few villages in this area.”

Johnny nodded, “Shouldn’t be too tough.”

After the group separated Tails led Sonic as fast as he could through the crevices of an old ruin that Tails had been using as a makeshift storage space which is where his newest invention was. Sonic knew Tails was a heck of an inventor and one who was obsessed with a lot of the old designs Kintobor brought with him to Mobius that honestly if it had not been for the one accident would’ve done Mobius a lot of good. Sonic remembered just sitting at the feet of Kintobor as he regaled him in rich imaginative stories that mobians only dreamed about. Tails was an obvious fan of Kintobor’s first meetings with mobians and the first technologies he built for them as a show of good faith that he was here as a well-meaning outlander and not a destroyer of worlds. If only… Kintobor could have stayed that way. With a wide grin Sonic tapped his foot whilst he looked at the young fox.

“Can it catch eggman?”

“It should be able to.” Tails admitted, which inspired a long sigh from the hedgehog.

“Are you serious? It should? We need it can!” Sonic protested in a huff.

“I’ve never actually gotten the time to test it, Sonic! Everybody wants results on Robotnik so I don’t have a lot of time for my pet projects, jeeze!”

That was a fair point. Sonic nodded, “Yeah, okay—let’s go. Start it up.” He said as he jumped on one of the long wings of the device.

“….okay then.”

[HenryJonesJr]

IC: Leonardo

The sound of metal sheeting and being crushed echoed through Leonardo's head as he and his family tore into the mousers left guarding the Stock Tech facility. The turtles, their father, and their human friends were obviously out numbered, but they had the advantage of team work. Leo was proud of his brothers as they each slid into the perfect positions at the perfect time. The chase earlier had slowed them down, but once again they were working like a well-oiled machine. With the addition of Splinter, they could hold their foes off.

Unfortunately, they needed to do more than stand their ground. Mousers seemed to be pouring into the room like an unstopable flood, and they would finish tearing the city apart if nothing was done to shut them down. Leo needed to get April to the control room before that happened. He shouted to the girl as he skewered a mouser through its mouth, "April! Which way?"

"Straight down that hallway!" she yelled back, hiding behind Casey's wild swings of the bat. "I'll need a few minutes to shut them down!"

The leader of the ninjas nodded, "Raph, Mikey, Donnie, Sensei! You hold as many as you can here! Casey, April! Follow me! We're shutting these assholes down for good!"

Casey didn't miss a beat. He slammed the robots standing in front of him before coming to Leo's side. Like characters in an old adventure movie chopping through jungle vegetation, the two began cutting a path towards the control room. Once there, they baracaded the door, hoping it would give them a moment's rest. Turning to April, Leo sighed, "Get to it, April. We'll give you the time you need."

She got to work, while Casey stood next to Leo at the door, "We're getting better as a team."

"Casey," Leo shook his head, "I know you can handle yourself, dude. And I know you wanna help all the time. But the Foot aren't a bunch of robots. They're killers. Possibly the best the world has ever seen. I'm not letting you fight them with us."

The door they were guarding began to rattle and splinter as the mousers began breaking through. Casey chuckled at Leo's refusal, "Well then, I guess I need to get my fill today."

**********

The pain began to subside as Baxter Stockamn's faculties returned to him. The blinding, seering heat of his body's DNA being rearranged forcefully was unlike anything he could have imagined. Did all the mutants feel the same pain? Or only him since he was born of sentience. It mattered not, though. He opened his eyes, and as he did the flash of color and light sent him hopping back, and a flutter of noise drew his attention to the wings that were now sprouting from his back. His hands were now claws covered in crustly black leather and hair. All four of them.

"What havvvvvve you done to meee?" he said in a buzzing, alien voice to the alley cat known as Old Hob.

Hob wore a big, fanged grin on his face as he looked at Stockman with the eye not covered by a patch, "I helped ya evolve, Doc. Showed ya what it was like to be more than human. Showed ya the future. Ya might not be as handsom as I am...but now your're stronger. Faster. More deadly. You're what ya always wanted, Doc. You're strong. And together...we can change everything."

**********

Leo and Casey danced around the control room destroying mousers as April typed frantically at their main server in an attempt to shut them down. One robot lunged through the air at her, almost as if it sensed its coming doom, only to be struck by a fire extinguisher Leo had kicked expertly at it. Once of the machines managed to clamp down on his forearm before being struck by a hockey puck fired by Casey. The metal teeth dug deep into his flesh, and the pain was severe. Leo knew he couldn't stop though. There was too much at stake.

The numbers game was beginning to catch up to them, however. Leo and Casey were being backed in towards April, losing ground inch by inch. Leo yelled over his shoulder, "How much longer, April?"

"Just give me a few more seconds!" she said, wiping the sweat from her brow.

But time seemed to be up. The robots swelled like a great wave ready to swallow the heroes. The mousers reared up, leapt like a pack of ravenous dogs, and fell harmlessly to the ground.

Leo turned to April, who collapsed to the ground, "Told ya I just needed a few more seconds."