[IC] Independent Comics Universe RPG

[Byrd Man]

Prologue
Shaken and Stirred

Prague, Czech Republic
2012

John Brown was a legend in the espionage community. Everyone knew the stories; orphaned and raised by an old British commando, graduated first in his class at Oxford, an intelligence officer in the Royal Navy until MI6 came calling. A secret agent of the highest caliber, Brown had foiled countless terrorist plots and killed many of England enemies to defend the realm at any necessary cost. Tall and handsome with jet black hair and smoldering eyes, Brown was so charming had his choice of any woman he so desired, be they hardened terrorists or secretaries Six's local station. The stories of his exploits had been repeated so much that nearly everyone knew them by heart, from the run-in with the mad Japanese daimyo and a silo full of nukes, to the scintillating story of the triplets in Argentina.

The one aspect of the stories that they always brushed over every time they were told, though, was the fact that MI6 Agent John Brown was a massive prick. He was borderline functioning as an alcoholic, boorish on the point of unbearable, and extremely vain. He was his biggest fan, though, and was especially convinced of his superior wit, so much so that he often tried to shoehorn in puns at the most inopportune times regardless if they made sense.

That was in fact exactly what Brown was doing that night in Prague, at the small dinner the English embassy was throwing the departing UK ambassador in the ballroom of the Prague Ritz.

"He turned out to be a flat bore."

The small crowd of four or five gathered around Brown laughed politely as he finished his story and took a long swig off his martini that killed the glass. He belched and ambled over towards the bar. Brown stopped suddenly when he saw the woman at the bar.

She wore a black cocktail dress and black heels. Her red hair was shoulder length and a pair of emerald eyes that were as large and as skiddish as a deer caught in headlights. Brown smiled to himself and ran an unsteady hand through his dark hair.

"Hello," he said as he approached the woman. "Haven't seen you around here. Are you new to the embassy?"

"Yes," she said meekly. She looked down at her feet and blushed slightly. "I just started two weeks ago, I'm Mister Young's secretary."

"Let me buy you a drink," he said with an attempted wink. He was so drunk that both eyes closed and made his wink an odd blink. "What are you drinking?"

"Scotch and soda."

"Scotch and soda," Brown said once the bartender was in front of them. "And I'll have a vodka martini, shaken not stirred."

He turned his attention back to the secretary once the barman was away and he smiled at her.

"So what kind of work do you do for Jim?"

"All kinds. I take dictation--"

"Oh, do you?" he asked with a cheeky smile. "So you take dic...tation, do you?"

The young woman's cheeks flushed and turned the color of her hair. Brown just smiled bigger and knew he had it in the bag.

"I wonder if you do much in the way of spreadsheets, perhaps you'd like to come back to my sheets and help me by spreading something?"

---

Brown rolled off the woman, girl he was calling her because he hadn't thought to even ask her name, and sighed contently. He really was the world's best lover, the moaning fit the girl had put up while they were in the sack had reaffirmed his belief.

Brown walked towards the bathroom stark naked while the girl cleaned herself up. He turned on the bathroom light and relieved himself in the toilet.

"Admirable job, love," he said in a condescending tone. "You gave it your all, but sometimes you need to put your back into it, if you know what I mean."

He finished and stepped back into the bedroom without flushing the toilet or washing his hands.

"Ready for round two?"

The sound of two suppressed gunshots filled the small bedroom, and John Brown collapsed to the ground in a heap with two small bullet holes in his chest. The naked woman on the bed held a micro glock 42 with a suppressor on the end of the gun's barrel. Her wig was off and the red hair was now replaced with short blonde hair. The nanites in her eyes had shifted colors from the emerald green to her normal dark brown.

Gone was the timid and confused embassy staff member John Brown had taken to bed. In her place was Major Tara Chace. While John Brown was one of the world's most legendary spies, he had also been selling secrets to the Chinese, Russians, and anyone willing to pay a hefty price for years. The assassination tonight was the culmination of two weeks worth of work in Prague, stalking and watching Brown both inside the embassy and on the streets of Prague. He was dead, but he wasn't her first kill of the mission. She killed the Chinese man who was his cut-out a day earlier with a gunshot to the back of the head. Two kills per her mission briefing.

Tara cleaned herself up and got dressed. She didn't worry about DNA evidence since MI6 had pulled all of her files once she was inducted into ODG training. Tara Chace was nothing now but a name on a governmental pay stub

Dressed, she stepped over Brown's body and looked down at him. She had killed people before, both in Iraq and Afghanistan as a member of the SAS, but this was different. A planned covert operation for the express purpose of killing the man on the floor, this wretched human being who sold state secrets and treated everyone like garbage. She was told not to take it personal with any targets, to just act as calm and impassioned as a gardener that cuts weeds. But two weeks of observing Brown had made her loath the man so much that she couldn't resist a few shots at his ego.

"I faked it," Tara said softly, not sure if he had enough life so that he could hear her. "Also, who orders a martini shaken? It bruises the gin, you bloody savage."

Dressed and ready, Tara stepped out of the apartment and calmly walked to a nearby payphone where she delivered the message to Universal Export: Delivery two signed for and handed off. Their reply: Good work. 00 status approved.

Ian Fleming's
007

&

Greg Rucka's
Tara Chace

in

Dagger Steady

[HenryJonesJr]

The cold, damp air hung around her like a cloak. Why couldn’t the evil undead hang out during the day and above ground like normal people? Of course, they’d probably not be the evil undead at that point, but the sentiment still stood. Buffy had always hated crawling around sewers and tunnels. The smell took four or five showers to get off, and that just led to ridiculous water bills.

The Slayer laughed to herself then. Thinking about bills had almost come neck and neck with worrying about what the next thing that would try and kill her. She was so mature. Well, as mature as someone can be who hunts monsters for a living. Well, it wasn’t so much of a living as it was a call to destiny. But you get the point. She had gone from cheerleader to Slayer to sister to the leader of a movement in a span of short years. She wasn't sure exactly sure how she was able to handle it. Maybe it was one of the benefits of being a Slayer. But now she was able to scrape together enough money to feed her and Dawn while her sister was at college. It was a small miracle.

She could feel them now. The pack of vampires was close. They had been feeding on the local homeless for weeks but she only now figured out where their lair was. A cave off the coast tucked up underneath the Golden Gate Bridge was where they had decided to nest, and it was a pain and a half scaling the wall down to its entrance. There was probably a back way in, but she hadn’t been able to find it. So rock climbing she went.

Suddenly, gunshots rang out farther down the tunnel, sending Buffy into a sprint towards them. If there was someone trapped down here, they’d be dead soon enough. Bullets didn’t work on vamps, at least not the ones normal people would be carrying.

But when she got to the antechamber, all she found was ash and a big, red demon standing with an oversized gun smoking in his hand, “Hellboy.”

Hellboy was a demon prophesized to bring about the end of the world who was raised by humans to fight evil. Buffy thought she had way too many friends with way too many of those qualifiers. Red, as his friends called him, almost fulfilled that prophecy too. Rasputin, the man who brought him to the world of humanity returned from the great beyond to release the Ogdru Jahad, or the seven dragons of the apocalypse in layman's terms. It was only through his friends and the memories of his father that Hellboy was able to come to his senses and stop the apocalypse. Buffy had helped too, taking care of the beast Rasputin had released upon the Earth in order to distract the BPRD.

“Slayer,” the BPRD agent nodded to her while he lit a cigar. “You sis said you came to San Fran. Figured this is where I’d find you.”

“What’s up?” Buffy asked as she sheathed her weapon, an ancient vampire killing weapon known as the Scythe.

“Oh, you know. End of the world stuff. Same shit, different day, Blondie. We need to talk.”

**********

BPRD Headquarters
Colorado Rocky Mountains

"So Red's made contact?" Xander Harris asked as he closed the heavy door to Hellboy's quarters. Strewn around the messy room were piles of comic books, candy bars, and what Xander would classify as a herd of cats. He sneezed, "God I forgot about the cats. Who has the Benadryl?"

The other members of the room, Willow Rosenberg and Liz Sherman, rolled their eyes at his goofy smile.

"Funny," Liz groaned. "And yes, they're en route now."

"Let's hope this spell works," Xander looked over to Willow.

"Pressure much?" was her response. Her eyes didn't look up from the spellbook she was pouring over. Willow was a dedicated witch, and one of the most powerful of the age. If she said the spell was going to work, it would work. "As long as everyone plays their part, this will work."

**********

"So you're sure it has to be this way?" Buffy asked as the van jumped over a pothole. "Not necessarily my favorite way of going about things."

"Only way," Hellboy nodded. "We have to make sure they know."

"Can I at least call Dawn?"

Red shook his head, "She'll be notified."

The rest of the ride was taken in silence. Buffy wasn't ready for this. Not now. Of course, duty called, and there was no turning back from that. The van ducked into a alley, coming to a stop in a dark corner of the city. The van's door slid open and Hellboy motioned towards the open door, "You're stop, Buffy. See ya soon."

The Slayer stepped out, and waiting for her was someone she wasn't expecting to see, "Hey, Buff. Miss me?"



**********

“Well? Is it working?” Xander asked impatiently.

“It would be if someone wasn’t constantly asking whether it was working or not,” Willow bellowed, coming out of deep magical concentration for only a moment to reprimand her best friend. Immediately afterward, she went back to chanting whatever it was she was always chanting.

“It better work,” Liz said, taking a bite out of one of Hellboy’s candy bars as she scratched one of the kittens between the ears. “It’s the only way we’re gonna be able to get anything done.”

“Sounds like most of the plans I’ve ever been involved in,” Xander sighed.

**********

“Just like old times, huh, Buff?” Faith cackled as the two walked the shadows of the city. Faith was a Slayer who had once been unhinged thanks to the influence of dark forces. She had attempted to kill Buffy and came close. The two had been working on mending their relationship as well as Faith’s fragile mind ever since. She had made great progress recently, and helping lead a group of new slayers was a part of that.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Buffy groaned.

“You asked for it,” Faith shrugged from behind her before plunging a stake through Buffy’s back and through her chest. Blood flood warmly down her abdomen, coating her shirt in a sticky mess. “Like I said, just like old times.”

Buffy turned, looking at Faith, her eyes wide with fear, “Why?”

Then she collapsed.

**********

“It’s done,” Willow claimed, coming out of the trance she had been in. “Worked like a charm.”

“Good, I’ll go wait outside Manning’s office and wait for Red’s call,” Liz said. “You two should get back to your quarters. We don’t need to arouse anymore suspicion.”

“Good point,” Xander said. “This is the longest I’ve ever had a job. Would hate to ruin that on a mission to save the world!”

**********

She had been dead before, but this was something else entirely different. Watching as her body…or at least an exact, magical replica of her body was bagged and tagged by a BPRD and Watcher contingent was surreal. On top of that, Faith was being carted off to a BPRD jail to serve time for assassinating the leader of the Slayer movement. She played her role perfectly at least. During interrogation she’d claim she was paid off by a group of demons she had been with undercover.

Now Buffy was free, free to fulfil a mission she was just given mere hours ago. Hellboy had come to her to explain. The opening of the portal during the Rasputin incident had shattered the veil between dimensions, causing possible irreparable damage to reality. Now demons and darkness was pouring between worlds at a whim, as if the world was cloaked in one, giant Hellmouth. Hellboy and the BPRD were fighting a war they couldn’t win by traditional means and Red knew it. He needed someone off the grid to help find some way to repair the damage. Buffy was the only choice, but she was too visible. She was too much of a target.

So she needed to die, and die she did. Now it was time to save the world.

“All in a day’s work,” Buffy whispered to herself from the shadows, turning from the scene and getting to work.

[Gowi]

“I hate today.”

The voice of Sonic the hedgehog commented as he took in the sights off a cliff on South Island that overlooked the expansive ocean before them, the ruins of a metal building with the words ‘Metallix’ sprawled on its side in plain view.

The winds of Mobius were something that Sonic usually found great comfort in, a solace that he could close his eyes and lose himself in the velocity of his raw speed. But the truth was that there were days where it’d remind him of all of the negative changes of the last three years and while he gained many friends—he saw other people perish due to the loss of his first friend, Doctor Ovi Kintobor, a “human” from the world outside of Mobius; a world that nobody had ever dreamed that could be real. Kintobor had brought “technology” to Mobius but that wondrous discovery happened to be overshadowed by darkness—darkness that had never been seen in hundreds of years.

How could he tell his friends that he felt guilty for everything that had happened, guilty of helping Kintobor, and guilty of not being strong enough to stop him for good because admittedly he still saw Kintobor underneath the lens of Robotnik’s eyes as he wildly tried to destroy Mobius time and time again. Sonic felt slow, and this feeling of depressive anxiety always occurred on this day. The anniversary of the creation of The Eggman, Doctor Robotnik.

“Things were different then, way different.” Sonic thought aloud as he fought the urge to let his emotions overtake him in a fit of melancholy.

The blue-furred hedgehog took a deep breath as he pocketed his hands in his cloth pants as he turned around. “I’ll stop you, I’ll bring you back to normal… somehow.” The declaration left his breath as he took a long look at the forests around him. Sonic’s thoughts cleared up as best as they could as he tried to look at the rest of the day optimistically and with a straight head—three weeks ago he and Miles “Tails” Prower had destroyed Robotnik’s then base of operations, The Metallix, a shore-locked boat that had been turned into a sort of robot factory that had been plaguing the people of South Island; a plague they no longer needed to fear. Though Sonic knew the truth of the matter was that Robotnik would be back sooner rather than later and he needed to keep on the patrol so no more people lost ones they loved to the madman. That was a promise he made to himself and Mobius, a promise that he couldn’t let go.

But for now… he was needed at a base of resistance against Robotnik that was a few good miles away and one that he was expected to be on time for as people like his friend Tails, Johnny Lightfoot, Amy Rose, and the like had organized a meeting to discuss a way to combat Robotnik himself. Sonic would have liked to tell them the tale of what needed to be done and how he couldn’t do it, but he knew what that would turn into.

Johnny Lightfoot had lost his family to Robotnik’s roboticizer—an invention that turned organic matter into metal, and when done to people turned them into mindless robot drones to serve Robotnik as their master—a process that was irreversible and hard to study due to the fact Robotnik had built a self-destruction mechanism into his “badniks” on their defeat or imminent capture. Robotnik may have been crazy, but he was still as smart as Kintobor was. Kintobor had invented the machine not to create slaves or destroy resources but to create an efficient way to save on time management as well as help injured veterans not be struck as handicapped burdens. However, the invention as Sonic feared it was not completely destroyed with Robotnik likely duplicating the device somewhere in Mobius. A fact he shared with Tails some time ago, a fact that terrified the young two-tailed fox.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” He muttered under his breath as he clicked his feet and in a wave of sonic energy he was gone from his previous location in an instant.

[Gowi]

“The dark alleys smell of the failure of this society of ‘America’ as those without order wallow in their own filth and shame as they refuse to take what they need to survive, relying on the most basic of subsistence and on the charity of their oppressors. New York City calls them the homeless, but I see the lifeless instead. It pains me to even bear to look at them, but The Shredder has not ordered their deaths nor have they seen something they should not have at this point in time so they are allowed to continue this pitiful existence. There’s a tug of hesitation to despise them so at the center of my body and I am not sure why as I look down upon them, why do I feel so restrained by my own inhibitions?” Karai Oroku looked to her closest ally and only true friend in the clan, Tora Yoshida, as they sat in a room in a warehouse in New York City that had been chosen as one of the Foot’s discreet safe-houses.

Karai’s reservations about her own feelings worried Tora who had obediently followed the Foot as it was request of him by his father before his passing, but even with such obedience he felt something was off in the air of his comrades—like there was something dark and malicious growing in the shadows. With a compassionate frown he attempted to speak to Karai about these feelings of hers as she viewed it important enough to come to him about it.

“I think it’s because you care about their well-being, thinking that if they had order in their life then their purpose wouldn’t be so without vigor and resolve.”

Karai stopped to think on the words from her friend before she raised her head with a confident smile. “You are very wise for your years, my friend.”

Tora chuckled humbly, “I suppose. Is there anything else that is on your mind, Karai?”

“Actually… there’s a lot in my thoughts, ever since we arrived here in New York. I feel like something is calling to me… whispering in my ear, something that I didn’t feel was present in Japan. I feel oddly home but I don’t feel comfortable, and I don’t know why.”

The feeling of restlessness was hard to pin down for the teenaged girl as she tried to understand her thoughts in conversation with her fellow foot clansmen as she pondered what could be creating such uncomfortable nostalgia. She didn’t like New York or so she believed, so how could she feel like it was home? Home was in Japan, not in some overtly unorderly cacophony of complacency and greed. The feeling that something was calling to her somewhere in New York worried her greatly and she did not want her father to feel like she was uncertain or unfocused—as those were traits of the failures of The Foot and not the prodigal examples as she was expected and oftentimes proved she was. But what could she do about such anxiety? She hoped expressing it through speech was what she need to do.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I feel like I need to be here, but not for the reasons we need to be here—like there is a greater reason calling me to a place I’m not fond of, a place where it’s not about the Foot Clan… but about me, like the spirits above are calling out to me trying to make me understand something but I’m not sure what it could be. I refuse to let my father hear of this or see this from me, I need to remove myself from this feeling before our work here begins.”

“I’m not sure I have any thoughts on that.” Tora admitted, feeling Karai’s thoughts were worrying for a plethora of reasons. She was afraid of looking weak in front of her father, yet she felt like she needed to be here for reasons that weren’t connected to the clan, and that it was overwhelming her. Tora didn’t like it one bit and while he wouldn’t dispel such information to her father unless ordered to, he felt like Karai was not ‘whole’ and it was hurting her so immensely that he could not bear to see her continue to do so.

“But I can say that you should be with peace with your feelings.”

“That’s a very simple answer.”

“Sometimes a simple answer is all you need.”

Karai smirked, “Quiet, Tora-kun.”

“If that is your wish.”

It was a joke between Tora and Karai, a sort of respectful statement that when spoken amongst each other signified their friendship and loyalty to one another. It was a phrase that they did not use anywhere else, even amongst the leader of the clan as they would often reply differently in obedience to their master.

“I thank you for your time, regardless, Tora.”

The youthful ninja nodded with a smile. “You are very welcome.” Tora’s eyes shot to a nearby display of time amongst the safehouse. “I believe this idle set of conversation is best ended here, we have company.” He said as his hands reached behind himself, pulling the mask of the foot over his head. Karai did the same—like this they appeared the same as any other member under the clan as they moved into the shadows of the building. Karai’s eyes shot back and forth as a group of men came flocking in—they flew the colors of a local street gang, the 49th Street Stompers. The Stompers weren’t very threatening or important as they were simple competition to another gang called the Purple Dragons. Unfortunately this gang would end up a few members short as it had been decreed by The Shredder—New York was declared as a state of feudal war and all that refused to swear their allegiance to the clan or trespassed in their lands would lose their lives.

Karai and Tora looked to one another as their hands unsheathed their weapons quietly.

The group of stompers had no chance.

[DeathstrokeSW]

Several years ago
Kandahar, Afghanistan
The final week of Sgt. Arashikage’s deployment alongside Snake Eyes.

It was cold in the cave, and damp. This did not bother the two men moving stealthily through the maze of tunnels, however, and their pace was one of caution rather than anger. 1st Sgt. Thomas S. Arashikage cracked his neck, making sure to do so as quietly as possible. He felt stiff, the result of three weeks of capture by the Taliban. He, along with M. Sgt. “Snake Eyes,” had broken free of their bonds and subdued their guards, though not without the cost of the rest of the hostages. Tommy sighed, a quiet sound, and whistled. An enemy, dressed in a keffiyeh, rounded the corner, searching for the source of the sound. The man who would become Storm Shadow kicked out the extremist’s knee, and snapped his neck. Taking the sidearm, he tossed the AK-47 to Snake Eyes. They shared a look, and both men knew what had to be done. Vengeance for the fallen, and justice for the living. Tommy raised the sidearm to eye level, and took point, leaving Snake Eyes to watch his back. Knowing that these extremists wouldn't understand Japanese, Tommy whispered over his shoulder. "<Keep an eye out. Shoot to kill.>" Thus, they pressed on, using stealth and surprise to their advantage, eventually coming across explosives. Tommy grabbed the IED and slung it over his shoulder. Snake Eyes was at his back, laying down suppressing fire while they made a break for the cavern not 50 yards away. Tommy tossed the IED over to Snake Eyes. Shortly, the two were back at the mouth of the cavern, and Snake Eyes was wiring explosives while Tommy laid down covering fire. Snake Eyes tapped him twice on the shoulder and the two started running into the Registan desert. Snake Eyes was faster, and further out than Tommy. The explosives detonated prematurely, scarring Arashikage’s back.

"Tommy!" he heard Snake Eyes yell faintly, before blacking out.

Three Years ago
Arashikage Compound

"The way of a ninja is one of skill, of stealth, and of Honor. You were not taught these virtues in the military ruled by governments, Young Arashikage, but rather by your experiences. Those scars on your back are proof." His uncle's words drifted like the smoke from the burning incense, carrying weight, and filling the room with truth. "The pain of your former government dishonoring your friend is what drove you here, and here you will not find retribution. It is simple, what you need, my nephew. You need purpose, and the Arashikage Ninja clan will give you one."

Present day
0500 hours, Los Angeles, CA.
The home of Brian M. Forrest

Daylight was breaking over the Californian landscape, and the birds were singing sweetly. To most early risers, the sights and sounds were beautiful, and a wonderful way to start the day. For the white clad ninja, however, it was little more than a nuisance. His entry depended on stealth, and these comparatively loud sounds could destroy his element of surprise.

Storm Shadow moved silently to the rear of the house, sword drawn. COBRA had contracted him to kill the owner of this home, a JOE codenamed “Wet Suit.” He placed a gloved hand on the door, and slowly pushed it open. It was strange that the back door should be open at so late an hour, but Storm Shadow wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Suddenly the light came on, and Wet Suit had a gun pointed at Storm Shadow.

“I don’t know who you are, or whether COBRA hired you, but you’re going to go away, and leave me alone.”

Storm Shadow narrowed his eyes, not bothering to sheathe his sword. “You knew I was coming.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course. The JOE initiative has more advance warning than one might think. Although, we didn’t know exactly whom COBRA would send.”

Wet Suit stood up, and placed his off hand on the bottom of the gun, the way it is common for US Military and Police to handle a sidearm. “A gun. I really don’t like those things. So unpredictable, and-“ With a single pass of his blade, he sliced off the barrel of the gun. “-Fragile.” Wet Suit dropped the remains of the Beretta and brought his hands up, balled into fists. Storm Shadow sheathed his blade, and widened his stance, lowering his center of gravity.

A deadly dance ensued, with Wet Suit sending blows towards his assailant, who always blocked and redirected the force back into his target. It was quick, and lethal. Both men knew only one would walk away from this. Storm Shadow caught a fist, breaking the arm at the elbow, and slamming his own into Wet Suit’s face. Disoriented, his opponent staggered back to the wall. Storm Shadow followed up by unsheathing his blade. Wet Suit knew it was the end, but at least he could try to get a word out. Let the JOEs know that someone was killing them off. He slipped his finger over a distress button built into every JOE’s private residence. Storm Shadow plunged the Ninjato hilt deep into WetSuit’s chest, and the alarm began to sound. Retrieving his blade, he sliced off a finger, and placed it into his pouch. With proof of death secured, he disappeared into the shadows.

[HenryJonesJr]

He could hear every drip of water from the leaky pipes which filled his home.

He could hear the flies buzzing around him. Donnie had done his best to try and rid the lair for them, but it was impossible to rid an entire underground system of the pests.

Next to him, he could hear his sensei breathing slowly.

Meditation had come naturally to Leonardo ever since his transformation. He could easily close out the distractions of the outside world and center himself. His thoughts and worries faded away into a trance like state and complete calm. After the weeks he had been having since the Foot arrived, Leo needed that more than ever, but had not found the time to do his exercises until now. The newly arrived ninja clan was more cunning and brutal than the mob and their Savate lap dogs had been so far. The Foot were the real deal. They were the ninjas everyone talked in whispers about. They were badass, and they weren't going to let anyone push them around. They were here for the city, and possibly more, and they weren't going to suffer anyone foolish enough to get in their way.

Unfortunately for them, Leonardo and his brothers were going to stop them whether they liked it or not. That is, they would if Leonardo could figure out a way to hamper their progress at all. So far it had been one setback after another. The Shredder and his followers were beating the Turtles to ever punch, and were throwing some before the Turtles could even think of their next move.

"You are distracted, Leonardo," Splinter's gravely voice said from beside him. No matter how deep into meditation Leonardo was, he had never come close to Splinter's level of concentration. The Turtles' sensei was the posterchild for focus and control. Maybe it came with his age, Leo didn't know. But he always knew when even the slightest thing was wrong with one of his adopted sons. "What troubles you?"

"The Foot, Master Splinter," Leo responded. "I don't know how we're going to stop them. I don't know if it's even possible."

"Everything is possible, Leonardo," Splinter stood, leaning on his staff. "We are well trained, and we fight for righteousness. We all fall, Leonardo. We all struggle with the darkness in this world. But we will fight it. And we will win the fight. Or we will fall. But we will not let indecision and fear stop us."

Leonardo shifted on his knees. The constant losses against the Foot weren't the only weighing against Leonardo's mind. There was the constant fear he had since being named the leader of his brothers festering underneath. He wasn't afraid to die like his father seemed to be insinuating. No, he was afraid of surviving. He was afraid of surviving when one of his brothers or allies fell in battle. He was also afraid that it would be his fault or one of his orders that got them killed. Leo often wondered if this was the burden of all leaders or if it was just him. Either way, he attempted to fight it just as he attempted to defeat the Foot.

"You're right, Sensei," Leo lied, attempting to hide his true feelings. "Do you mind if we stop for the night? I'd like some time to relax."

"Of course, my son," Splinter smiled.

Leo stood and trudged out of the training dojo section of their lair, entering the antechamber that was once a subway station long ago. Lounging on the couches set up around the old TV they had managed to get working from the dump were Leonardo's brothers. Raphael fiddled with an old video game system, obviously frustrated he wasn't doing better. Donatello was tinkering with a computer motherboard as he attempted to get the Turtles connected to the grid. Mikey sat in front of the TV engrossed in the game.

"Done with your daydreaming?" Raphael said with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. Raph wasn't a meditating type. Raph was the kind to rush into anything at any time. "Good. Sit down I need a second player and Mikey stinks."

"I don't stink, bro. I just like to smell the roses more than you do," Mikey said calmly. Mikey was a free spirit and a bit of a flake sometimes, but that's what made him special. Still, Raph often lost patience with his baby brother.

"And I don't have time to play games," Donnie said not looking up from the tech he was working on. Leo knew that meant he really didn't want to be bothered.

"I got time for a game," Leonardo smiled and took a seat. There would be time for the Foot and their other worries. But for now he'd be the teenager he was.

**********

The families had enough. They were being squeezed on all sides. The Foot had set up shop in the city and were taking no prisoners. Mutant freaks were fighting each other and the mob. And then there was the Darkness monster. They were getting desperate and had to get creative if they were going to survive.

That's why they were here at StockTech.

"Dr. Stockman," the man said from the shadows, cigar smoke billowing away from his silhouette, "you know why I'm here."

"I have debts," the skinny, nervous scientist said. He was a certified genius with robotics, but he gambled quite a bit, and because of it he was in danger of losing his company. "And you're here to make me pay. But I...I don't have the money. Not yet. Not until I finish my contract for the city."

"Well, that's what I'm here for too," the man laughed. "See, our dear departed police chief told me all about your little pets. And we figure once you turn them on for the city your could give them a new, secondary target. Namely four, big, green ones."

Stockman's eyes shifted from side to side as he understood what the mob was asking of him. He didn't say anything for an answer. He merely nodded his head.

[Sloth]

Several years ago
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Initial debrief of Master Sergeant Daiki Oroku, Code-name "Snake Eyes"

"You abandoned orders and lost effectively your entire squad." Lieutenant Dashiell Fairborne was visibly stressed, but equally enraged. Snake Eyes and Thomas Arashikage had barely been given enough time to get a meal in their bellies before Flint had called the squad leader for questioning. Lieutenant Fairborne slid Snake Eyes' field report across the table. "Would you mind telling me what was so important that you effectively deserted your objective? Need I remind you this was the leader of the entire Afghan Resistance you were going for?" an unmasked and hardly recognizable Snake Eyes remained silent, as he had been for roughly the last twenty-four hours, they had the report, it was up to the military justice system to decide what to do with him. The door into the compound's debriefing room opened rather unceremoniously, and a flow of flaming red hair found its way into Snake Eyes' peripheral vision.

"Specialist O'Hara." Fairborne saluted the newcomer. "I was just attempting to get some answers out of your ninja friend here." all formalities seemed to be tossed out the window at that moment, Flint giving Snake Eyes a rather vicious glare, which was returned with a cold, unchanging gaze.

"Understood Lieutenant Fairborne, but this operation was, frankly, none of your business." Shana crossed her arms over her chest and motioned for Flint and his guards to vacate the premises. "I'm going to have to request you leave me and Sergeant Snake Eyes alone for the time being, as his squad's handler, I'm the one who debriefs them, not you." Fairborne and O'Hara shared a venomous second or two of silence before the former escorted his security detail out of the room. That was certainly one of the benefits of working outside the normal chain of command.

Scarlett disabled the video camera pointing at the table before taking the Lieutenant's place in the chair opposite of Snake Eyes. "I won't pretend to know why you did what you did, but I would like some clarity on the events." his handler leaned forward, resting her arms on the metallic surface. "I've known you for some time now Snake Eyes." the look in her gaze was sincere, this wasn't a disgruntled officer angered that he went AWOL on arguably the most important special operations mission in the war to date, this was a friend, genuinely worried about his well-being.

"I know you wouldn't do something like this for no reason, so tell me, what happened out there?"

Three years ago
Arashikage Compound, Japan

The location was oddly tranquil. An isolated mountain deep within the heart of Japan, even in all his years amongst The Foot, Snake Eyes had never heard of this compound, and he doubted an outsider had ever been trusted with its location before him. It was hidden well, even with the directions given to him by Tommy, Snake Eyes had difficulty getting past its defenses, the Arashikage weren't welcoming of outsiders, nor did they entirely drive them away. Everyone was given equal opportunity to seek the clan's compound, but only the truly skilled and determined would find it. The roar of a waterfall filled Snake Eyes' ears as he climbed the steps of the compound, oriental stairs carved into the side of the mountain itself. At the apex of the pathway, any semblance of activity within the compound stood still, and innumerable eyes locked themselves onto the newcomer, and almost instantly, Snake Eyes heard several swords removed from their sheaths and form a circle around him. The apparent master of the compound made his way calmly over to the newcomer, the guards maneuvering their swords to make way for him. Taking one look at him, the master raised an eyebrow but otherwise gave no indication of surprise.

"You must be Snake Eyes. We've heard a lot about you."

Present day
05:12, 5:12 AM, San Diego, California
G.I. Joe West Coast Headquarters

The ninja commando of the G.I. Joes sat within the self-built dojo in the west wing of the organization's headquarters, going through his morning meditations. He could feel everything within the room, the weight of the air, the beat of his heart, even the subconscious flow of his blood. Since his abandonment of Jinx and the Arashikage Clan, it was only during times like these that Snake Eyes felt truly at peace.The peace did not last long, however, as the sliding door was abruptly opened, and Scarlett all but tore him out of his state of nirvana.

"We have a problem."

Only a minute later, and the Joes had assembled at the center of the compound, Tunnel Rat and Heavy Duty bickering about something or other, Scarlett typing away vigorously at the massive conglomerate of technology that made up the Joes' mainframe and computer, and Duke pacing back and forth behind her. Snake Eyes, as usual, lingered in the back row of the group, staying out of sight, as the Joes had quickly learned would be the usual, though it didn't stop them from being thoroughly dumbfounded whenever their ninja teammate disappeared without a sound.

"At 05:05 today, Brian Forrest, better known to you as Wet Suit, sent out a distress signal from his home in Los Angeles. It's been active for over ten minutes, and Wet Suit has not reported in. That can only mean one thing."

"Was it COBRA?" Tunnel Rat chimed in from beside Heavy Duty.

"We don't know, all security cameras and surveillance equipment was disabled before the signal was sent. We suspect assassination." the atmosphere grew noticeably quieter, and Scarlett directed everyone to the screen directly above the main console. It showed Wet Suit's home, with nothing out of the ordinary.

"The problem isn't that the devices were shut down, the problem is there's absolutely no indication they'd been tampered with, no visual glitches or abnormalities, the timer isn't even off by a fraction of a second. It's exactly as we left it. Whoever did this, they knew what they were doing." Scarlett rose from her chair and addressed the rest of the team. "We need to get there and investigate before local law enforcement discovers the scene, we need to be fast, discreet, and leave absolutely no signs we messed with anything."

The group almost simultaneously turned around, and, to almost nobody's surprise, Snake Eyes had already disappeared from the scene.

06:30, 6:30 AM, Los Angeles, California
Residence of Brian "Wet Suit" Forrest

Snake Eyes used the cover of barking dogs and the morning hubbub to mask his entrance into the Forrest Residence, dropping from the tree in Wet Suit's backyard, Snake Eyes silently made his way to the backdoor, drawing a katana from his shoulder and delicately placing it within the small gap between the door's lock and framework. The door gave no resistance when Snake Eyes turned the knob. Whoever had been there, they were in a hurry to leave. Sheathing his sword, Snake Eyes' demeanor didn't change when he looked directly to his left, only to see Wet Suit's body strewn across the kitchen floor, a river of blood having formed, and the air heavy with the scent of death.

Crouching by Brian's feet, Snake Eyes discovered something he didn't expect; the barrel of a gun, with the rest of the components missing. Wet Suit wasn't a man for blades or knives, but he wasn't a man who would be taken by surprise either, and no ordinary man could slice through a gun with the level of precision indicated. Either COBRA had hired a very, very experienced assassin to mask his trail with this level of delicacy, or Wet Suit had been expecting a less than friendly visitor. Maneuvering his way around the blood, Snake Eyes furrowed his brow from beneath his visor when he saw the chest wound. The entry and dimensions of the hole were similar, and in a moment of discovery, Snake Eyes unsheathed his katana once more and placed the blade above the wound, confirming his suspicion. With one more look over the body, Snake Eyes nodded to himself and took his leave of the residence.

Precise strike on the gun, a katana or similar blade dug deep into the chest to ensure the job was done, and a confirmation of death. This wasn't an ordinary assassin, this was an elite, top-class specialist. One that could only have been trained by either The Foot, who were based almost three thousand miles away, or the Arashikage Clan, only one short trip across the Pacific.

[Zombiedude101]

Six months ago

Behind him lingered the copper-tinged scent of blood, the faint groans and pleas of mercy of what little remained of the men who’d survived his onslaught. For a moment, Jackie heard the scuttling of a tiny creature with oily black skin and a gremlin-like appearance and disinterestedly glanced away as it gnawed on the finger of a dead man. Death walked in the halls of House Franchetti today. He should’ve known - he was death, but something far worse lingered deep inside of him; a terrible force with an age that extended past the universe itself. It too sensed the death around it and revelled in the chaos, its cold disembodied voice letting out the closest thing it ever had ever known to laughter. Drawing past the door, a familiar voice with a stereotypical mobster-type accent that made Jackie want to pulverise a thousand faces called out from above, heavy footsteps clanking against the grating spiral that was the lighthouse stairwell.

“You think you made a difference here, Estacado? Nothing’s changed, you fuckin’ piker!”

His fingers tightened around the grip of the remaining pistol he still owned, the faint smell of half a dozen magazines dispensed into a dozen bodies still lingering close to the barrel. He kept on climbing, following the footsteps. Again, the voice called out.

“You brought this on yourself Jackie, I didn’t do shit that you didn’t do yourself!”

Clambering his way up a ladder, he felt the footsteps growing nearer - yet evermore frantic. Fear was in the air. He smelled it. The Darkness smelled it, and it was simple telling how it was excited to be present as its host claimed one final soul. Reaching the top, he could hear that mobster-voice screaming down to him again.

“The problem with you is, you never learned to listen! You always wanted to be me, but it doesn’t work that way, Jackie!”

The door was still ajar, leading out onto another set of steps which led to the final point atop the lighthouse. Outside, the sky was a pitch black; the only source of light being the faint rim of sun which had been eclipsed by the moon. Convenient timing, perhaps? Or maybe the Darkness had some hand in an ancient prophecy. It didn’t matter, soon he’d reach the end of his journey. Drawing back the door to the lantern room, he heard that same frantic voice scream out a final threat. “You’re a dead man, you hear me?! A dead man!” Gunshots followed and Jackie felt specks of blood seep down his coat from where one of the rounds had slammed into his shoulder, but it didn’t bother him; instead he fired off another two rounds and left the middle aged crime boss sprawled across the floor, grunting in pain as he clutched at his stomach. That same disembodied voice that was the Darkness spoke out to him yet again, yearning for the kill more than it ever had before.

”Finish him...”

Jackie took several steps towards his Uncle Paulie, remaining silent and monotone as he observed Don Paulie Franchetti - once a powerful man, feared by half of New York City and begrudgingly respected by the other - beg for his life. “Listen, Jackie. I been thinkin’, I know this worked out bad for the both of us but there’s no need to be rash here...” The last word sounded like a half-restrained sob. “Why don’t you fuckin’ listen to me, you piece of shit!”

”Take his life...”

The Darkness wanted this one so badly. He could feel it inside him, that urge to unleash a black hell and tear Uncle Paulie asunder, that hunger which yearned to taste the man’s oily heart. But Jackie wasn’t killing for the family, or for the business, or for the darkness. This one was for himself. For Jenny. “Jackie, I-” Wordlessly, he unloaded what remained of his pistol clip into Uncle Paulie, yet even that allowed the man to spit a few final words as he choked through layers of blood, phleghm and whatever else the bastard had inside of him. “Estacado, you... fuckin’ piece of shit... I hope you rot in hell forever..”

‘I already am’, Jackie thought.

And that was the end of the line.

---

"I've news for you, Jackie."

A familiar, gravelly voice stirred him from the memory, prompting Jackie to glance up towards its source. Standing before him was a stocky man with huge, barrel-like arms with a bushy black beard, lacking a single hair across the dome of his head. Butcher Joyce, known best for being a veteran cleaner who never took sides. Despite this however, the man had seen fit to provide Jackie with vital snippets of information on the late Paulie Franchetti's operation and had been a good friend to him, all the same. Stood beside him was a much older man aged into his mid-late sixties, wearing a neat business seat with a bowl hat atop his wrinkly old head - Jimmy the Grape, one of the few made men among the families to have respect for the 'old ways'. The man had also been a close friend and associate of Jackie's before, and had known his dear old Aunt Sarah for years. Speaking up, he spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent.

"That's right kid, you've shown the guys time and time again that you've got balls, brains and respect - and we've been saying that someone like you, who honours the old ways, that's who we need right now. So we had a little word with our old friends in Chicago and they've agreed that we all want you to come in and take over the family, just for a little while."

Jackie glanced up towards both men, still unsure on how to answer. Of course, maybe once upon a time he might've dreamed of becoming the Head of the Family. Being the Don. But everything that he'd been through, all the pain and loss he'd endured, the loss of her - was it worth it? Before he could ponder on it anymore, Jimmy spoke up once again.

"C'mon, kid. Everybody's got your back here, and we need someone to bring order to the chaos with all these wannabe wiseguys trying to muscle in on each others' territory. You're the guy who can do that, and you've proven that already - you topped that rat bastard motherfuckin' Paulie Franchetti and that fucking lap dog of his, Eddie Shrote. You protected those who needed protecting, like when they sent hitmen to your Aunt Sarah's place - you were there when everything else went to shit. We all know you won't fuck things up, you won't go around kicking down some poor kid's doors just cos' he looked at you wrong or bomb a fucking orphanage to make a point. You'll change things for the better kid."

The mention of the orphanage was a painful reminder of what he'd brought upon himself when he took a stand against Uncle Paulie. All those kids had died because Paulie wanted to hurt him, and so had Jenny when they'd taken her there. So much blood on his hands, and doubtless there'd be more if he stepped in as the new Don - but who's? Dwelling on the thought, Jackie made a decision.

"Sure... as long as it doesn't interfere with my day job."

[HenryJonesJr]

The Commander stood in his operations bay, staring out over the subterranean base he had built with the sheer force of will only he could have mustered up. The Springfield compound would be viewed as a world wonder if its existence ever was discovered. But he had made sure that would never happen. Layers of lead and dense bedrock were layered on top of the massive underground base keeping it sage from all satellite detection. Even the Joes didn't have the technology to penetrate the veil he had pulled over their eyes. The Commander was quite safe here. His army grew, they were trained, and provisioned.

But he couldn't win a war from underground, and the Joes were making it increasingly difficult to win the war above.

The door to the operations room slid open, and in sauntered Firefly. The fly had been the Commander's most trusted ally since his days in the war. He was the only one in his army that had ever seen his real face. Even Destro and Bludd had never gazed up his true form. Firefly was dedicated to the cause to the point of fanaticism, which didn't always make him the best counsel. On the other hand, he was the only once he felt comfortable talking to in a normal matter.

"So, you've been up here for a while," the demolitions expert mused as he sliced an apple with his trusty hunting knife. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I don't have time or the patience to deal with sarcasm, Firefly," the Commander snapped at his lieutenant. "The Joes have been weighing on my mind."

"Figured as much," he replied, biting into the fruit. "You haven't been above ground since they stopped you from getting the bioweapon."

The Commander clenched his fist at the mention of his last, failed attempt at shifting the balance of power in his favor. The bioweapon being developed by a secret think tank could kill millions at a whim, and the Joes destroyed it and the research facility where it was being developed. It was the latest in a long line of setbacks that were driving the Commander mad. The Joes only had him to worry about. They spent day and night worrying about his movements and his plans. He had started planning a way to distract them, but it was still in its infancy. For now he had to deal with them.

"I think it's time to change that," the Commander said after a long pause. "It's time to remind the world, and the Joes, why they fear Cobra. Ready the Crimson guard."

"I thought you'd never say that," Firefly smiled, tossing the core of the apple aside.

[Byrd Man]

Chapter 1
Ride of the Valkyries


Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters
Langley, VA
1152 Local Time


"Operation: Dagger Steady is go,"

The young intelligence officer in the trailer parked outside Langley leaned forward in his chair and pushed the joystick in his hands down. On the screen in front of him, the broad and rocky landscape of Yemen appeared through the clouds. The view on the screen was provided by a small camera mounted on the back of an MQ-1 Predator Drone, the joystick in the young man's hands controlled the Predator. Since 2001, the Predator and it's sister drone, the Reaper, were the main weapons the US intelligence and military complex used in the war on terrorism.

The Predator could move in and out of countries quickly and quietly stay in the air for fourteen hours at a time before delivering its payload of two Hellfire missiles at the chosen target. It wasn't as risky as sending in special operators in a covert mission, nor was it as messy and as loud as any other ground forces. Afghanistan and Iraq had been invaded with battalions and thousands of men, war there being fought the way of the sledgehammer. The war in Yemen was being waged with Predators and Reapers and precise surgical strikes, the way of the knife.

The CIA's knife this day was pointed in the direction of Abu Al-Hammani. Hammani, an upper level member of the Wahhabi terrorist group the Sixth Pillar, was on their list because of the Brits. MI6 wanted him dead due to masterminding an attempted suicide bombing in Kenya three years ago. Hammani had fled, but kept plotting more and more Jihadist plots. Eventually, law of averages of stated that he would get one right and kill countless human lives. Because of that, and because of MI6's dispatching of a CIA double agent last year, the Agency had Hammani in their sights as a favor to their sister intelligence service.

The younger officer pressed a button on the iPod beside him and Wagner filled the small trailer, Ride of the Valkyries blasting from the small speakers mounted inside the mobile home. Felix Leiter was the supervising agent in charge of Dagger Steady, and he watched almost stoically from behind the drone operator. When the song came on, he couldn't help but crack a small smile at the choice of music.

"That was done in sarcastically, you know," he said with his long Kentucky drawl stretching the words out. "In Apocalypse Now, they used that song to make you wanna identify the US with the Nazis, not for you to get all pumped up for killin'."

"Never seen the movie," the young man said.

Leiter rolled his eyes and checked a computer next to the monitor displaying the drone's progress. A satellite in orbit above Yemen had a bead on Hammani's cellphone. The satellite relayed coordinates to the mobile station in Langley and the drone operator followed them towards their end goal.

"I've got eyes on a vehicle," the drone operator said excitedly. "No, three vehicles... black Land Rovers."

Leiter leaned forward and furrowed his brow. That didn't match up with what Six had on Hammani. Their intel said he would be riding in a beaten white utility van. From the look of the Land Rovers on the screen they were brand new and part of a convoy or entourage.

"I'm aborting this," said Leiter. "Pull off and start in a circling pattern, and for God's sake turn off that damn music..."

The loud operatic thundering of Wagner disappeared in an instant. The operator pulled back on the joystick before he tried again, this time harder and more urgent. He looked back at Leiter with a panicked look on his face.

"It's not responding... I can't... I can't control it."

"Pull it off right now," Leiter snapped. "Do it or so help me--"

"I can't! It's going on it's own!"

Both men looked on in horror as the drone flew in closer and closer towards the speeding convoy of cars. A signal flashed on the screen that the Predator's safety was off and it was ready to fire. On its own, the drone shot its two Hellfire missiles out at the fleeing cars. the first destroyed the lead Range Rover in a ball of flames, the second hit between the second and third cars and blew them off the road and into flaming wrecks. The two stunned on agents watched as the drone dove down into the ground. The feed crackled with static and a message written in bold letters.

THE PRICE FOR FASCISM IS ETERNAL ENSLAVEMENT
I KNOW ABOUT SMOKESCREEN
AND SOON, SO WILL THE WORLD

"What does that mean?" the young officer asked Leiter.

"I have no idea... except I do know one thing. We're both fucked."

*****

London
1831 Local Time

Tara Chace opened the door to her apartment with one hand while her other hand balanced two boxes of Chinese food on her palm. The bag carrying the takeout had ripped in the parking lot, so she had to make due with carrying the hot food in her hands. She closed the door with her hip and nearly lost the top container of pork-fried rice. Even though Tara could field-strip an Glock blindfolded and hanging upside down, sometimes her balance acted out to the point to where it made her question those abilities she had. With the food safely in hand she plopped them on the kitchen counter and removed her coat. It had been so long since she had the takeout at the Blue Butterfly that she was very much looking forward to it.

Two months since she came back to England from that mission in Italy, and only God knew how long until Chace had to be whisked out again in the name of queen and country. Going on two years as a 00, and she had to learn to enjoy the simple pleasures when she could. And while these moo goo gai pan wasn't an equal substitute to a stiff drink and an even stiffer man, it was good enough for right now. She finished her food standing at the kitchen counter and headed into the living room to stretch out on the sofa. The cell in her pocket chirped as she sat down on the sofa and turned on the television.

An encrypted text message made her stomach do backflips. A message sent through that channel meant it had to be important enough not to wait for the morning. She opened it up while the BBC newscaster droned on in the background and felt her stomach pulse again. RETURN TO STATION, it read. CODE BLACK. A code black was the worst of the worst.

"And our breaking story from this hour," the newscaster said loud enough for Chace to look up at the screen. "Reports coming from Yemen are that Yemeni president Abd Abdullah Hadi was killed earlier this evening in an explosion. As we just reported earlier, Yemeni officials are saying that it was an American unmanned drone strike that killed the president."

"Bollocks," Chace said softly to herself.

[HenryJonesJr]

It had been a completely boring night of patrol. Most nights ended up being busts, but tonight had been notably dull. Leo hated nights where they didn't come across anything. It made it nearly impossible to keep his brothers focused on the task at hand. If he was being honest with himself, he couldn't focus much on patrolling when the bad guys weren't biting. They were kids after all, ninjas or not. Their attention spans were a bit on the short side.

"Ugh," Mikey whined. "Can we go meet up with Casey and April? I'm bored."

"Are you bored or do you just want them to order you pizza?" Donnie looked over at his brother.

"A little from column A and a little from column B," Mikey smiled mischievously.

"They're in class numbskull," Raph sighed.

"Only for another hour!" Mike pleaded.

Leo fought his urge to reprimand his brothers. He didn't want to wait around here forever either. Yelling at them wouldn't do anything but elicit grumbles from Raph and Mike.Donnie would be fine with it. Leo can always count on Donnie. But no, he wouldn't yell at them. Instead, he'd give in to Mikey's plea. The team needed some downtime after the stressful weeks they've been having.

"We'll go wait for them," he said, sending a shocked silence over the group.

"What?" Mike blurted out.

"Who are you and what have you done with Leo?" Raph asked, dumbfounded.

"The fish aren't biting tonight," the eldest turtle shrugged. "Let's go hang out a bit. We could use it."

**********

The four turtles waited around on the roof of the building of Empire State University where April and Casey were attending class. The two of them had been the best human allies the four brothers could have ever asked for. Neither of them recoiled at the sight of the mutants, and they even wanted to hang out in the sewer lair. That was really weird. Donnie had done his best to get rid of the smell, but some of it still lingered. The fact they wanted to go down there proved they were real friends.

April was smart, possibly smarter than Donnie even was. A whiz with computers and mechanical structures, she was studying computer science and engineering. She had be the first human Leo had ever really talked to, and she was more than happy to explain the outside world to the brothers. Plus her family had a great antiques shop filled with neat things. They enjoyed it there.

Casey, on the other hand, was more in line with the turtles' fighting side than their teen side. He came from a broken family, and one involved with the mob at that. He and Raph had been going on patrols when Raph was frustrated with the team, and Casey was a capable fighter even though he wasn't trained well. He was also one of the star hockey players on the ESU team, though he needed April's tutoring help to keep his grades at acceptable levels. April and him had become good friends since meeting.

The doors of the building swung open and a mass of students exited, and Leo spotted the two of them laughing in the crowd. Leo pressed his hands to his face and made the call that the group had created as a signal. April and Casey swung around, locking eyes with the group, motioning to the alley on the side of the building. The turtles swung down the fire escape, landing softly.

"Don't you guys ever text?" Casey asked, slapping hands with Raph. "Seriously, we need to get you guys a data plan."

"Have you seen our fingers, bro?" Mikey waved. "Talk about the ultimate fat finger issue."

"What's up guys?" April pondered.

"We were bored," Raph explained.

"No crime to fight. We decided socializing was the best course of action," Don continued.

Leo shrugged, "We thought you guys might be doing something."

"Unfortunately I have to go home and go to bed," April smiled. "Remember that special project at StockTech I was intern on?"

Leo nodded, "The rat hunting robots? I remember. Supposedly there for the cleaning of buildings and the subway."

"Yup. We're turning them on tomorrow in a big ceremony in Central Park. Should be fun. But I need rest. So I can't stay."

"Neither can I, bros," Casey grinned. "I get to be Red's date. Or friend. Or whatever."

That made Leo's eyes spring open. The two of them looked at each other awkwardly and then looked away. Something was there. Leo was happy for them, but it was obvious they wouldn't act on it. He'd come back to that later, "Well, I guess that means this is an early night for us too. Come on, guys. Let's head back."

[HenryJonesJr]

Assembling a Team
~Part 1~

The man in the hat sat quietly next to the hospital bed, taking turns staring at his feet and back at the elderly man laying in it hooked up to the respirator. He had never been good in situations like this. He had watched his father and two of his best friends go, and he never knew what to say. Luckily the man in the bed spoke up first, "You never were good with the feelings, were you?"

"I guess not," he smiled at the wrinkled face staring back at him. It pained him to see his old friend, once so vibrant and full of life, reduced to withering shell. Cancer would do that to you, however, especially at his age. It was a miracle he lasted long enough for the man in the hat to come say goodbye. He hated saying goodbye.

"It's time though, doctor," the man said before going into a coughing fit. When his breathing stabilized, he smiled, "I'm old. And we don't all get extra innings."

"Trust me," the man in the hat's mood turned to a mix of sadness and seriousness, "you don't want them."

"Maybe," the other man matched his tone, "but we both know you were given this gift to change the world. You've done it so many times. But when you're in this bed, you'll look back and realized your long life was the work of God. You were the knight, remember?"

The man in the hat looked away. He hated the talk of destiny, gods, and gifts. There was a time when he would scoff at such talk, but he had learned too much in his long years on earth. He knew all of those things were real. But he hated the idea that he was some special warrior chosen by the forces of good. He was who he was.

"Yea, how can I forget."

"Excuse me," a nurse said from the door apologetically, "he has more visitors. If you wouldn't mind."

"Sure," the visitor nodded, standing and hovering over the bed for a few moments.

"You really are awful at this, Dr. Jones," the sick man hacked.

"We all don't have a way with words like you do, Shorty," Indiana Jones joked finally with his old friend. "I"m glad I got to see you. And...and when you get where ever you're going, tell everyone I said hi."

"I will, Indiana," Kennon "Short Round" Wong nodded as he squeezed Indiana Jones's hand with what feeble strength he had remaining.

Henry nodded, turning and leaving the room, barely acknowledging the people waiting for their turn to say goodbye to his old friend. Shorty was the last one to go. He was the last person from Indiana's past to make it. And now he was gone.

And now Indiana truly was alone.

**********

Buffy sat in the dark room, a small light bulb dimly illuminating the dingy walls faintly. This was where Hellboy had told her to meet him. It was out of the way, and about as official as a DVD from Chinatown. It wouldn't draw attention, and she'd be able to slink back into the shadows once the meeting was over. Still, he could have cleaned the place a little bit.

The rusty door screeched as it opened. The red demon and Kate Corrigan, one of the top BPRD agents, entered, taking the other two seats.

"Well," the Slayer asked, "did it work?"

"As far as we can tell it worked flawlessly," Corrigan nodded. "The spell Willow has put on you will conceal you from being recognized for a few weeks, plenty of time to put together the team."

"About this team," Buffy started to protest before being cut off by Hellboy.

"This is the team, Buffy," he shook his head. "We need people fairly off the radar."

"Why can't I have Willow and Xander?" she asked impatiently.

"Because they're agents," Corrigan explained. "They'll be in constant contact with you. But bringing them on the team almost insures our little plan here will be found out."

"Fine, but I'm adding Giles," she was adamant.

The two BPRD agents shared a glance before relenting.

"Now that that's sorted out, I'll be on my way."

"Buffy, you know how important this is, right?" Corrigan asked.

"Saving the world?" Buffy laughed. "I think I'm pretty aware."

**********

Henry Jones Jr. stood in the back of the group assembled in front of Shorty's grave. The rain came down on his hat, splattering and dripping from the rim onto his shoulders. He didn't want to go closer. He had said his goodbyes yesterday and was only here to pay his respects. He had spent nearly his entire life around tombs and graves. He didn't have any desire to be near them again. But Kennon Wong was the closest thing Jones had ever had to a son, and he was going to be here to pay his respects. He had saved the boy from the streets of Shanghai, put him through school, and the two even fought side-by-side in World War II. He wouldn't miss this. Not for Shorty.

Yet, even as much of a son Wong was, Jones still stood here, a man over one hundred years old in the body of a fifty-something. The damn grail had given him a life longer than any man should have, and what originally felt like a blessing was now a curse. He watched his father die. He watched Marcus die. He watched Sallah die. He watched Shorty die. And Mario...well Marion was Marion.

He had barely aged fifteen to twenty years since he drank from that accursed cup. He took up a calling after the war, fighting with Hellboy and the BPRD against the forces of darkness. But after decades of that, he was tired. At his age most men would be moving on to the comforts of old age. He had barely started to turn grey. He decided it was time to disappear after a while, and has been in voluntary isolation ever since.

The crowd began to disperse and head for the luncheon that was to follow the funeral, but Indy had no plans of joining them. This is where his journey would end. He couldn't reminisce with others over his friend. Once everyone else was gone, Jones approached the casket, gave it a silent nod before turning back toward his car.

Before he could reach it, however, a familiar voice called to him from beneath the shadows of a large willow tree, "He was a good man."

Jones turned to find the woman standing, draped in darkness. Her raven black hair fell pas her shoulders, and the bright red scarf she always wore around her neck was like a beacon in the dim light. Jones approached, pushing away the cascading branches, "Mina Harker. What are you doing here?"

Wilhelmina Harker was not someone who often appeared during times of good fortune. Once the thrall of the legendary vampire Dracula, Haker had been saved by her husband and a group of vampire hunters. The scarf she wore was to hide the scars she still bore from the encounter. She was now immortal thanks to some accident from her days as a member of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Indy and her had dealings in the past.

"Good to see you too, Jones. Is that how you greet old friends now?" the immortal woman rolled her eyes at the adventurer. "I am here to pay my respects. Kennon and you helped me in the past. It was the least I could do."

"Come on, Mina," Jones laughed. "I know you. Something's up. Now tell me what it is so I can say no and get home."

The woman's face showed the annoyance at being brushed aside, but also worry. Mina was always involved in some sort of trouble, but she was rarely worried about it, "Jones, the Veil has been damaged."

"What veil?" the adventurer raised an eyebrow.

"The vein between worlds. Demons, or worse, now have a much easier time getting to our side," her tone betrayed the importance of the matter. "Rasputin nearly succeeded in getting Hellboy to unleash the Dragons. Red was able to snap out of it before he did so, but it may have only temporarily stopped their emergence. We're putting together a team to try and fix this."

Jones was taken aback. He had heard from Red, who told him things had gone south for a while, but Indy never thought it was something this bad. If what Harker was saying was true, the world could slowly be ending around them right now. Indiana cursed under his breath. He cursed that his damn honor and sense of righteousness was going to force him to help. He cursed his damn long life. He cursed that his friends weren't here to help him this time. But he was going to help. Because he was Indiana Jones and that's what he did.

"Fine," Jones grumbled. "But I need to go pick up my whip. And a gun."

[Zombiedude101]

Wading Way
The Olive Garden

As the limosine pulled up outside the unsuspecting alleyway, Jackie glanced down towards the pendant of Jenny and closed his eyes, muttering something between a prayer and an apology on her behalf. It felt like an age before he finally brought himself to pocket the the pendant and step outside of the discreet cover which the limosine had provided, throwing a nod to the driver and taking a few quiet steps towards the alleyway and under the cover of darkness. Right here, right now - he could feel it. That excitement which the darkness always seemed to endow upon him on a night of killing such as this. Unsurprisingly, neither of Jimmy's guys had shown up as he'd initially offered; Jackie had sent them away and opted to handle the matter himself. After all, despite having taken out that rat bastard Uncle Paulie, a lot of people were still afraid of him. Afraid of what they'd heard, or caught glimpses of. And he couldn't have guaranteed their safety if they'd come along, either - the darkness had already taken Jenny from him, why would he allow it another opportunity to harm those close to him?

At the far end of the alleyway was a rusted old fire exit overhung by a crooked lamp which seemed to flicker constantly, but with a simple thought he spotted a tiny, imp-like creature skuttling out from behind a nearby dumpster and quickly grabbing a nearby brick, before tossing it at the bulb in order to smash it. With a grin which could've made a hardened veteran shudder, it turned towards Jackie with a set of dim, glowing eyes and gave him the thumbs up, before scuttling up towards the wall and scaling upwards as if it had changed the direction of gravity. Meanwhile, Jackie slowly approached the fire exit and after a quick grunt, he planted a boot against the door and kicked it open as if it were made of cardboard.

"Holy fucking shi-"

Without even bothering to listen to the surprised curses of the startled mobsters inside, Jackie quickly drew a hand down towards his holster and quickly withdrew a pistol, silencing the man mid-sentence before diving into the kitchen behind a set of stainless steel shelves as the bullets began to fly. Sure as anything, he timed his shots carefully, firing potshots at his attackers to goad them into taking cover, before waiting for them to pop back out so he could take a carefully aimed shot at their domes. Suddenly, a round tore through his sleeve and took a small bite at his arm, prompting him to let out a curse as he glanced up towards the ceiling, muttering to himself.

"C'mon, c'mon..."

And with that, his prayers were answered; a faint electrical sizzle popped across the room and the lights quickly dimmed, before fading out altogether - the handiwork of the darkling, which could've have come at a better time. Inside, he could feel that familiar, black voice chuckling as it spoke directly to him, as it always did.

"You like the blood, don't you?"

The next moment was something of a blur; he felt the black tendrils seeping out from behind him as its essence filled the room, the frightened mobsters letting out frantic curses or pleas to their beloved ones for mercy as he tore through them all. One of his 'snakes', the one to his left flank, quickly dug into one man's ribcage and tore out his heart before the other one, it's 'brother', tried to snatch it away, only for more hearts to become available for either one of them. Almost as quickly as it had begun, the fighting was over - the bloodbath had come. Having cleared out the kitchen and the dining area of the restaurant-bar of soldiers and enforcers, it seemed that his target lay in waiting upstairs - one Vincent Ricarci - one of Uncle Paulie's few remaining Lieutenants who'd laid claim to a sizely portion of territory and had become a problem in the eyes of the Chicago People. 'Chef Vinnie' as he liked to call himself, was said to have earned his nickname after Uncle Paulie had him murder the wife of a man believed to be a problem in Paulie's eyes, before feeding the wife's remains to the man in the form of a soup dish served to him at this very restaurant. Jackie never actually found out if it was a true story, but it didn't matter now - the only soup here tonight were the turned-out innards of the mobsters he'd just torn apart.

"Estacado, you fucking rat! You think you can muscle in on -my- turf just because you iced Uncle Paulie?!"

He could hear Chef Vinnie's screaming as he ascended the steps, though the man had failed to acquire the same level of intimidation or malice that Paulie had always held in his voice. Rounding the corner, he spotted the labelled boiler room which he easily knew to be the location of Chef Vinnie's final stand, yet what met him when he gave the door a boot was able to throw him off guard.

"Try that demon shit now, you fucking prick!"

"No, no no..... worthless puppet!"

Before he could react, Jackie spotted Chef Vinnie - sweating like a pig in all his miserable glory - with a lighter in one hand and what looked to be a torn away gas pipe in the other, with the thickening smell of gas spreading across the room. He knew damn well what the guy was about to do, even if it meant cooking himself in the process - and so did the darkness.

"Burn in hell, Estacado!"

Spinning on his heel, Jackie made a sudden dash for the nearest window as he spotted the flicker of light behind him and the faint lick of flames growing ever closer and closer. Just as he was about to reach the glass and dive through, the sudden force of the explosion ejected him through anyways. Of course, his fall was broken by an SUV - which incidentally had its entire roof caved in by the force of Jackie weighing upon it, and the last thing he recalled was the sight of a familiar beloved walking towards him, urging him to wake up before he finally blacked out.

"The host will not die...."

[Byrd Man]

Chapter 2
Brass Angel

MI6 Operations Center
Vauxhall Cross
London
2032 Local Time

The Ops Center bustled with activity as the busy intelligence officers dealt with reports coming in from all across the globe from countless intelligence agencies, field agents, and informants. Dubbed the Pit by some communications officer in the 80's, it acted as the nerve center of MI6's Overseas Development Group. The ODG's rather boring and bland cover name helped with its official designation as an agency that dealt with logistics and security for the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, that they were housed at Vauxhall Cross simply because they were bean counters that made sure all of Her Majesty's Government foreign interest were all properly filed in triplicate. In truth, the ODG was a descendant of the famous Special Operations Executive from the Second World War, the same organization Churchill had dubbed the "Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare". And like their predecessors, the ODG protected Queen & Country in a most ungentlemanly fashion.

"When are we going to hear word from Crocker and M?" Tara asked from her desk in the Pit, holding a phone in her hand while she waited on the Chief of Station in Tunis to come back to the phone on his end.

The Ops Center's every TV was tuned to coverage on the Yemeni president's death, some were BBC and American channels, while others were foreign language and Al-Jazeera. The large plasma displays on the wall save for one all showed a map of Yemen, a large pulsating dot marking where the drone had killed the president. The lone plasma screen not focusing on Yemen instead showed an outline of the Korean peninsula, North Korea colored in an angry bright red compared to the navy blue of South Korea. A small black dot just south of the 38th Parallel showed the location of Nick Poole, officially designated 006 and the youngest of the four 00 operatives. Below the map showed the running clock on Operation: Grosvenor was just over seventy-two hours. Tara stared at the screen momentarily and wondered if Poole would be recalled back to London to deal with the crisis, but her thoughts were brought back to the Pit when 004 spoke.

"Crocker went in to meet M twenty minutes ago for a briefing," John Steed said from the front of the room. "Hopefully it won't take too much longer."

As the senior most 00 agent, Steed acted as the de facto head of the ODG agents, a first among equals role that made him their leader. Steed was a military man like Tara, but he had navigated to the Royal Navy instead of the army, and taken up his trade in intelligence instead of special forces. Steed always acted like he wasn't phased no matter the situation. Take for example his current attire. All the 00's had been out of the office when the recall command came. Tara was wearing a pair of ratty jeans and an old top; even the usually fashionable 005, Steed's partner Emma Peel, was wearing plain clothes and sensible flat shoes. Steed though wore a prim and proper three-piece that was perfectly in place. If he was perturbed by the events in Yemen and the situation in the Middle East as a whole, there was no way Tara could tell.

"005, 007," Steed said evenly, his voice carrying over the din in the Pit. "When M and Crocker do call us into the big room, I want a full report on the ODG's infrastructure in the Middle East and what our operational capabilities within a forty-eight hour time frame look like."

The two women scurried off to carry out their tasks while Steed put his hands on his hips and impassively watched the news coverage on the screens.

*****

They finally got the call upstairs two hours later. Tara, Steed, and Peel all came up to the top floor of Vauxhall Cross to the soundproof conference room adjacent to M's office. Wait for the three agents were the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Gareth Mallory under the codename M, along with his Director of Operations, Paul Crocker. Joining them were Tom Wallace, the ODG's chief intelligence analysis codenamed Minder One, and an Asian woman Chace was not familiar with. Steed gave her a subtle nod as the three 00 agents sat down facing the four waiting members of the briefing.

"00's," M said softly. "Sorry to keep you on ice for so long, but we were conferring with the Cousins at Langley. For those of you not in the loop, Ms. Cheng here is CIA's chief of London station."

It made sense, Tara thought to herself, that Steed would know her. He pretty much knew every bloody spy in the game.

"Minder One," Crocker said with a nod to Wallace.

Wallace, roughly ten years Tara's senior with salt and pepper hair and a relaxed smile, gave her one of those smiles as he stood and walked towards the monitor on the far side of the room.

"Here's what we know," he said as preamble. "Needless to say, all of this is top secret at the moment, and was provided by our American friends in Langley. At almost 1900 hours Yemeni time, a CIA drone strike codenamed Operation: Dagger Steady, attempted to take out Abu Al-Hammani, the operations chief of terrorist group The SIxth Pillar. The intel on Hammami and his whereabouts were provided by Six through a trap and trace bug on his satellite phone. This drone locked on to what it thought was Hamammi's phone signal and followed it to the source. Instead of meeting a battered van Hamammi and his bodyguards drive around, they instead found the entourage of Abd Abdullah Hadi, Yemen's president."

Wallace hit a button on the monitor and it blinked to life, showing high-definition satellite photos of a crash site covered in flames.

"The CIA officers in charge of the operation attempted to pull the drone out of the area, but it encountered a problem. It continued on its path towards the cars, not responding to the pilot's controls, and fired two Hellfire missiles before crashing into the site. After the signal died this message was frozen on the screen."

THE PRICE FOR FASCISM IS ETERNAL ENSLAVEMENT
I KNOW ABOUT SMOKESCREEN
AND SOON, SO WILL THE WORLD

"Cyberattack," Steed said mostly to himself.

"But nothing like we've ever seen," said Cheng. "CIA and NSA are both accustomed to cyber warfare attacks.The PRC, Russia, even Iran all try to break our firewalls at least a few times a year. Those attacks are like shotgun blasts, broad and not very powerful. They just hit the walls to find any potential weak spots. This was like a goddamn laser guided missile. It cut through all the bullshit and targeted this one particular drone signal, hijacked it for its own purpose."

"What's Smokescreen?" Peel asked with raised eyebrows. "Certainly seems important enough to broadcast knowledge of it."

"No idea," Cheng said without blinking and fast enough that Tara knew she was holding back, if not flat out lying all together.

"Naturally because of this," Crocker spoke up. "Both SIx and the CIA are in a lot of hot water with the Middle East. They already hate the use of drones, especially in a country like Yemen where all the US has is a handshake deal to use them. For them to bollocks up something this big in this way will have repercussions that we'll be feeling for years."

"Not to mention Six's part in this," Cheng said without any warmth in her voice. "Faulty intelligence led to this 'bollocks up'. Your ass is just as on the line here as ours are."

"Oh yes," Crocker said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "The US would never make a massive foreign policy decision in the Middle East without concrete, can't miss intelligence that they were right."

"The briefing," M said sternly like a disapproving parent. "Continue, Minder One."

"Because of this," Wallace said as he let the awkward pause in the room pass. "The ODG are launching two simultaneous joint operations with the Americans. Operation: Brass Angel and Operation: Copper Angel. Details are simple, 004 and 005 will work with the US SEALs DEVGRU on Copper to find Hammani in Yemen. Despite being on CIA's kill list, he is to be brought in alive for interrogation on what he knows. 007 takes Brass solo. The NSA and our OCSIA have managed to track a signal that hijacked the drone and run it back through two dozen proxies to Yangon in Myanmar. We have a location on the site, you and Six's QRU will watch and wait to see what intelligence can be gleaned from the site."

"Any questions?" M asked. "Good," he said after a moment of silence. "Further detailed briefings to follow once you're wheels up and bound for your respective countries. Good luck, 00's. Find these bastards and find them quick. Dismissed."

[Byrd Man]

The Cheetah Room
Center City, WA
11:14 PM

Tracy hated himself. It wasn't for the usual reasons one engaged in self-loathing. It wasn't because he was broke. On the contrary, he had more money that he could hope to spend. It wasn't because of his looks, despite the bad burn on his neck from Iraq he looked passable and never heard any complaints from the women he brought home. It wasn't because of his station in life. He was the number one man of Center City's biggest crime boss, a place many men would give their left nut for. Tracy hated himself because he was becoming his old man. Like Teeg Lawless, Tracy was seen as one of the baddest motherfuckers in all of Center City, someone you avoided at all costs if you liked breathing. Like Teeg, Tracy's power was an illusion. It was a gifted granted to him by old man Hyde's seemingly on a whim. Tracy knew he was feared and respected as long as Hyde allowed it. And that made him sicker than anything. He wanted to avoid becoming Teeg, wanted to avoid this city all together, but some dumbass mistakes led him right back to Center City and right under Hyde's thumb.

The Cheetah Room was part of Hyde's benevolent streak. The strip club was a gift to Tracy that was a pretty shitty gift. Tracy got a ten percent cut of the profits for managing it for Hyde. Managing the club meant having to deal with all the headaches nobody wanted to. Most guys out of the loop thought running a strip club entailed lapdances and blowjobs gratis. Instead Tracy had to listen to the strippers' drama and get sucked into the day to day tragedies that were their lives. Think of dealing with hormonal teenage girls, crying all over the place and hating each other and themselves... only all the girls have big fake silicone titties Added to getting caught up into their personal shit, Tracy also had to make sure none of the girls of other staff dealt drugs of gash on the side. Hyde approved of the girls hooking and pushing blow, but only as long as he got his cut.

Tracy was taking Hyde's cut of the action that night, sitting in the backroom with Gingy, the closest thing this diseased hellhole had to an assistant manager. Gingy was over fifty with bright red hair that came out of a bottle. She wore cowboys butts and tight jeans with black t-shirts. She looked every bit of the butch bull dyke that she was. While Tracy didn't take advantage of the girls, Gingy was known on occasion to shack up with a few of the sapphicly inclined strippers. Gingy counted out Hyde and Tracy's cuts in twenties, a menthol cigarette hanging out of her mouth with half a cigarette's worth of ash dangling off the tip.

"That's 1,000," she said after counting out fifty twenties that went into Tracy's pile.

She dumped the ashes and started on another set of twenties when the burner cell in Tracy's pocket went off. He looked at the number and knew something was up. Hyde was usually in bed this late at night, and he rarely ever called.

[i]"My office. Now"[/i"

The line went dead. Tracy closed the phone and looked at the clock on the wall before standing.

"I have to go," he said to Gingy as he got his coat. "Count it all out and put it in the safe below the desk, put my share in one bag and the big man's share in the other."

"You got it, sweetheart. I'll keep the ship running in your stead."

****

To look at Sebastian Hyde's office, you would think he was a college professor or some well to do businessman instead of the kingpin of Center City. There were books, shelves and shelves of books on the three office walls. The lone wall not loaded down with books was an entire long pane of glass that stretched across the wall in a window that gave off a pretty impressive view of Center City. The books were all random as hell. Everything from Gibbon's six part series on the history of Rome, to Danielle Steel. Tracy doubted very much that Hyde had even cracked open one of those books.in his library. The man didn't care about books, and he didn't care about his impressive view. The books and window were all a show to anyone who came into the office. It was projecting power. Look at how many nice things I have, look at the entire town that I sit above like a king. All of that boiled down to a simple message: Don't fuck with me.

"Tracy," Hyde said as he came in.

Tracy stood and wordlessly greeted the old man as he walked towards his desk. Hyde wasn't in his usual three-piece, but he still wore dark slacks and a collared shirt. Tracy remained standing until Hyde sat down behind the desk.

"It's late, let's cut the bullshit, son. Do you know Thomas Flynn?"

"Rings a bell. Does he owe you money?"

"No, unfortunately not. Flynn owns a good deal of the industrial park here in town. Supposed to be worth half a billion. He keeps his nose mostly clean, as clean as anyone worth that kind of money can be. He apparently has done something rather bad because he's being blackmailed. He wants to keep it under wraps, so he decided to come to me instead of the cops. He wants to pay me a good deal of money to make the blackmailer disappear. I'll cut you twenty percent of what he gives me and you make this asshole deader than the goddamn steak I had for dinner."

Hyde working for money didn't jive true to Tracy. He had more than enough money than he or his kids would ever spend. But what was left unsaid Tracy knew all too well. Flynn was asking Sebastian Hyde for a favor. All it took was for Hyde to get his foot into the door and he owned you. As bad as any blackmail could be, what Hyde could do would be ten times worse. For Hyde to get in good with a man like Flynn would give him something much more valuable than money. Flynn got your connections, contracts, businessmen, and politicians. Influence, a half a billion dollar's worth of influence Hyde could call on.

"What if I find out what he's being blackmailed for?"

The old man's eyes lit up and his eyebrows arched as he smiled.

"Go ahead and send that my way. Always good to have some insurance. Good luck, son."

Tracy nodded and stood, heading towards the door. He hated when Hyde called him son. he made a mental note that when he got his revenge on the old prick, he would hit him int he balls for every time the old man had called him son. After tonight, Tracy's count was up to 219.

[DeathstrokeSW]

Several Years Ago
Kandahar, USMC Base Hospital, Burn Unit

"Sgt. Arashikage, do you, in your honest opinion, believe that the mission went so wrong as to say that M. Sgt. Snake Eyes' field report was the only viable course of action?"

From his hospital bed, Thomas S. Arashikage looked up. In his eyes was a feeling of capriciousness, and tired annoyance. .When he spoke, however, his tone was that of a tired serviceman, used to the rigors of Military life. It was not the first time he and Snake Eyes had been up for a court-martial, though this was the first time it was for this grave of an offense. It was also the last, as he had decided to leave active service. The horrors of the last mission had proved, despite how superior his training was to the average infantryman, he was still a child in the ways of war. It amazed him how they had barely made it out of that Taliban cave alive, and they were [I]Special Forces[/I[.

"No, I'm telling youit was our LAST course of action. All of our men, who can't be buried by the by, were dead, and the two of us were being held, possibly as ransom. We busted out of captivity, and freed who we could. Sanders and Collins were still alive, along with John Connor. Our last course of action was what was done. If anything, Snake Eyes acted with absolute honor."

The balding JAG standing in front of him sighed. "Look, Sergeant, if you want to keep your job-" Another sigh, this time from Tommy.
"No. Look, I've seen too much as it is. The rigors of our training, the wealth of routine, they can't help us in warfare like this. We are not prepared for urban guerilla tactics, simply put."

The JAG nodded, and lowered his eyes. "I see. If that's the way you feel, I'll inform the officers that you will NOT be renewing your tour of duty. We would however, like to know where you are intending to go, considering the fact that M. Sgt. Snake Eyes will likely be dishonorably discharged.."

Tommy paused for a moment, sighing. He sat up in bed, wincing at the scars, fresh and barely healed. "Japan. I think I'd like to see my uncle. "

Three Years ago
Arashikage-ryu Compound.
The day Snake Eyes arrived.

He had not been here long, only two short years. But in that time, he had learned much, and under the Hard Master's tutelage, he was showing more progress than one would have thought possible for two years of learning the ways of the ninja. Currently, he was practicing the kata of the Kusarigama, striking at a wooden dummy with the chained sickle, moving with precision borne of thousands of hours of practice.

Though he was wide awake, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his straight jet black hair was loose in various strands. He looked as if he hardly slept, and in truth, he spent more of his waking hours training rather than anything else. More often than not, he was up until all hours of the night, working at rigorous kata. The boy was a man possessed. Indeed, in his current task he was so focused that it took four times for the Hard Master to call him. "<Tommy! Come, come and see who has arrived. He has passed the five tests of entry, and proven his worth>."

Tommy set down the kusarigama, and walked over. A look of surprise came upon him when it was Daiki Oroku staring back at him, though his expression slowly morphed into a grin. He bowed, as was custom, and then clasped the man he considered his brother in a handshake that turned into a hug. The two had seen too much together. . "<Daiki, It has been too long. It is good to see you my brother, though some thought you wouldn't arrive." He grinned again, and looked at the Hard Master. "<Uncle, may I show my friend around the compound? I think a friendly face might help him settle in better.>"
The Hard Master nodded his assent, and Tommy led his friend around, chatting away.

The Soft Master walked up to his blood brother, looking at his son leading their newest recruit around. "<It would seem that my son has found himself a bond forged of unbreakable steel.>"

"<Indeed, it would seem that barring some sort of tragedy, the two will be and are as, close as brothers.>" The Hard Master smiled, and sighed. He himself had had a bond like that once, a nearly unshakeable friendship with a man he once called brother. The two were now bitter enemies, and that brother was calling himself a different name these days.. "This should be encouraged. Friends like these only come once in a lifetime.>"

The Soft Master smiled warmly, and nodded. "<So the two will study under you? I see no problem with that. As the head of the family, it is your right to do as you wish.>"

PRESENT DAY
COBRA Submarine base
Somewhere off the coast of California.

The white-clad ninja strode the decks of the COBRA craft, his expression earning him a few stares that were quickly turned away, mainly out of fear. He turned to his right and knocked once on the iron doors that stood as the command centre of Destro. The doors swung open and the ninja strode in. A heavy clang sounded as the doors shut, and Destro called out to him, standing in front of a holographic view of a globe.
[I]Always with the theatrics,{/I] Storm Shadow thought, calm enclosing his face, veiling his thoughts. Though theatricality and deception were powerful weapons in the hands of those who knew how to use them, Storm Shadow was one of the few that had no time for it when it was being used on him. Destro, despite being the man behind the MARS weapons manufacturer, still used theatricality to evoke fear into his "Subordinates" and to his mind, the ninja was no different. At times, it almost seemed like his ego rivaled the Commander's. It certainly explained the reason why the two did not get along; they were too busy lording their superiority over each other.

"STORM SHADOW," Destro boomed, "I assume you have good news?" The man folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head down, trying to give the impression that the mask he wore to conceal his identity was glaring at him. In truth, it was a truly frightening visage, to most anyway. "Target eliminated." the ninja replied, tossing the severed finger onto the table behind McCullen. McCullen turned his head for an instant, and when he returned his gaze to the place where Storm Shadow once stood, the ninja was already gone.

[HenryJonesJr]

"How was your patrol, my son?" Splinter asked Leonardo as he readied himself for sleep.

"Uneventful, Master Splinter," he responded. It was the truth, and there was little else to say. "We saw no sign of either the Foot or the mob."

Splinter flinched at the sound of the name of the rival ninja clan. Leo had seen it in his face before, but he dared not question his master about it. Not yet, at least. If Splinter was hiding something he knew about the ninjas, he did so with good reason. The turtles' father had never led them astray yet, and Leonardo had no reason to question him now.

"That is good, Leonardo," Splinter smiled, leaving the room. "Now get some rest."

**********

Baxter Stockman sat at his desk, a half-empty whiskey bottle hanging loosely in his hand. He had reprogrammed his greatest invention into machines designed for hunting down four creatures that had seemingly done this city good the past year. He did it all at the behest of the mob, and Stockman knew why. Deep down, Baxter Stockman was a coward. He had always been a coward. It's why he used to do his bullies' homework. It's why he was a single, lonely man at forty-five. It's why tomorrow machines that were made to help New York would probably end up tearing it apart. It's why he was sitting here drinking instead of telling anyone what he had just done.

The mob managed to get him a sample of the Turtle's DNA. He didn't ask where or how they received it. It was a fascinating specimen. Stockman was a robotics expert, but knew enough about biology to see the Turtles were something more complex than he had ever seen before. He would have loved to study it more carefully, but he had his orders, and he fed the DNA into the Mouser's targeting computers.

"Doctor Stockman?" his secretary Stacy called from the illuminated door frame. "Are you going home, sir?"

"I don't think so, Stacy," he said, attempting not to slur his speech as he did. "You're free to go."

Once he was sure she was gone, Stockman gathered the control systems for his pets, smuggled it out of the building.

**********

"This is Channel 6 News reporting live from StockTech where Baxter Stockman's new mechanical marvels, known as Mousers are set to debut," the reported smiled into the camera. "The small robots were designed to help curb New York's vermin population. Although we've yet to see Doctor Stockman, his legion of walking mousetraps stand at the ready."

The camera pulled back revealing rows upon rows of the metal Mousers, their steel skin shining in the bright morning sun. They stood nearly three feet tall and four feet long, on two feet. Their "mouths" were beaks lined with razor sharp teeth, and the singular red eye on their head doubled as a tracking laser. They were fast, and strong. They were built for killing.

Then, suddenly, they powered up and began to move. The assembled crowd began clapping in awe of the machines, but those cheers quickly turned to screams as the Mousers began tearing apart the concrete below theme. Asphalt and rock were shot in all directions as the robots began digging towards their intended targets.

**********

Leo was roused from his bed by Donatello's exasperated calls, "Leo, you guys! You need to see this!"

The eldest turtle rolled out of bed and checked the clock, seeing it was merely nine in the morning. They had only gotten back from patrol five hours earlier.

"I hate not getting eight hours," Leonardo grumbled.

"God can you be any more average," Raph shot back.

The other three turtles ran to the living room where Splinter and Donatello were watching the news. They saw the footage of the Mouser robots going berserk, as well as reports of all the events since then. Subway lines have been cut, power and water lines have been severed, throwing the city into a state of chaos.

"Aren't these the things April was working on?" Raph asked.

"Yes, they were," Don confirmed. "And Doctor Stockman is a certified genius. I don't know what could have gone wrong."

"This is what happens when we put the world in the hands of nerds!" Raph elbowed Donnie jokingly.

"Have we learned nothing from Jurassic Park?" Mikey chimed in.

"We need to get out there," Leo said, grabbing his swords. "I know we're used to working at night, but these things are going to tear the city apart. We stick to the subway and sewers. There's a lot, so we stay together."

"We need to know how to stop them," Raph protested. "Their numbers will get us eventually. Someone needs to go get April. She has the in here."

"Good point," Leo smiled at his brother.

"Damn right," Raph smirked.

"I will go for Miss O'Neil," Splinter said. "I am old, and you need your full strength on the battlefiel-"

The ceiling above their small family shook, the dust of decades falling on top of them. The shaking and banging increased, and it was obvious something was attempting to break through.

"This isn't gonna be good, is it?" Mikey readied his weapons.

"Not at all," Leo swung a sword in each hand. "Master Splinter, go. We'll deal with this."

As the words escaped Leonard's mouth, the ceiling gave way, and the flood of Mousers that came through the gaping hole was like a waterfall of killer robots. Master Splinter sprinted away from the new melee, ready to recruit the one person that would be able to help them at this point. The Turtles, meanwhile, sprung into action, engaging the robots with a battle cry.

[HenryJonesJr]

The rotors of the helicopter thumped against the night air as the small Cobra strike team readied themselves for the coming skirmish. Cobra Commander sat quietly in the front of the chopper, readying the high-powered rifle in his hands. It was a proprietary Cobra design given to him by Destro. It fired concussion grenades, hollow-point rounds, and included a scope that was able to see through walls. It was a bit high tech for what he was used to, but it was useful. The troops in the helicopter with him were the best of the best in the Cobra Crimson guard. He wanted this to be a quick, quiet operation. He didn't need an unwanted guests tonight.

"What are we doing here again?" Firefly asked, leaning from the back into the pilot's cabin. "You haven't really told us what we're going after."

Cobra hadn't told them what the actual target was. The only briefing he had given his troops was the location and some basic instructions. Everything else was in his head. What he wanted was a crapshoot, in reality. It was nothing but rumor cloaked in secrecy. He wasn't sure if it existed. But if it did, he'd find it and unleash it.

"Gentlemen," the Commander opened the comm channel to his guard's headsets, "we are currently enroute to the FBI headquarters in Washington D.C.. Our goal is to infiltrate the special projects wing and find the area designated to the X-Files. Once there, I will secure the information we require. We will then destroy the building. A separate ground team will create diversionary tactics in order to allow us the optimal chance of succeeding."

"What do these X-Files have that are so important?" Firefly queried on a private channel.

"They have the trail to remake the world, my friend," was the Commander's answer. "And I intend to be the sole owner of that trail."

[Byrd Man]

Chapter 3
Golden Triangle

Yangon
The Republic of the Union of Myanmar
2132 Local Time

Tara had only been to Myanmar once before and she hated every minute of it. The country, formerly called Burma, had been part of the British Raj during the height of the mighty British Empire. If India was the shining jewel of the Raj, then Burma had always been a pearl that wasn't worth the time or effort to polish up. The only thing that seemed worth a damn in Burma was the opium trade, which thrived to this day and made Myanmar one of the largest producers of opium and heroin in the world. The country overall constituted nothing but poor farmers with very little industry that wasn't worth the time or investment. It was such a non-entity during the Second World War that the Allies were content with dragging their feet with the Japanese while millions of starved Burmese. After the War when the British Empire was finally in its death rattle, Burma became its own country known as Myanmar. It soon became a socialist military dictatorship and, despite the American's love of land wars with Asian communist, they did very little for fifty years while the dictatorship ruled. Another sign that nobody really seemed to care about the country or its people.

With the general apathy towards all things Burmese, Tara found it very appropriate that she would end up in Myanmar on a mission that SIS viewed as second-rate. Steed and Peele were in Yemen, searching for the terrorist who started the whole mess that the British and Americans were involved in. She was on stakeout duty, looking for a hacker. Granted this hacker was impressive, one didn't just hack into a CIA satellite and remote control a drone strike on accident, but this job could have easily been done by Six's local station staff. But sending 00's on all fronts showed the Americans that the British were fully committed to fixing this fuck up.

Three days since an American drone strike had killed the president of Yemen, and the Yemeni people along with most of the Arab world were rioting outside US embassies. Internet traffic pointed to an increase in militant jihadist recruitment across the entire region. The whole intelligence community was certain an attack on an embassy somewhere was imminent. The politicians in Washington, specifically those not part of the president's party, were calling for congressional committees and presidential impeachment. The blowback for the British wasn't as bad, but it would severely damage their so-called special relationship with the United States if it was discovered their intelligence had been faulty and led to the accidental assassination.

Tara sat in the ratty motel room beside the window and watched the three story walk-up apartment through the slit in the blinds. Two and a half days sitting on the location, and she had yet to see anything. The gadgets Q Branch sent with her had failed to detect any electronic signals or signs of life inside the apartment she was watching. The presence of a western female with blonde hair was bound to attract attention if she conducted the stakeout on foot, so instead she used the QRT for on the ground operations. SIS's Quick Response Team was a small four man team made up of former SAS members like herself. They worked as a unit and carried out more military inclined tasks than the 00's, although rank dictated they were junior to any 00's working in the field. Nick Poole, 006, had been pulled from the QRT and given 00 status, and Tara herself had been training for the QRT when she was given a chance to go out for a 00 spot.

"007 to QRT," Tara said into the walkie talkie in her hands. "Sound off. Give me a sit-rep, lads."

"Bravo Leader here and I got nothing," said squad leader Captain Price. Tara looked through the window and saw Price in the shadows beside a parking garage, blending in with the concrete and oil stains.

"Bravo Two, same here," Price's number two, MacTavish said, from his vantage point on a roof beside Tara's motel.

"Bravo Three, and I don't see a thing."

"Bravo Four, and all I see is a dog taking the largest shit I've ever seen. Seriously, looks like it's bigger than him."

"Maybe we can name that turd Brass Angel, Gaz?" Price asked with a wry chuckle.

"I second that," said Tara. "Stay on your positions and keep your wits about you." Tara sighed and looked at her watch before continuing. "If I don't get any movement in the house by midnight, we're going in."

Tara put the walkie talkie down and lit up a cigarette to wait. Most people had an image of the spy game inside their head and this wasn't it. The job wasn't martinis and exploding pens anymore, it was waiting and watching and maybe taking action. Nearly sixty hours of stakeout here would lead to maybe a minute of action when she and the QRT raided the house, and that would just be a routine sweep that would more than likely lead to a dead end.

"I think I see something," MacTavish reported at twenty to midnight. "Male Caucasian wearing a trench coat, appears to be two meters tall."

"I see him," Tara replied, stubbing out her sixth cigarette of the night. There were only two other tenants in the entire apartment building, two elderly Burmese women who went out in the morning and stayed inside the rest of the day. The man heading towards the stairs didn't seem like the type to call on either of the old men. The trench coat was the wrong type of dress for hot and muggy Yangon. He carried a satchel marked with a golden triangle on the side. Tara took note of how he walked, how he carried himself, and any other features that would make her remember him. She saw his scarred face and stopped cold as he disappeared into the stairwell leading to the third floor.

"Fucking hell... Fucking hell!"

Tara jumped up from her seat and pulled her Glock from her luggage and checked it was fully loaded and ready to go. She put in her wireless earpiece and connected to the channel with the QRT.

"007 to QRT. Move in on the house and the man. It's Gareth Carlyle, gents."

"Fucking hell, three of the men said almost at once.

"I know," she said as she tucked the gun into her waistband. "SIS public enemy #1. I want him taken alive if possible, but remember who he is and do not hesitate to put him down if need be."

"Wait, who is this guy?" Bravo Three asked nervously.

Tara was already out of her motel room and bounding down the stairs.

"He's a traitor and terrorist. Before that? He was my predecessor as 007."

[HenryJonesJr]

He slid his chair over to the large cabinet behind his desk, swinging open the large, heavy, wooden doors. Inside were stacked cartons upon cartons of cigarettes. It didn't matter what brand, he didn't care. All he needed was the intoxicating smoke to drown out the flood of smells, sights, sounds, and thoughts of this world. Who would have thought the quaint, empty place he escaped to all those years ago would have become a sardine can in so short a time. Sure, it seemed like eons for the Mundanes, but a few hundred years were like a mere two decades to the Fables, if that.

Slipping a pack out of a carton and quickly lighting up a stick, he took a deep drag while his deputy sighed, "You know those things are bad for you, right?"

Boy Blue had been a scount in the Fable Resistance Armies in the homelands, and a good one at that. He was a brave lad, and had served with dignity, including the Battle of the Last Castle. In fact, he had been one of the Fables on the last boat to the Mundane world Bigby had fished out of the water. Blue felt like he owed him something, even though Bigby never felt that way. Still, he was a good deputy, and the good cop to the wolf's bad cop. Bigby didn't know what he'd do without him.

"They're bad for the Mundies, Blue," Bigby shook his head. "I've been smoking for nearly a century. It'll be fine."

"Well, they smell awful," Boy Blue coughed.

Before the wolf could answer, the Mad Hatter burst through the door to the sheriff's office, sweating profusely. He took off his oversized hat and began dabbing his large forehead with it, "S-s-sheriff! It's horrible!"

"Hatter, what are you doing here? I thought you lived on the Farm," the wolf responded out of the side of his mouth not holding the cigarette.

The Mad Hatter of Wonderland was an eccentric if Bigby had ever met one. He wasn't sure if the Hatter was mad or a genius, though it was likely he was a little of both. He had chosen to stay on the Farm in upstate New York where the non-human-looking Fables lived. He resided with his best friend the March Hare. Bigby went and checked on the Farm periodically, but hadn't been there in years.

"Had to come tell you! The March Hare...he's lost his head!"

"Blue," Bigby said to the boy in a calming voice, "get the good Hatter some tea. I'm going to have a talk with her majesty."

Bigby stood, passing by the trembling Hatter and out the door. If what the loon was saying was correct, then they had their first Fable murdered on Mundane soil in nearly a century. The last one was a doozey, and he had hoped he'd never have to do it again. The sentiment was a foolish one, of course. The Fables had historically been a violent people in the Homelands, whether they wanted to remember that or not. It would always come out of them in the end.

But a murder on the Farm was a whole different matter.

The sheriff stopped in front of his destination, taking a deep before pushing the door open. In the utilitarian office on the other side stood a singular desk. At the desk sat a beautiful, but serious looking woman. Her raven black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, allowing her alabaster skin to shine against the dark wood of the office. Her lips were as ruby red as the most vivid rose, and her eyes were a sparkling blue. Snow White was the reason Bigby had come to Fabletown in the first place. He had never told her, but he had loved her since the day he saved her from the Adversary's troops in the Homelands. There was only one problem.

"What?" Snow asked, not looking up from her work.

She hated Bigby's guts, and was a bit of a bitch to boot.

"You might want to come to my office," he said after a drag of the cigarette. "Mad Hatter's here. Says someone murdered March Hare."

Her piercing eyes darted up from whatever she was doing to stare down the sheriff, "You're not kidding."

"I'm not. Who knows if the loon is or isn't," the lawman shrugged.

"Well, let's go then," Snow White hustled by Bigby, waving the smoke out of her face as she did.

Bigby Wolf
in
~Off With Their Heads~
-A Fables Tale-