[IC] Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

[HenryJonesJr]

Metropolis, DE
One Month Ago

"Luthor," Superman snarled as he landed in the billionaire's office. Clark had clashed with Lex Luthor all year, though he had only learned that fact recently. Luthor had been behind Metallo, Toyman, and the release of the Parasite. All of it was just a test for Clark. Luthor wanted to see what the hero could do, and how he did it. "You wanted me. So here I am. You put the people of this city in danger just to test me. People died, Lex. And now I'm here to put you behind bars."

Luthor laughed at the superhero's challenge and stood, striding over to his liquor cabinet. Luthor was an impressive human being. He was tall, powerfully built, and one of the smartest men on the planet to boot. He poured a glass of scotch before turning back to the Man of Steel, "Superman, you have nothing against me. You and I both know that. If you lay a hand on me you'll just turn the people against you and your freaky friends yet again."

Superman's lip curled at the villain's mockery. He knew it was the case. Luthor was too good at covering his tracks, and Superman attacking the first son of Metropolis would lead to more trouble than he could deal with t this point, "That may be the case, but I hope you know I'm on to you. You won't be able to sneeze without me knowing. And eventually you're going to slip up. When that happens, I'll be there to put you away."

"For your sake, you better hope that happens, alien," Luthor spat back. "Because I plan on attending your funeral in a year." He quickly changed the subject, "I have to congratulate you for inserting yourself into world affairs so quickly. When do you and your so-called Justice League start overthrowing governments and installing martial law? When do you decide who lives and who dies?"

Clark new the accusations were merely meant to get under his skin, but it still got to him anyway. "That shows how little you know about us, Luthor. None of us want that. We're here to protect people. Deep down you know that, even if you don't or won't let yourself believe it. You'll see it in the end."

"No, Superman," Luthor's eyes narrowed, "I'll be the one leading the charge against you when the great human race realizes what a farce your front is."

"Well then, I'll see you there, Lex," was Clark's response as he took off again and left the industrialist alone.

**********

Now

Superman soared over Metropolis, sailing over skyscrapers before dipping down towards the street. Cars honked their horns as the Man of Steel passed overhead, and Clark slowed down to wave at the kids on the corner. They eagerly waved back at their hero, amazed that Superman had taken the time to acknowledge him. Clark liked the fact that they once again cheered him in the streets. It's not that he needed to be. He would protect these people no matter what they thought about him, but he couldn't deny receiving acceptance wasn't terrific. They knew he was an alien, a being more powerful than they would ever be, and yet they still accepted him. That was comforting.

Of course Lex Luthor and the others like him were still saying the heroes of the world were nothing but a menace. Amanda Waller and her HAMMER thugs were still breathing down their necks, waiting for the Justice League or one of its allies to slip up. Mouthpieces like G. Gordon Godfrey and the Reverend William Stryker constantly called them monsters and works of the devil. There was still a percentage of the populace believed all that.

But Clark didn't care about that right now. He had a more important mission on this night. Floating up the side of an apartment building in the more ritzy section of Metropolis, Clark knocked lightly on the balcony door of his target. The door slid open, and out stepped Lois Lane, dressed in pajamas and carrying a laptop under her arm.

"Took you long enough, fly boy," she smiled slyly at the superhero.

"Traffic was murder," Superman winked.

"Sure, sure," she rolled her eyes. "So are you ready for this interview?"

"I've been ready since I showed up, Miss Lane."

[Byrd Man]

Gotham City
1:21 AM

The cops pried open the sealed metal barrel with crowbars. They slid the metal cover off. The scent of decay came wafting up out of the barrel, overpowering the smell of blood and flesh. The cops gave me a wide berth, not making eye contact as I approached the barrel. As Gordon's men they knew the routine by now.. The flood lights cast an eerie glow on the blood in the barrel, turning it from dark crimson to inky black. Even in the darkness I could see body parts floating in the coagulated soup.

"A dockworker called it in an hour ago," said Gordon. "We're in the process of identifying them. Looks like three dead men."

Two different types of wrist watches attached to two severed arms, two pairs of shoes attached to severed feet. The shoes are green gator skin, tacky and mob chic The more conservative wrist watches don't match the gaudy taste of the shoes owner. The other pair of shoes are size fifteens, feet too large to belong to the severed arms. Four men so far. Another arm floated by wearing a white gold wedding band. The wedding ring arm is thicker and paler than the watch arms, the flesh not matching the ankles of the severed feet.

"Five," I said softly. "Five at least."

Gordon shook his head. He pressed a handkerchief to his face and leaned in to glance at the bloody contents of the drum.

"This area, it's a Falcone stronghold. Nothing gets on and off the docks without their say so-"

I knew exactly where Gordon's train of thought was headed. I already had my HUD booted up and connecting with my hard drive at home, which in turn was connecting to both FBI and Interpol databases to search for my query.

"This was a message," Gordon continued. "Left out in the open like that for everyone to find. I'm going to send some cars to Russo's home and roust him, sweat him and see where he was tonight."

Billy "The Beaut" Russo, acting boss of the Gnucci Crime Family. Ever since Gordon, Harvey Dent, and I put Carmine Falcone behind bars, Russo and the Gnucci's have been trying to muscle in on the Falcone Family's rackets. A pending gang war had been brewing for nearly a year now, but now it looked like it was about to go hot.

MATCH FOUND

The HUD scrolled information across my eyes rapidly. Pages and pages of data from Interpol flashed by quickly. I speed read, but I managed to get the gist of the report.

"I don't think Russo was responsible."

Gordon arched an eyebrow at me. "What do you mean?"

"This brutality - chopping men up and stuffing their parts into a barrel - doesn't fit the mob mentality. Displaying them in public, yes, but usually shot up and easily recognizable. This MO is someone else."

"Who, exactly?"

"Russians, Serbs, Albanians. Kovsh supa, Russian for 'Bucket of Blood' is a traditional Red Mafiya declaration of war. The rest of the Slavic crime syndicates adopted it and use it regularly to intimidate targets."

Gordon looked back at the barrel and crinkled his nose. "It's certainly not Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes... I still want to roust Russo and his men."

"It's not a bad idea, if only to let him know someone else is out there."

The gang war that I've been trying to keep a cap on ever since Falcone went to jail is threatening to explode into the streets, and now it looks like a new player has entered the fray. I looked back the barrel one last time, letting the sensors in my cowl soak up any and all data they can find. Gordon motioned his men to come back to the drum as I started to retreat back into shadow.

Gordon looked towards the where I was slowly fading from sight.

"We don't know of any major Eastern European players here in the city. Do you?"

"I soon will."

[Hound55]

An Off-the-books Lexcorp subsidiary’s laboratory - Undisclosed location outside of Houma, LA

“Get a load of this, Ted! Dish 52. That look like extraordinary growth to you?”

Theodore Sallis crossed the laboratory floor to see what Alec Holland was referring to.

“Show it here...” he gestured for the dish. “Nah, Alec. You’re reaching there. Give it a week.”

“Ah, what would you know, Doc. With that fringe hanging over your eyes, I’m surprised you could see well enough to find your way over here... and don’t get me started on your sideburns.”

Doctor Theodore Sallis smirked at the gentle mocking from the younger scientist. “Well... you’re the one who asked for me.” He shrugged. Ted was right. In more ways than one.

It had been three months since Sallis had made his way to the bayou down in Louisiana on Holland’s request. Luthor had prodded, naturally, with the threat of pulling funding, but it was curiosity with the particular aspect of Holland’s work that attracted him to the swampland like another mosquito. Bio-restoration was a field that Sallis was very interested in, and possessed as much theoretical knowledge on key aspects as anyone out there – but it was the pollution that such endeavours would produce that Sallis found it impossible to justify. That and the joys a young boy found in the stories great-grandpappy Sallis used to tell are what eventually led Theodore to the work he would eventually take.

Sallis returned to his desk, whilst a centrifuge continued spinning off to the side. He seldom spoke of his work, and never of its stage in progress, but its residue was still left all across his side of the lab. He perched himself on a lab-stool in his favourite position; under his hung replica of the fallen hero, Captain America’s shield. Numerous yellowed newspaper clippings with some of Rogers’ few public statements were also stuck to the wall for inspiration. Well, Alec Holland assumed for inspiration. His workspace was otherwise clear, aside from a small wooden box. He never kept notes and would often just seem to stare off into space for lengthy periods. He had a small one sheet-shredder by his desk, and would only do the most rudimentary of calculations on loose leaf paper, before immediately shredding the results. Some would call him neurotic, Ted preferred “meticulous”.

The centrifuge stopped, and Sallis eyed it cautiously. Furtively checking neither Holland nor any of the other lab assistants were looking, he snuck the tube into a sewn-in interior pocket in his lab coat. Sallis remained silent. Before slapping his hands on his knees and getting back to his feet.

“So, let’s have a look at those other dishes you’ve got today...”

Alec stopped and looked at the older doctor. Whilst Ted was always willing to help and lend an eye over his work, it was unusual that Sallis would be the one to approach him. He would sigh and often begrudgingly stagger across from his work station, somewhat understandable considering how much Sallis relied on carrying a mental train of thought – and Ted had often “snapped” and yelled in the early months of his time here – but Dr Sallis was an extremely emotional, and at times a very selfish man. When Sallis eventually agreed to move his work down to the bayou, Alec got the impression that it was less about helping a young man in the same endeavour and more pressure from financiers, followed by the work that Holland himself was doing.

Holland had worked for three days trying to craft the perfect letter to send for the brilliant doctor, trying carefully to evoke his own veneration in Sallis, whilst trying to stay grounded and hold back his fan-boyism. The letter he received in response, whilst not cold, still was grounded heavily in his interest and thoughts on the field and never any attempt to relate to the person who sent the initial letter.

So for Dr Sallis to be coming to him now?

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’re you playing at, Ted?”

Ted gave a self-effacing chuckle, understanding all too well what Alec was referring to.

The muffler of a black SUV gave its own guffaw as it pulled out the front the building.

Ted kept walking, furtively looking from side to side for anyone who may be listening in, unable to mask the wry smile and keep the excitement from his face.

Lexcorp security guards fall to the ground unconscious outside.

“Well, you see Alec, after an entire life’s work I’ve finally fini—“

“Hello, gentlemen.” A voice interrupted. “If you make with your notes, prototypes and any new discoveries that you have on these premises, this should be a quick and painless transaction.”

My Spoiler

[Byrd Man]

Gotham City
6:45 AM

"Šta je za večeru?"

"Borscht sa krompirom."

"Opet? Je li to sve što znate kako da?"

The two voices continued to prattle on while I filed the recorded conversation into an organization folder on my computer. On the surface, complaining about Borscht and potatoes for dinner in Serbian doesn't seem related to five men being hacked to death and stuffed into a fifty gallon drum. It's a small piece of a very large puzzle I've spent the better part of four hours assembling. It's a puzzle that will reveal to me Anto Radic's true nature. An alphabet soup's worth of agencies have files on the man and I followed the trail through organization and service to get my picture.

The Serbian intelligence agency BIA starts the thread. Radic was born in Belgrade in 1975 to a prostitute mother and an unknown father. He served as an NCO in the Yugoslav wars, his name and unit linked to several incidents and atrocities related to ethnic cleansing. Sometime in early 1995 he fell off BIA's radar when he deserted his unit. The Russian FSB, the country's successor to the KGB, picked up the thread next in Moscow from mid 1995 to early 1999. FSB and Interpol tied Radic to the Solntsevskaya Bratva or the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, Moscow's largest and deadliest ROC gang.

FSB and Interpol's reports on Radic are vague on his activities during that time, but not another file from an agency known as Checkmate. I have no idea what Checkmate is or who they report to, but their report on Radic is extremely detailed. An informant and surveillance linked the man to six execution style murders in the four year period. he was in Moscow. Another field report had him committing two dozen armed highjackings for the ROC. Corrupt Russian police were the only reason Radic didn't end up in jail. In mid 1999 Radic immigrated to America. An old INS file on Radic contained his immigration documentation. The document was filled with holes in his history, neglecting his time in Russia all together. Somehow he was approved for a green card and brought into New York. An FBI field report explained the ease of his immigration when they linked him to the Bronislav Crime Family working out of New York City. The FBI and both Interpol confirmed that the Bronislav family is just an American franchise of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, working with other entrenched New York crime figures like the recently incarcerated Tombstone.

Radic's New York activities read like Moscow redux. Highjacking, armed robbery, assault, murder. All of it alleged to have happened with no strong evidence or proof. After nine years of ROC work in New York, and for apparent reason, Radic left New York for Gotham. The FBI files are stumped by this, so are Radic's fellow mob members. An FBI wiretap inside a Russian safehouse had three men joking that Radic left because he was [i]kiska[i/] whipped by his wife. And just like that, nearly twenty years of paperwork and intelligence on this man dried up. GCPD had nothing on him, he even started paying his taxes. So boring that all his phone conversations with his wife were about dinner. Though I was able to use his tax return like a roadmap to flesh out details of his present life. He claimed a wife and a child as dependents, and his job was listed as a truck driver for Purple Hue Inc, a local restaurant service provider. That's where the thread spun outwards to other areas. Radic is an employee of Purple Hue... just like eight other men with ties to Eastern European organized crime. Radic and another man are former ROC, three men are Albanians, a Serbian mafia man, a Georgian, and an Armenian. A Chechen named Vladimir Zurkov works as the supervisor for all the men. Like the rest, he has a past that's just as dirty. Like Radic and the rest, he's only been in Gotham City for a few years.

Despite the men's violent histories, they've all led quiet lives since coming to Gotham. Gotham, a stronghold for the old Italian mob going on nearly a hundred years, only has ten men in the cities with hardcore ties to ROC or any other affiliated mobs. All ten men work for the same company, all ten men seemingly out of organized crime. The company seemed like an obvious front company, but a routine search from GCPD and FBI turned up nothing. My backdoor into the Gotham County Court House database revealed the company charter and zoning permits for Purple Hue, a Zebediah Killgrave listed as owner. Killgrave is nothing but a blank slate in the database, nothing but a tax return. No further information.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Hours staring at a monitor in the dark and spots were forming at the edges of my vision. It's going on 24 hours since I last slept and I don't feel it. Instead I copy down Killgrave's information and pocket it before beginning to leave the basement. Boxes of equipment were stacked everywhere, spare parts for my suit and other gadgets. I bought all of it in bulk to avoid suspicion from any curious people. Who knows, maybe before it's all said and done I'll eventually throw twenty thousand batarangs? The first thing I did when Wayne Tech began to turn a profit was buy the large security door that leads into the basement. A foot thick reinforced steel with electromagnetic locks, only my biometric data and voice recognition password opens it. The door sealed shut behind me with a pneumatic hiss, the locks clacking on with a soft buzz.

The sun was beginning to come up and peak through the kitchen windows. The early dawn showed the filthy back alley behind my house strewn with garbage and empty vials of cocaine and heroin. The old rowhouse sat right in the middle of Dutch Hill, the east side neighborhood that used to be a working class bulwark against the creeping urban decay. But it collapsed when the middle class did back around 2008, most of the houses in the area either for sale or too dilapidated to be sold. At least half of the vacant homes have been gutted by drug fiends, ripping copper wiring and plumbing out of the homes to sell to scrap metal men for pennies on the pound. Alfred liked to chide me about setting up shop here, but he doesn't understand. He went straight from England to the suburbs with Phillip, he never saw the slow cancer that is rampant unemployment and drug use.

This neighborhood, this where I used to live with my parents... it's been torn to shreds by the same city and people it used to offer shelter to. It has to be where I start my mission. The battle of Dutch Hill is the first campaign on my War for Gotham. And I'm more encouraged by what I've seen with every passing day. Apathy has faded, community groups organize and work together to clean up the houses and drive the drug dealers off the corners. It's not easy, and many times it's like trying to sweep up leaves in the middle of a windy day. The dealers just move to another corner to set up shop. But the people keep fighting. Their spirits keep up. They keep working to better themselves and their surroundings. I like to think I'm partially to blame for that spirit, but I won't take credit for it.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee and sipped it while figuring out the next move. Purple Hue is next to nothing in paper. I need more data on the company and Killgrave before I can continue looking into this company and its employees. Draining the cup of coffee, I looked at the clock on the wall. Seven in the morning. Over a day awake and I've still got work to go to work..

[Gowi]

Several Weeks Ago…

The Kingpin was livid.

For the past two years he had seen his entire operation flip and it was all heading downhill faster than the Kryptonian Invasion was put down; all at the hands of some costumed vigilantes that in their first year had been perceived as propaganda spread by the law enforcement agencies to bring a little terror into the heart of the criminal. But just as Gotham’s crime had survived the Bat, New York would survive this. So he did as anybody would with money and power: he called out an order—a hit on the street level superheroes who were getting in his way.

He wanted Power Man, Daredevil, Iron Fist, Black Canary, and Deadpool out of the way—and he wanted it done with efficient brutality.

They would regret crossing him.

---

Present Day

“The Kingpin sends his regards.”

BANG!

Ow! That kinda hurt! Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve been shot before… actually I’ve been shot a lot recently ever since I decided to be a wee-bit more proactive with my brand of superheroing. I must be doing something extremely bad or extremely good here to get shot with this kind of mobster movie quote being shot at me. Hah, shot – I just caught that.

“I think you missed…. ish.”

Whoever this Kingpin guy is—he sure didn’t send anybody that was like competent, I mean yeah he shot me… but he didn’t even aim for the head! Who shoots the amazingly inkillable Deadpool in the torso? I mean sure, he went for the surprise attack and I was way too busy watching a cat run around to hear his devious sneaky-sneaky bang-bang.

BANG!

At least he’s thorough.

BANG! BANG!

I guess I should start dodging or something, huh? Yep, I guess I’ll do that. It’s not like it’s even hard or anything either since well this guy isn’t a superhero assassin type—do they have those types yet—if not, I totally call dibsies on copyright royalties when that becomes a thing.

“So, you shoot the guy who shrugs off bullets like he’s Arnold Schwarzenegger and don’t even crap yourself a little? Man, can I have some of the drugs you’re on? I promise not to hurt you too bad!”

Dodging this guy isn’t particularly difficult either, so it’s not like I’m fighting somebody worth their own reality show or anything here. Which reminds me, I totally need to get my own reality show!, it’ll be fun and I’ll put people through trials and stuff! Like a video game! – that sounds eerily familiar though. Nah, that’s probably just the ghost cancer talking.

“Die, already!”

BANG!

“Oh c’mon buddy, be a pal!”

At this point he totally isn’t being a pal and he’s like wasted… so many bullets! I can’t even count the bullets he has used! Probably because I don’t remember anything past a year ago, but hey I ain’t complaining! Take that fundamental mathematics! Though there is a thing I remember for the most part—how to make grown men cry with only a finger and a toothpick! I don’t exactly remember why I have a toothpick…

“Bam! Right in the squishy parts!”

He’s screaming.

Probably because I just shoved a toothpick in his eye; I guess it’s not really an advanced technique but hey, I had a toothpick.

“Hey, can you stop screaming—you’re kind of annoying being all ‘waaaah aaaaah my eye’. Please?”

I narrow my eyes; this guy is rude as hell! I said please!

“That’s it!”

BANG!

That’s what rude people deserve—being shot, by me.

Though, this whole trying to kill me thing… while ineffective is a bit curious.

“It looks like I’ve got a mystery to solve.”

[DeathstrokeSW]

The city shined in post-dawn morning light, early risers and work commuters walked the streets, some with purpose, others with lizard like lassitude. Husbands kissed wives goodbye, and sons waved mothers farewell. Buses chauffeured their fares, and taxis strode the roads with an obnoxious overconfidence. All of this was carried out with the normal humdrum of life; children rushed to school, adults to work.

From atop his perch on the Globe of the Daily Planet, Ultraman saw all of this, but it is not what he was looking for. He searched the city for a suitable way to make his mark, to make his presence known, to force these humans to feel his presence. Ultraman cracked his neck, and as he did so, the words of his father drifted into his head.

"Be strong, my son. Only the strong survive"

It had been years since his father had sent him to earth, a son saved by a pragmatic father. Jor-Il had not sent him here out of love, however. Jor-Il had done so to ensure that the House of Il did not die with Krypton. He had accepted that, even respected it. To him, it was merely survival of the fittest at work, natural selection preserving its deadliest predator.

Tim wiped the thoughts from his head, refocusing on the task at hand. He thought about his powers, and the names the media had given them. Heat vision, freeze breath; it seemed as if the news felt a need to name everything, to put monikers on their champions-and their nightmares.

Ultraman chuckled, a deep, rumbling bass muted against the wind. Nightmares. To the people, these so-called "Supervillains" seemed as if to terrorize the weak, the innocent, the helpless. To him, it was nature at its most basic: the strong root out the weak and predators hunt for prey.

HIS prey was gleaming overhead, its shining green neon L. towering over the other buildings as if it was lording its superiority over the city. One final crack of his knuckles and he fell. The speed of the fall heightened the adrenaline rush he felt, and a few meters before he met the ground, supersonic flight was engaged. He shattered all of the nearby windows in his path, his sheer speed staggering.

Meanwhile, Lex Luthor sat in his office, sipping a glass of whiskey whilst filling out paperwork. It was a banal part of running a successful business, but given the day he'd had, it was a welcome respite. Lex had sent Mercy, his driver-cum-bodyguard to the hall, so when his computer beeped a warning of hypersonic object on a trajectory of interception with his office, regret creeped into the back of his skull. The blur was beginning to take shape, a red-blue blur rocketing towards him. "Oh. It's Superm-" he blurted.

As Ultraman scythed through the reinforced window, bending steel and splintering wood, he smashed into a human, sending him back first. Lex slammed into the far wall, crying out in pain. Of course, the impact didn't kill him; it wasn't meant to. Luthor wasn't his prey. His building and its weapons were.

Lex rose, a sliver of blood trickling down from his forehead. His eyes widened as he saw the Kryptonian floating towards him, arms crossed. He was clearly tall, with black hair and eyes full of heat vision barely contained.

"Superman?" He said in a confused tone. The floating Kryptonian ignored him, and went into the hall. Lex scrambled to the remains of his desk, and hit the emergency button, summoning three Mark I Lexbots. The battle was about to begin.

[HenryJonesJr]

Two Weeks Ago
New York City

One by one the mourners place a rose on the casket, and as each one takes their turn, I realize it's almost my turn. I'm not really sure how any circumstance this would be easy. But knowing that casket is occupied partially because of me doesn't make things any easier. Harry's father watches over the entire proceeding with the normal steely gaze I've come accustomed to, but today it sends an even deeper chill down my spine. Harry's last words warning his father had turned him into the Hobgoblin in order to get to Spider-man was scary. Norman has infinite resources at his disposal, and if he was willing to sacrifice his own son, he was willing to do anything.

Gwen squeezes my arm, and I look down at her. Her makeup is smudged as tears stream down her face. Harry was as much her friend as he was mine, and losing him had hit her hard. Of course, having her almost die on the same night didn't help anything. I still consider myself lucky that catching her with my web as she was hurled off the bridge didn't snap her neck. It feels like someone up there is watching out for me. She now knows my secret, and yet she still stays with me. I don't know how I'm so fortunate, but here we are.

The two of us approach the casket, placing the flowers on top. I run my hand over the smooth exterior, realizing that once this was in the ground, Harry was really gone. Gwen sobs beside me, and I choke back a few tears of my own.

As we move away from the casket, Norman steps in our path, taking my hand and shaking it, "Peter...Gwen...I just wanted to thank you for being such good friends to Harry. I know his...condition near the end must have made it difficult. But you stood by him. As always, I always knew you too were some of the good ones."

It takes all my strength not to punch Norman in the face. For all my life Norman Osborn was a shadow hanging over my life. He was there when my parents died. He was there when I was trying to live my life with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He was there at Uncle Ben's funeral. And now he was here at my best friend's funeral as the very reason Harry was being put to rest. Norman Osborn was a very real boogeyman in my life. But there was nothing I could do about it now.

"You're welcome, Mr. Osborn," I say stiffly. "I just wish we could have helped him more."

"Well, there are things out of our hands, Peter," he smiles weakly.

Without another word, Gwen and I walk away, my hands in my pockets and Gwen's arm hooked around mine.

**********

Now

The wind rushes through my mask as I swing through the skies of New York. After all this time, web swinging never fails to cheer me up. It may sound corny, but there’s just something magical about swinging over the streets and rooftops of New York. Even at a time like this where my best friend is dead after trying to turn the city into his own den of crime and his father has declared open war against me. Such is the life of your friendly, neighborhood Spider-man.

I sling another web and use my momentum to turn a hard right, swooping down a few stories as I do so. I know this city like the back of my hand at this point. The fastest and best ways to get around the city are second nature to me. I know every nook and cranny, like this is my concrete English muffin. The city is my playground, and everyone else is just living in it.

At that moment, sirens draw my attention. I follow them to their source, where a man in what appears to be a quilt is standing outside of a bank, “Stand back! All of you!”

With that, he throws a punch through the air. At first I just figure he’s crazy, but then a shockwave bursts forward, slamming the cops and their cars backwards, end over end.

“Oh, well, that’s fun,” I say under my breath before swinging over to the wall above the apparent bank robber. Once there, I call out, “Nice costume, guy! Your mom make it for you?”

“Well, well, well,” the masked man chuckles, “Spider-man.”

He spins around, slamming the wall with another round of concussive blasts. I kick off the wall, landing in front of the cops who were regaining their feet, “Let me guess…you’re Rumble? Oh! No! You’re Shockwave!”

“Guess again, web-head!” he snarls. “I’m the Shocker!”

“Ha!” I laugh. “Dude come on! You can’t be serious! You do know about the…well you know. Unless you don’t.”

He doesn't answer, and instead blasts at me again with his gauntlets. The shockwaves from his gauntlets are powerful, more powerful than anything I've seen before from one of my weird enemies. Scorpion's tail was fairly potent, but these things caused widespread damage. Concrete shattered under its power, and it make quick work of the cop's vehicles earlier. This guy was either a genius, or someone was supplying him with some high tech stuff.

"Stand still, you little crap!" he screamed swinging the stream of waves across the street, blowing the windows out of the buildings surrounding the bank while I easily swing around the danger. This guy is slopping. He probably hoped he'd be able to get in and get out. He clearly isn't ready to go up against someone like me.

"That would kind of defeat the purpose of, you know, fighting you, Quilt Face," I mock. Knowing I need to finish this one off quickly, I swing off a street lamp, gaining momentum, before slamming into Shocker's legs. Acting quickly, I web up his hands so their facing his chest, ensuring he would use them to escape. "Now there. Isn't that better?"

"This isn't the last you'll see of me, webhead!" he snarls as I take off his mask, revealing a normal looking guy underneath. "I'll be back."

"Sure, pal," I laugh, tossing the mask back to the cops. "That's what the all say. Tell Marko and Sytsevich I said hi!"

Man, I love being Spider-man.

[Gowi]

Several Days Ago...

“I’ve found it.”

Krakor I Magikos’ expression was one of madness and glee as he looked on at the atlantean seal before him. He wasn’t sure what was exactly in the tomb of Thanatos I Galanos, but what he did know from the archives he had found was that there was something powerful and limitless within its walls if you could discover such a place. He understood this as the personification of power itself drew him to desire whatever it was and he could almost taste it. Why would the fools in Atlantis hide such a treasure away? It didn’t matter—it was his now and nobody could stop him.

As Krakor unlocked the doors before him with a key that took him generations to find he could feel his emotions overcoming him. To think he could be possibly more powerful than the King of Atlantis himself was maddening in a way and the sheer thought of it made him desire such a result. Orin’s brother, Orm, had failed in becoming the Master of the Oceans… but Krakor would succeed where he had failed—and how would Orin even imagine such a battle when he was already recovering from the results of the Civil War?

It didn’t take long for Krakor to traverse the tomb and reach the end of it. As he came to the end of the current floor he saw something strange—there laid a large crevice that seemed to be an empty void. The pit was devoid of all light and premised a uneasiness in whoever dared to look into it, but Krakor’s stubbornness was far more plentiful then whatever caution and wariness that existed inside his soul.

“A pit? Bah! I will find what I came for—this is clear.”

As he spoke his words and took his first steps toward the pit something spoke as the sound of hundreds of uniform shrieks shot back at him from the deep cavity before his physical form and it made a harsh chill travel down his spine almost immediately. These would be the last sounds he would hear until his demise only moments later.

The Trench had been released from their prison.

...and they were hungry.

[Byrd Man]

Gotham City
11:34 AM

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," Lucius Fox said as he walked through my office. "You know I can get one of the cleaners to come help you with your clutter if you'd like that."

I pushed a stack of files and drafting paper aside to make eye contact with Lucius. "What clutter?"

I converted the back two offices of Wayne Tech into my personal R&D workspace when Lucius and I moved into the small office building last year. Lucius and I make up a quarter of all Wayne Tech employees. Besides us there's a receptionist out front, two salespeople who work with Lucius to sell Wayne Tech security systems, a lawyer kept on retainer for any business deals, a janitor that comes in part-time, and my own part-time R&D assistant. It's a small business, but it's leaps and bounds ahead of where it was two years ago when I started Wayne Tech out of my basement. Lucius was my first employee, an actual businessman to help me grow the company.

"I have a client in my office that would love to meet you, wants to hear from the creator of this miracle security system that can stop any and all break ins."

I looked down at my work scribbled on drafting paper in pencil. An early design of a singled person aircraft roughly the size of a Cessna with a Preadtor drone engine refitted and souped-up to jet levels. A pipe dream at the moment, but so was everything else I've accomplished so far. I pushed the paper away and stood. Lucius stared at my jeans and t-shirt as I stepped out of my office.

"Something wrong, Mr. Fox?"

"No, sir. The jeans and t-shirt sell the boy genius Zuckerberg look. Let's go with that."

I followed Lucius down the halls to his office. A heavyset man in a black three-piece suit stood as we entered and thrust a hand out for me to shake.

"Mr. Wayne, this is Johnny Roselli, manager of the Gotham First Financial. Mr. Roselli, Bruce Wayne."

I pretended to get flustered and a bit surprised at the notion of the manager of one of Gotham's oldest banks showing up at my place of business. The fact of the matter is that I knew Johnny Roselli and his business very well. GFF is a mob bank, and Roselli gets ten cents on the dollar for washing all their dirty cash. The climb from junkie to dealer to supplier had been a steady one. The thing I needed most now was a way into the money laundering side of things. You follow drugs, you'll find drug dealers. You follow the money, there's no telling where you end up. Taking down Carmine Falcone was just a flesh wound to the mob. Bosses come and go, smaller criminal organizations change them like some people change clothes, but to hit them in the pocketbook would be a shot to the heart.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Roselli?"

"Well, I've been hearing people rave about this security network you're setting up. How does it work?"

"For starters," I said with a smile. "I'm going to do my best to not weigh you down with technobabble. Our equipment is standard protection equipment, alarms and cameras along with embedded pin hole cameras wherever you may need them. What you really pay for with Wayne Tech is the algorithm and facial recognition software. Our cameras use facial recognition software that's some of the best on the planet, the computer systems identifying and assigning people who pass by them random designation identification numbers. The systems then hold those numbers in a database, marking things like frequency of appearance and other factors. All those factors are ran through my custom algorithm to create a full-scale crime prediction model. Example: say a man comes to your bank three times over the course of a week only to wait in line and get a dollar converted into quarters. After that, he goes outside and lingers by the building for nearly an entire hour. What would you say he's doing?"

"Casing the joint for a robbery."

I nodded. "That's very possible. And our algorithm would agree with you and warn you an impending robbery is likely, allowing you to heighten your security in preparation for a robbery that may or may not ever happen. Better to be vigilant and not need it than sloppy and robbed."

Roselli looked towards Fox. "And this works? And it's all legally above board?"

"Yes, sir. We've had several civil liberties lawyers look over our data systems. Each business or home has its own operating system with its own individual database. We can't pull ID's from a shared database of another business or home, or hand that data over to an organization like the police or government for obvious reasons."

What Lucius was saying is all true, except for the backdoor I plant in all security operating systems. Each individual one siphons off its data to a master database in my basement, creating a network of surveillance identified people both civilian and criminal. My own private operating system takes the data from GCPD and other law agencies to create profiles to go with the faces. While only Mr. Roselli knows a suspicious 5'11 man with brown hair and brown eyes is hanging around his bank, only I will know the man is actually James Hawkins, a thirty-three year old ex-con with a love of strongarm robbery, along with Hawkins' home address and other spots the network has tagged him as hanging around. Along with the regular violent crimes algorithm, my own custom algorithm searches for things like fraud, embezzling, and general racketeering crime that's deemed non-important to the regular algorithm. The information of an entire city's citizens at the tips of my fingers. It's Orwellian and reeks of Big Brother, but it's all for good reasons. In lesser hands I wouldn't trust anyone, but I know myself. I know that while the temptation to do something with that data is great, as long as nobody commits a crime they will be safe under my watchful eye.

Purple Hue Inc.
2:12 PM

Anto Radic climbed out of his semi and walked into the squat sheet metal building advertising itself as Purple Hue Inc. I sat across the street at a bus stop, pretending to be invested in that day's paper with my coat turned up. I called it a day after one, feeling content that Lucius and I managed to talk Roselli into buying a system for his bank. Any other research or organization could be handled by Barbara when she came in from school. Fifteen minutes went by before Radic walked back out and headed for his truck. I made my move, dashing across the street to intercept him before he made it.

"Excuse me," I called to him.

"What you want?" he asked in a thick accent.

"I've been waiting for the bus over there for nearly a half hour, you wouldn't know the schedule they run, do you?"

"No, I don't," he said dismissively. "Keep waiting. Bus always come."

He turned away from me and towards his truck. With his back turned to me I pulled out my phone and activated the cloning app. My phone sent out a small signal to any mobile devices within a thirty meter radius and copied the device's embedded file system, shooting back to me the electronic serial number and mobile equipment identifier that can mask over my phone any time I want it to. In mere microseconds, I placed a wireless wiretap into Radic's phone. The phone log and text message data I could have gotten while sitting on my computer, but the important part is the ability to listen live to Radic's phone calls. I can also use Radic's phone to eavesdrop, remotely activating his phone's microphone and listening to any conversations he's having off the phone. In the blink of an eye, Anto Radic has just become my unwilling informant.

Radic's truck starts up and I headed back to the bus stop with phone in hand. The cloning of his phone also lets me track the GPS chip in his device. The bus finally showed up ten minutes after Radic left. By that time, he was already headed across town to 2765 Finger Street, the same address someone in his contacts named "PM" texted to him after pulling out of the factory. I tucked the phone into my pocket and climbed up on to the bus, my agenda for that night already set.

[Enarr]

WayneTech, Gotham City
3:00 PM

A cool wind nipped my cheek as I pulled my hood off of the top of my messy hair. Looking around, I saw newspapers and leaves tumbling by shattered glass on the sidewalk. Then, I stopped and took a breath before turning and looking at the glass door of WayneTech.

After I stepped inside, I strolled right up to the desk of the secretary. The worker looked up from her desk and took a minute to look at me, it seemed like it was a look of surprise too.

"Oh... Hello. What brings you to WayneTech?"

I scratched the back of my head for a moment and brushed my nose when I answered.

"I, uh, have an appointment with Mr. Wayne."

"Mr. Wayne is out right now, actually. He's been out for a while."

I stopped for a minute, I kinda counted on being able to catch him at work. Guess how stupid I feel.

"Tell him I came by when he gets back," I said, turning away.

"Sure thing. But what's your name?" She said as I began to walk off.

"Oh. Right," I murmured. "It's Grayson. Dick Grayson." I turned again before changing my mind. "Actually, just have him call me when he gets back in."

"Will do," she confirmed.

Then I turned my back one last time and walked straight out the door, a bell signifying my exodus.

Stepping back down the very sidewalk I'd come from, I pulled my hood over my dark, oily hair and then stuffed my hands into my pockets.

I could really use a piece of advice right now.

---

Gotham Museum of Fine Art
8:45 PM, The Previous Day

"And here you'll see some fine pieces of impressionist...."

A tour guide presenting the largest museum in the city was stunned. She adjusted her glasses and stared where she'd been expecting an antique painting to be at rest. She ignored the guests shed been leading when she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

"Is this part of the tour!"

"Honey, calm down. They always do this."

The tour guide stopped before backing up quickly. "Security!" She barked. "SeCuRiTy!!!!" She wailed at the top of her lungs. "There's a cloud blocking the Van Gogh."

Suddenly, four men dressed in police uniforms arrived and dashed right around the crowd of guests attending the tour. They pulled out guns and surrounded the crowd.

One of the women stepped out of the crowd and made a run for it, but she was shot in the legs. She smacked flat against the ground before all the tourists screamed and panicked, frenzied they became unsettled and began to shove eachother, but no one wanted to fall outside the perimeter and face the same fate as the first woman had.

Suddenly, stepping out of a purple veil of smoke that had been blocking the painting, a man with a black suit and a bright blue flame that resembled a face spoke with a voice that was brimming with synth.

"Hello citizens and wealthy snobs of Gotham, the most prejudice seenmajor city on the planet. Consider this donation you're all about to make a heroic thing. This, this single act--this generosity, is likely the only good thing you'll ever do for humanity. So please, pass all your wallets, purses, cell phones, valuables, and identification to the fine gentlemen shepharding you."

The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves and complaining, but not a single one of them dared speak out against their captor, nor had a single one of them withheld his demands.

As the men dressed as police made collections, the mysterious man kept monologuing.

"Thank you. You've just enabled me to continue acting as the world's greatest hero. I've always thought of myself like Robin Hood; Steal from the rich! Give to the poor: Me!"

As soon as every one of the people had been robbed blind, the men stood straight up and nodded at the man with the flaming head, who was now pacing back and forth around the crowd.

"Yes, all finished? Good." he murmured. "Now if you'll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, we must get going. But don't fret! We'll be back. Hope you enjoyed the show!"

Then he snapped his fingers, and purple clouds of smoke engulfed all of the imitation policemen. As soon as the smoke dissipated, the crowd began to calm down and spread apart, most of them left the building, but none of them continued the tour. It was horribly inconvenient, especially because the tour guide, along with the woman who'd been shot, was gone without a trace.

[Byrd Man]

Dutch Hill
Gotham City
6:46 PM

A soft rap at the door drew me away from my reading. I placed the tablet on the coffee table and crossed through the living room and into the foyer

"Dick," I said as I opened the door. "Come on in."

Dick Grayson. As my war on crime progressed and escalated, it became more and more obvious that I needed some kind of help in my vigilante activities. No matter how hard I pushed myself, I could never be everywhere all the time.There's nobody I trusted who could be an adequate fit for the position. Alfred was too old, Gordon too engrained in the system to ever fully act out of it. Enter Dick Grayson, a curious teenager obsessed with Batman. That obsession led to him Oracle, a yet unidentified hacker I've been trying to get a handle on for quite sometime. Dick and Oracle worked together and ran back the string on the Batman, discovering Bruce Wayne at the end. Instead of being mad, I was impressed. Gotham Police, federal agents, and criminals had all been trying to find me and it was a teenager that did it. Dick, the son of a homicide detective, had the makings of a good detective partnered with a freaky acrobatic ability. Instead of blowing him off, I made him an offer. A partnership that works more like an apprenticeship

We walked wordlessly through the house, going down into the basement and not speaking until going through the locked electromagnetic door. I sat down in front of my computer and leaned back in the chair.

"I got your message. You wanted to speak, what's on your mind?"

[HenryJonesJr]

Queens, NY
Parker Residence

"Don't forget to do your homework," Aunt May says as she puts her hair up in the mirror by the front door. She's preparing to head out to her job as a nurse at the hospital. The job is one of the reasons I've gotten away with being Spider-man for so long. She's out of the house for 12 hours three nights a week. "There's dinner on the table. Might need to be heated up for a little."

"Gotcha," I nod, leaning against the wall in the hallway. "Be careful on the bus."

"Always am," she winks before heading out the door. "Love you, Peter."

"Love you too, Aunt May," I say, locking the door behind her.

The level of respect I have for Aunt May knows no bounds. I mean, I obviously love her. She's more or less been my mother for most of my life. But seeing how she's handled the time since Uncle Ben died is amazing. It's like she hasn't missed a beat. I'm sure she's still hurting, like I am, but she doesn't let it show. She does her job better than anyone and still has time for me. It's amazing. I haven't made things easy on her, either. When I first started my patrols, my grades slipped, I became distant, and it scared her. Luckily enough, I fixed myself before she was able to get too worried, and we've been on good footing ever since.

After an hour or so of doing my homework, my cellphone bursts out into the Game of Thrones theme. I answer, knowing that's Gwen's ring, "Hello, your friendly, neighborhood Spider-man speaking."

"You know if I had you on speaker phone you'd be giving that out to everyone around me. I'm sure my dad'd be thrilled to hear that," she responded in a deadpan tone. Gwen's father, the head of New York's Major Crimes and Vigilante Unit, is currently investigating me as public enemy number one. Of course, the two of us are acting in unison with him feeding Spider-man info, but the less everyone knew about that the better. "And I'm sure every lowlife in the world would be interested in that."

"Am I on speaker phone?"

"No."

"Well then I'm clear," I chuckle sarcastically.

"You know if you weren't so cute I'd be upset with how cavalier you are about this," Gwen cracked on the other end of the line. "I saw you extracurricular activities on the news."

"Fun wasn't it?" I smile. Shocker was in over his head, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy taking him down.

"If these kind of people keep popping up, Pete, eventually someone's going to show up that's too much for you," Gwen pleads with me. She's been trying to get me to get help. She knows I've been training with Daredevil, but he's got his own problems to deal with. In reality, there's no one for me to team with. I've got to deal with my responsibility on my own.

Before I can answer, the TV in the background switches to a breaking news report, "Hold on, Gwen."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we bring news from New York General Hospital where an urgent situation has just been brought to our attention. According to those inside, a prison from Ryker's Island Prison was brought in after prison physicians were unable to treat an unknown condition. We're also getting work that once inside the hospital, the inmate turned into...sand, and then began attacking the staff of the hospital. The inmate's name in question is Flint Marko, known bank robber and thug for the Big Man's Crime Family and later the Hobgoblin."

Marko. This isn't a mistake.

"Peter...Aunt May."

Snatching my mask from my desk, I respond, "Already on my way."

[Enarr]

Dutch Hill, Gotham City
6:47 PM

After I'd been convinced that Bruce had been at his home, based upon a few muddy footprints leading to his doorway, I quickly gave a few rapid, yet solid knocks against his door. After a moment, the door crept open and I saw him take a good look before audibly acknowledging me.

"Dick," he almost whispered. "Come on in."

I stepped through the door and into the entrance hall, following him for a while until we'd went into the basement, what is generally regarded as the safest and least accessible part of a home, but being generally inaccessible isn't good enough for Bruce. So we silently stepped through a locked electromagnet door. Yes, that high of security. After it had closed all the way and had been locked tight, Bruce broke the silence.

"I got your message. You wanted to speak, what's on your mind?"

"Well," I began. "Have you heard about the art museum robbery? There was an unidentified victim who'd been shot and visibly had bleed on the carpet. But my dad says he's stumped because forensic searches haven't found any human cells in the immediate area. Then, when the thieves disappeared, so did she, but so did her blood, that had already settled on the carpet. How is that possible?"

[HenryJonesJr]

The Daily Planet Building
Metropolis, DE

Sun began to rise over the horizon as the people below began heading off to work. Lois and Superman had been on the roof the entire night talking. It was probably wrong for Clark to use his powers as Superman to get closer to Lois, but the woman demanded nearly weekly interviews with him at this point. Clark, obviously, wasn't going to say no to that. Of course, at this point Clark, as Clark, had begun to get close with Lois as well. He was worried she'd eventually figure out his secret, but at this point there was nothing he could do about it.

"So what do you have to say about those who believe the Justice League is a threat to sovereign nations?" Lois asked looking up from her notepad. The two of them had rotated between interview questions and off the record conversation the whole night. Lois would try to sneak these kinds of questions in when she thought he was distracted in order to catch him off guard. It never worked, but he couldn't fault her for trying.

Superman smiled softly, "I would have to say their fears are unfounded, Lois. None of us are looking to takeover the world. We're here to protect the people from those that do. I understand the trepidation some may have about the Justice League. We are some of the most powerful people in the world. But we have all stood by the law of right and wrong, and cooperated with all international law."

"But what about HAMMER?" Lois's eyebrows raised. "You have been requested, on multiple occasions, to register your identities with the agency, and every time you and your other Justice Leaguers have refused to do so."

"We have reason to believe, Ms. Lane, that HAMMER doesn't always have our best interests in mind," Clark responded, thinking about what Batman had discovered about HAMMER. They had been detaining mutants and metas on a whim. With the League's identities they could create a firestorm. "We want to protect everyone, but that includes ourselves. If we don't have our identities, we may not be able to do either."

"Great answer," Lois smirked at the man of tomorrow. "I think that does it for the interview. You wanna grab breakfast?"

"I don't think the diner would appreciate the cape, Lois," Clark chuckled. " And every time I hit a ketchup bottle it shatters. I have having to wash the suit."

"That is so corny. You know that, right?"

"What can I say? I'm old fash-" Clark's attention is drawn from a crash he picks up with his super hearing. Superman focused, realizing it came from LexCorp, which was never a good sign. "I'm sorry, Lois. But it seems my attention is needed elsewhere."

Rocketing towards LexCorp, Superman landed in the office of Lex Luthor himself. Last time he was here, Clark was threatening the super criminal. Luthor was leaning against a wall, obviously injured. When Clark approached, he spat at his feet, "Sending one of you lackies against me, Superman? I didn't know there was more of you. Thought you had gotten rid of all of them."

Before Clark could ask what he was talking about, an explosion ripped through the floor below him. Shielding Luthor from the fire, Clark spun around to see what seemed like a Kryptonian standing below him holding parts of Luthor's security droids. Clark floated off the floor, crossing his arms, "I don't know who you are, but I think it's time for you to stop."

[Byrd Man]

Nightrunner said
"Have you heard about the art museum robbery? There was an unidentified victim who'd been shot and visibly had bleed on the carpet. But my dad says he's stumped because forensic searches haven't found any human cells in the immediate area. Then, when the thieves disappeared, so did she, but so did her blood, that had already settled on the carpet. How is that possible?"

"I don't know... but you're in luck. The art museum is a Wayne Tech client."

Dick and I were looking at the security footage five minutes later. We both watched the robbery in silence. The purple smoke, the armed guards, and the blazing man all played out their parts in muffled silence, the cameras at the museum not having microphones. The tape ended and I backed it up without comment, watching and taking note of everything taking place.

"There," I said, freezing the picture of the shot woman. Her face was frozen in terror and pain, tears running down her eyes. "She's not real."

I zoomed in on the picture and let it play in super-slow motion. The movements of the woman which seemed fluid and natural at normal speed, became jerky and pulsating in slow motion.

"Those pulses you're seeing are coming from an unseen projector. A holographic display is somewhere in that room, broadcasting an illusion. The pulses are shifts in the light of the hologram, compensating for things like shadow, depth perception, and ambient light. Se looks natural at full speed, but under scrutiny it comes up short. The man with his head on fire is also a hologram too. The projector has to be somewhere in the room, but it's outside the range of the camera."

[Hound55]

The man wore a yellow head-to-toe NBC suit, giving him the distinct and somewhat comical appearance of a beekeeper. But whatever laughs his attire may have raised were quelled by the assault rifle or similar looking weapon he held in his hands.

Sallis clammed up fast. He’d heard rumour of this exact type of event. A group known only as A.I.M. but due to some of their activities many has speculated their name may stand for Abductors and Innovations Misappropriated, more than a few intelligent men had vanished from the eye of the world and rumour of what exactly happened abounded and spread through the scientific community.

The man ran an eye over Holland’s work area, scattered notes and samples.

“Alec, step away from the desk, it’s not worth it.” Ted spoke softly, but with a dark scowl on his face. Rage boiling beneath the surface but tempered, possibly by the firearm the man wielded.

“You should listen to your frien—“ the man from A.I.M paused and looked at just who that “friend” was. There was not a man in A.I.M. who wouldn’t recognise him by sight, they had merely been too preoccupied with checking exits and blind-spots for security, followed by the primary objective – data, to take a closer look at the scientists present.

“Now THIS is luck… there was only supposed to be some preliminary data from a young no-name environmental scientist. Of all the shantys in all of America, how did you wind up in this one, Dr Theodore Sallis?” he could feel the man’s leer from the inflection, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see his face.

The tone supported the rumours he’d heard, and Dr Sallis began to realise the likelihood of a free life dwindling down towards zero. Another man in an NBC suit scanned the wooden box with some kind of device, others grabbed notes, while the first seemed to be attempting to communicate with his superiors over some kind of unseen Comm-link inside of his helmet.

“...come in Scientist Supreme. It appears that there was an extra prize hidden in the bottom of Luthor’s cereal box. Alright, alright... I’ll tell you what I mean...” apparently the voice on the other end of the line, wasn’t happy with what passed as his brand of ‘cleverness’. The A.I.M underling turned his back in hushed excitement to report to his superior “We’ve found Theodore Sallis...”

WHUMP!

All eyes turned to the sound. The head of the tactical A.I.M squad lay prostrate on the ground with the replica of Captain America’s shield resting on his back. Only Dr Sallis heels could be heard, pounding against the dirt track in desperation. An A.I.M. man raised his weapon before receiving a scolding.

“No, you fool! That’s Sallis. We need him alive.”

Alec breathed a sigh of relief.

“...but we told him we wanted this to be painless. He chose not to listen. Dumb move for a smart man. We’ve got the notes? Torch the rest...”

[Bounce]

A S G A R D

In the stories, Odin was first of his brothers. First of the Aesir. He killed the first giant, whose blood became the great ocean, and then created Midgard with the giant's corpse. It was Odin who separated the worlds of the Nine Realms, Odin who laid down the Bifrost, Odin who built Asgard along the Sea of Marmora. It was Odin who sat upon the throne of Asgard. And it was Odin who fathered Balder, the Brave, and Thor, the god of Thunder.

But Odin had three sons.

Or, at least, Odin had said that he had three sons. It was possible that was the first lie spoken, the first deception, the first act of deceit - masquerading behind an act of charity. If that were so, then Odin was also the father of lies. But then, he had to be, didn't he? For Odin claimed to be the father of Loki.

Not a terrible thing, that. Until it was. Sometimes the most destructive lies were the white lies. How could it be wrong, to take pity on an infant left to die exposed to the frozen wastes of Jotunheim? How could it be a mistake to tell than child that he was of Asgard, that he was Odin's son, and even to re-make that small, weak frost giant into the likeness of the Aesir? How could it be terrible to raise that child to believe that he belonged, not only to Asgard, not only to family, but to a line of succession. And he had succeeded. Not because he had wanted to. Not because of any schemes of Loki, but for Balder's cowardice. Odin now slept the Odinsleep and the crown had fallen to Balder. And Balder had declined. To Thor then, but Thor was not among them.

And so a frost giant sat upon the throne of Asgard.

Were anyone to know, Loki's reign would be shortened by the most violent means available to the Aesir. But was this not the work of Odin? Was this not what his so-called father intended when he had claimed that dying infant as his own? A single tear slipped down the young boy's face as his eyes gazed down at the body of the Great Father. "Wake up, damn you," the young god whispered. Angrily. Desperately. But he did not cry for Odin. He cried for Loki. For heavy was the crown. Strange a thing like that. When he had been no more than Loki Odinson, he had wondered what it might be like to wear his father's crown and sit upon the throne. And why not? It was Balder's. And if not Balder, then it was Thor's. It was not meant for Loki, so of course he had wanted it them.

But then, Loki was the original fool.

"A king must not be seen as sentimental."

Few were they who could approach and Loki not be aware of it. As he looked up, startled, the young god's eyes turned up to the wise matron of all Asgard. "A king must be respectful, Mother," the youth answered, repeating back to Frigga words which she had first said to her sons. Part of him wondered, was it Odin who had changed Loki into an Aesir? Or had it been Frigga, the woman who had agreed to taking a frost giant into her home. A woman who kept now a secret which must be kept, for both their sakes.

"A king must command respect," the Queen corrected firmly, resting her hands on the boy's shoulders as she held in gaze. And then she pulled him in, drawing him into the warm, familiar embrace of a mother and child. And, for a moment, Loki needed to believe the lie that it was as so. "I am very proud of you, my little Loki," Frigga offered, as she released him and held the boy out at arm's length again. "Dry your tears. We will speak this night."

Taking note of the dismissal, the young king of Asgard inclined his head toward the woman as he took a step back, watching as Frigga took up a seat beside the sleeping All Father. Turning her head back to her son, Frigga said only, "Leave us for now."

And it was so.

"All hail the Odinson. King of all Asgard!"

He wondered if they would stop doing that were he to command them, but he already knew the answer. They wouldn't. Because it was not to honor Loki, but Odin. And for that same reason, Loki both admired and cursed them. Admired and cursed Odin. Admired and cursed. Perhaps that was his nature. The cry of a magpie echoed somewhere overhead, the boy catching a glimpse of a black bird in the high rafters of Asgard's royal palace as he walked from Odin's chamber toward the throne room.

And then he smelled... beautiful.

It wasn't a perfume. It wasn't a fragrance. It was a scent. It was her scent. Like fresh linen, dried in the sun. Or apples. The young king then stopped, ducking around a large column, and he saw her. The handmaiden was young, as Loki was young, the youngest of the Aesir, little more than children. Black hair cascaded down the back of her green dress, as she followed behind the powerful figure of the warrior-lady Sif. It struck Loki that to look at Leah for a lifetime would be a life well spent.

To talk to Leah was... a different sort of experience for him.

"My king," Sif's voice barked, echoing loudly through the halls as attention was suddenly thrust back upon Loki's shoulders. Approaching him, Leah just a step behind, the raven-haired warrior woman demanded, "Does the king of Asgard hide in shadow?"

"I... uh..." Loki began, his eyes at once upon Sif, and then to Leah, and then just as quickly everywhere but where Leah stood. He was supposed to be the smoothest tongue in all of Asgard, so why could he now not breathe? "I thought I heard a magpie trapped indoors," the boy lied smoothly, even as he felt his throat go dry and his chest squeezed as though in a vice.

"Well that I have found you then," Sif's voice boomed in answer, apparently moving on. Swallowing, the boy risked another glimpse at the handmaiden just behind and off to one side of the woman. She was looking at him. Locks of raven hair dressing the side of her face. A smile bright there, alighting the room as though he had witnessed the birth of a thousand suns.

The boy's eyes were quickly down to his feet, as he felt his breath stolen from him as a burning heat crept to his face.

"Hela demands audience with the king of Asgard."

Sif's words brought the boy's head up sharply. "Hela..." the boy began, as the image of an armored giant immediately sprang to mind with memories both sparse and unpleasant. "...is coming here?"

Sif nodded firmly. "It is so, my lord."

In his mind, Loki was trying to fathom a thousand possibilities. Why could Hela be coming here? What is it she wanted? And why now? It had to be the Odinsleep. It had to be Loki on the throne. But what else? "Then we shall prepare a feast," the boy uttered aloud, providing the most obvious and perfunctory of commands. "Tell everyone that this night we shall celebrate the Lady of Hel."

He didn't spare another glance to the handmaiden. He dared not, so to keep his wits as Sif and Leah left him to carry forth the command. Leaving him with his thoughts - a most dangerous position, for Loki and for Asgard.

It was then that the magpie landed on the base of the column behind where Loki had stood. Turning toward the black bird, the young god asked a question in a whisper. "Will you tell me what I want to hear?"

"No," the bird answered simply, as it cocked it's head and looked back at the boy with eyes that were like his own. Like staring at a mirror. And in that mirror, Loki could see himself. "But I will say what you need to hear," Ikol stated quietly.

[Gowi]

Charles Xavier’s School for the Gifted

“Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The mind of M’gann M’orzz was in a fit of anxiety as the young girl sat on a bench in the courtyard of the massive estate of Charles Xavier. The female Martian was still trying to grasp all of everything that had been told to her and considering that included her being one of two known survivors of the Martian genocide by the Kryptonian Empire. The words of J’onn J’onzz felt hollow to her even though she knew them to be true, this of course due to her not knowing the Martian before the genocide and losing a lot of her Martian memories. Had her awakening centuries later amongst hostile aliens been the reason for the fit of amnesia or was there something more technical like the stasis she had been put in corrupting her memory due to the chemicals as well as the longevity? She wasn’t sure, but she knew that she didn’t like it.

Her “guardian” had suggested and implemented her here to this ‘school for the gifted’, but she was neither mutant nor human—so how could she learn from them or feel comfortable here? Perhaps it was because these human mutant subspecies people had been persecuted as well? How could they even understand what she had gone through? M’gann had been plunged away from her homeworld during a genocide she barely remembered, thrown into a gladiatorial ghetto where she had almost experienced the worst of alienkind, and thrown on a world that would never connect with her on the same level.

So here she was too scared and alone amongst a group she didn’t connect with. So afraid she disguised herself as one of them.

“You’ll be fine, kid.”

The Martian girl’s eyes fluttered out of her deep thought and opened to a familiar voice. “Oh, it is you, Howard. I am… surprised to see you observing me still.”

“Well, that other Martian isn’t doing such a good job.” Howard commented matter-of-factly.

M’gann felt the anthropomorphic duck was the only one there to look after her and he had been one who did it without question or request. M’gann wasn’t sure if she saw him as a father figure or what—but he had experienced similar genocide of his species so they shared in that.

“I suppose not. I don’t know what I can do here.”

“Well as far as these chuckleheads know, you and me—we’re mutants on the run from the big bad anti-muties.”

M’gann frowned as she adverted her eyes, “Is that not words of deceit?”

“Well, if they knew we were aliens—maybe they would still help, but this is like… making sure you are safe. It’s why I tagged along, right?”

“…but you do not have any ‘powers’, correct?”

“Who needs powers with Quak-Fu?”

“Howard, you are most humorous.” M’gann said as a smile rose from her lips.

“That’s another thing—you are going need to work on your… dialogue.”

“Is there something wrong with how I speak?”

“…it’s just weird.”

“Howard, you are hardly the standard of life on this planet.”

“…point taken.” Howard half-laughed as he shuffled his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get inside and talk to Xavier, he’s expecting us.”

“Right.”

[DeathstrokeSW]

Ultraman turned, tossing aside the bits of Luthor's security. Feeble as it was against someone with his level of ability, it had served its purpose. It had attracted the attention of his fellow Kryptonian. The man floated above the ground, only a few inches shorter in physical height than Ultraman himself. He looked the other Kryptonian over. Arms crossed, black hair slicked back, pupils just barely filled with heat vision. To a normal man, it would've been terrifying. But he was not a "normal" man.

Jor-Il had sent him to this earth in an effort to protect the strength of the House of Il, but what did that mean? What was Ultraman's purpose? He intended to find out, be it from Superman or these humans. Ultraman finally locked eyes with Superman.

"You. You will lead me to my purpose."

Then, he let the heat vision out in a fiery streak of red.

[HenryJonesJr]

New York General Hospital

Landing on the top of the parking garage across from the hospital, I take a moment to look over the scene. From the looks of things, the building's already been evacuated. The crowd of onlookers behind the police barriers is heavy, the mass of humanity pressing up against itself to get a better look at what they must think of as the freak inside. Sand is strewn around the building, no doubt coming from the criminal still held up within. I don't know what happened to Marko, but I have to believe he didn't deserve this. He's a criminal, sure. But he is also a pawn in this game. He was a pawn for Tombstone, he was a pawn for Harry, and now he is a pawn for someone else. That much is obvious. Unfortunately, that also means I have to take the man down again.

Oh well, some people never learn.

Next to the hospital is a construction site where they're adding a new wing onto the building. Aunt May has been talking about it for months, and I have been doing research of my own. The wing iss going to be funded by Oscorp as a teaching hospital for ESU and NYU to share From the looks of it, all the dirt and sand has been stripped from the area, meaning Marko can call more of the stuff to him. Isn't that fun?

Before I can swing into action, my spider sense draws me to someone approaching from behind. Spinning around, I'm greeted Captain George Stacy, Gwen's father and one of my allies on the police force, "Thought you'd show up sooner."

"Well, you know how it is. News says there's a criminal made out of sand, and you just need to make sure you're looking and smelling your best for the new freak in town," I quip flippantly. "We established freaks have a reputation to live up to."

"You ever gonna stop with the jokes?" the captain of the NY MCU asked, taking a long draw from his cigarette.

"You ever gonna stop doing that?" I shoot the smoke out of his hand with some webbing.

Shooting me a sideways glance before lighting up another stick, he mutters, "You know how much these things cost in New York?"

"The kids at my high school get them easy enough. Maybe you can bum a few off them?" I smile under my mask. Captain Stacy always gives me crap when I come pick up Gwen. It's fun to give it back to him in this setting without him knowing who I am.

"You're making me reconsider the whole 'not arresting you thing'," George sighs before getting down to business. "There are a few doctors in there. Nurses and patients are all out."

I try to keep in my sigh of relief. At least I don't have to worry about saving Aunt May tonight.

"Any idea what floor the hostages are on?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at the hospital. It seems early quiet and calm now. Other than the loud murmur from the mass of humanity below, there didn't seem to be a sound in this part of the city.

"None. We sent men in a little while ago. They said it was like a constantly changing maze in there," Stacy says, obviously frustrated. "Bastard created a sandstorm every five feet before he spit my men back out on their asses."

"Terrific," I say, swinging towards the building.

I fly through a window that must have been blown out earlier, landing softly inside, sliding a bit on the sand strewn around the floor. A fine dust hangs in the air, and I cough slightly in it. The mask does an okay job of filtering the air, but it's still slightly irritating. The interior of the hospital iss quiet as a tomb aside from my shuffling feet in the sand. It is that uncomfortable silence before the storm, and I don't like it one bit.

As I slink down a hallway, the sound of shifting sands stand the hairs on my neck up. I spin around, but find nothing behind me that looks out of place. I keep moving, but a wall of solid sand stands in my way at an intersection. I take the way that is open to me, heading deeper into the center of the hospital. As I pass by two elevator shafts, my spider sense explodes in warning. I dive out of the way of streams of sand that burst from the elevator doors, which then rip apart the facing wall.

"This is spooky as hell," I grumble to myself as I proceed. "Where are you leading me, Marko?"

I continue traversing this labyrinth the one-time petty criminal set up for me. He springs traps and sets up roadblocks now and again, but it seems like he's more worried about slowing me down than stopping me. Finally making my way to the only door I can go through, I open it and enter into what seems to be the hospital's central atrium. But instead of planets, windows, and people, all I see is a giant, swirling sand mass. From it appears what looks to be a cage made of dust, and inside are four very frightened doctors. Directly above that, the sand begins swirling and shifting, transforming into the face of Flint Marko.

"Here I am, Marko," I open my arms, presenting myself to the criminal. "You got what you wanted. Let the doctors go."

"Why should I, webhead?" he chuckles in a deep, booming voice. "You always beat up on me when I didn't have any powers. Why can't I do the same to these guys? These guys who couldn't help me."

"You're not a killer, Marko," I plead with him. "You may not be a good guy, but you're no murderer."

"You know somethin, bug? You're right," he admits as the doctors' cage turns into a hand which deposits them outside, behind Flint. "I ain't got no reason to kill them."

I flip back as my spider sense explodes, barely getting out of the way of another fist made of sand. I don't even land as a funnel of the granules closes around me, attempting to crush me like the spider I am.

"But you? I got plenty a reasons to kill you."