AndyC

AZUL Islands - Drama, Romance, Mystery, Slice of Life

“I know you,” She said, feigning amazement for his ego. “You’re the one with the helicopter.”

@Pilatus

"Well, you've gotta get around on these islands somehow, right?" he said, giving an 'aww shucks' shrug like it wasn't any big deal. Behind him, he could feel Machiko rolling her eyes from behind her shades, which only made him grin even wider- if he could make a worthwhile acquaintance and annoy Chiko at the same time, this evening would be a spectacular win.

"It's a work thing, though, really," he continued, a completely disingenuous humble-brag, "Makes land surveying easier, and my clients expect a certain amount of showmanship."

Ah, but I can tell you aren't so easily swayed by such superficial trappings, was the unspoken but implied next part of that line. You're unimpressed by my flashy playboy charms, and are looking for someone deeper and more mature.

It was all bullshit, and everyone involved in this dance knew it. Bobby knew it, Machiko knew it, even the local bumpkin Ronaldo had seen him play this game enough times to know what was up.

And he was positive the woman he was chatting up knew the score as well. She had been a second or so from telling him to fuck off, then changed gears the moment she recognized him. It was a quick and subtle change, but Bobby had a Knack for reading people; you don't make billion-dollar deals with movers and shakers by being easily taken for a ride. There was an intelligence in her change of tone and demeanor that suggested she was after something, and it likely wasn't just a ride in the chopper and a roll in the hay.

So not an easy mark, then, but a fellow player. That only interested Bobby more.

"I'm Bobby," he finally introduced himself. "Forgive me for presuming, but you don't strike me as someone who's just here on vacation. Would you happen to know anywhere around here where a wayward gringo can get a good drink and some interesting conversation? And please, don't point me to that bar with all the goddamn boomers who think they're Jimmy Buffet."

Ronaldo was giving him a concerned look, suggesting he recognized the woman and wanted him to be careful. Machiko was frowning about the amount of money he was about to blow on overpriced booze. He flashed them both a toothy smile, as if to say relax, I've got this.

Whatever it was the brunette wanted out of him, she was likely to play along with the routine at least for the evening, so unless he just completely made an ass of himself, the opening gestures were all but automatic. If there was a deeper game to be played here, Bobby wanted in. And if it only went as far as a few rounds of hooch and a chat with a pretty woman, he was fine with that too.

And to be perfectly honest, he really did want that drink.

@Pilatus

AZUL Islands - Drama, Romance, Mystery, Slice of Life

Bobby T

Ronaldo had led Bobby out of the hotel, into the main strip of the Ave Pure Vida, and was rattling on about some local watering hole. Bobby was only half-interested in his description of the place, imagining what it might look like once his firm had either bought it out or gained enough leverage over the owner to make it more of a destination than a dive. The street pulsed with foot traffic, and Bobby wondered- not for the first time- if it would be worth the money and time to widen the street for cars. As always, he decided against it; half the charm of little island chains like this was pretending to live like a local, even if all it meant was hoofing it to whatever place you planned on getting smashed that night instead of driving. On top of that, cutting down on the risk of drunk-driving accidents meant more opportunities for booze sales. He made a note of that for when he had the Casa Del Sol Nasciento torn down and rebuilt; find a good bartender the locals liked, charge the maximum amount the locals were willing to pay, and the new Casa would be a hit with more than just the turistas.

He passed a street vendor, and something at the kiosk caught his eye. Not something that the busker was trying to peddle, but something about five-foot-four, with long black hair and wearing sunglasses.

"Something always struck me as funny," he said to the woman, approaching her as if they were already in the middle of a conversation, "about being an American abroad. As soon as we get a little money and a little clout, the first thing we all wanna do is head out into the big wide world and start seeing what there is to see. We meet new people, we explore new places, we try to expand our horizons and get cultured. And yet, what's the thing Americans are always the most excited to see in a foreign land?"

He gave a wide grin. "Other Americans."

@Pilatus

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

@AndyC Another good post. Though I have to ask...

<Snipped quote>

Was that intended to make me think that this is this universe's version of Hawkeye, or is that a happy accident?

@Master Bruce

I can neither confirm nor deny. But I especially can't deny.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

The drive to Winnipeg is long and dull, but even taking back roads to stay off of the more heavily patrolled Trans-Canada Highway, we’re making good time. Veering north to go around Calgary added more time than I’d like, but we made up for it once we crossed into Saskatchewan. The pace of our little road trip is gonna be a difficult one to manage. Try to go too fast, and we draw too much attention to ourselves. But we’ve only got four days now to get to Westchester. If we’re still out here on day five, and he catches up with us…

"So those guys on the radio,” Kitty begins yet another attempt at getting a conversation going, "talking about what’s been going on with the super-heroes? That got me thinking.”

"’Super-heroes?’” I ask, scoffing a little at the corny-sounding term.

"Yeah, you know,” she continues, "after Superman, that guy in Metropolis? There’s a few more of them running around now– the Flash in Central City, the Spider-Man in New York, that fire guy they’re calling The Human Torch. Haven’t you been paying attention to the news?”

"Kid, I live alone in the middle of a forest,” I tell her. "I go out of my way not to pay attention to the news.”

"Right, yeah, sorry,” she nods. "But it got me thinking. These super-hero people, maybe they’re Mutants like us. Or even if they’re not, they do a lot of the same things we can do. And people aren’t nearly as scared of them as they are of us. So….why don’t we just, y’know, be super-heroes?”

"You mean Mutants in general, or you an’ me in particular?”

"Either, both, I don’t know,” Kitty says, "but think about it! There are so many of us who feel like we have to hide who we are, act like we’re ‘normal,’ because everyone will freak out if they see us use our abilities. But then here comes a guy in a big red cape lifting an overpass over his head, and half the world wants to throw him a parade! So what if, like, we just change the presentation? People aren’t afraid of Superman because he’s out in the open, where everyone can see him, he’s not hiding who and what he is. So why don’t we do that?”

I sigh. "It’s a nice thought,” I tell her, "and I know there’s more than a few Mutants who’d agree with ya. Big flashy costumes, masks, code-names, give the public something friendly to cheer for and maybe they’ll trust you. But I’ll guarantee ya, that Superman guy, that Flash, that Spider-Man? They’re out in the open right now because they don’t know what kinda people are gonna notice them. The people after you, I’ll bet you good money they’re already workin’ on ways to bring in every one of them and make them into…well, someone like me. And for every super-type who puts on a mask so they can pull cats outta trees, there’s ten more who’ll put on a mask to do things they’d never show their face doing. I oughta know.”

"What do you mean by….ohmygod, do you have your own costume?!” Kitty’s eyes light up. "That’s so cool! Why didn’t you tell me you were already a super-hero?”

"Because I’m not,” I grunt. "I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly built for helpin’ old ladies across the street. I was a soldier, not a boy scout.”

There’s a long pause while Kitty thinks, then finally counters "You can be both. Ever read the old comics about Captain America?”

"Hate you break it to ya, kid, but comic books are just comic books,” I tell her. "Captain America’s just a story, Steve wasn’t….” I trail off, wondering where the hell I pulled that name from.

”’Steve?’” Kitty raises an eyebrow. ”Who’s Steve?”

”...I don’t know,” I say.

The air smells like spent gunpowder, churned earth, and fresh blood….

Between the angry snarls of the machine guns, there are voices shouting…some in English, some in German…

My blood is pumping as we charge up the ridge line, only stumbling as I take a stray round that catches me in the chest. I stagger to my knees…and a hand grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me to my feet.

The man in blue gives me a reassuring nod, then he takes his place at the front of the line.

Every one of us, we’d gladly die for that man. Even those of us who can’t…

As we charge towards the enemy, I hear joyous laughter at my side. The man in blue, I’d follow to the gates of Hell. But the man running side-by-side with me, he’d be the first in line, and the last to leave, and then he’d convince me to go back with him…

"Logan? You…you all right there?” Kitty nervously nudges my shoulder. "You, uh, you kinda spaced out.”

I blink a few times, shake my head, and I realize my claws are out. "Yeah, I’m…I’m all right,” I say as I retract them.

"Gotcha,” she says, looking at me skeptically. "I’ve, erm, I’ve been driving for a while. Think we should pull over for the night?”

"Yeah, think so,” I nod. "Find us somewhere with a land-line phone. I’ll get in touch with Forge and let him know we’ll meet him in the morning.”

"Forge? That’s your contact?”

"Yeah, he’s the one that’ll get us what we need to get you back into the States,” I answer. "He’s another Mutant, has a knack for making things. A couple of fake IDs and a new set of wheels should be a walk in the park for him.”

"And he’s got a cool code-name,” Kitty says. "It tells you everything you need to know about the guy in just a word. See what I mean about how useful that is?”

I grunt.

"Sooo, you said you’ve got a costume,” she keeps prodding me. "and you said you’ve got a mask. So what’s your code-name?”

---

"Wolverine,” said Colonel Rick Flag, displaying the face of a hard-faced man with wild hair and thick stubble, "I’m sure many of you have already heard the name in your particular line of work, and any stories you’ve heard about him are very likely true.”

Floyd Lawton felt a lump in his throat, taking his first look at the face of a man he’d only heard about in legend. Anyone who’d spent any amount of time doing wet-work had heard of the Wolverine, and even though most of the campfire stories surrounding him were decades old, most still considered him the standard by which professional killers measured themselves.

"Birth name unknown, age unknown,” Flag read off the target’s statistics, "Five foot three, approximately 300 pounds. S.H.I.E.L.D. classifies him as an Alpha-level Mutant. His primary offensive capabilities are with a set of retractable claws, making him extremely dangerous in hand-to-hand combat. Highly enhanced senses means he can see, hear, even smell most targets just as well as state-of-the-art detection equipment, if not better. He can also regenerate damaged tissue near instantaneously. It’s believed this regeneration has extended his lifespan significantly, giving him decades–if not centuries– of combat experience. Field reports also suggest surgical enhancements, including lacing his skeletal system with an advanced meta-material armor resistant to any known weapons.”

"Five foot three? Really?” scoffed the red-haired man Flag had identified as Clint Barton, alias ‘Hawkeye.’ "You’re telling me the scariest Mutie alive is a half-pint?”

"That’s what you’re focused on?” asked Abner Jenkins, the scrawny, nerdy-looking man that Flag ID’ed as the techno-criminal ‘Beetle.’ "They’re sending us against a bloodthirsty wildman who’s impossible to kill, and you’re cracking short jokes?”

Barton shrugged. "If we can’t kill the guy, I’ll settle for hurting his feelings.”

"No one’s ‘impossible to kill,’” growled Benjamin Turner, the assassin known as ‘Bronze Tiger,’ "especially not an unskilled beast. He must have a weakness that we can exploit.”

"He’s got armor, enhanced senses, and retractable claws,” listed Eric Needham, the contract killer who went by ‘Black Spider.’ "My combat suit has all that shit and more.”

"Any weapon your suit doesn’t have,” added Paul Norbert Ebersol, aka ‘Fixer,’ a skinhead whose face was criss-crossed with surgical lines from cybernetic implants, "I’ve got covered.”

"I didn’t hear him say anything about not needing to breathe,” sneered Christopher Weiss, aka Slipknot. "All the regenerating meat and unbreakable bones in the world won’t mean a damn thing if I choke him out.”

"Not if I fry the bastard first,” said Lester Buchinski, aka ‘Electrocutioner,’ his voice filled with bravado he very clearly wasn’t actually feeling.

"You won’t have the chanssssse,” hissed the short-haired tattooed woman identified as ‘Copperhead.’ "My toxinsss can kill even the ssstrongesst prey…”

"Is that hissing a speech impediment thing, or do you just do it for effect?” Hawkeye smirked.

"Enhanced senses,” mused Melissa Gold, the pink-haired metahuman killer who went by ‘Songbird,’ "Probably means he’s vulnerable to sonic attacks. I can have some fun with that.”

"An I ‘ave yet to meet ze man who can come back from being blown into ze smizzereens,” grinned Bette Sans Souci, the French-Canadian terrorist who simply went by Plastique.

"That’s all well and good,” Deadshot spoke up, "but I don’t think we’re addressing the elephant in the room here.”

"Forget the elephant,” scoffed Hawkeye, "How about we address the giant goddamn shark-man in the room first?”

"KING SHARK,” said the enormous, hulking form with the head of a great white, "IS A SHARK.”

"Yes, great, thank you,” Lawton nodded, "but the question is: if the Wolverine has been running around unaccounted for all this time, why are we going after him now?”

"Good question,” Flag responded, "and the answer is you’re not. The Wolverine isn’t the target; he’s just the obstacle. There’s a significant chance you’ll have to engage him, but ultimately all you have to do is keep him busy long enough to apprehend the real target.”

The screen showing Wolverine’s face switched to a different image: the face of a skinny brunette girl with a bright smile and her fingers making a peace sign.

"Katherine Anne Pryde,” Flag introduced the target, "Age eighteen, freshman student at the Massachusetts Academy. Began displaying signs of Mutation at age thirteen, and has dabbled with Mutant Rights activism, including possible contact with radical elements. She’s displayed the ability to make her body physically intangible, occupying the same space as solid matter. This also appears to include objects on her person. S.H.I.E.L.D. currently classifies her as a Beta Level Mutant, but it’s suspected that with further development, she would classify much higher.”

"I don’t get it,” Slipknot said, "Why send us after some schoolgirl who can walk through walls?”

"The combat applications for someone like that are tremendous,” Bronze Tiger mused. "There would be no fortification in the world she couldn’t infiltrate, and no prison she couldn’t escape. If she can extend that ability to a weapon, she could penetrate any armor in the world….or any metahuman. They say the Superman in Metropolis is impenetrable to bullets. With the right training and psychological conditioning, that girl could reach through his invincible skin and pull out his heart.”

"Okay, so to recap,” Deadshot said, "We’re all being pulled out of our holes in the wall to go fight an unkillable assassin, hoping we can distract him long enough to capture an untouchable girl, so the shadow-government can use her to kill demigods. And if we try to run, you blow our heads off.”

"A bit reductive,” Colonel Flag nodded, "But more or less, yeah, that’s right. You’ll be granted access to all of the equipment and weaponry you were captured with, and authorization to use whatever means necessary to bring Pryde in alive and in one piece. Any questions?”

The enormous shark-man raised a meaty finned hand.

"Yes, King Shark?”

"KING SHARK IS A SHARK!”

"Very good. The chopper takes off in sixty. Til then, make whatever preparations you need.”

As the members of Colonel Flag’s suicide squad stood and were shuffled to the prison yard where their gear awaited them, Hawkeye nudged Deadshot.

"So,” he said, "how dead do you think we are?”

"Scale of one to ten?” Deadshot did a quick head-count. "I’d say twelve.”

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

I can definitely see Jonah/Zarathos mixing it up with Jason/Etrigan. Sounds like either a fun team-up or show-down.

Marvel Knights: City On Fire (Superhero Murder Mystery)

For years, New York City has been the heart of super-human activity, as by day, garish masked vigilantes and crazed super-criminals do battle on the streets of Brooklyn, amidst the skyscrapers of Manhattan, across the rooftops of Soho, and through the greenery of Central Park. By night, however, the city of heroes sheds its colorful veneer, and the rotten elements of the underworld crawl to the surface. Vicious street gangs terrorize the residents of New York's poorer neighborhoods, powerful cartels move everything from drugs to weapons to people into and out of the city, and shadowy cabals of the unaccountable elite play lethal games of money and power. And pulling the strings of it all, behind every evil deed and skimming from every ill-gotten fortune, there has been one figure, whose name even the bravest and most jaded dread to say above a whisper: Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime.

Fisk has placed himself at center of every criminal enterprise in New York so completely, it feels like he has always been there. Having thoroughly outclassed the old Maggia crime families, outmuscled interlopers like the Ranshakov Brothers or Madam Gao, outmaneuvered heavy-hitters like Tombstone and Hammerhead, and outplayed heroes like Spider-Man and Daredevil, the Kingpin has overseen an unparalleled criminal empire, bolstered by his sterling image as a philanthropic industrialist. He has made journalists disappear, driven idealistic police officers into the most depraved depths of corruption, turned the private lives of crusading vigilantes into living hells, and brought the most feared assassins and super-villains in the city under his thumb. For all of the efforts made, by people good and bad and on every side of the law, no one has ever been able to truly bring down the Kingpin.

No one, at least, until tonight.

Wilson Fisk has been found dead in the penthouse of his tower. The crime scene is under impenetrable guard both by the NYPD and Fisk's own private security, and rumors are already running wild, but the one thing everyone can agree on is foul play. As much of a monster as he was, the Kingpin's presence had kept the warring criminal factions of New York at bay, and now every gang leader, cartel boss, white-collar criminal, corrupt politician, and masked lunatic in the city is making a move for their slice of Fisk's kingdom. As the Big Apple threatens to tear itself apart, those who consider themselves the city's heroes have to do what they can to limit the carnage...

...and figure out which of them is a killer.

---

Having been inspired by the 'One Universe: Emergence' game to dip my toes back into doing cape-stuff, I want to try running a more small-scale, street-level game where everyone is involved in one focused story. To that end, this interest check is for a murder mystery set in Marvel's New York, where players take on a street/city-level hero, anti-hero, villain, cop, criminal, journalist, etc. dealing with the sudden demise of the city's most notorious crime boss.

Canon in this game is going to be very loosey-goosey, but characters should at least be recognizable as some established iteration of an existing Marvel hero. More to the point, to fit the concept, characters should be New York centric, have some kind of personal connection (friend, foe, or otherwise) to the victim, a motive to want Wilson Fisk dead, and the means to actually do it.

Every player-character is a suspect, because one of you (determined before IC goes live) is the killer. PCs are encouraged to interact, argue, fight, etc, in order to get to the bottom of the mystery and find the killer, before the various criminal factions tear the city apart, while the killer will try to bluff and dodge his way around being found out.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Speaking of, everyone good? Anybody need some assistànce?

@Sep

I will probably be too swamped to post for the next week or so: the play I'm directing opens in 7 days, so my free time between now and closing night is basically zero. I'll try to squeeze in another Logan post to make sure I don't go past the two-week limit, but i may need an extension.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos
Near Presidio, Texas
January 8th, 1864

Jonah sat on a large chunk of rubble outside the burning Spanish mission, tipping out water from his canteen to pour it onto a wound on his left arm. It was barely a graze, but he knew better than to let it fester now that the shooting was done and the dust had settled.

The small alabaster church house, the once white walls now blackened with soot and pockmarked with gunshots, was the seventh target that Quentin Turnbull had marked for destruction on the damned ride of Satan’s Servants. According to Turnbull, it was being used by the Yankees as a place to stash weapons and ammunition. Clearing it out, he said, would be invaluable to hindering the Northern aggressor’s operations in Texas.

They hadn’t found any Yankees at Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos. They had, however, found plenty of weapons, and folks who knew how to use them.

Jonah stood, walked over to the body of a monk, drew his knife, and cut a strip of cloth from the dead man’s robe. As he dressed his wound, he looked down at the body: the monk had been barely more than a boy, couldn’t have been twenty even. The look frozen on the kid’s face was one of desperate fear, his eyes still wide with panic or surprise. Maybe he’d had a final second to be surprised when Jonah put a round through his forehead. Or maybe he’d been surprised that he’d managed to shoot Jonah first.

“God damn,” Eddie Cantwell snickered as he picked a rifle and a cartridge box from another monk’s still-twitching body, “You ever seen a holy man put up that kinda fight? Doesn’t strike me as a particularly Christian thing to do.”

“Can’t say ah was able to talk much religion with ‘em,” Jonah shrugged. “They shot at me, an’ ah shot back.” Now that he had a moment, he wondered what exactly it was that these preacher-men were so willing to break their commandment of ‘thou shalt not kill’ to protect.

”God-botherers didn’t even let me finish my speech,” said Victor Sono, trying on rosary beads and crucifixes to see if it matched the sheriff stars he wore as trophies. “I had a real good line about how we were ‘here to send you off to your eternal re-ward,’ and I didn’t get halfway through it before they opened fire.”

”Can’t say I blame em,” Tobias Manning sneered. ”The way you blather on, I was liable to shoot you myself just so we could get on with it.”

He and Eddie shared a laugh, while Sono scowled. As they laughed, they heard a woman’s voice screaming and sobbing. Out of the mission sauntered Mad Dog McGill, dragging a bloodied and half-naked young nun by the hair, before throwing her down hard on the ground before them.

“For I have seen the harsh light of truth,” McGill proclaimed, holding a scrap of old parchment,
”and in that light my illusions are dispelled.
All creatures born of flesh are born with hunger,
Hunger to feed, to kill, and to copulate.
It is the nature of flesh, the life of the one
Sustained by the death of another;
The gratification of the one
Indulged by the desecration of another.
Lo, I have seen the Eyes of Judgement
Pass over the wolf without scorn
Even as it devours the lamb.
For the wolf is but a beast
Satiating its hunger for flesh.
There is nothing in an act of hunger
To be judged, but that guilt and shame make them so.
Guilt and shame are but tools of the weak,
To constrain the strong and the hungry.
They offer the illusions of greater values
Of purity, of innocence, of a soul beyond the body.
The beasts of the wild hold to no such illusions.
For in the end, what is the living flesh of the prey,
If not meat for the predator to consume?”

It must have been Scripture of a sort, but it wasn’t from any book Jonah had ever heard of.

”Hey, gimme that,” said Jeb Turnbull as he marched out of the mission, snatching the page from McGill’s hand. ”That’s not for you.” Jeb stuffed the page into the pocket of his jacket

”Damn, Mad Dog,” Cantwell jeered, ”an’ here I always thought you was illiterate.”

”No siree,” Mad Dog said, ”my parents were married.”

The outlaws shared a laugh, and Jonah glowered at them in disgust. The beaten nun at Mad Dog’s feet limply tried to crawl away, but Mad Dog dug the heel of his boot into the wound in her back, drawing out another scream.

”Well, you heard the good word, gentlemen,” he said, a wild look sparking in his eyes, ”They ain’t nothing but meat for the predators. An’ I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m feelin’ a mighty hunger comin’ on…”

---

Crossroads Bar (derelict)
Sunset Road, Presidio, Texas
Present Day

The Crossroads bar was a watering hole that had closed down decades ago, but because the surrounding neighborhoods were just as decayed and all hopes of developing the land had fallen through, it stood abandoned. Once upon a time, it had been a place where tired, lonely, and desperate men had drowned their sorrows and inequities in cheap liquor. Now, it was a haven for rats, insects, and the occasional squatter.

As Jonah approached, he heard music from inside.

Someone was playing the piano, fingers gliding up and down across the keys in a fanfare that was both flowery and somber, before resolving into a melody somewhere between a folk dance and a funeral dirge.

The General, Jonah’s horse, winnied with trepidation as they drew near, but Jonah gave it a reassuring stroke through its thick black mane. When he dismounted, he rustled through one of the saddlebags on the horse’s side, and produced a green apple. The General readily munched on the fruit, and Jonah patted him to calm his nerves. As gruff and thoroughly unpleasant of a man as Jonah Hex could be, he was never anything but kind to his horse.

Once the General was calmed and hitched to a nearby light post, Jonah approached the door to the Crossroads, paying no heed to the various warning signs, and forced it open. Stepping inside, he saw the inside of the bar was dark and dusty, a pair of roaches scurrying to the shadows. At the far corner, a man in an immaculate red suit played a dusty piano, swaying left and right to the beat of the music, which grew in volume and intricacy as he played.

Jonah cleared his throat, and greeted the pianist with the usual amount of patience and pleasantry he had afforded him over their many meetings.

”What the fuck is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”

The pianist turned to face Jonah, revealing a face that simultaneously looked youthful and ancient. The man had sharp, narrow features, a high widow’s peak in his slick black hair, and a finely groomed mustache and beard that tapered to a point, but his skin was fair, unblemished, and did not have even a trace of a wrinkle. When he smiled, Jonah caught a whiff of brimstone.

”’Why hello, Mister Church, it’s always such a pleasure to see you,’” the man in the suit said in mocking conversation. ”’It’s a lovely day, and I always do enjoy our chats together. And, might I add, I am once again eternally grateful for your thoughtfulness and generosity by giving me purpose and allowing me to remain in this wonderful world rather than discard my wretched soul and leave it in the deepest pits of the abyss where I belong.’”

The man took his hands off the piano, yet the music continued.

”Why Jonah, thank you ever so much for saying so,” Mister Church continued, ”it warms my heart to know that my acts of kindness do not go unappreciated. Now, Mister Hex, what can I do for you?”

Spreading his hands as if to beg for an answer, Mister Church said, ”You see how easy that is, Jonah? Would it really be such an intolerable torment to start a conversation that way?”

Jonah glared at him, then repeated himself. ”What is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”

Mister Church chuckled. ”Well, you’ve seen the film, I believe it was fairly obvious what he’s doing. Though I suppose, given how long it’s been since you’ve had a roll in the hay, perhaps the motions are a bit unfamiliar to you.”

”You know what I mean,” he snarled, ”Why is he still here?”

The man stood from the piano, walked over to an empty table, and gestured for Jonah to sit down with him.

”Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Without waiting for Jonah to answer, Mister Church reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette case, and drew a thin white roll of paper. Producing a match with a flourish of sleight-of-hand, he struck it on the table and lit the cigarette. As soon as flame touched paper, Jonah heard in his head a million voices screaming.

Taking a long drag, Mister Church sat, and exhaled a thick cloud of foul-smelling smoke. ”As much chagrin and dismay it brings me to admit it,” he sighed, ”there are things in this wide and many-splendored world that exceed even the reach of my own not-inconsiderable powers of perception.”

”Meaning, what?” Jonah asked.

”Meaning I don’t fucking know,” Mister Church answered, ”And the only solace I take in that is knowing that my own ignorance in the matter perturbs you just as much as it does me. Mad Dog McGill, unfortunately, isn’t one of mine.”

”We rode together in the war,” Jonah pressed. ”We both died at Fort Charlotte. He died the same night you came for me.”

”And that’s supposed to mean something to me? What makes you think I would have made any kind of deal with him, as I have with you?”

”’sides from both you an’ him bein’ evil pieces of shit?”

Mister Church smiled. ”Aside from that, yes.”

Jonah paused for a moment, then sat down at the table. ”The page. During our ride, ah saw Jeb Turnbull collectin’ pieces o’ paper, said it was fer his old man. Mad Dog got one o’ them pages, an’ he started readin’ it. In that…film….he still has that page. That’s what yer really after, ain’t it?”

Mister Church grinned. ”If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, Jonah dear.”

Jonah looked at him skeptically. ”What’s so special about that page? Why should ah bring it to you?”

”Oh, there are myriad ways I could plead my case to you, Jonah,” he answered, ”I could appeal to whatever you have that passes for moral indignation, and show that Mad Dog McGill is a soul deserving of the very worst that damnation has to offer and that his time is long overdue. Or, if I were to be somewhat more cynical and appeal to your mercenary nature, I could tell you that doing this would put you in my favor, give you much-needed leverage to renegotiate the nature of our agreement. For now, however, I believe I will settle for the disappointingly blunt approach and say because I fucking own you and I fucking said so.”

For a long moment, Jonah scowled at him defiantly, and Mister Church’s playful grin turned dark.

”You do not want to be givin’ me that fucking look, son.” Church said, his voice still perfectly genteel despite the vulgarities he casually dispensed. ”You have no idea how good you’ve had it, compared to what I could bring down on you.”

Jonah glared for another moment, then almost against his will, turned his gaze away.

”Where can ah find him?” he asked.

Mister Church shrugged. ”Alas, my specialty has never been on seeking and finding, only dealing with those who seek me out first. If only, ohh, if only I had at my disposal a soul who was known for his ability to seek and track people down, perhaps I could– oh, Heavens to Betsy, unless my eyes do deceive me, I believe I see the famed bounty hunter Jonah Hex! Surely, his uncanny prowess at manhunting will be of use in this endeavor!”

Jonah snarled. ”An’ once you get that page,” he said, ”What about Mad Dog?”

Mister Church waved his hand dismissively. ”That, my boy, I leave to your discretion.”

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Colonel Wayne considered the proposals from the new arrivals.

The pilot from Maxwell's scrappers was new, and Gaius was hesitant to put an untested pilot into the line of such heavy fire. On the other hand, he'd watched them reassemble the salvaged Catapult and take it on test runs. The woman had an aptitude for Mech piloting, which was encouraging. More to the point, adding the Catapult to the fighting force, alongside Saarinen's Archer, would nearly double the amount of long-range fire that Ziska's Raven could direct.

"Very well," the Colonel nodded, "Partanen, you're in. You'll be on the second-line alongside the Archer. Between the two of your mechs we'll be stretching our LRM reloads fairly thin, so make your shots count. That mech isn't as heavily armored as the Archer, but the jump jets give it more maneuverability, so if anyone gets too close, put your lasers into them and then jump to cover."

Looking over at Ms. Jeong and Mr. McCord, Gaius felt a mix of relief and trepidation. In truth, they wouldn't have been nearly as successful in this campaign without the support provided by Cassandra's deep pockets and way with words, so he knew she'd be certain to secure a deal with the FPA to get those Thumpers. With those artillery batteries and the combined firepower of the Knights, it might be possible to turn this raid not just into a diversionary action, but a successful assault to take the fort itself.

On the other hand, he knew that every dealing the Green Knights made with Cassandra Jeong put them that much deeper into her pocket. They were already in debt to her, and sooner or later, she was going to come to collect. Obviously they had a common enemy for now, but once Federov was toppled and the Crimson Fists were dead, who's to say where she would want their guns pointed next?

"We'll discuss the price for securing support from the FPA on completion of the mission, Ms. Jeong," he said, knowing he was kicking yet another can down the road, "but in the immediate moment, the sooner you can get us those guns, the better."

"As for Mister McCord," he said, turning to the pilot of the Marauder, "You'll be with myself and Ms. Wyatt. They won't be expecting another Mech on the field, and the spot I've chosen for the duel has plenty of heavy woods for concealment. You're a hell of a shot with your PPCs, so I'm going to count on you to be my insurance policy. We'll stick you in the woods where you can remain powered-down until the Crimson King and his entourage enter the field, and I'll lure him into a clear line of fire for you. Bear in mind, this is still a delaying action; if we spring the trap too quickly, they'll turn around and leave. But the instant I give the signal, or if the other Crimson Fists decided to join in, you'll power up your Mech and aim for the enemy Battlemaster's head."

Headhunting wasn't exactly considered 'honorable' combat, but the Colonel knew full-well that the Crimson King had no intention of a clean duel. Gaius believed in the honors of war, but he knew better than to hold his enemy to the same standard.

"On the other hand," Colonel Wayne continued, "If I don't give the signal, or if the odds are so stacked that another Mech on the field won't tip the balance in our favor, you will remain shut down until the Crimson Fists leave the area, then take Ms. Wyatt to safety."

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

"...most recent trial for Weapon X was largely a success, though subject is growing rapidly unstable..."

"...can be so much more than what they want to make you, all you have to do is..."

"...drop the good-little-soldier boy act, runt, let the hunger drive you..."

"...displaying worrying signs of resistance to our behavioral conditioning. Suggesting full memory wipe unless..."

"...unless you have something to hold onto, something to believe in, they'll never let you be more than..."

"...an animal..."

"...a perfect weapon...."

"...a lost soul, wandering alone..."

"...living only for the hunt, for the fight, for the kill..."

"You're not like any other subject we've ever had...."

"...you're not like any other man I've ever loved..."

"You are Just. Like. Me."

"Logan...."

"Logan..."

"Logan...."

"....wake up!"

I open my eyes, looking up at a cloudy late-afternoon sky. I'm lying in the back of my old pick-up, and Kitty is standing next to it nudging me in the side with a stick. "I got us to the closest town. You wanted to pick up some supplies, right?"

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and see that we're in the parking lot of a Loblaws supermarket. The truck's suspension groans as I climb out of the truck, stretching. "We'll have to be quick," I say, "Lots of cameras in big stores. Anyone comes looking for us, we don't want to be on film too long. You haven't gone in and bought anything yet, have you?"

Kitty shakes her head. "I don't have any cash on me. And after you skewered my phone, I didn't want to know what you'd end up doing to my debit card."

"Good," I nod, before opening the passenger's door and reaching behind the seat. "You don't want to leave anything that can be tracked. Cash only."

"I just told you," Kitty rolls her eyes, "I don't have any--"

Pulling out an old duffel bag, I open it up and root around until I find what I'm looking for: a stack of about 10,000 dollars. Kitty's eyes grow wide when she sees the money, and even wider when I hand it to her.

"I go into town on the occasional beer run," I shrug. "I'm coming up on the last of my rainy-day money, but this should be enough to get us to New York."

"Where'd you get that?" Kitty asks, uncomfortably. "Are you, like, a drug dealer or something?"

"Nah," I say, pulling out a stack of cash for myself. "It's my retirement fund. Chances are I got it from the same people who are after you now."

"Oh, that's much better," she says, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Do I even want to know what you do for them?"

"Did. Past tense," I correct her. "These days I don't do anything for anyone. I just mind my own business, at least when I'm not smuggling teenagers across the country."

"And that reminds me," she says, "I've been so focused on figuring out whether or not you're a serial killer that it didn't even strike me to ask where you're trying to smuggle me to. What's in New York that you're so dead-set on?"

"Fair question," I say. "Ever hear of Charles Xavier?"

For just a second, I see her eyebrow raise, her lips purse, a flash of recognition in her eyes, which she immediately tries to bury. "Not really," she lies, "he's some old mutant activist guy, right?"

I think about calling her out on the lie, but I can't exactly blame her for not being straightforward, not when I haven't given her any real reason to trust me either. I'll let it slide for now, but I keep in mind.

"He's the Mutant rights activist," I tell her, "and he's set up a place for people like us. Well, like you. Kids with a future, but who need guidance, protection. It's a haven for mutants, yeah, but it's also a school. Full Ivy League level education, and they teach you how to get a handle on your abilities."

Kitty thinks about it. "So...it's like Hogwarts? Just, y'know, without the problematic author?"

"The hell's a hog-wart?"

"God, how long have you been living out in those woods?"

I shrug. "What year is it?"

Kitty laughs, I grunt, and we head into the store to load up.

---

Belle Reve Super-Max Facility
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana

"Floyd Lawton."

On the other side of the massive slab of steel that served as the door to his cell, a man with shaggy black hair lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling. As a fly buzzed around the fluorescent bulb that washed the cell in a harsh white light, he made a pistol shape with his finger, drew a bead on the insect, and quietly made pow-pow noises.

"Floyd Lawton," the voice on the outside of the cell repeated itself.

"I know what my name is, thank you," the shaggy prisoner rasped, still keeping his aim on the fly as it flittered about the cell. "Did you have anything else to go with it?"

"I'm going to ask you to come with me," the voice said. "On a matter of international security."

"I don't do security," Lawton dismissed the stranger, "In fact, it's kind of the opposite of what I do."

"Trust me," the voice answered, "we know exactly what sort of thing you do. High-level contract killing, under the alias 'Deadshot.' Eighty-two confirmed kills, estimated another hundred-fifty unconfirmed. Forensic evidence at the scene of your crimes suggest a level of accuracy with pistols, rifles, submachine guns, and automatic weapons that would break every world record if they were ever written down. Number one on the FBI's most wanted list for six years until they finally caught you."

"I did get quite the reputation, didn't I?" Floyd chuckled.

"And we'd like you to live up to that reputation," the voice said.

"Who's 'we?'" Floyd asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Who 'we' are," came the answer, "isn't as important as we can do for you. Ten years off each of your sentences..."

"Bringing my total down to a mere two hundred and sixty years," Lawton scoffed. "You'll have to do better than that."

"...and visitation rights for your daughter."

Lawton sat up. "Who's the target?"

"I know reputation means a lot in your line of work," said the stranger. "Your type likes to compete, make names for yourselves, give yourselves code-names and callsigns and keep up with each other, so you know where you stand."

"What's that got to do with who the target is?"

"I've got a codename for you, 'Deadshot,'" the voice said. "A real blast from the past. Does the name 'Wolverine' mean anything to you?"

The air went out of Floyd Lawton's lungs for a moment.

"...holy shit..." he said.

"We're putting together a crew," said the voice, "of people like you. People with nothing to lose, but everything to gain. We're going to equip you with everything you need to get the job done. We're going to provide you with a network of full support in the field, giving you information in real-time on your target. And when the job is done, we're going to give you better accommodations to spend the rest of your sentence in comfort."

"Or you'll give us a pine box and a hole in the ground when the Wolverine cuts us to fucking pieces," Floyd scoffed.

"Sure, maybe you'll get the chance to die a hero," came the answer, "or the opportunity to become a legend. They say the Wolverine was the best your line of work has ever seen. You take him down, what does that make you?"

Floyd thought about it for a long moment, before the voice said, "or I walk away from this door, never come back, and you rot in this hole forever and never see your daughter again. Your choice."

This time, the pause was just long enough for Deadshot to clear his throat. "I'm in."

"Good to hear," the voice said.

The door swung open, and standing in the door, not even bothering with a security escort, was a stocky black woman in a charcoal-gray suit. Just her very presence made Lawton stand up, halfway standing at attention before he realized what he was doing.

"My name is Amanda Waller," the woman introduced herself, "Assistant Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Welcome to Task Force X."