Still, Steve knew that if Sharon was waiting for him, he'd be as anxious as the younger man was to get out of here. He nodded to Coulson, who took a case out of the SHIELD transport he arrived in. The agent opened it, and from the case Steve pulled two SHIELD communicators. He tossed one to Spider-Man, "Sure thing, Spider-Man. But take this. If my gut is right, we're going to be in touch. I doubt whoever hired Marko will let you out of his web now."

"Well. That certainly isn't foreboding at all..."

As I look down at the piece of tech that Captain America just gave to me - and yes, I'm going to keep referring to him as Captain America because it's still freaking cool as heck - I realize that despite only being a micro-transponder with the SHIELD logo stamped onto it's center above two little buttons, the communicator I'm holding is probably worth more than my clothes, apartment, phone, and yearly salary combined. And that thought nearly makes me drop it out of sheer unworthiness. I mean, I'm a nobody from Queens who runs a website for a paper that specializes in trashing my own name on a daily basis. And now I'm suddenly holding a direct line to Captain America. To SHIELD.

Though, oh god, what if... what if this thing can be used to track me? What if Nick Fury set all of this up to get to the bottom of my totally secret identity that he already probably knows? What if I press a button and, I dunno, a blonde from outer space touches down and gives me a wedgie with her cosmic powers?

Yeah, okay, no more of that. Flights of fancy like that are when I know that I'm just being paranoid. Webbing the communicator up, I fold the web over it like a wallet and attach another line, draping it over my shoulder like the world's gooiest man-purse. It's the price I pay for wearing a costume with no pockets.

"But yeah, you're right. I have enough experience at this point to know when an anonymous bad guy is planning something bigger by hiring one of my enemies as a big, dumb distraction.", I respond. "Seriously. It happens more often than I'd even care to admit."

Now that I think about it, what if the guy behind Sandman is one of my old enemies? I mean, usually, this is all some precursor to some new incarnation of The Sinister Six, or a gigantic prelude to a dark chapter in my life involving clones. Marko mentioned a European accent. Otto Octavius has an accent, but... no. He'd have been alot less subtle. The guy once tried to kill me while calling himself "The Master Planner", for Sith's sake.

Well, whatever. Cap and his team are on the case, and I've got an afternoon date with a hot redhead to get back to --- once I change clothes and shake the sand out of my socks. I think as far as ongoing cases involving giant sand monster men go, I can consider this one "pending" for now.

Really, though, these tights are practically bunching up with sand. I'm gonna develop a rash if I don't get them off.

"Pleasure to work with you, Cap. I'd say we should do this more often, but I actually make an effort to keep Avenger-level threats out of my life. I've got enough on my plate as-is without fighting space aliens and unphotogenic Nazis."

I give him another dorky salute and turn around, accidentally finding myself face-to-face with the grizzled duck person that also managed to get a nice piece of SHIELD tech. I have to admit, as weird of a takedown as it was, the Duck pulled through and took out Sandman like a pro. I just... wish I didn't have to suffer the personal embarassment of forcibly doing a 90's dance craze as he did it.

"You too, uh... Howard.", I say, stopping myself from nearly calling him Harold again. "Good work with the glove-thingy. Just please, try not to make me do that again. I have to suck up enough manhood by going out in broad daylight dressed like this."

Waving, I pass Fowl-Mouthed and Feathered up just as the rest of SHIELD and a... grown man in a diaper arrives to rendezvous with Captain America, leap onto a nearby street lamp, and fire a webline into the air. At this point, I question nothing. But by the time all's said and done, I'm web-slinging my way back to Central Park with barely a few bruises, a partially dirty leotard, and some very uncomfortable itching to show for it. All in all, could've been worse.

Then again...



"How the heck am I ever going to explain to Mary Jane that I fought a guy while doing the Macarena?"

Two Days Later
Brooklyn
A Very Formal Event
Like Tuxedo Formal

"Thank you all for joining us at the first annual Mascots Maul Malaria benefit."

There was a steady round of applause as the well-dressed attendees of the charity event clapped for the MC. While he continued on talking about whatever charity they were all here to support, Howard the Duck walked among the party goers. For once, he was not out of place in the group of people. Among him were people dressed as tigers, and lions, and Native Americans. Yeah, that's still a thing. He'd gotten into the event because they just assumed he was a little person dressed as the Anaheim Ducks mascot in a mini-tux.

He saw a snatch of green somewhere amidst the black tuxes and dresses. The sight sent his heart racing. Quickly, Howard made his way towards and it came face to face... with the devil himself.

"Good evening," he said to the Phillie Phanatic. "This is a lovely event."

"Yes," said the man inside the costume, his voice muffled. "Yes, it is indeed. Let me introduce myself I am--"

"Oh," said Howard. "I know exactly who you are. And what you've done. It's amazing how you've fooled the world."

Howard thought he caught just the slightest glimpse of a smirk somewhere through the nose hole the mascot saw out of.

"You're a police officer?"

"No, worse. I'm a podcaster."

"So you have evidence of whatever it is I've done."

"For forty years," Howard hissed. "You've been hiding behind that fuzzy green headpiece. But, your days or numbered. Soon, very soon, they'll come for you. You can jump on your ATV and try to make a break for it, but you'll never get away. Our pasts always catch up to us, and you have a lot to account for. Forty years, you've hidden in shadow. Soon, you'll have to step into the light."

The Phanatic took a step back and walked away without another word. Howard watched him go. When he was on the other side of the room, the mascot turned and started in Howard's direction.

"Soon," Howard mouthed. "Very soon."

"Chopper 1610, what's your twenty?"
"Three clicks from Alpha Point, Chopper 616. Ready to board."
"Copy that."

As the sun set on the city of New York a mere twenty-four hours after the destructive attack perpetrated by Flint Marko, mercilessly cut short by the combined efforts of Captain America, Spider-Man, and a tempermental talking duck that most were sure was some sort of hoax generated for internet publicity, two heavily armored helicopters swooped over lower Manhattan and made their way out towards the middle of the ocean. The pilot of the first glanced over at the Statue of Liberty and gave it a nod, customarily, as he'd been both a New York native his entire life and a proud patriot. The second merely followed, their destination mapped only on their onboard radar HUD.

"Alpha Point, this is Chopper 616. Access code E-X-C-E-L."
"Access code granted, Chopper 616. Chopper 1610, you have your's set?"
"That's a roger, Alpha Point. Access code is S-I-O-R."
"You're all clear, gentlemen. Preparing for your dock."

The radar HUD screen flashed a bright green, indicating a successful breach. And within moments, the waves overlooking fifteen miles out from the island of Manhattan began to part with a coming force from underneath. In the minute that both helicopters took to arrive to the designated spot, a massive triangular structure had emerged from beneath the water, ascending high enough to reveal itself as a multi-storied and heavily fortified station. This underwater hub was The Raft, a state-of-the-art Supermax prison designed by Stark Industries to hold some of the most dangerous individuals in America. Inside The Raft, some of the most feared terrorists of the modern age were now suffering a lengthy stay. Otto Octavius, Sergei Kravinoff, Quentin Beck, Maxwell Dillon, and Adrian Toomes, among others, rounded up the list of both superpowered and non-superpowered individuals of notoriety.

And now, one of their past co-conspirators would join them to serve out a presumed life sentence. Captured after a lengthy battle with the mutant peacekeepers known as The X-Men, The Raft had made an especially large cell prepared for the coming arrival of Aleksei Sytsevich - better known to the world as the rampaging Rhino. Sitting in the bunk of the second chopper, an electrified collar strapped around his heavily armored neck, Rhino grunted as the helicopter spun in unison with the first and began a peaceful descent. Two of the guards noted his reaction, both smirking to themselves.

"Looks like the big and bad ole' Rhino ain't too fond of his new living situation!", one sarcastically called out to the other. "Relax, big guy. Think of it more as a homecoming. A long, very overdue homecoming that you never get to leave."

"Ah, leave the freak alone.", the other said. "He's not going anywhere. He'll have years to endure that kinda hospitality from us. Sytsevich, you want a bottled water or something before we book your ass?"

The Rhino merely snorted, making the two grown men jump, their weapons immediately trained. They knew it was unwise to try and taunt the supervillain, especially as his particularly dense exoskeleton suit was still attached. Generally, The Raft's matinence staff had to spend hours getting Sytsevich out of it after a heavy sedation, as the suit was so advanced that normal methods of removing it simply weren't possible for anyone but the wearer. But rather than malice, Rhino simply looked down, seemingly accepting of his fate.

"Nyet."

Breathing a sigh of relief, the guards wordlessly prepared for docking on the upper deck of the prison, giving eachother a 'You-started-it' glance the entire time. What they didn't notice, however, was the subtle de-activation of the shock collar that had been keeping Rhino at their mercy. Sytsevich smiled to himself, still playing the part of defeated prisoner as the guards led him out, weapons at the ready.

"WITH ME, PRISONER! WITH ME!", an approaching third guard shouted. "YOU'RE TO KEEP YOUR HANDS VISIBLE AT ALL TIMES! YOU ARE CONSIDERED A CLASS FIVE THREAT, SO ANY MISCONDUCT ON YOUR PART WILL BE MET WITH SWIFT RETALIATION! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!"

Rhino raised his massive hands as he stepped out, the grin on his face growing wider.

"Certainly.", the mountain of muscle replied.

"Infact, it is something I greatly anticipate."

---

"Now I know what you're going to say, Peter, but my mind's already made up. It's time to move on."



Still feeling the bruises from yesterday's smackdown with The Grain Goliath, I try and hide the wince of pain as I take Aunt May's hand into mine and look into her eyes. Funnily enough, I kind of knew this day was always going to come. But despite telling myself otherwise, I guess I wasn't actually at the stage of acceptance where I was ready to hear it. With my engagement leading to an actual set of nuptiuals in the coming months, things slowing down at the Bugle, and my nightly spandex party patrols coming to a comfortable repetition of normality that involves more purse-snatching than bad guy brawling, this was bound to be the last big change at this stage of my life: in three months' time, May Parker will be the proud resident of some upstate apartment that's very far away from here, and this house - the one I was raised in, the one Uncle Ben died in, and the one I spent many nights tip-toeing on the roof of on my way home from keeping my secret identity a secret - is going to be given to me and Mary Jane as an early wedding present.

The thing is, I'm torn. While I am very grateful to be getting this, given that MJ and I barely fit into my current apartment without bumping elbows on the way to the one bathroom, it doesn't... feel right to be accepting it from her, after all the years that her and I both spent struggling to pay the darn hunk of brick off. I mean, the entire reason I became a photographer (of myself, but that's irrelevant) was to help May out with the bills after Uncle Ben passed. And then the years went by, I moved out to go to college, and we eventually pulled through all of the financial woes. Now she's leaving, and there's not a thing I can say - or even want to say - to really stop her.

"Firstly, pretty lady, I bet you a dollar that you have no earthly idea of what I was going to say.", I retort, kissing her on the forehead. "And secondly, why now? I mean, I knew you weren't going to live here forever and I don't think my impending walk down the aisle has alot to do with it, all things considered. Are you sure you're ready for a move like this?"

Chuckling to herself at my chivalry-is-not dead act, which always kills, she composes herself and takes my hand in hers, reversing the hand-holding scenerio that was already in place.

"Honestly, Peter, I was ready to move a long time ago. I just tried to tell myself that I was being selfish."

I raise an eyebrow. "Selfish?"

"I know, it's silly to think that way now, but I really did feel like I owed it to Ben - and to you - to stay here for the rest of my days. Just to hold onto the memories for as long as I could."

A look of sadness comes over my face. I had absolutely no idea she felt like that. If I'd have known, I would have encouraged her to do whatever she felt she had to do a long time ago. Even though I'm not thrilled with the idea of being quite a bit more than an afternoon web-swing over from visiting, now, I would've understood. To be honest, I couldn't wait to get out of here when I did, and I was perfectly happy under this roof.

"But the more that time passed, the more that I realized that the memories we cherish will never leave us. Not really,", she goes on, wistfully. "Watching you grow into the fine young man that you've become. All of those years that Ben and I had together. The friends we've made, the girls you were seeing..."

I smile. Now that's a topic I didn't expect to get breached.

"I mean, I wasn't that successful in the dating department..."

"Oh, shush. You had a gaggle of girls coming to the front door."

A gaggle, huh? Not the term I'd have used, or even expected to hear aloud in a conversation, but we are a couple generations seperated...

"And that was even before you met Mary Jane. Why, I remember when you were sneaking off to speak to that Betty Brant woman when you were far too young to be associated with her in any way, much less in that way..."

I'm sure that my face is turning bright red right now, but I'm so dumbstruck by the revelation that she even knew I was sneaking out to see Betty that everything else is basically white noise. I could be impaled by a Goblin Glider and probably not notice it. She really knew about that?

"Not that I was ever judging, mind you.", she mercifully corrects. "But I do remember you chasing quite a few girls before you went off to college. And of course, there was Gwendolyn. That poor, sweet child."

"Yeah.", I say, solemnly. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't remember her, too."

She places her other hand on mine, empathizing. We've both seen our share of loss, over the years. And we've both shared in it.

"Of course, dear. And nobody blames you for that. That was an awful way to lose someone, and given how close the two of you were, I doubt you've completely gotten over it. Wounds like that never truly heal. But the point is, you weren't always the wallflower that you claimed. And I loved watching you mature into the confident person that your uncle and I always believed you could be."

Gratefully, I smile back. It's nice to let her think that I just naturally came to be that way, but the truth is, had it not been for the intervention of a genetically altered spider bite and an astonishing set of superpowers, I might still be fumbling over myself to try and talk to girls. The fact that I even managed to convince MJ to stay with me is a feat that I consider a heck of alot more impressive than beating up The Sinister Six singlehanded, any day of the week. Sometimes I wonder if being Spider-Man made me become a better Peter Parker, and sometimes I wonder if it was actually the reverse.

Then again, we're steering a little away from the main subject at hand. Not that I don't absolutely live for the opportunities to talk to my aging aunt, who's been like a mother to me since I was three, about the sordid details of my insane lovelife. But we were discussing the reasons behind her decisions to move, last I checked.

"I appreciate that, Aunt May, and believe me. You're the most unselfish person I've ever known, so don't ever think that you owed me anything by staying here."

Staring at the photo of the three of us from when I was thirteen - me, her, and Uncle Ben - I smirk as fond memories of him come flooding back to me all at once. It gets a little easier to live with every day, but I won't deny that I miss him just as much as the night I lost him. And the guilt over how I lost him has never truly gone away, either. It's what gets me into that glorified onesie every time that someone's in trouble.

"But I still don't get it. You had years to make this decision, and yet now you're ready to move to... where did you say, Amsterdam?"

"Albany.", she corrects.

"Albany. Right.", I state, just realizing for the first time that she's talking about a 150 mile move. "I guess I just... don't see the appeal in the timing. With the wedding coming up, I figured you'd want to be close by. And at your age, a move can be pretty daunting."

"Oh, I'm not that old.", she argues. "And as far as the wedding goes, you know me well enough to know that I'll be just as apart of that process as I would be if I were still right here, Peter."

She sighs. "But times change. And frankly, while it hasn't been easy to accept this, New York just isn't safe enough for someone like me to live in anymore. Not with those horrible 'super-criminals' running about, trying to hurt innocent people without a care in the world. And that dreadful Spider-Man..."

"Yeah... he's the scariest one, that's for sure.", I say just before I can bite my tongue. "But I mean, you're still here, right? Nobody's going to knock this place down while I'm around. So if safety's your concern, you can..."

Annnd... there it is. Immediately, the tingling at the base of my skull starts back up again, blaring like Ozzy Osborne trying to pass a kidney stone. Before I can properly scan my surroundings and make sure that I haven't just made the most unfortunately timed proclamation in the history of the world, my phone goes off to the melody of 'The Itsy-Bitsy Spider'. Quickly pulling it from my pocket, I don't even bother to check who it is, knowing that my Spider-Senses are still flared up.

"Hello?"

"PARKER!", the voice of the Grim Reaper of fun himself - better known as J. Jonah Jameson, responds. "WHAT ARE YOU, STUCK IN TRAFFIC ON THE ONE-OH-FIVE?! THAT BIG AND GRAY FREAK 'THE RHINO' JUST STARTED ATTACKING THE RAFT PRISON ISLAND! AND YOU'RE CHARTERING A FERRY OVER THERE AND GETTING PHOTOS OF IT, PRONTO!"

My eyes widen. Rhino? Attacking The Raft? That's... admittedly bold, even for that cumbersome cueball of a creep. I look back towards Aunt May, who's worried, as she often is whenever I get these calls. I hate getting them infront of her, because she knows that it means that I have to go and do something dangerous. Thankfully she doesn't know exactly how involved in these stories that I actually am.

"Uh, sure thing, JJ!", I stammer. "Ferry. The Raft. Rhino. Got it. I'm on my way there."

"DON'T WASTE TIME TELLING ME ABOUT YOUR TRAVEL PLANS, YOU MEANDERING MILLENNIAL!", he barks back. "GET YOUR BUTT UP THERE AND GET ME A FULL PAGE SPREAD OR IT'S YOUR JOB! HELL, I'LL EVEN BET THAT BLASTED WEB-SPINNING TERRORIST IS MAKING HIS PRESCENCE KNOWN AS WE SPEAK! GET ME THOSE PICTURES, PARKER!"

With a slam of his phone, our conversation is suddenly cut short.

Oh, Spider-Man's going to make an appearance alright, Jonah. He just hasn't made it there as timely as you've so very keenly predicted, given that he's still in Queens and trying to think of a million excuses to give to his Aunt for running off.

"Duty calls, Aunt May. Jonah wants me to take some pictures of a new mall opening or something.", I say with a laugh, trying to play off the actual danger. "You know how ole' flat-top gets if I don't get just the right pose down before the ribbon's cut!"

"Peter,", she says, standing up with me. "You and I both know that there's no mall opening in town."

Pausing as I grab my camera, I look back at her, sheepishly.

"Would... you believe it if I told you it was some other harmless, danger-free zone that I'm blanking on?"

She gives me the 'look'. The one that used to mean I was going to have to spend the rest of the week in my room for lying. Boy, do I not miss getting the 'look'. Finally, I look down and sling the camera over my shoulder.

"I'll... I'll try and be careful, alright?", I apologetically state. "Believe me. It'll be in-and-out. Nothing I haven't done a million times before."

"I know. And that's what worries me. You're always so quick to rush into danger..."

She doesn't even know the half o the irony in that sentence.

"But I know it's your job. Still, I'll never stop worrying."

"Well, think of it this way, pretty lady.", I begin, giving her a goodbye kiss on the cheek. "In a few months' time, you won't have to hear any more of my excuses."

She laughs. "That's at least one positive, dear."

Waving goodbye as I head out the door, I immediately leap over the side fence and race my way down the accompanying back alley that I used to use to begin my nightly swings into the city proper. Shedding my clothes, revealing the layer of red and blue underneath, I web up my duds and pull on the gloves, reach back, and slip the mask over my face. Sorry to do it to you, Aunt May...

THWIP!

"But Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man's got a prison date!"



It's only until I'm in the air that I realize how profoundly of a weird way it was to put that.

Man. I pray to God that those aren't my famous last words.

Brooklyn

Steve Rogers rubs his eyes as he takes a break from staring at his computer screen. He had been sifting through ever possible name he could think of with a Eastern European accent that could muster the kind of money to hire the Sandman. Every lead he followed came up short, however. Most of the names on his list were either dead or captured already. Whoever was behind the attack was covering their tracks incredibly well. Even the SHIELD forensics techs couldn't track where the bank transfer entered Sandman's account from.

He heard Sharon stir in the bed behind him, before approaching him and pressing herself against him from behind, "Come to bed, Steve. You're not going to figure this one out in one night. Not even you're that good. Let the techs have some more time with the bank stuff. Come to bed and get some rest."

He knew she was right. She was always telling him he pushed too hard, too fast. She was right, of course. But then, he wouldn't be the man he was if Steve wasn't recklessly impulsive and driven.

And he just hated being played. Whoever this mastermind was, Steve wanted to make sure they knew Captain America wasn't a pawn to be pushed around the board. He wanted to get this wrapped up before some other needless attack happened just to draw the Avengers out.

"Yea, sleep is good," he nodded and powered down the computer. "You know I don't like playing the puppet, though."

"I know," she nodded. "Not after the Alexander Pierce debacle."

Pierce had been Fury's right hand man. Together the two of them had planned to create an autonomous SHIELD force that could protect the world better than the Avengers ever could. In theory that's what they were doing, of course. In reality, Pierce was working for HYDRA, and was planning on using the project to wipe out any resistance to their rule. He had sent Cap and his team on missions they thought were for the good of the world, but in reality were just knocking off HYDRA's competition. It still made him sick when he thought about it.

"Yea, well," he said as he laid down, "let's hope we're not dealing with anything like that."

---

Light filtered in softly through the curtains that hung over the bedroom windows, rousing Steve from a comfortable night's sleep. He groggily rolled over and reached for Sharon, but he found the other side of the bed vacant. He stretched out, figuring she was out for her morning run or making breakfast.

"Sleep well?" a gruff voice surprised Steve, who shot up in bed to find Nick Fury standing at the foot of it. "Sorry, Cap. Didn't think you could be snuck up on. Sharon let me in."

Fury was the sneakiest bastard Steve knew, and he had to smile at the spymaster just hanging out in his bedroom waiting for the super solider to wake up.

"To what do I owe a briefing in bed, sir?" Rogers wiped the sleep from his eyes.

"You gave communicators to the duck and Spider-Man?" Fury asked casually. "I was hoping you'd give one to the spider, but I don't have much use for a duck."

"Well you've never been one for small talk, sir," Cap chuckled. "I gave it to them because they helped. And because I doubt whoever's behind this will let them go. I want them to be able to call for help if he or she comes after them."

Fury considered what Cap had said. He didn't trust people well. The last time he did, he lost an eye. It's why he fought Cap when the hero said he wanted all SHIELD communicators to be untraceable. These heroes had their own lives. They would never help if they thought they were being spied on.

"Fine, but if the duck dies, I'm not dealing with PETA."

Cap shook his head at the terrible, terrible joke, "Sir, I would expect nothing less."

Undisclosed Location
May 16, 2018
6:00pm EST

Over the past 42 hours, the American news cycle had stabilized after briefly being hijacked by the attack in Times Square. After airing several documentaries focused on the life of Flint Marko, aswell as speculation for what this latest outburst from the supervillain meant, pundits from all sides had resumed their normal day-to-day conduct of blaming eachother for socio-economic problems, possible electoral collusion from the long-dead terrorist cell HYDRA, and the latest perpetrated online fad of teenagers consuming laundry products. All, it seemed, was well and truly back to business as usual.

The mysterious figure behind the attack couldn't help but feel content as he watched their unearned normality sweep through. Predictably, the world at large had assumed it was safe to go back to their normal lives, that this was simply an isolated incident a world of gods and monsters. It would make the next phase of this grand and intricately crafted plan much more devastating, particularly as it brought about a further interest in the affairs of superhumans - and away from anything seemingly amiss elsewhere.

"Sir. All of our troops are in position, as requested.", a new assistant announced. "They simply await your order to strike."

A hand went up from behind a stoic posture, gesturing an immediate readiness.

"You may resume your duties. The order has been given.", he announced, confidently. "All of the respective parties are proceeding according to plan. We have already entered Phase Two."

Slowly, the tone of each news cycle began to change, as it became clear that things were far from as stable as once thought...

---

Boston, Massachusetts

As the evening hours began to set in and civilian traffic had died down from the rush of the earlier quitting time for most, a sudden explosion rocked throughout the heart of the city. People on the streets immediately vacated their cars and turned their attention to the skies, as a gigantic ball of fire lit infront of the sunset. Most were confused, though some ran in terror, as another impact was almost immediately felt. Something was happening, and it was clear to most that this was an attack. Almost on instinct, the majority of people who remained began to reach for their cellphones to simultaneously dial 9-1-1. Boston wasn't New York, and so the idea of a superhuman attack wasn't as commonplace. They simply assumed this was the work of human terrorists.

They were about to be proven very wrong.

Appearing completely out of thin air, as if reality itself had buckled under it's momentum, a massive and very visibly damaged part of a crane came flying out towards the crowd. It hurtled so fast that none had the time nessescary to duck and cover, as all eyes transfixed on this anomaly despite the imminent danger to those in it's path. The ones who registered what was about to happen started screaming, while others gasped in unison, some already beginning to record the anomaly with their phones.

And then, it... stopped. Hovering in mid-air, the propulsion of the crane's debris had halted itself and was now floating high above the civilian level. For a moment, all seemed peaceful. But this peace would only last a few seconds. Turning on it's axis, the debris resumed it's propulsion to the left of it's current position and slammed into the side of a nearby post office with a thunderous crack, deafening most within the immediate vicinity.

It was almost enough to cause no one to notice as a set of very unusually clad individuals began to appear in the middle of the street, surrounded by an evident battle that had been raging for several minutes unbeknownst to anyone. One was holding her hands outstretched and forward, in the direction of where the debris had appeared and stopped. Her hair was strikingly crimson, and her outfit indicated membership to a very elite group of individuals.

"I... tried to hold it for as long as I could, Scott, but the projection's faded!", she cried out, clearly having been strained by the effort to conceal the chaos in the minds of everyone around them. "We're in the open! This can't be contained any further!"

A man beside her, his eyes covered in a silver visor burning with red energy, fired another optic blast towards a smaller statured opponent that merely leaped out of it's way, landing on a partially destroyed vehicle. The opponent lashed out in retaliation with an elongated tongue, but was cut short by an intervening figure covered in blue fur, who tackled him from behind. The man in the visor placed his hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Forget it, Jean. This wasn't going to end well, and we did the best we could to de-escalate the situation.", Cyclops replied, his voice stern and direct. "X-Men! Take down as many of the Brotherhood as you can, and do it as quickly as possible! We don't have the luxury of stealth anymore!"

SNIKT!

As if having been awaiting that command all day, the mutant known to most as The Wolverine unsheathed his adamantium claws, stepping forward in a defensive pose as a monolithic man stepped forward to meet him, his foot hitting the pavement with particular force.

"You freaks were the ones that started this, not us!", the monstrosity called The Blob bellowed. "Whatever happens here is on your heads! Remember that whenever we're smearing ya across the pavement!"

Flanked by fellow Brotherhood members Toad, Pyro, Avalanche, Juggernaut, Sabretooth, and Mystique, The Blob roared out as The Uncanny X-Men fell into position behind Wolverine. Present were Cyclops, Jean Grey, Beast, Nightcrawler, Kitty Pryde, and Colossus, in addition to the black-and-yellow clad mutant that growled back.

"Th' only thing that's gonna get smeared, Bub, is yer blood.", Wolverine announced. "Just say th' word, Cyke. If we gotta beat these clowns again to find our man, let's get it over with."

"Und remember,", Nightcrawler added. "Time is of ze essence."

"X-Men...", Cyclops began, readying another optic blast as each individual member of his team prepared to utilize their own powerset. "ATTACK!"

Immediately, both groups charged eachother without hesitation, completely oblivious and seemingly uninterested in the resulting fallout that this clash between age-old rivals would bring about for the rest of Boston.

As the chaos began on the streets, several Quinjets flew into the immediate skies above, bearing the unmistakable logo for SHIELD.

"ATTENTION, MUTANTS! THIS ENDS NOW!", a voice over a loud intercom shouted. "YOU ARE IN A CIVILIAN AREA! CEASE ACTIVITY AT ONCE AND SURRENDER! THIS WILL BE YOUR ONLY WARNING!"

WIth tensions mounting, it seemed as though no one would be leaving this particular battle unscathed, as the rival mutant factions below simply continued fighting and wreaking havoc in their path, despite being cast in a series of spotlights from above. News vans and local police began to arrive on the scene, escalating things even further.



Threat Level:
13
Minor Threats:

• Heavily armed SHIELD Quinjets, local police ordinance
• Increasingly volatile ground, made worse by the presence of Avalanche

---

Kingston, Jamaica

As the emerging chaos in Boston began to take up the majority of everyone's attention, SHIELD had another problem on their hands that began to manifest itself. Across the city in the Caribbean island, several safehouses protecting both precious classified data and several weapons under research and development under local SHIELD authorities were inexplicably found to be under attack at the same time. The safehouses were bombarded with an armored van at each point, all housing a portable mini-gun operated by a masked armored militant carrying out orders. While SHIELD agents filed out and opened fire in defense of their respective base, they were quickly and brutally mowed down in a hail of heavy artillery.

Only one agent remained, surveying the coordinated attack from a safe distance. The agent's name was Jimmy Woo, a high-ranking spy that reported directly to Nick Fury, on assignment for an unrelated matter entirely that would now have to wait.

"CODE ELEVEN-THIRTY-THREE! I REPEAT, CODE ELEVEN-THIRTY-THREE!", Woo exclaimed, firing up his own personal Quinjet to take to the skies. "THIS IS WOO! HOSTILES ARE MOVING IN FAST! WE NEED ASSISTANCE IN KINGSTON! TAKING CASUALTIES... THERE'S TOO MANY OF THEM!"

Woo took the reigns of the Quinjet and set off to meet the attackers himself, buying just enough time for any available back-up to arrive. Though in earnest, the seasoned agent didn't see how this was going to end in any way other than the loss of the safehouses




Threat Level:
6
Minor Threats:

• Highly advanced SHIELD weaponry put into the wrong hands
• Rank-and-file militants ready to protect the main extraction van

2525 Whitey Bulger Boulevard
Boston
Or is Baahston?
What, you think you're better than me because you know how to pronounce stuff?!

“Is there anything you’d like to say to Lisa’s murderer?”

Howard the Duck sat across the kitchen table from the elderly lady. Between them was a microphone connected to Howard’s cellphone. The little kitchenette was a big part of the small South Boston house Donna Coughlin had lived in for over forty years. She held a cigarette in her weathered right hand, the cigarette nearly down to the filter and threatening to burn Donna's hand. She looked like every old woman in every Ben Affleck movie ever.

“I just… want to know where she is,” Donna said with a sigh. “Where the rest of her is! They never… recovered… her… head!”

Donna began to break down into a weeping fit, her hands covering her face as she sobbed over the microphone. Howard plucked the cigarette stub from her hands and put it in the ashtray beside her.

“I’m so sorry,” she finally said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your recording, Mr. Duck.”

“It’s fine,” said Howard, looking at his phone. “The crying is playing really well. I just need one more favor, Mrs. Coughlin. Read this into the mic.”

He slid a piece of paper towards her. She picked it up in her bony, nicotine stained fingers and cleared her throat.

“‘Boxbox is a brand new subscription service. Every month they ship to you a plain box with nothing in it. What you do with it is up to you. There’s…” She swallowed hard. “There’s a special offer for listeners of Phanatic. Just go to Boxbox.com and type in promo code LISA at check’…. Oh, god!”

Donna pushed the paper aside and put her face on the table. Before Howard could ask if she had any personal experience with Boxbox, she ran off towards her bedroom. Howard gingerly took the mic and his phone and started to leave as quietly as possible. He was almost to the door when the sounds of commotion outside filled the air.


"ATTENTION, MUTANTS! THIS ENDS NOW! YOU ARE IN A CIVILIAN AREA! CEASE ACTIVITY AT ONCE AND SURRENDER! THIS WILL BE YOUR ONLY WARNING!"

“Oh, great,” he said as he watched the mutants fighting on the street in front of him. "As if traffic in Boston wasn't bad enough."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are broadcasting to you live as we approach what can only be described as a scene of absolute chaos at the infamous Raft prison..."

Booking perhaps the least comfortable flight trip of all time since The Blob tried to book a two-seater on Delta Airlines, my Spider Sense hums at me as roaring winds and torrential rain pound me in the face whenever I try and look up ahead at the scene. Gotta thank my genetically altered DNA for allowing me to stick to the surface of this thing, because if I were anyone else, this weather would have sent me flying down into the Hudson about 30 miles ago. Catching my bearings as I wring out a half liter of water from the bottom half of my mask, the look of a firey wreck ahead snaps me to attention.

"Geez, Aleksei...", I mutter, bewildered. "You really outdid yourself this time in the 'mass destruction of everything' notch of the Rhino schtick."

Crawling upwards, horizontally, I reach the window of my carrier craft - otherwise known as the NYDN Channel 7 helicopter - and peer inside to make sure that the reporter and her crew are making sure to keep a safe distance. Because as stupid as it sounds, I want them to get close enough to let me off so that I can clean up this mess... while also not getting close enough to endanger themselves or anyone else who may need to be led off of the facility.

"Just under thirty minutes ago, Channel 7 sources were told by officials that the maximum security prison, specializing in housing dangerous supervillains, entered into a lockdown after a prisoner transfer went horribly awry. While the details aren't officially confirmed as to the perpetrator, rumors have circulated that it was an attack carried out by Aleksei Sytsevich, better known as The R---"

In the middle of her broadcast, the woman stops cold and her eyes go wide, transfixed by something in my direction. At first, I start to freak out, thinking that something's being hurdled at the helicopter because that's usually what one of these guys do whenever they see me coming. Then I realize exactly what she's freaking out about, because she keeps pointing at me and screaming something unintelligible at her cameraman. Ah, the ole' Spidey charm. Always a winner with the ladies.

"Hey! Sorry, I needed a ride over, and there weren't any ferries accepting American Express!", I shout, throwing up my hands. "Thanks for accommodating! I'll be out of your hair, now! By the way, love the channel! I don't actually watch it, but I mean... what's good television these days, anyway?!"

With the entire crew now freaking out, each shouting something along the lines of "AAAAH GET HIM OFF, GET HIM OFF!", "SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE, IT'S THE FREAK WITH THE WEBS!", and "OH MY GOD, IS THAT DEADPOOL?!", I finally get the hint and give them a neighborly salute. I'd give them cash for their troubles, but I sorta don't have any pockets. Or the... cash to withhold from them in the first place.

"Right. Scary guy in a mask attached to your window. Probably not paying attention to a word I'm saying..."

THWIP!

Firing a webline towards the billowing smoke pile ahead of me, I wait for it to snag something and pull, leading me into a less than graceful swing off of the side of the still-in-flight helicopter. With any luck, this'll net me some good press! In that I totally hijacked an aircraft for my own purposes and that it'll come back to bite me as a headline worded in that exact way.

"Whoah!", I pronounce, landing on the side of a hard surface that isn't on fire. "Talk about making it late to the scene of the party! You people skipped the party altogether and went straight to the horrible drunken aftermath!"

See, some people - and I'm not going to name names, Johnny Storm - they tend to cite my humor as a bit lame at best and incredibly infantile at worst. And while that is definitely the case and I'm usually the first to admit it, what most don't realize is that it happens automatically. It kicks in as a reflex, almost like I got another power from the spider-bite, whenever I'm scared out of my mind. And looking at the scene ahead of me, where I can tell at least a couple of dead bodies are smushed under concrete debris and there's no discernable way to get inside of the prison itself? I'd say I'm pretty terrified.

Leaping down and firing out another webline, I swing over and narrowly miss a wild ball of flame that licks at the bottom of my spandex soles. You'd think the rain would have taken care of this fire all by now, but that just goes to show how quickly and rapidly the entire situation went out of control. This all still fresh. Rhino's known for his berserker mode, but this? This reeks of deliberation. Planning, almost. Like someone smarter than ole' Hornytoad wanted him here and causing a ruckus.

Could it be the mysterious benefactor that let Sandman loose on Times Square?

"Hello?!", I shout as loudly as possible. "Is anyone still here?! Local superhero seeks survivors of crazy amounts of destruction! First come, first save!"

That's when it hits me again. My Spider-Sense isn't just going off because of the severity of the weather anymore. Something's coming right for me, and I'm standing around like a doofus.

"YOU AGAIN?!"

Resisting the urge to shriek with a certain amount of girlishness, I backflip out of the way as the man of the hour himself comes bursting through the fire like a freaking freight train and a wrecking ball had an ugly, out-of-control kid with ADHD. Rhino slams his horn into a piece of debris as he slams to a stop, sending concrete flying my way. I leap over it and dodge what I can, firing a webline directly at tall, dark and brutish. He catches it with his massive forearm and pulls, sending me flying over him. I manage to catch myself on a pole jutting out of the structure of the cracked base.

"Yeah! Me again, you big doof!", I counter. "What, did you think you'd get Daredevil this time? Because let me tell you from personal experience, pal, that unless you're a ninja or a gorgeous lady assassin, he's not showing up!"

"ALWAYS YOU!", he angrily barks back. "EVERY TIME I AM IN MIDST OF CARRYING OUT PLAN, IT ALWAYS SPIDER WHO IS TRYING TO STOP IT! WHY DO YOU VEX ME THIS WAY?!"

"First of all, what do you mean 'trying'?"

Leaping down, I parlay a handstand into a somersaulted kick and leap, striking the big lug directly in the nose.



"As far as records go, I'm pretty well in the 'succeeding' column when it comes to putting your ginormous butt in check!"

Swiping at me like a fly, Rhino just barely manages to knock me one in the face as I'm in mid-dodge, knocking me back from whence I came. I fire out another webline to stop myself just before landing in one of the massive fires that this lunatic has started. Sorry, Rhino, but Shish-kabob Spider-Man isn't gonna be on the menu this evening. And I certainly wouldn't give a card-carrying member of 'Wide Load's Anonymous' like you the satisfaction of serving it.

"PERHAPS TRUE, BUT YOU ARE TOO LATE THIS TIME!"

Running his mile-long boot along the ground, signifying his intent to ram me into the skies, Rhino stampedes ahead and forces me to leap off of my back and swing for higher ground. There still isn't any sign of civillians or prison guards that survived the attack, unless the real pandemonium is inside. And good God, if that's the case, I need to wrap this up quickly. There's no telling how many of my old stomping-face buddies are running riot in there if the security's been breached. Someone's probably sticking actual fish into Mysterio's actual fishbowl helmet!

"I HAVE FREED EVERYONE! EVERYONE WITH GRUDGE AGAINST YOU!", Rhino taunts, turning rubble into further, smaller rubble. "AND WITH LIST MILE LONG, YOU WILL NOT GET CHANCE TO LEAVE ALIVE!"

My eyes widen as Rhino confirms my worst possible fears. Everyone with a grudge against me that was being held in there?! I don't exactly keep a headcount, but I'm willing to wage that he's talking about like half of my Rogue's Gallery! If... that's a thing that you even call having a bunch of maniacs with superhuman powers and terrible fashion sense out for your blood anymore. But the point remains! Unless he's bluffing, this is really bad! Way beyond putting fish in Mysterio's fishbowl bad!

"Okay, time out. I'm cutting the back-and-forth thing I usually save for these occasions and cutting straight to the point with this one."

Webbing up my fists with a layer of fluid so dense that it immediately hardens, I flip forward and strike at Rhino's face with all of the strength I can possibly muster. The thing he's never gotten about his weird animal-hide costume exo-suit thing is that for all of it's armored bits and it's protective surfaces, somehow not covering his face in a decade is usually how I've been able to defeat him. And so when I punch, he staggers.

"WHY! WOULD! YOU! POSSIBLY! DO! THAT!?", I angrily shout with every blow. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! THERE ARE PSYCHOPATHS IN THERE! KILLERS, ALEKSEI! HORRIBLE PEOPLE THAT EVEN YOU WOULD NOT WANT ON THE STREET!"

Rhino catches my fist in his, and smiles, despite his nose and mouth being bloodied by trauma. I start to feel the bones in my hand buckle under the immense pressure, and am suddenly unable to fight back. I try to go for a kick, and he blocks that by grabbing my ankle and giving it a similar treatment. He could shatter both parts of my body in an instant. He knows he could, and yet he doesn't. He wants me to know that.

"When paycheck is big enough, Spider-Man? I can become quite comfortable with whomever is on street."

My Spider-Sense flares up again, and I try to rip myself from Rhino's grasp, but something hard grabs me at the back of my neck and locks, choking the life out of me with an immense strength.

"And when he is referring to current company, you annoying arachnid..."

Whatever has me by the neck pulls me from Rhino and throws me into a nearby wall with so much force that my mind can't even comprehend making a stupid joke to describe the pain I'm about to feel. That's when I finally see what was keeping me interlocked, as it reels itself back to it's host. A giant metal tentacle. One of four, attached to one of the very last men I'd ever want to see walking free from a place like this.

Otto Octavius. Known to most as Doc Ock, and one of the worst nutcases I've ever put away.

"I believe Mr. Sytsevich is quite comfortable. We've been well acquainted before."

Gasping for air, I pull myself out of the Spider-Man shaped hole in the wall just long enough for my vision to stop blurring on me. I think I have a concussion, and I think my concussion has a concussion aswell. It's an Avengers: Concussion War going on in my brain right now, because my motor functions are barely working as is.

"Oh, great. The sociopathic cavalry has arrived...", I wheeze. "Did you get a new onesie, Otto? It's so hard to keep track of these standard prison garb."

"Yes. You may have your fun, little Spider. You may make your jokes.", Otto taunts back, lifting himself with his four-legged instruments of destruction. "But they will prove quite ineffective at helping you to deny the obvious. Today, you are not to be the victor. No matter whatever last minute attempts you make to try and contain the threat within, this is far beyond you. If you attempt to enter The Raft, you will die."

Lashing one of his tentacles out at me, it wraps around my torso and tightens like the world's most sci-fi version of a boa constrictor. I struggle to get free and start laying a beatdown on these two that they could never even imagine, but it's hopeless. Ock's got me on the ropes, and Rhino's backed in his corner. Reaching up, I attempt to fire another webline - maybe to escape, maybe to prove him wrong and swing my way into the prison to see what I can still do - but Ock catches my wrist with another tentacle and squeezes.

"ARGH!"

Not only does he snap my wrist, but the web-shooter that was covering it is shattered.

"And as much as I would rather enjoy watching you feebly try and contain the mess that only you, yourself, can be blamed for creating in the first place,", Ock mocks, pulling me directly to him. "I have much bigger plans in store for you. So for once, Spider-Man, I offer you a temporary truce."

I stare back, dumbstruck. "A-A truce?"

"Indeed.", he says, with a sadistic grin. "This fight is to cease immediately, as we continue on with our business within the prison. And you, little Spider, are to be allowed to live in exchange for this act of undeserved generosity."

Angrily, I bawl up my unbroken fist and get ready to punch him directly in those stupid glasses he's always wearing.

"Ock, if you think for a second that I'm even gonna consider such a ridiculous offer, you're nuttier than a squirrel with..."

Another tentacle clamps my mouth shut, cutting off any protest.

"No, no. The time for you to talk is over. Let this truce commence."

Suddenly, all four arms converge onto me at once, and lock me into an unbreakable position. My ribs start to crack and I'm beginning to feel lightheaded. Vision's starting to black out. All that I can hear is Otto's manic laughter as Aleksei joins him, along with a few other voices that emerge unseen.

By the time I regain consciousness, I'm watching myself about to hit the ocean.

They didn't even attempt to fight me, or even kidnap me or whatever these guys usually do.

They just tossed me aside like a piece of garbage. A mild inconvenience. Like I was nothing.

Which is exactly what I feel like as I hit the water.

A great big nothing.

Kingston, Jamaica

As the emerging chaos in Boston began to take up the majority of everyone's attention, SHIELD had another problem on their hands that began to manifest itself. Across the city in the Caribbean island, several safehouses protecting both precious classified data and several weapons under research and development under local SHIELD authorities were inexplicably found to be under attack at the same time. The safehouses were bombarded with an armored van at each point, all housing a portable mini-gun operated by a masked armored militant carrying out orders. While SHIELD agents filed out and opened fire in defense of their respective base, they were quickly and brutally mowed down in a hail of heavy artillery.

Only one agent remained, surveying the coordinated attack from a safe distance. The agent's name was Jimmy Woo, a high-ranking spy that reported directly to Nick Fury, on assignment for an unrelated matter entirely that would now have to wait.

"CODE ELEVEN-THIRTY-THREE! I REPEAT, CODE ELEVEN-THIRTY-THREE!", Woo exclaimed, firing up his own personal Quinjet to take to the skies. "THIS IS WOO! HOSTILES ARE MOVING IN FAST! WE NEED ASSISTANCE IN KINGSTON! TAKING CASUALTIES... THERE'S TOO MANY OF THEM!"

Woo took the reigns of the Quinjet and set off to meet the attackers himself, buying just enough time for any available back-up to arrive. Though in earnest, the seasoned agent didn't see how this was going to end in any way other than the loss of the safehouses

CRISIS: THE CARIBBEAN

VILLAIN ATTACK: UNKNOWN

Threat Level:
6
Minor Threats:

• Highly advanced SHIELD weaponry put into the wrong hands
• Rank-and-file militants ready to protect the main extraction van

Captain America strolled into the park near his house in his full regalia. He had been called in the middle of dinner by Fury, who told him about the developing situations in Boston and Kingston. While he would have loved to take the fight to the Brotherhood, carrying an indestructible metal shield into a fight with a man who can manipulate metal. Even Steve wasn't that bullheaded for a good fight. Someone else would have to take care of that.

Instead, he would be on his way to Kingston to take care of the attacks on SHIELD installations.

Suddenly, from above him, the wind kicked up. He shielded his eyes as the landing Quinjet began to kick up dust and leaves. It landed softly as bystanders looked on with mouths agape. From inside, Coulson opened the door and motioned for Cap to get in, "Come on! We'll brief you more on the way!"

Cap hopped onto the craft and grabbed a seat beside the agent. Coulson went over the situation. SHIELD was using Kingston as a R&D lab for new, anti-metahuman weaponry. How this was discovered by the perpetrators was unknown, but that didn't matter now. The weapons were going to be in their hands soon, and they needed to make sure they did not make it off that island.

"Would have been nice if Fury let us know about that," Steve shot Coulson a look. "I don't like when he keeps secrets from us."

"I don't disagree," Coulson shrugged. "But you know him. Compartmentalization. Can't give away all the information if you don't know it all."

"Yea," Steve responded calmly, "but someone still got the information anyway."

Steve thought about the mission for a few seconds, realizing the split situation the heroes were now in. He thought of who would be useful in Kingston, and one name definitely came to mind. He pulled out his Avengers comm and hailed, "Iron Man, this is Captain America. I'm headed to Kingston. Could you some help if you don't have something better to do."

A Park That's Supposed To Be Serene
New York City

Cobblestone cobbled together by men long dead act as an ocean for a troubled man's soul to sail on. His muscles have a fresh ache to them, like he'd recently been pulverized by a butcher. Close, but he'd narrowly escaped having his painstakingly carved muscles reduced to cotton candy at the hands of a regular crook the previous night. No superpowers. No costume. Just a pickaxe and enough inexperience that the felon couldn't telegraph his moves like a better fighter would. Therefore the only thing distinguishing the scarlet swashbuckler from anyone else who ever underestimated a new guy was a split second of reaction time on a paranoid hunch.

One day the roads I cobble will be marched on by heroes and cowards, sheep and wolves alike. I'll be as dead as the dinosaurs I've personally slain in the Savage Land. And then… If Matt smoked cigarettes, he'd be taking a long drag off it, chain-smoking and probably thrashing like a madman. But because he didn't, never had, and probably never would, he just stopped breathing and squeezed his useless eyeballs like an evildoers throat.

He felt he'd been a better man at one time. He wished he had been that man long before circumstance bullied him into being. He hoped that one day he'd be that man again. All this business with ninjas and dragons and prophecy, concussions and neuropathy, sticks and stones, scarred flesh and broken bones. He wished it would just go away. And then he remembered that it would. It would go away: water under the bridge, not so unlike the literal water under the literal bridge he was approaching, where the stones cobbled in one man's time stopped, and the next began.

His pocket vibrated sharply. The time had come to save the world.

So, he ripped off his glasses and ran through the park, until he could find a street so crowded he was invisible. He tucked himself into an alleyway and ripped his clothes off his body like Elmer's Glue off a child's hands. Matt went in and something far more fearsome came out in a red flash, like a firework he grappled and reeled himself onto a vacant rooftop before answering the call. Summoning a SHIELD branded hover bike, he sets course for Jamaica , being swallowed in a glass cacoon as the vehicle rolls past Mach one, two, and three into the double digits, accelerating so relentlessly that Matt was convinced he'd be responsible for the next hurricane to harrass the Japanese people, giving even the most sinister butterfly the world had ever known competition.

Kingston, Jamaica

The Quinjet Captain America was riding in flew fast and low towards the capital of the island as it approached, but Cap could already see the destruction the attackers had wrought. Smoke billowed into the night sky, and explosions continued to rock the city. Whoever these people were, they meant business. He thanked God the Quinjets were as fast as they were, or there was no chance he would have made it here in time.

According to Agent Jimmy Woo, the man in charge in Kingston, the attackers were nearly through the safehouses' defenses, and the SHIELD tech would be in their hands. Woo, who had been trying to mount a defense in his own Quinjet, had been shot down minutes ago. He was alive, but who knew how long that would last.

"Iron Man, this is Cap," he said as his transport sped towards where Woo had crashed. "I'm headed to rescue the island's SHIELD head. Will try and establish a base of operations there we can work from to secure the rest of the island."

The Quinjet swept over the scene of Woo's crash, with his downed fighter being peppered by minigun fire. Cap yelled to the pilot, "Swing around for another pass! But slow down, and keep low!"

The pilot signaled an affirmative, and swung the aircraft around. Cap, meanwhile, opened one of the side entrance hatches and prepared himself. This was definitely going to hurt, but it was the only way to take out that gun quickly. As the Quinjet approached the van, he leapt out of the hatch at the perfect time. He aimed the shield toward the minigun, and curled up in a ball behind it. He flew like a canon ball through the air, before slamming into the van. The shield crunched into the minigun, shattering it. The vibranium caught most of his momentum, but he felt his shoulder pop slightly. It wouldn't keep him out of this fight, but it would hurt in the morning.

He got up and rotated it around to loosen it, before turning and seeing Woo.

"Agent Woo is secure, and one of the attack vans is down," he said into his comm. "Lets take the fight to these guys."

Kingston, Jamaica
About Three Seconds Later

"Right behind ya', Captain!"

That hover bike is quick, alright. It's got enough giddyup to cross the ocean in only a few minutes. Given that he had crossed the sound barrier many times over, Murdock would've been flying entirely blind if it weren't for the onboard navigation systems that so helpfully volunteered to take him to the most dangerous locations in the world without half an hour of extraneous legal drivel. Onstar could learn a thing or two from SHIELD. But seemingly all at once, the noble machine drops it's anchor into the atmosphere and cools off to a comfortable 200 mph, cruising speed, and cheerfully tells Matt "You have arrived!"

The cockpits soundproof shell recedes into it's sheath before the warm ambient hum of the engine drowns in a din of gunfire and quantum entangled syllables. Matt cocks his head back and clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth, like he's trying to loosen up some peanut butter. The soundwaves give a nice, clean picture of the surrounding area as the bike rolls at the decrepit pace of 40 mph. The safehouse was up ahead, only a football field's length away, with about two armored vans in positions ideally situated to take a real shot at him.

So Matt took a shot first, pouncing off of the hover bike and letting it fly at moderate acceleration towards the leftward threat. He covers his ears as the flying bike rolls the entire back half of the van into a harmless knot of reinforced metal panels and break lines. The minigunner backed off when his bucking weapon's foundation snapped in half. "Try firing that without breaking your wrist, I dare you!"

"Die! you self-sanctified dinosaur!" A reinforcement who was evidently taking it easy in the passenger seat barks out.

_PWOP!

If Skrillex were to sample the purring of a popcorn machine and work it into a bass drop, it would sound exactly like the weapon being fired in Matt's direction. The spot on the ground where the shot landed wasn't scorched or covered in any sort of residue, it looked fluffy and wet like merengue. Whatever that weapon was, it could scramble the molecules of it's target with the air around it. Perfect for omelettes, but good enough to take out a superhero in a pinch.

"I hate superheroes: all of you!" the criminal shouts as he aims to take another shot, hastily lining his sight up with the interlocking double-Ds.

At this point, the sonuvabitch on top of the other van finally finds the power to break off from his Facebook feed long enough to start shooting at the guy who just destroyed the van identical to their own. A couple of clicks and a couple of clacks came too little too late: Daredevil had dispatched the one with the fancy gun and smashed the driver's face into the windshield before throwing them both out of the van and into the dirty sand. Having just completely disabled the vehicles ability to be driven, you'd've thought it'd look silly to see the scarlet swashbuckler crawling around in there, until you saw him rip the four way tire iron out from under the seat and throw it your direction!

_SHNAKH!

The minigunner atop the far van succumed to the concussion inflicted by feeling his weapon pivot and snap against his forehead, the metal restraints that held it steady were in shambles and it's accuracy was melted to slag. By the time the driver had processed what had just happened, Daredevil was out of the car and on the ground, dashing and working his damn hardest to put a mile gap between that driver and his consciousness.

Kabam! Pow! Smack! The driver was pacified. If Matt Murdock had been a boxer like his old man, there's no way it would've taken more than a split second to break that nose Rocky Balboa was always braggin' about.

"Daredevil speaking: two more entrances clear. No way we're getting pinned down. I'm en route to your position!" At that, The Man Without Fear puts the pedal to the metal and cut the distance like butter. The boy in blue swells like a balloon on his radar sense as DD zeroes in on his fellow Avenger and Agent Woo. As Daredevil slides out of the driver's seat, the previous driver spills out of the open door, landing like a sack of potatoes, onto the ground.

Face to face, Daredevil spits a warning: "Careful, they've got really special guns", cracking the door, kicking it open and preemptively readying a billy club for a toss!

Face to face, Daredevil spits a warning: "Careful, they've got really special guns", cracking the door, kicking it open and preemptively readying a billy club for a toss!

"Don't they always?" Captain America responded to the vigilante. He didn't know who went and told Daredevil to head this way, but he was glad that person did. Daredevil was probably the best fighter that didn't have superpowers that Steve had ever seen. The Man Without Fear even managed to best the super soldier one or two times in the past in sparring matches. Cap was definitely happy to have his help.

"I'm glad we managed to secure this position," Woo said to the two heroes, "but we need to secure the rest of the island. And we're not going to do that standing around here."

He was right, of course. They weren't going to secure the other safehouses without a plan. Cap wondered where Stark was. He'd be a huge help dealing with this, as he could move through the city at a quicker pace than Cap or Daredevil could.

"I hate to say this, but I think we're gonna have to split up if we want to secure all the safehouses," Cap theorized as he searched the landscape for a vehicle. He say a motorbike laying on its side and figured it would have to do. He walked over and hotwired it to start it up, "Coulson, you'll be our eyes in the skies. Call out locations for Daredevil and I to hit."

Kingston, Jamaica
Exactly Where We Left Off

"Aye aye, Captain. It's too bad we don't have any allies with teleportation or fast travel capabilities onhand. No," he pauses, imagining himself taking a drag off a cigarette, "then it would be too damn easy. We'll have to make do with what we've got for now."

He swept the building with his echolocation, lapping up more of that imaginary peanut butter. No signs of life: Damn. As he saw it, he had two options. One: Investigate the buildings insides to find valuable clues and evidence of who was behind this. Or Two: Risk security of this evidence by moving on to the next safehouse in spite of the fact that stragglers were unlikely to be found, because there is a colossally infinitesimal chance that they could technically be found.

"There's a safehouse about three miles north from where you're at," Coulson updates him. "I've got an unstable satellite image. It looks like there are fewer outside of this one than the one that you're at right now. Pretty convenient, huh?"

"Too convenient. Damn near provident."

I guess it's time to save the day. Daredevil collects the unconscious militants like trading cards before throwing them into the back of their own van like dodgeballs that don't want to bounce. He disarms them individually and collects their arsenal in the passenger seat. Then, to make sure none of them wake up and try anything effective, he floats over them, as they sleep like tired children (who've been beaten into submission), and he holds their hands in his own before pulling their fingers uncomfortably far back. So much so that Matthew the Catholic felt bad for them, especially when he heard that devastating crunch of things coming undone. He shuddered, but hey: The devil made him do it, right?

So he slams the back door shut and climbs back behind the wheel before making the wheels of the truck go round and round. Occasionally a few of the men would wake up and start crying about how he hadn't signed up for this and how shocking it was that Daredevil could call himself a hero. Then Matt would pull over, tell whoever was whining that he had signed up for all this and more when he decided to break international laws, and make sure he had internalized all this before knocking the crybaby out with his own broken fingers. After a demonstration or two, they'd learned to shut up.

On the way, one of the militants got curious and he began to whisper frantically to his comrades. They stopped when the wheels on the truck were no longer going round and round. The air filled with tension and the pungent smell of fresh piss. Then something else entered the truck, a question. A valid one: "Where are we going?"



Daredevil laughed maniacally as he threw his arms dramatically forward, suffocating the gas pedal underfoot and swerving all across the dirt road, diving into pot holes and soaring over hills. At that, Daredevil twists his neck like an owl to stare at his unfastened passengers and growls like a banshee: "Tell me who you work for and I'll let you out of the truck!"

"Eek!" the collective squeals. "The boss'll kill us!"

"We're driving seventy miles an hour on a dirt road. Intentionally or not, I'll kill you!" Then, he laughs again, "And I'll let you in on a little secret: I can't see where I'm going! Ah ha haha haha hahahaaughff! It's a miracle I haven't crashed. And your delicious little screams, well, they're only making it harder for me to drive."

Then he hears it, one of them opens his mouth and his heart flutters with truthfulness. He pushes his tongue against his lower lip before being head-butted by his comrade. They both bleed and scream and fight amongst themselves, but if they were going to do anything that would progress the plot, they were taking way too long. As he pulls over, he checks in on the Star Spangled Superhero, "What's it like on your end, Cap?"

Then, he slinks around the van to say one last thing to his little angels: "Looks like we've arrived at the next safehouse, boys. Daddy's got to go inside," with a sinister smile and lots of teeth exposed, he nods and giggles "so it's Nnnnnap Time!"