[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/CAJhOXG.png[/img][/center] [h3]Brandywine, Maryland[/h3] Amanda Waller pulled her car into the parking lot of Capitol Lanes. A little past nine at night and the parking lot of the bowling alley was surprisingly full. Well it was Wednesday. Wednesday was dollar beer night, after all. Waller made her way inside the alley. There were maybe a dozen people here tonight, all of them broke down into smaller groups of threes and fours at different lanes. A group of teens played video games in the alley’s arcade section. The attendant behind the desk gave her a nod as she approached the counter. “Playing a game or two, ma’am?” “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll need a pair of shoes. Size 16 ½… in women’s.” The attendant glanced around the bowling alley. The people there were too transfixed in their own worlds to notice him as he pressed a button behind the counter. A hole opened up underneath Waller’s feet and she vanished through the floor. She slid through the tube and came out fifty feet below the building inside her office. The best kept secret in all of D.C., and by extension the world, were these little suites of offices underneath Capitol Lanes. The unincorporated community of Brandywine in Prince George’s County, Maryland was where ARGUS called home. The bowling alley was some twenty-two miles from Downtown Washington D.C. and was only accessible to those on Waller's approved list. Not even President Ellis could ask for a pair of 16 ½ shoes and get down here. Let SHIELD have their gaudy helicarriers that flew high and wide for all eyes to see. Waller worked best in the shadows. It was why nobody knew exactly how many agents ARGUS had. Nobody but Waller. The inner workings of the organization were so compartmentalized and balkanized nobody truly knew what they were doing, who they were working for, and what their end goal was to be. Nobody, of course, but Director Waller. Decades of experience as a bureaucrat taught her how to finesse the red tape and black budgets to get what she wanted, and she used every trick at her disposal to make sure ARGUS got everything it needed or wanted. She sat down in her office with a nightcap of scotch in one hand, a tablet in the other. Her last act after a fifteen hour day was to enjoy a stiff drink, read over any critical reports that may have filtered in through the day, and form an idea on what kind of day tomorrow would be. Her eyes glanced up from the tablet and to the plaque on her desk. In wood and engraved in simple script, it said [i]“Exitus ācta probat”[/i] or “The outcome justifies the deed.” She looked past it at the blinking intercom beside the plaque. “What?” Waller asked as she pressed the button. “We have something happening out in Montana,” said that night’s analyst on duty. “Something big.” “The hell,” she said as she finished off her drink. “BIG SKY only went active eight hours ago. What’s going on out there?” “Reports confirm CENTURION is involved.” “Oh, shit,” replied Waller. “Okay… patch through BIG SKY’s feed to the commcenter. I’m on my way.” CENTURION was a codename shared by all agencies in the US intelligence community for one particular individual. Then CIA deputy director Amanda Waller first assigned it 15 years ago to the incredible superhuman who rescued a plane full of hijacked passengers in mid-flight. The world knew him as Superman, but for Waller he would always be CENTURION. And wherever he went, destruction and trouble followed in his wake. [hr] [h3]Helena, Montana [/h3] Arthur Blackwood took a long drag off his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs, and expelled it in a long stream out of his mouth and nose. Someone in the bar below put Skynyrd on the jukebox. Blackwood put the cigarette in the side of his mouth and walked across the small apartment to the corkboard mounted on the wall. The little studio apartment above the bar looked like a militaman’s wet dream. An opened wooden crate was filled with brand new M4s still with the new gun oil sheen on them. Raw semtex in plastic wrap sat on a coffee table beside a couch. There was of course the requisite DON’T TREAD ON ME flag with a US, Confederate and -- strangely for a government separatist hideaway -- a BACK THE BLUE flag hung up on the walls. Blackwood let the cigarette dangle from his mouth as he looked at the information on the corkboard. These 100 jerkoffs did not play when it came to intelligence gathering. Pinned to the board were maps that showed projected movement of a military convoy passing through the Absaroka Mountains on its way to Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls. The convoy was due to pass through the outskirts of Helena on its way north tomorrow night. Surveillance photos showed a group of eight trucks escorted by humvees and armored personnel carriers. The sixth truck in the convoy had been circled in red marker. A sudden burst of air pulled Blackwood’s attention away from the board. [img]https://i.imgur.com/Kz6tHcs.jpg?1[/img] “Evening, Mr. Blackwood. Lovely night to plan some domestic terrorism, wouldn’t you say?” Blackwood swung his fist at Superman’s face. The Man of Steel caught it easily. Superman flashed Blackwood a cocky smile. “C’mon, this the best you got? Show me how superior you are, Blackw--” With his left hand, Blackwood formed an energy shield that he bashed Superman in the face with. The force of the blow sent Superman flying through the apartment’s wall. He crashed into the street below. The force of his impact created a small crater in the asphalt. He had narrowly avoided landing on a passing car. “Okay,” he said softly to himself. “ARGUS didn’t mention what kind of superpowers you had, probably above my security clearance…” Blackwood leapt from the hole in the apartment wall and landed on the street. Superman got to his feet and looked at Blackwood. He’d now formed an energy sword in his right hand to go with the shield in his left hand. “You know,” said Blackwood. “I know so many people who would love to be where I’m standing right now.” “I’m sure they’re just as charming as you,” Superman said, his eyes focusing on the “Make America White Again” tattoo on Blackwood’s neck. “I’m sure there’s plenty of Superman practice targets hanging up back in the old compound.” “I’m gonna mount your fucking head up alongside those targets when I’m done,” spat Blackwood. “You know… plenty of people [i]have[/i] stood where you’re standing, Blackwood.” Superman floated off the ground. His eyes glowed bright red as he flew towards Blackwood. “And they’ve all failed.”