---

Gwen’s next quip had been halfway formed when the blur of white and shadow had descended from the rooftop, colliding with one of the gunmen in a brutal dropkick. She hadn’t needed her Spider-Sense to tell her he wasn’t part of the heist crew.

“Okay, dramatic entrance points: solid nine,” she muttered, watching the caped figure land and immediately launch into a whirlwind of baton strikes. His movements had been fluid but vicious—less acrobatic than her own style, but relentless, each swing measured to incapacitate as quickly as possible.

One of the remaining gunmen turned his rifle toward the newcomer, and Gwen reacted instinctively. With a flick of her wrist, a web had shot out, snagging the weapon’s barrel and yanking it skyward just as it fired. The shot went wide, shattering a streetlight above.

"Hey now, we're not shooting the guest star," she called out, swinging low and slamming both feet into the guy’s chest, sending him sprawling. That's when she got a better view of the newly arrived and impromptu backup, mask she recognised, at least close enough, from a particularly famous set of low budget but beloved campy movies from back home. "Is that...a Moon Knight costume?" So stunned by the revelation was she, that she entirely missed the trickle of spidersense which attempted to warn her about the incoming strike, only at the last moment turned her head to see a fist being swung towards her. "Wooooo there," She called out, ducking under the blow, before swinging out the man's feet with her own leg letting him hit the ground hard enough to stun him. [color=FF1493]"No way, my old roommate used to love those films." She called out to the new figure, finally turning to regard the truck that had been under attack, and exhaling in a weary sigh at the logo printed across the doors of the armoured vehicle. Oscorp.

"I guess some things are the same." Gwen grumbled, hands falling to her hips as she considered her next move.

Punisher War Journal

This class of criminal is embarrassing. Not only are they the usual run of gutter trash, they have no decorum. No class. No sense of organization. Instead they stand around with their junk in their hands, trying to out intimidate each other. They lean against shipping containers with the obvious goal of looking the most badass. None of them are. When I get my hands throttled around them later, they'll know where they stand in the pecking order. They'll drip cowardice down their pant legs and cry out for their mothers - even though they were wearing "really cool sunglasses."

When I lock in a fresh clip to the SIG-Sauer, it almost hisses. She's as anxious to Punish as I am. I could wipe out this whole group of them from this distance, but then they would scatter. Some tough guy would turn and start blind firing. He wouldn't hit me, wouldn't come close. Instead he would just distract me from breaking the bones of all of his compatriots. Delay that sweet sweet moment where I get to hear legs snap out of the skinbags they were slagged in.

I have to wait to hear more. Micro has already maxed out the distance volume on the sound tracers. I can hear every wheeze of these idiots asthma and shudder in the cold all while keeping them thoroughly in scope. What I'm waiting for is to hear a little more information. There are things that these monsters would say to each other easily, things they'd only say to me after I show them my bone-saw. And my bone-saw is ready.

After about 30 minutes of pointless jawing, they finally bring up what I need them to. Sinister. A new type of inhalant that works with the same sort of physics as the rebreather of a scuba mask. Disgusting. More drugs to sink deeper into the cesspool of their own minds. A part of me feels remorse - their lives as worthless as cracks in pavement, and this drug the one thing that brings them some sort of peace from that reality. They will find no peace. Not while I still breathe. Not while there is still air in my lungs. They won't be allowed to sleep until I am dead. Between now and then, there is only punishment.



The War Journal isn't always written down. Sometimes, Frank Castle just narrates in his own head. Or less of a narration and more of an internal death march. A man as lonely as Frank (although he wouldn't exactly admit it) has to keep a conversation going in his head, otherwise all he will see and hear are the bloody deaths of his family. With things as bad as they are, Frank Castle has to do what he can to stay sane. The success of this is up for debate. Frank Castle will tell you he's the sanest man in the City. This part is not up for debate - he is in fact furthest from it. Psychologically speaking.

With a flash of a muzzle, the chaos reigns. Gunfire and punishment, hailing down like gods fury in the old testament. The dozen or so dealers gathered around an open trunk immediately draw their heat, looking around in a panic. Cops wouldn't just open fire like this. Not a mask either. Maybe another gang? Or else...him.

A young looking man with a lip piercing calls out to his heavy on his left, only to have the top half of his head shredded in a shotgun blast. He was mid-vowel. His friend screams and turns, thinks he makes it a few steps but it's just the dying thoughts as his synapses fire off their last - his guts hit the pavement before even his knees, as he falls face first in his own spilled viscera.

It's over in only an instant.

12 men splayed across the shipping yard docks, the car in which handled the merchandise honking an embarrassing alarm, as if having it's own seizure. Castle fired into the dashboard, putting out of it's misery (and warranty.)

He surveyed his own work. Saw blood already spattered across his white boots. It looked good. He admired his handiwork for a moment before he heard a buzz in his ear. Micro on comms, likely out of the mobile command center. "The Battle Van" he liked to call it. The Punisher clicked the confirmation button on his earpiece, alerting Micro that he was available and listening.

"Castle. Got an update regarding two of your flagged specials. Or at least possibly. First: rumor is that Eddie Brock is back in town. The Lethal Protector. Given enough time, we should be able to track him easier, set up some sort of hello." Micro sounded eager, excited. He usually only sounded this way when he had actual intel for Frank.

"Second, the Police have reported a stiff - drained of blood completely. It's the M.O of the living vampire. Could be he's got his ire up again."

"Who was the victim?" Frank asked, his voice gruff, short, stern.

"TBD. If it's not Morbius, it's someone a lot like him."

Frank considered this.

"If he's out there killing innocents, then he'll be as dead as lip-piercing over here. I need a lift. Bring the van. We're taking some of this back with us. That drug - Sinister. Take a look at it and let me know what you think. Or find someone who can." Frank closed his comms. He didn't need to tell Micro where he was, the guy was an incredible hacker - a whiz with anything computer related. He'd find him soon enough.

And then Frank has a couple people of his own to find.

Parker Residence
Chelsea, Manhattan

Then.

Aunt May always used to say, “Our choices make us who we are.” A wise woman, that May Parker. For instance: do I go to the pep rally with all my classmates, or do I take a bus halfway across town to catch the science expo? Do I use my newfound powers for good, or to make a quick buck? Do I stop the robber? How do I spend the rest of my life making up for that one mistake? What do I do when the whole city's against me… when I lose faith in myself… when I can't protect the ones I love? Where do I find the strength to carry on? Choices. In the end, that's all we are.

“Green or blue?”

Mary Jane grins up at me. I've made a lot of choices in my life – most of them bad – but she's the best of ‘em by a country mile. I truly don't know what I ever did to deserve this woman. Even now, in her “knock around” clothes, with her hair a tangle of crimson curls, I can't envision a more perfect sight. I suppose it's all part and parcel of marrying a literal supermodel. Her eyes leave mine, considering the shirts in less time than it takes me to sneeze. “Blue. You're really nervous, aren't you?”

“Not at all,” I lie. It's funny: I routinely leap from tall buildings trusting in a device I first prototyped at 15, there are honest-to-God supervillains out there who know my name and face, and yet nothing makes me come unglued faster than a simple job interview. Shrugging into the chosen shirt, I start to button it up when one of them slips between sweaty fingers. Me, sweating!

Reaching up to pluck at one of my legendary cowlicks, MJ smiles and says, “Hey, they're gonna love you. Wanna know how I know?” She slides her hand down my cheek. “Because I love you. So just get out of that big head of yours, and show them who you are.”

This woman! She could make me believe I can move mountains – and for her, maybe I could. Showing my appreciation with a kiss, I then pause for a second and ask, “You mean ‘big’ in the metaphorical sense, right? Not ‘big’ like, ‘Oh my God, get a load of the melon on that guy!’” MJ just rolls her eyes, leaving me to finish getting dressed on my own.

With the help of Dr. Connors – the only former member of the Sinister Six on the Parker Christmas card list – I've secured an interview with the Dean of Science at Empire State University. After dropping out of postgrad years ago, I made myself a promise that one day I'd go back; I just never imagined it might be as a teacher, rather than as a student. Honestly, I don't know that I'm ready for this step… but I think it's past time that Peter Parker, not just Spider-Man, started giving back.

Slinging a messenger bag over my head, I start making for the front door when MJ whistles at me. “Forgetting something?” She walks up, holding something red loosely in her hand. Extending it my way, she says, “I don't really want to see pictures of you wearing a paper bag again.”

“That was one time,” I insist, taking my mask from her and slipping it in the bag. I give her another quick kiss for luck, take a deep breath, and then turn the knob.

“Hey!” MJ calls as I'm halfway out the door. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

---

Empire State University
Greenwich Village, Manhattan

Now.

One advantage to teaching at a school you once attended is that you already know the lay of the land. You never have to stop anybody for directions, you know where all the cleanest bathrooms are, and you know which buildings don't lock their roof access doors – if, like me, you happen to benefit from that sort of information. Landing on top of the Frenz School for the Arts building with a tumble, I quickly strip off my mask, gloves, and boots and start layering on my civilian clothes.

From there, it's a short sprint to the College of Science building. A good thing, too, as the ringing of the ESU clocktower alerts me that I'm running late. Again. I never can seem to shake that reputation… One of these days, I ought to take a look at rigging up an entrance for that rooftop instead. Would make coming and going much easier, although it's probably best that Spider-Man is never skulking around where Professor Parker is known to be.

I make it to Room 220 not a moment too soon, as some of my students have started gathering their things. “Uh-uh, not so fast!” I announce, bursting into the room. There's a performative groan as people start slumping back into their seats. I can only grin. “Almost had me that time. C'mon, you really thought I'd miss DNA day? Now, who's ready to talk nucleotides?” Another collective grumble, which I wave away.

It feels good being in front of a classroom again. My time at Midtown High was enlightening, if short. In retrospect, that highly-regimented schedule was never going to work with my other “job,” but it reignited a passion for science that had laid dormant for years; it's easy sometimes to forget that this world was my life long before there ever was a Spider-Man. It's nice to stop and smell the Bunsen burners again.

As ever, the minutes slip away faster than I anticipated. Much of this job comes naturally to me, but effective time management is one skill I've yet to master. I've prepared way more material than we have time to cover in a single lecture. On the bright side, the students at least seem fairly engaged – well, except for Jeremy Hinkle, who apparently thinks this is Napping 101. “Yes, Anastasia?” I say, calling on the spectacled girl in front as she raises her hand.

“I read something about topoisomerase inhibitors being used in chemotherapy. Can you explain how that works?”

I hesitate before responding, not due to the question itself but instead by something at the back of the room which draws my eye. There's a person sitting in the back row who's not enrolled in my course. A person I've not seen in quite some time. Realizing that Anastasia is waiting for a reply, I tear my eyes away and meet her concerned stare with a smile. “That's actually a fascinating explanation, but not one we have time for today. Maybe next class,” I explain.

I lock eyes with the figure in the back and then check my watch. “Actually, since time’s almost up, let's pause here for the day, gang,” I announce. “If we start getting into RNA now, I'll never let you leave.” That elicits a polite – if forced – chuckle from the class. I make sure to maintain a calm, disarming demeanor as I remind them about the reading for next time, though I doubt many hear me over the rustling of backpacks.

Once the classroom has emptied, I can approach my old acquaintance. “Been a while, Felicia,” I say, only slightly guarded. After all, it's not everyday the Black Cat pays you an unannounced visit. “If you've just signed up for the course, you should know my grading style is tough but fair.”

Morbius tightened his grip on the woman and turned his glowing crimson gaze toward Luke.

"Ah, yes." he rasped, his voice raw from the smoke but still laced with that wry, unshaken arrogance. "Because clearly, I thought to myself 'Why merely feed in the shadows when I could dramatically incinerate my meal in front of a crowd?'" He adjusted his stance, shifting the woman slightly in his grasp to better support her weight. The fire was worsening, embers cascading from the ceiling like dying stars. They had no time for this. "We both know I'm not the type to like my meat well-done, I am attempting to save this woman, not drain her." he continued, irritation creeping into his tone. "But if you’d rather we argue until the building collapses around us, by all means, please, continue with the threats."

His eyes flicked toward the nearest compromised wall. It wouldn't hold much longer. He met Luke's gaze again, his brow furrowed. Cage was a professional, much more experienced in saving folk from burning houses than he was. He didn't doubt that the hero for hire could probably save the woman and make it back in time to go toe-to-toe with him.

"If you truly wish to help, then I suggest we move. Now." He held the woman up with one arm, the other hand slyly extending the claws just in case Cage leapt in for a punch.

Ahhh, hell. Now that I'm thinkin' about it, I remember hearing stories about some kinda 'good vampire' runnin' around. What was the name- Morbid-something? Moebius, like the artist? Something like that.

So either I'm making threats at probably the only not-evil blood-sucker out there, or this guy's a regular-evil vampire pretending to be the not-evil one and hoping I can't tell the difference. Either way, I'm probably gonna come outta this looking like a jackass.

"Man," I shake my head, "You're lucky I ain't Blade. Hold up!"

One of the corners begins to buckle, and the roof threatens to cave in on us. I rush forward, bracing the structure as much as I can to keep a good ten tons of concrete and duct-work from crushing us.

"Nnnngh!" I grunt from the strain. Ten tons isn't even half of what I can press on a good day, but I'm already gettin' worn out, and the air's gettin' thin from the fire and smoke. It's even harder since I'm trying to do it all with one hand.

I've got my phone in the other, pulling up the H4H app, and more specifically the floor plans of this building from the database Danny's tech guys compiled for us.

"Okay," I say through ragged breaths as I hold up the collapsing ceiling, "There's a fire escape at the end of the hall, leads to the back alley. Should be able to get people to safety without drawin' too much attention to yourself. I've cleared out the lower floors, but there might be a few more folks up here. Don't open any closed doors-- don't wanna cause a backdraft."

A chunk of concrete breaks free and crashes hard into the floor. I feel the floor start to give way under my feet, and know that the rest is gonna start coming down any second.

"An' hey," I call out to the vampire, "You see a bigass tarantula crawlin' around on your way? You leave that little creep to me-- that one's personal."

---

_{Featuring: @Eddie Brock as Peter Parker}


I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not officially. Not sentimentally. And yet, there I was—slipping through a side door with all the ease and subtlety of a shadow stretching under the frame. No one heard me. No one ever did unless I wanted them to.

With my hood pulled low and my hands tucked into my jacket pockets, I was just another figure sliding into a back-row seat, unnoticed and unassuming. The lecture hall was modest, though a couple dozen students sat hunched throughout the rows, taking notes, or pretending to. Like me, their focus was tethered to the man at the front of the room.

Peter Parker.

He hadn’t changed much. Not really. A little more stubble along the jawline, maybe. Softer eyes. But he carried himself differently now. Just… fuller. More settled. A man who has carved out a life and found a way to live inside it. Not the scrappy vigilante I used to swing rooftops with. Not the young man with guilt in his spine and too much weight on his shoulders. He stood straighter now and spoke with confidence. Dressed sharper, too. He even wore a wedding ring.

Mary Jane must’ve taught him to iron his shirts.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my position, and tried not to fidget. I wasn’t here to cause trouble. Still, I could feel an itch behind my ribs. That gnawing sensation that showed up every time I revisited the past.

I remembered rooftops and moonlight, gloved hands brushing mine as we passed stolen breath and banter like it was currency. I also remembered the exact moment it all fell apart. My sabotage always came gift-wrapped in charm, a talent I honed over many years.

I tamped down on my reverie. The past was a locked door—one I shouldn't try to pick.

He noticed me then.

It was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but I caught the hesitation in his sentence, the hitch in his breath. His gaze lingered a second too long in my direction. Then, just like that, the lecture was winding down. Students filed out in the usual clatter—bags slung over shoulders, earbuds back in, caffeine-fueled conversations already moving on.

I stayed in my seat.

Peter crossed the room once it emptied, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure whether to greet me or call campus security. “Been a while, Felicia,” he said.

I smiled. Not the mischievous one I used to wear like perfume—just a soft curve at the corners of my mouth.

“Long enough for the world to spin a few times,” I replied.

He tilted his head. “If you've just signed up for the course, you should know my grading style is tough but fair.”

That got the faintest chuckle out of me. “Please, Parker. We both know I’d have the answer key before the semester began.”

"Assuming you haven't developed a sudden interest in biochemistry, then to what do I owe the pleasure?"

I stood slowly, every motion deliberate. Didn’t want him thinking I was there for the wrong reasons. Even if part of me wasn’t sure what the right ones were.

I reached into my jacket and pulled the vial from my inner pocket, holding it at eye level between us. The fluid shimmered in its little glass prison—iridescent, slick, unnatural—like someone had distilled a nightmare and added glitter.

"I need your help," I said, my voice soft, matter-of-fact.

"Huh... maybe a little biochemistry after all." Peter turned the vial slowly, watching the faint luster in the liquid shift as if hiding something. "Should I know what this is?"

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. It’s weird. Which means it’s your wheelhouse.”

"Flattered you'd come to me, Felicia." His eyes flicked down to his watch for a beat, then back to mine.

I was intruding. I knew that. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have involved myself in his life again. He didn’t want me here, but Peter was a nice guy, and he’d never tell me to go away. It was one of his many traits that was both admirable and sweet. And exploitable.

I pushed down those thoughts, as well as the shameful regrets that still lurked.

Casting a pointed look at our somewhat open setting, I continued. “Look, I’ll happily tell you all I know, but not here. If you’ve got somewhere private, I’ll fill you in on this,” I plucked the vial from his grasp, “and the ghost that left it behind.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up just enough for me to know I had hooked him. He looked at me for a long second, then nodded.

"There's a vacant lab downstairs this period. If you've got time, we can hop in, have a look. I will have to insist that you wear safety goggles, though."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Maybe the past was a locked door. Maybe it was a revolving one. Either way—I’d just stepped through it.

“Lead the way.”

Ahhh, hell. Now that I'm thinkin' about it, I remember hearing stories about some kinda 'good vampire' runnin' around. What was the name- Morbid-something? Moebius, like the artist? Something like that.

So either I'm making threats at probably the only not-evil blood-sucker out there, or this guy's a regular-evil vampire pretending to be the not-evil one and hoping I can't tell the difference. Either way, I'm probably gonna come outta this looking like a jackass.

"Man," I shake my head, "You're lucky I ain't Blade. Hold up!"

One of the corners begins to buckle, and the roof threatens to cave in on us. I rush forward, bracing the structure as much as I can to keep a good ten tons of concrete and duct-work from crushing us.

"Nnnngh!" I grunt from the strain. Ten tons isn't even half of what I can press on a good day, but I'm already gettin' worn out, and the air's gettin' thin from the fire and smoke. It's even harder since I'm trying to do it all with one hand.

I've got my phone in the other, pulling up the H4H app, and more specifically the floor plans of this building from the database Danny's tech guys compiled for us.

"Okay," I say through ragged breaths as I hold up the collapsing ceiling, "There's a fire escape at the end of the hall, leads to the back alley. Should be able to get people to safety without drawin' too much attention to yourself. I've cleared out the lower floors, but there might be a few more folks up here. Don't open any closed doors-- don't wanna cause a backdraft."

A chunk of concrete breaks free and crashes hard into the floor. I feel the floor start to give way under my feet, and know that the rest is gonna start coming down any second.

"An' hey," I call out to the vampire, "You see a bigass tarantula crawlin' around on your way? You leave that little creep to me-- that one's personal."

The floor vibrated beneath Morbius' feet, dust sifting down from the ceiling in thick, choking waves. The sound of strained steel and shifting concrete told him exactly what Cage had already realized, this place was about to come down.

Morbius adjusted the woman in his arms, crouching slightly as another burst of heat rolled through the hallway. He spared a glance toward Cage - back arched beneath the falling weight of a building, one arm extended skyward, the other thumbing through a phone with near-casual defiance. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, he was glad Cage believed him, even if it was under duress.

He shot him a nod in thanks, turning over his shoulder to face the fire escape at the end of the hallway and then glancing back at the hero-for-hire.
"Understood. I'll check the top floors for any survivors. Remind me to take your card sometime, Cage, you heroes for hire are a lot more organised than I gave you credit for." He pulled the woman up onto his shoulder. Another support beam buckled with a groan behind him. The building was dying. "And, no" he added with a slight glance back, a dry edge threading into his tone. "No tarantulas. But if I see any eight-legged creatures, I'll be sure to let them know Luke Cage sends his regards."

With that he lunged forward towards the fire escape, launching himself out of the window and down the fire escape, dropping himself down each railing with one hand while holding the woman with the other. He reached the ground and dropped her within distance of the gathering crowd, but far enough not to be seen. Her vision groggily began to come back to her in time to see the pale figure gently lay her down and shoot up against the wall of the opposite building, throwing himself each handhold and then finally into the night sky as he reached the top.

He turned, gliding a bit as he focused his senses into the building. He concentrated, using his psychic energy to drown out the noise of the fire and the yammering crowd, sending a sonar call bouncing off of the interior walls. For a moment he thought it was all for naught, that anyone left had escaped the blaze. And then he heard it, the coughing and crying of a child. His eyes burst open, he acted fast, diving down to the nearest window and corkscrewing his body through the glass.

He skidded against the floor on his shoulder, fire licking at his face as he pushed himself up off of the floor. The fire was rising, and the ground beneath him was collapsing.

He moved low, almost crawling, trailing smoke as he pressed through the wreckage. Every breath burned in his chest despite his mutated lungs, the sheer heat warping the air around him, pulling tears from his eyes that hissed and evaporated as they fell.

The child's sobs echoed through the smoke - somewhere to his right, down a corridor that looked more like a furnace than a hallway. A chunk of ceiling came crashing down just behind him, forcing him to leap forward, talons gouging into the wall to catch himself before his feet found the floor again.

"Hold on," he muttered under his breath. "I'm coming."

He found the child curled beneath an overturned metal desk, a thin line of blood running down his temple, his face streaked with soot. The fire had boxed him in, a ring of flames isolating the corner like a cage.

Morbius didn't hesitate. He flung his arm wide, the membrane of his glider-like wings snapping open as he charged through the fire. The heat clawed at his skin, blistering even him, but he pushed through, ducking down to rip the desk aside and scoop the child into his arms.

The floor gave out beneath his feet almost immediately.

He twisted midair, holding the boy tight as they plummeted. For one heart-pounding second, there was only the rush of air and falling debris, and then he latched onto the jagged edge of the floor below with one bloodied claw, swinging them into the next room with a grunt of exertion.

They landed hard, but alive.

The child coughed violently in his arms, but clung to Morbius with tiny, trembling fingers. There was no time for comfort. Another crack split the ceiling above them. The whole building was moments from collapse.

Morbius backed toward the shattered remnants of a window, eyeing the distance to the next rooftop. He'd done worse jumps. With one arm wrapped around the child, he leapt again out into the smoke-choked sky, wings unfurling to catch what lift they could.

He landed hard on the adjacent rooftop, knees buckling under the weight of the fall as he rolled with the boy in his arms, coming to a stop near the far edge of the building. He released the boy, crawling up to his feet as he coughed out smoke.

The boy stirred, sitting back and staring through hazy eyes at the figure that had rescued him. His small face was streaked with ash and blood, his hair singed and eyes wide, pupils darting across Morbius' features; taking in the monstrous eyes, the gaunt, predatory face, the fangs just barely hidden behind parted lips. The boy tensed, breath catching.

Morbius didn't speak. Didn't move. He just stared back, unmoving and still as a statue, the night wind catching the tattered edges of his wings. He didn't know what to say, what to do.

The boy blinked. Then sniffed, wiping a dirty sleeve across his face. His gaze lingered on Morbius' claws, the wings tucked tight to his back, the unnatural pallor of his skin.

"You're...not like the others." he squeeked. "You're weird."

Morbius raised one brow slightly. A smile playing on the corners of his lips.

The boy hesitated, then added, "But...you saved me."

Still, Morbius said nothing. But after a beat, he gave a small nod. The boy smiled back.

A commotion rose from the alley below, firefighters yelling, someone shouting for survivors. Lights flashed, illuminating the rooftop like lightning. Morbius stood, lifting the boy once more and crossing the roof in long, silent strides. At the edge, he paused, then dropped down between two buildings with barely a sound.

He set the boy down in the shadows near the first responders. A paramedic spotted him and broke into a run. The boy turned, glancing back. But Morbius was already gone, disappearing into the night.

M O O N K N I G H T
M O O N K N I G H T

I barely register that the woman says something about a Moon Knight costume, but it's odd enough to stick with me as I continue to beat on the thugs. Fighting is second nature to me. The rest of the world fades into the background. There's just me and the unfortunate bastards that I'm taking down. I bat away a rifle barrel with one baton while bringing the other up into the crook's chin, snapping his head back and allowing me to deliver a kick to his chest that sends him stumbling onto his ass.

That should be the last of them.

"No way, my old roommate used to love those films."

I look back to the woman who's standing in front of the truck and examining the Oscorp logo on it. She mentioned a Moon Knight costume earlier, as if there would be costumes of me after some of my... Less than pleasant episodes. And now she's talking about movies? All I can muster up in response to her is: "... What? What are you talking about?"

The alley reeked of bleach.

Morbius crouched on the rooftop ledge, watching the narrow space below like a hawk watching a field already stripped of prey. Three nights had passed since another body was found, bloodless, lifeless, dumped like garbage between two dumpsters off Delancey. The newspapers called it a "cult killing." Social media screamed vampires. The cops had already moved on, another body tagged and bagged in a city too busy to mourn its dead. But Morbius hadn't left. Something about this whole thing was wrong. Wronger than usual. He'd seen his fair share of weirdos on both sides of the super spectrum, but this was just weird.

He dropped down silently, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. The chalk outline had already faded, washed away by the rain, but the scent still lingered. Not blood, that was long gone. It was something else, something sharp and chemical. The kind of smell you didn't associate with an alley but with a lab. Or worse, a hospital that stopped caring about patients.

He knelt, talons tracing the cracked concrete. No drag marks. The body hadn't been moved here postmortem, it had died here. A controlled space. Cleaned afterward. Too clean. His fingers brushed a piece of metal tucked against the wall. It was small, he almost missed it. A needle. No, not quite, a fine syringe, still capped, marked with faded lettering. He held it up to the moonlight. Most of the print had worn off, but three words were still faintly legible.

"Trial Use Only."

His eyes narrowed. He slipped the syringe into a pouch on his belt and turned to leave, then paused. A faint vibration ran through the bricks beside him. Not sound, not movement. Something deeper. A whine, almost imperceptible, building beneath the surface like a buried machine.

He followed it.

Running into an ex can dredge up complicated feelings – doubly so if that ex is someone you've once turned over to the authorities.

Felicia and I have had a… mercurial relationship, to say the least. We haven't always seen eye-to-eye on little issues like morality, property ownership, or the merits of keeping a secret identity, but neither can we pretend that we don't care deeply for each other. For a time, I even thought maybe she was the one. I wonder if she ever felt the same? Somehow, I don't think either answer would make me feel better.

Regardless, that's all in the past now. Last I heard, Black Cat had gone straight. I hope that's true. We've been on the same side of the law before; maybe this time, it'll finally stick. When it comes to looking for the best in others, I'm a glutton for punishment. “Is this for your agency?” I ask, broaching the subject. At a look from Felicia, I explain, “I haven't left the Bugle. Have you seen what teaching pays? Anyway, I hear things.”

She nods, her face a serene mask that I have trouble analyzing. “It's for a case,” she confirms. I can't shake the feeling that there's more to the story, but she's remaining tight-lipped, and I wanna respect her reasons for that.

I pause, waiting for a bleary-eyed postgrad to pass out of earshot. “I think that's great, Felicia. Really.” She doesn't need my approval, I know, but I want her to know she has it, anyway. Lord knows I've given her enough lectures to counterbalance the scales. Maybe I was meant to be a teacher… or maybe it just comes with being raised by Ben and May Parker.

Reaching the laboratory, we find it deserted, as expected. “Alright,” I begin, consulting the clock on the far wall, “we've got a little over an hour ‘til the next period. That should be enough time to get you the beginning of an answer, at least.” I grab two coats, goggles, and pairs of nitrile gloves from the cabinets by the door, offering the extras to Felicia. “It's a teacher thing,” I say with a shrug. And it'll avoid any awkward questions if someone does walk in.

“Not my usual style,” Felicia smirks, turning over the safety goggles in her hand as if wondering the least unflattering way to put them on. Gratefully, however, she does without a hint of complaint.

With the matter of PPE resolved, I can roll up my metaphorical sleeves and get to work. Time is against us, so I decide to prepare multiple samples so I can run tests simultaneously. Whatever Felicia brought me is a nasty, little piece of business. The amber liquid swirls in its vial, not quite as thick as blood but shot through with dark, shimmery particulates. I separate it out into four samples in total, leaving about a thimble’s worth in the original container.

Putting a slide under the microscope, I see just how disjointed this concoction really is. Multiple solutes float half-dissolved in the matrix like the world's worst pharmacological soup. Chaotic doesn't even begin to describe it. When I expose the mixture to UV light, it glows. Could just be fluorescent markers, but smart money's on this stuff being metabolically active. Whatever this is, it was made for a purpose.

I roll my chair over to the next station to check on the solubility tests. “Stable in water, alcohol, and oil,” I note aloud, inspecting each test tube in turn. The last tube gives the results of pH testing. “Slightly alkaline… probably as a buffer to preserve the chemical agents.” I spin to face Felicia. “Whatever it is, it's designed for fast absorption. Some kind of super drug?”

Spectrophotometry starts to paint a picture. I show Felicia the initial readout, pointing to areas of interest with a pen. “This spike here is consistent with anabolic steroids. Plenty of amino acid derivatives spread throughout. And this one here? I've only seen that once before.” I find her eyes, making sure she takes in this next point clearly. “That's the same absorption peak that you get when you analyze Mutant Growth Hormone.”

Concern touches her features – only briefly, and you'd have to know her like I do to catch it. I watch as her eyes trace constellations over the readout. “Same as in same, or same as in similar?” Felicia asks, her voice a little tight. She looks up at me. “Just so I'm clear on how concerned I should be.”

Mutant Growth Hormone – MGH – is the ultimate boogeyman drug. Any Joe Blow who gets their hands on it can give themselves superpowers, albeit without controlling which powers nor for how long. And if a mutant or superhuman takes it, their natural abilities are augmented tenfold. In the wrong hands, the results can be catastrophic.

I can only shrug. “Too soon to say.” I leave the spectrophotometer to consult the results of the paper chromatography tests I had set up. The components haven't had time to fully separate, but there's enough for some broad observations. “Oh, this just gets better,” I laugh joylessly. “That peak is consistent with methamphetamine. Definitely confirmation of the steroids, too, and there's some kind of protein I can't identify… almost looks like testosterone, but that structure’s not human. Primate, maybe?”

Leaning back in my chair, I lift my goggles and rub my eyes. Somehow, I feel worse than when we started. “Chemically speaking, this shouldn't do anything except give the user a massive heart attack. If I had more time and easy access to a mass spectrometer, I might be able to tell you more… All I can hypothesize is that someone is clearly trying to ‘improve’ MGH. Maybe make the effects more predictable? I don't know.”

Felicia nods, and I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She slips off her goggles, dangling them from a finger. After another moment, she says, “That confirms my hunch, then. There's no way this stuff is being used for any valid medical purposes. Which means I need to have a little chat with my client.” Then, as if an afterthought, she adds, “After I break into his office and take a close look at his business records, of course.”

I want to press on that, but I've left only enough time to clean up and slip out before anyone finds us. After taking the coat and goggles back from Felicia, I put everything back the way I found it. “Let's walk,” I tell her.

“I need your… expertise on one more thing,” Felicia says while I flick off the lights. It doesn't take the glimmer in her eyes to know that she's not talking about “expertise” of the biochemical variety. “That ghost I mentioned earlier. Have any run-ins with something like that before? Any idea of who or what I might be dealing with?”

Frowning, I consider what she told me of the mystery thief. “There's no shortage of weirdos in my Rolodex, but no one who can walk through solid walls.” I smirk. “Well, not unless Kitty Pryde has taken an unexpected turn into a life of crime, anyway.” Sensing that this guy really got under her skin, I offer, “I can try poking around, maybe get you a better answer. Stories like this tend to travel.”

Once outside, I surreptitiously return the vial with the remaining serum. “If I were you, I'd throw that in the East River.” As we turn a corner onto the quad, I grab Felicia’s arm. “I know you can handle yourself, so I don't want you to think I'm doubting you when I say: I don't like the idea of you flying solo on this. If you want backup, I've just got to make a call.”

She looks not at me but at my hand on her arm. I wonder for a moment what's running through her head, until I recognize the glint of sunlight on my wedding band. I can't know that that's what Felicia is seeing, but I swear she stiffens first before slipping out of my grasp as casual as ever. Her hands find her pockets, and if I didn't know her better, I'd buy that she's unfazed. “That's… tempting. I appreciate the offer, and maybe I'll take you up on it one day, but I've got this.”

I nod. “I know you do.”

Without another word, Felicia turns her back and starts heading down the quad. She only makes it a step or two before spinning on her heel to add, “Besides, I've got luck on my side.”

---

"You know, adventure films, kinda cheesey, Ancient Egypt stuff." Gwen spoke as she worked, a lacing of web starting to coat the complex mechanicsm of the armoured car's complex looking lock. She was sure this would have triggered some sort of alarm, but if there wasn't some sort of alert already going off in Oscorp after the initial attack than the Oscorp of this reality was far less dangerous, and competent, than her own. Once the lattice was complete, she struck hard with her fist, a each strand of web pulling with force on a different component of the lock, before the metallic structure simply failed, the sheet metal doors popping open with an almost anticlimatic creak.

Gwen paused as she surveyed the inside of the vehicle. It wasn't immediately obvious to her what she was looking at, but it certainly gave off 'her' Oscorp vibes. There was a lot of things glowing green held in secure, but transparent, containers. If it was anything like the experiments her old friend Harry had been running towards the end, this was certainly not good for this New York. She paused to select one of the containers, a secure vial, holding it close to her as she examined it. Unfamilar, but that didn't mean good. Probably did mean bad. At this point she turned to face her masked ally again, something dawning on her.

"Wait...if those aren't a thing here why are you dressed as..." Gwen stood with a hand on her hip, the other twirling the no doubt dangerous experiment with carefree grace, before she suddenly paused. "Is Moonknight real here!?" Her sudden exclamation was cut off but the deafening clarion of sirens, and the whirl of copter blades, drawing increasingly close. She didn't have any plans in involving with herself with the authorities here at the best of times, let alone standing over the loot of an Oscorp vehicle, even if she had helped subdue the original attackers. "No time for that, gotta dash!" She called out before webbing counter to the motion she originaly began rushing in, immediately causing a powerful moment force which catapulted her into the air. She'd have to move quickly to hide before drawing too much attention.

She really hoped that she hadn't ruined things for 'the' actual Moon Knight.

Focus. Concentrate. Center yer mind.

Elektra sat cross-legged in the darkness of her room, the words of her mentor Stick revertabrating through her head. Meditation was a skill that would serve her well, if she could master it. Despite embarking on the path of restoration, the dark embers of her past were hot on her trail. Telling her to withdraw into herself, that she was tainted beyond salvation, that there was only one thing she was good for: spreading death.

Those intrusive thoughts of yers? That negativity? It's so hard to deal with 'em because you've been indulgin' in 'em for so long. Like sittin' around in yer own filth and gettin' used to the stench.

Elektra's digital clock had been unplugged as to put her in total darkness, but she knew it had been some time since she had started. Every attempt to find something resembling serenity was thwarted by her own mind. The best way to describe her struggle was in terms of a battle. In meditating, Elektra sought to fortify her mental defenses and create a barrier to isolate her from the darkness within. In turn, her darkness raged against her meager defenses, bursting through the barriers and unleashing its forces like a plague. The heroine's first instinct was to fight back, perhaps with a positive memory to shine against the umber, but that would go against Stick's instructions.

Yer a warrior, Elektra, so it makes sense why yer first reaction is to fight. But meditation ain't no fight. It's a way for ya to sift through the noise and observe yer thoughts, unaffected.

It had been years since Elektra had recieved Stick's lesson on meditation. And she was still performing just as poor as back then. It was what drove her away from him and The Chaste in the first place. In Stick's words, if she couldn't let go of that pain and anger, then all that the Chaste's teachings would do was give her the ability to brandish them like weapons. Which is exactly what The Hand did when she joined their ranks.

With a huff, Elektra rose to her feet. It appeared that once again, inner peace would escape her grasp. She could infiltrate the most secure fortresses and take on legions of enemies to reach her target, but in a battle with herself, she was as good as lost. If she couldn't fight against the thoughts, she would have to evade them. Taking a few steps forward in the darkness, she reached for the doorknob and re-introducing sunlight into her life. Most of the windows' blinds were pulled up, putting the morning sky on full display. No longer in seclusion, Elektra began to put together the day's schedule. McKinley and King wanted to speak with her at the dojo as soon as possible, then she had to check in on her connection at the NYPD. It had been some time since Michael Morrisey contacted her with an assignment. Or anything, for that matter. But before she could consider checking in on him, a more pressing matter had just been detected. Watching TV in the living room was a bright eyed and bushy tailed blonde teenager. Thankfully, she hadn't detected Elektra's arrival yet, giving her time to prevent an awkward interaction. It had been a month since her father's death, but Elektra was still getting used to living with another person. Especially someone whose father's passing she had a hand in. No amount of training would have prepared her for this.

When Elektra fell for a taunt by Bullseye to bring her out in the open, Nina and her father were caught in the crossfire, standing in close proximity to a trap laid by the male assassin. Pushing his daughter out of the way, Nina's father was killed when a fire escape was dropped on him. Nina was furious at Elektra at first, but she warmed up to the heroine after she saved her from some seedy people she met after running away from the hospital. With the blonde refusing to stay with her overbearing grandparents, Elektra took her in. There was a parallel between the two that was impossible to ignore, and the ex-assassin couldn't and wouldn't stand by and let another soul share her fate. The question now was how to handle Nina. Should she try to become her ward's buddy or to steer her towards independence as soon as possible? So far, Elektra had been stalling that decision, treating her like a sponsee. Making sure that there was food in the fridge and that she was comfortable. The brunette was about to start with a greeting and ask if she needed anything from the store when the news went for a commercial break and Nina got up, turning around and stopping when she saw Elektra.

"Elektra! Good morning!" She said with a smile. "Still in your pajamas? Usually, you're up at the crack of dawn!"

The older woman gave a small smile and a nod in return. Nina was in high spirits, which was a good thing. "Good morning. I was taking some time to meditate before planning my day."

"And what do you have planned for today? Anything I can tag along for?" The sixteen year old replied hopefully.

Elektra felt for Nina. She was always looking to do something with her, but Elektra was always occupied. And even if she did have time, they most likely had differing ideas on what a good time entailed. "I'm afraid not. You're more than welcome to explore the neighborhood if you'd like. Do you still have the spare key I gave you?"

The girl nodded, her cheerful disposition still present but noticably dampened. "Right. I think I'm good, though."

Elektra nodded again, noticing her change in tone. There was a brief silence between the two that Elektra couldn't find the words to fill before she returned to her room, coming back out with a towel. "Well, if you chang your mind, the option is always there." With a quickened pace, Elektra entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

"Anyone--*coughcough*--anyone still up here?" I call out, my voice barely audible over the roar of the flames, the crumbling of wood and masonry. My eyes are watering and my lungs are burning from the thick black smoke that makes it almost impossible to see. Since the whole place is comin' down anyway, I'm not exactly careful when I run into a wall or a door, and I crash through them without much of a care.

Looks like that pale-ass undead fella was good to his word- I'm not seeing anyone else up here, an' I don't see any evidence he hurt anybody. Still, I wanna be thorough while I'm up here; gettin' left in a burning building's a bad way to go. Not to mention leavin' a civilian in harm's way would be bad for H4H's rep. Better make damn sure the coast is clear before I--

"G'ahhhh!" I yelp as what look like a pair of hairy brown hands drop down from the ceiling and onto my face. I'm just about to bring my hands up and crush them before I realize it's 'Mister Mittens,' that kid's stupid tarantula.

"I swear," I growl as I stomp towards the fire exit at the end of the hall, holding the big hairy spider in my hands--not tight enough to hurt the bug but just enough so it can't get away again, "When this is over, you an' me are gonna have ourselves a--"

The floorboards creak underneath my feet, in a real un-assuring kind of way.

"....awwww, shit," I manage, as the creaks become cracks, and the cracks become a deafening crash. The floor gives out from under me, and I fall.

And I fall.

And I fall.

And I fall.

The whole damn building starts comin' down, and I get bounced around like a pinball in the debris. I go ass-over-head again and again, smashing into concrete beams and smashing through rebar. Everything's fire and rubble and smoke and dust and so much noise, an' the only thing I can focus on is keepin' this stupid goddamn tarantula from gettin' smashed by all of it.

Eventually, the falling and the tumbling and the crashing come to a stop. I'm so spun around I can't tell which way is up...until a piece of old iron pipe clangs against the back of my head, and I decide that 'up' is where all this shit keeps fallin' on me from. That helps me get my bearings, and I start digging myself out.

"Well, we couldn't save the building," I mutter as I dig with one hand, keeping Mister Mittens gently but firmly in my grasp with the other, "so at best I'm only gettin' paid half rate for this gig. Still, could be worse- don't think we lost anybody, human or arachnid. So an ugly win's still a win."

Once I get enough of myself dug out from the rubble that I can push with my legs, I climb out into the pitch-dark of what must be some kinda sub-basement. Funny, the floor plans the landlord gave me for Spring Water Flats didn't include any sub-levels...

"Ahhh hell," I grumble as I pull out my phone and see the screen is completely shattered. So much for that protective case Danny was insistent I spent the extra money on. "Guess I'll have to wait til I get back to the office to check the files. Still, maybe the flashlight still works. I'd like to at least be able to see where the hell I am."

After a few moments of dumbly fumbling around with the sad remains of my phone, I somehow manage to get the flashlight going. "Now what's going on down here," I wonder, "I just got done shakin' down one shady-ass landlord. If I gotta do it again, I'm gonna be--..."

The flashlight's beam catches a couple of big red plastic objects. Gas cans. So much for this bein' a case of faulty wiring.

Someone burned this place down on purpose. Bringing the beam around the rest of the sub-basement, I start to see why.

"Sweet Christmas...."

Having spent plenty of time on both sides of the law, I've seen my fair share of drug labs. Enough to know the difference between a couple of rednecks cooking in the back of their trailer and a professional operation. And enough to know the difference between someone trying to make a new kind of high, and someone trying to make some real serious shit.

Most of the lab equipment has been burned or wrecked, and there's plenty of empty spaces along the walls, shelves, and counters. Whoever was in here, they must have left in too much of a hurry to leave without a trace, so they grabbed whatever they could take with them an' then torched everything else. What's left of it, though, is way above the pay grade of your average drug operation. I see a few uncomfortably familiar logos on the scorched machinery.

Oscorp.

Roxxon.

Advanced Idea Mechanics.

Even some Stark Industries equipment-- hell, I think I recognize some of this stuff from Dr. Burnstein's experiments that gave me my powers.

"Damn," I say under my breath, "This is some big league shit, Mister Mittens. Whatever these guys were workin' on, we're gonna need to find it an' shut it down. 'cause this is the exact sorta thing that might just cause half the damn city to...."

My flashlight catches something in the middle of a pile of charred wreckage. A broken shard of something, something....orange....

"...explode..."

The perp doused this whole place in gas to burn it. But he didn't just use a match to start the fire.

That shard right there, and the other bright orange shards around it...

...that's a Pumpkin Bomb.

The elevator opened with a soft chime, and Morbius stepped out into silence. Dr. Jacob Weisenthal's penthouse hadn't changed. The last time Morbius had stepped foot here he was normal, human.

Books lined every available surface, arranged with the kind of obsessive precision that spoke to either genius or madness, though with Jacob, it was always a little of both. Floor to ceiling windows gave way to a view of the city's glittering sprawl, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet within. Soft jazz murmured from a record player in the corner, it felt like centuries since Morbius had last sat with his old friend listening to records.

Morbius moved like a shadow through the room, soundless but undeniable. Jacob emerged from the kitchen in slippers and a bathrobe, a glass of something amber in hand. He froze mid-step when he saw him, almost dropping his glass before regaining his composure.

"Michael."

Morbius didn't smile. Unfortunately this wasn't the reunion Jacob had wished for.

"I need your help."

Jacob stared for a long second, then exhaled through his nose and set the glass down. "Of course you do." He walked past without fear, maybe out of old familiarity, maybe because he'd learned long ago that fear was wasted on Morbius. He gestured to the leather couch. "Sit, or brood. Either way, make yourself at home. You already let yourself in." Morbius stood, unmoving, then drew the vial from his coat and held it out. Jacob took it carefully between thumb and forefinger, squinting at the worn lettering. "‘Trial Use Only' ...Where did you find this?"

"In an alley." Morbius said bluntly. "Beside a body with no blood left. Not drained the way I'd do it. No marks. No mess. Just ..nothing."

Jacob glanced up, something flickering behind his eyes. Not fear. Concern. "You're saying it wasn't you."

"If it was..." Morbius retorted "I wouldn't be here."

Jacob turned, moving to a small desk tucked beneath a wall of medical texts. He flicked on a lamp and withdrew a case of clean instruments. "This isn’t consumer tech." he muttered. "No ID number. Nothing commercial. Probably prototype. Experimental." He uncapped the syringe, sniffed delicately, then froze.

Morbius watched him. "You recognize it?"

"I don't know what it is." Jacob said slowly. "But I know what it isn't. This isn't anesthetic. It isn't a blood thinner, and it's not a street drug. This is something else entirely. I'll need a proper analysis. Mass spectrometry, maybe." He stopped, looked back at Morbius. "You sure you want to know what this is?"

Morbius' voice was low, but steady. "I need to know who else has been playing god in my city."

Jacob nodded. "Give me a few nights."

Morbius turned to leave but hesitated at the glass doors leading to the balcony. He glanced back over his shoulder, his silhouette distorted in the reflection. "Jacob." he said, his voice sounding almost human again. "Thank you."

Jacob didn't look up, still inspecting the vial in his hands. "You can thank me when this doesn't lead to something worse."

Morbius stepped into the night. A moment later, he was gone. For Morbius, it only ever lead to something worse.

Punisher War Journal

No contact yet with Eddie Brock, AKA: Venom. I've been going over as much of his history that Micro had been able to scrounge up over the passed few weeks. Nothing much to this guy. Pretty much a nobody for most of his life up until he gets ousted as a faker at The Daily Bugle. Must have been embarrassing to get shit-canned from such a trash read. I've heard J. Jonah Jameson on news interviews - a loud blowhard with no real journalistic integrity. Only after ratings and money - another capitalist pig in this concrete hell of a city. Edward Brock then gets infected with black symbiote, a living organism capable of creating organic webbing not unlike Spider-Man himself, and enhancing Brock's strength to superhuman levels. Goood guy, bad guy, the whack-o can't seem to make up his mind. Venom had gone on something of a killing spree in the past, and has since been called a "lethal protector."

Another embarrassing nickname. Someone called me that once. Once. I'm not a protector. I'm a cleaner. These people don't get that.

Finding Brock has to take a backseat to some of the other goings on around the burroughs. Sinister is still out flooding the streets, and the people peddling it aren't just criminals out there trying to survive, but upper class. The science behind the mask and the patent from Treece - that screams something bigger. Something that would require a higher caliber bullet. I can feel an itch at my back just desperate for scratching. There are a few ways I can move next. Micro had a few ideas on places to hit hard, but I had some other ideas. Bigger picture stuff.

Next moves are open, but I've got an important stop to make. One I'm not exactly looking forward to. In fact, the idea of it almost makes me sick, if it didn't feel absolutely necessary for what I'm trying to make happen.

----

Frank was in his civilians, black clothes to be sure, but he just looked like any other asshole on the street. Or a bouncer. Or a lineman. Hard to say. The hardlines in his face certainly didn't scream "friendly guy." People avoided him as he walked along the Harlem sidewalks, whether or not they were consciously aware of it wasn't something Frank cared about. At a bodega he stopped briefly and ordered a chopped cheese with a soft drink. Delicious, even if this kind of food was for old men and fools. Still, the trek over here had been long, and when he could, Frank likes to sit in a park and...sulk? Stare? Meditate? The one big memory Frank has of being in a park ended in a bloodbath that wiped out his family. Why does he do it then? To relive it? To torture himself?

He sits, and birds chirp around him. Kids on scooters, roller-skates, couples holding hands. Dogs barking excitedly on their long walks. To Castle, this was what it was all about. This kind of peace is what he kills for. This is the kind of peaceful day at the park his family should have had.

He moves on after only a few minutes.

He had a gym bag slung over one of his broad shoulders. He adjusted it as he walked up the stone steps to his destination. A somewhat rundown looking office building. Entering through the front door, he approached a young woman working at the reception desk, someone who immediately recognized him (due to her line of work.)

Castle looked up at the giant framed photo of Powerman and Iron Fist, placing his bag on the desk in front of him and the incredulous woman.

"Hello. I have some heroes to hire."

New York City was a net negative in Elektra's mind. The ex-assassin had a life's worth of bad memories related to the city. And the few good memories she could recall left heartache in their wake. Her time studying at Colombia, her relationship with Matt, being able to run into Papa's arms, it was all bittersweet. It had been years since Elektra was anything close to a normal girl. One that could appreciate the beauty in life, or allow herself to be happy. Years of disciplined living and rigorous training had created in her an aversion to joy. But there were still a few things that could elicit a positive reaction.

As Elektra leapt from rooftop to rooftop, she permitted herself to be lost in the moment. There was nothing but her, the bright blue sky, and the buildings that made up Manhattan's Lower East Side. New York City was a cesspool, yes, but the layout of the city's infrastructure was something unrivalled in any of the other cities she had conducted business in. Every turn, every jump, every obstacle joined together to form an open-air labyrinith ripe for traversing. Elektra dropped to the ground from a high jump and broke out into a roll before continuing to rush forward, vaulting over an AC unit. Her next obstacle was a ladder up ahead, so she jumped at it, grabbing on at the middle. Climbing the rest of the way up, she slowed down her pace temporarily to lay eyes on her destination: Mac and King's Dojo. Despite the existence of her father's generous trust fund and a glut of blood money from her wetwork days, Elektra subsisted on only what she needed to survive. But besides the bare necessities, Elektra had found a particular effort to become a patron of shortly after arriving in New York City.

The dojo wasn't much to look at on the outside. Located on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the worn down and time eroded building fit right in with the rest of the economically challenged scenery. But details surrounding the exterior gave note to the care it received. There wasn't a single work of graffiti on the walls, nor litter on the sidewalk. And the small lawn that led to the front entrance was perfectly manicured. As Elektra reached the double doors that led inside, she couldn't help but notice how the rectangle of bright green grass contrasted greatly with the uncaring concrete jungle surrounding it. Despite everything around it, it continued to work at growing and thriving. Just like the dojo.

The training center had been open for half a year when it first entered Elektra's life. Former heavyweight boxer Mac Stewart and martial artist King Lau had come together to form the dojo as a way to teach the youth important self-defense skills and discipline, while also giving them a positive outlet for their energy. It also helped to keep them out of trouble around the rough neighborhood. Elektra had been out clearing her head among the borough's rooftops when she noticed some men outside the dojo putting on ski masks. Swooping down to confront the would-be robbers, she was confronted with the scene of two men wearing white gis standing over a heap of criminals while their young pupils stared in amazement. Originally intending to slip away in the aftermath of the handled situation, the duo caught her before she could depart. Their friendliness towards a complete stranger threw her off at first, but it eventually won her over. The chance meeting evolved into a friendship, and the more Elektra visited the dojo, the more she saw the impact it had on the community. Soon, she found herself assisting in its upkeep financially. She saw it as another way to atone for her past and to put her surplus of money to good use.

“One! Ha! Two! Ha!”

Inside the dojo, Mac and King were leading a group of students in practicing palm strikes. The heroine took great care in not announcing her presence, watching her two friends conduct the exercise. She slinked through the door and gently pushed it shut behind her. It was only when Lau's slender but muscular form glanced to the side that she was detected. A wide smile, typical of the Chinese martial artist, replaced his focused gaze. The mountain that was Mac Stewart, perhaps noticing it in his peripheral vision, turned to where King was looking. His reaction was more subdued, but cheerful nonetheless.

"Alright, students!" He began, his booming voice filling the room. As if a spell was cast. all action ceased "Let's take five for now."

Amidst the group of children breaking their formation, Elektra strode towards Mac and King. The latter clasped his hands and eagerly greeted her. "Ah, our benefactress has arrived! It is good to see you."

"Lau, Mac," Elektra nodded in greeting to the men. "I came here as soon as I could. What did you want to talk about?"

"It's about the dojo," Mac began. Elektra reached into her trench coat and withdrew a checkbook, which prompted King and Mac to put their hands up. Elektra raised an eyebrow quizzically. If it wasn't financial assistance they needed, then what could they use her for?

King took on a more somber look. "Mac and I were just talking the other day about what you told us. About your quest."

Elektra knew that she couldn't keep secrets if she was going to start letting people into her life, so for the sake of transparency, she saw it best to make King and Mac aware of her past. What she thought would create a divide instead bolstered their friendship. The two were immediately supportive of her cause, which is what most likely lead to this meeting today.

"You told us that you were on a path of redemption, that you wanted to bring good into this world," Mac jumped in. "So we thought, why don't you give instructing at the dojo a try?"

The suggestion felt like it came from another universe, and Elektra's face reflected that. An ex-assassin, teaching young children martial arts. The thought would be so funny, if it wasn't the reality she was living in right now. "Hm...I, um..." She started before quickly shaking off her stupefaction. "I never thought of that. You would have me teach a lesson to the youth?"

King picked up on her doubt and returned to the front. "Take a moment to think about it. You took so much from the world as an assassin. This is an opportunity to give more back to the world, and form some connections."

Mac crossed his arms and gave a small smile "Besides, the students have been wondering who the mysterious lady in the trench coat is. The general consensus is that you're either my wife or King's. Is that the reputation you wanna carry around?"

Elektra was still deep in thought about the proposal, her facial expression hardened like that of a statue. Upon hearing Mac's attempt at a quip, she released a small chuckle to show that she wasn't taking offense to the mens' offer. It was merely a chance to interact with children and teach a skill she was very good at. Perhaps her reluctance stemmed from the discomfort of having to deal with such impressionable minds. Once more, Elektra nodded her head, contemplating their words. As she mulled it over, a familiar vibration began to emanate from her pocket. Grateful for the distraction, she pulled out her flip phone and examined the phone number. Just the man I needed to hear from, and not a moment too soon.

"I need to take this call," She stated, already turning towards the door to make her exit. But before she left, the woman momentarily turned around. "...Thank you, for the offer. I'll consider it."

The longer she worked at interacting with others, the greater her tolerance would become, but these days the ex-assassin felt like a few minutes was all she could bear before needing to release some energy. Once Elektra was outside, the phone was opened and the call answered. The breathless voice of Detective Morrisey pulsed its way into her ear, bringing an assignment and a much needed break from the mundame.

"Elektra, we need to talk. I'm sending you the address now. We've got a situation, and I think some old friends of yours are the ones to blame..."

The wind bit at his face as Morbius soared above the skyline, his figure carving a silent path between steel and shadow. Lights blurred beneath him, but tonight his eyes weren't on the chaos below. He was heading towards a quieter part of town, a forgotten hub of what was intended to become a thriving sector of industry and now sat as a constant reminder of the failure of those who had dared to stake their claim here.

He touched down on the roof of an old five-story concrete slab near the river. Once, the place had been branded in sleek Helvetica: 'CuraGen Research Solutions'. A biotech firm that promised gene therapies and medical breakthroughs to whoever had the money to burn. The funding dried up a few years ago and the company dissolved. But Jacob's preliminary data scrape of the syringe label had flagged CuraGen's name deep in the metadata. A chemical signature tied to one of their long discontinued clinical trials.

Morbius moved across the rooftop like a shadow. He found the rooftop access door rusted with an old padlock holding it shut, easily broken with a quick chop from Morbius. The interior was a mausoleum of modern science: desks covered in plastic, sample fridges unplugged, and half-dismantled centrifuges gathering dust under emergency lighting that still flickered on motion sensors.

The place was a mess, but not in the way he'd expected. It was clearly abandoned, but not untouched. As he ran a finger along a nearby worktop, the thin layer of dust that clung to his skin was far too light. This lab might have been shuttered, but it hadn't been forgotten. Someone had been here recently.

Morbius moved deeper into the building, boots silent on the concrete floor, the motion activated lights flickering on one by one in his wake. The sterile glow painted the corridors in ghostly white, but beneath the light, the details betrayed the recent use; track marks on the floor where equipment had been dragged, a chair pushed slightly out from a desk, a half-filled mug fossilized in dried coffee. He kneeled down and touched his finger to a smear of red leading through the lab, feeling that familiar electricity shimmer through him as his body confirmed what it was. Blood.

He followed the trail, finally reaching what looked like a former operations room, its wide glass panels once designed to overlook lab procedures now cracked and fogged with time. Inside, dusty folders lay scattered like fallen leaves, but one corner of the room caught his eye: a corkboard still pinned with yellowing memos and photographs.

He approached, eyes scanning the board. Most of the paperwork was irrelevant. Procurement lists, trial schedules, security rosters, but one photograph near the bottom had been carefully pinned, protected behind a plastic sleeve. It showed a group of researchers, six in total, gathered in front of a microscope rig. Most had their faces crossed out with red crosses. Only a few remained visible.

But one man stood apart. Morbius felt like he recognised him, he was pale even in the faded picture, with eyes that seemed sunken long before the camera caught him. A thin mouth, tight smile, and surgical gloves that looked too deliberate. No name tag. But someone had scribbled in the margins, as though adding it after the fact.

'Paine'

Morbius narrowed his eyes. He tried to stuff down his worst fear. He'd dealt with a Dr. Paine years before. Some cruel mad scientist obsessed with torturing others in the name of progress. It couldn't be him surely.

A loud click, followed by a sucking noise broke the silence. Like a huge ventilator had just been turned on. It came from beneath the floor. Morbius felt the ground vibrate as he stood in place.

He followed the sound, down two flights of stairs to a lower level marked 'Authorized Personnel Only'. The door had been forced recently. Its lock was pried clean off, the metal buckled inward, not out. Someone, or something had gone in from this side.

The air changed as he stepped in. Not only did it feel colder, more recycled and medical. But something just felt off. The smell of copper engulfed him as he found himself stalking towards the scent of blood once more. The hallway was lined with curtained rooms, many doors warped or broken off the hinges. At the far end, a red light blinked slowly above a threshold. Morbius entered the room, the sound of the ventilator only getting louder as he stepped in.

The stench hit him first, an unbearable mix of antiseptic, decay, and burned plastic. In the center of the room, surrounded by old machinery stitched together with scavenged tech, lay what once had been a man.

Now, only the upper torso and head remained. Tubes ran from the stump of his body into machines that hissed and blinked with a rhythmic, mechanical cruelty. His mouth was held open by a retractor, but his eyes were still lucid. They widened when they saw Morbius.

"P…please." the thing croaked, voice ragged from disuse and agony. "Kill...kill me."

Morbius stepped closer, keeping his distance ut of a mixture of fear and shock at the sight of the man. "Who did this to you?"

The head trembled, the expression flickering with something like gratitude and horror all at once. "D-Doctor... P...Paine…"

Morbius felt anger rise up in him. He clenched his fist, glancing around the room. "What did he do to you?"

The man's jaw twitched against the retractor, eyes fluttering from the pain. "Didn't... start this way..." he rasped. "Said...we'd help. Said we'd be part of a cure."

"A cure for what?"

"A cure." the man rasped again, breath hitching beneath the ventilator's pulse. "For Alzheimer's."

Morbius narrowed his eyes. "What?"

The man's jaw twitched against the retractor. "That's what he told us. That's how it started. Neuroregeneration research. Clinical trials for memory loss. Said he had...a source."

Morbius stepped closer, voice low. "Me."

The man's eyes flickered. "Said your condition...was proof that the brain could rebuild itself. That decay could be reversed, if the hunger could be separated from the healing."

Morbius stared at the blinking machines, at the tubes feeding this husk of a man. "He used your bodies to test fragments of my DNA."

"Not just test..." The man swallowed with effort, the muscles of his face twitching. "He copied it. Built synthetic strains. Grafted them into us. To see if the brain could be… reactivated.”

Morbius' voice dropped to a sad drone. "Did it work?"

A horrible silence. Morbius' jaw clenched. His claws flexed at his sides. "Where is he now?" he asked.

The man's eyes widened. "I don't know. He comes every few days to check on the progress. But he, he left a failsafe. A watchdog. Something to clear the experiments when they failed-"

The wall to Morbius' left exploded.

The force launched him across the lab, crashing through a wheeled cart and into a bank of monitors. Sparks showered the floor as he staggered up, glass embedded in his costume.

From the smoke, something moved. It wasn't a man. More like a golem.

It was gaunt and crooked, bones elongated, as if stretched too far during some terrible transformation. Patches of skin clung to a sinewy frame, pallid and veined with dark lines of corrupted blood. Metal braces jutted from its limbs, crude reinforcements bolted into tendon and bone to hold a collapsing body together.

Its face was a nightmare, one half still hauntingly human, the other fused with surgical mesh and exposed musculature. Wires pulsed beneath the surface like veins. The jaw was broken and pinned in place with external rods. Its mouth hung open, revealing jagged teeth not unlike Morbius's own, only rotten and uneven, as if they'd been decaying for centuries.

Its eyes were the worst part. One was still organic, jaundiced and trembling in its socket. The other was red and mechanical, blinking erratically, embedded deep in the ruined skull.

Morbius rose to his feet slowly. "I take it you’re the watchdog."

The thing lunged with terrifying speed. Morbius rolled beneath its strike, claws slicing up, sparks and blood flew as he caught its side. But it didn't stop. It skidded sideways, recalibrated, then straightened with a whir of motors and a shrill metallic howl. The thing hissed a wet, gurgling sound that became a voice, filtered through a shredded voicebox and modulator.

"Target: Subject Morbius. Priority specimen. Immobilize. Extract neuro-healing matrix."

"Ah. A fan."

The creature charged again, metal feet crunching through debris, arms wide like jagged blades ready to cleave. Morbius met the lunge head-on, driving a palm into its chest. He was strong, inhumanly so, but this thing had weight and momentum, and it buckled him into the wall behind cracking the concrete.

The watchdog's clawed hydraulic hand locked around his throat. Pain flared across Morbius' neck as servos screamed and gears twisted. He snarled and sank his claws into its forearm, bloodless but thick with black fluid. It didn't flinch. Its other hand raised slowly, the flesh giving way to cold metal syringes that pierced through the fingers and slowly inched their way towards Morbius' face.

Morbius hissed between clenched teeth, the familiar hunger rising. The watchdog lifted him higher. "Subject unstable. Termination authorized."

Then Morbius headbutted it, hard. The creature reeled, staggering half a step, and that was all he needed. Morbius twisted in midair, flipped behind it, and drove both claws into the back of its neck. Sparks exploded. It let out a mechanical shriek and spun, catching him mid-swing with an elbow like a battering ram. He flew again, this time slamming into the ceiling and crashing down through a rusted gurney.

Morbius groaned, pulling himself from the twisted frame. "They never go down easy do they?" he muttered, flexing one dislocated shoulder back into place with a crack. The watchdog advanced, more measured now, almost studying him.

"Vital signs: erratic. Subject demonstrates regenerative instability. Confirm hypothesis: consume tissue sample."

It leapt. The floor shattered beneath its launch, arms outstretched like scythes. Morbius vanished in a blur of movement, then reappeared above it, wings flared in the flickering red light. He dropped fast and smashed both feet into its back, driving it into the floor. The sheer weight combined with the intertia of the torpedo sent them both crashing through floor after floor of the building until they finally slammed into something hard enough to stop their descent.

"You want a piece of me huh?" Morbius said coldly. "Here, take a sample"

He drove a claw straight into the back of its head. The thing spasmed violently, screeched like a modem caught in a meat grinder, then swung around, catching him with its jaw. It bit down. Hard.

Morbius screamed as teeth sank into his arm, not just biting but draining, leeching his blood with built-in syringes hidden in the gums. "You bastard." he growled, eyes blazing red as the hunger finally snapped its leash.

He didn't hold back. In a blur, he tore free, slashing open the watchdog's mouth with one arm and driving his other claw up through its lower jaw and out the top of its skull. The machine let out one last gurgling shriek, body seizing violently, and then collapsed in a heap, twitching and sparking, still steaming with the scent of burnt flesh and silver alloy. Morbius stood over it, panting, blood trickling from his wounds.

A few floors up, the man in the machine coughed violently, red froth spilling from his mouth. Morbius returned too late. The damage from the fight had knocked one of the stabilizers loose; the machinery had begun to fail, vital systems crashing. Morbius rushed to the man's side, but the look in his eyes already said it all. There wasn't enough left to save.

"Thank...you." he wheezed. "Better...than being his puppet." Then he went still.

Morbius bowed his head. His heart was conflicted. Had this not happened by accident part of him felt like he'd have had to do it for the man anyway. This was no life to live. No hope of recovery, chained to a machine for the rest of his life. For a moment he thought of the hippocratic oath he'd taken all those years ago. He wouldn't have even considered taking a life back then.

He moved back down towards where the fight had ended, taking a last look at the zombified husk he'd battled. The watchdog's wrecked frame still twitched beside him, wires sparking faintly, the last flickers of its unholy life finally giving out. Morbius exhaled slowly, the metallic scent of blood still thick in the air. He stood in the quiet for a long moment, letting the weight of the night settle. Then, came a noise from below. Not a voice. Not a machine whine. A digital tone. Repeating.

The watchdog's broken body was still, but beneath the warped plating of its chest, a small panel blinked with soft, intermittent blue light. He moved cautiously, tearing away metal plating with his claws until the panel was fully exposed. Embedded inside was a rugged microdata unit, still operational. Somehow, it had survived the fight.

He reached down and plucked it out. The screen flickered to life.

>>> ACCESSING REMOTE NODE [DR-P]
>>> DATA SYNC: PARTIALLY FAILED
>>> LAST KNOWN FULL SYNC: 11 HOURS AGO
>>> LAST UPLINK LOCATION: REDHOOK TRANSIT YARD – SECTOR 14

Morbius stared at the coordinates. It wasn't much, but it was something. The start of the breadcrumb trail that would lead him to Dr. Pain. The bastard must have already began uploading Morbius' biometric data as soon as he'd sunk his teeth into his arm.

"Redhook..." he muttered. That section of Brooklyn had been mostly gutted over the past few years, what hadn't been lost to gentrification had become a dumping ground for corporate off-books testing and black market shipping. If Pain was using it as a relay point, it meant he was mobile. Paranoid. Smart.

Morbius tucked the device into his coat. He took one last look at the Watchdog and hoped this was the newest model Pain had come up with. He'd barely escaped this scuffle with his life, his pride was a different story. Morbius' wasn't exactly the type to have allies either, he'd crossed just about every minor hero in this city one time or another. His encounter with Luke Cage was a step in the right direction, but he didn't exactly have the money to pay the hero for hire to fight undead abominations with him.

He moved to a nearby window and slid it open, perching on the windowsill. Outside, the wind was howling stronger now. The city stretched out before him, glittering like the stars in the sky. He leapt, gliding out into the black.