“This is all your fault, Superman,” Neutron snarls as his fists glow and pulse with auras of radioactive plasma.

Our fight has sprawled through most of the New Troy district, skimming along the rooftops of the Fashion District and crashing through some of the skyscrapers of Midtown, before crashing down into the green of Heroes’ Park.

Pulling myself up from the crater where I’d landed, I look around and see craters in the grass, cracks in the fountains and monuments, and hundreds of panicked people fleeing in all directions. Emergency services have been trying to evacuate people since Tryon arrived, but it’s next to impossible to clear an entire city even under the best of circumstances, and even worse when there’s no telling where the battle will go next. The best most can hope for is to make it to one of the hundreds of LexCorp emergency shelters that have been installed across Metropolis, but those tend to fill up quickly.

I’m doing the best I can to keep our fight away from populated areas, to limit the amount of damage we’re doing, to break away and get as many people out of harm’s way as I can.

Neutron, on the other hand, isn’t doing any of that. If anything, he’s been going out of his way to do as much damage as possible.

“Look around you!” he growls. “The monuments here? They’re all in memory of the people we lost fighting the Reach…people who would still be alive today if you hadn’t been in hiding for so long!”

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s not wrong–at least, not completely. For the five years the Reach had colonized Earth, I was locked away in the Fortress, shut off completely from the outside world. Kelex, the intelligence sent by my Kryptonian mother and father, had been training me to master my powers, only telling me about the occupation of Earth once it had deemed I was ready. When I asked why it had kept me in the dark for so long, Kelex said that I wasn’t ready to face the Reach until then, that they would have found a way to kill me, or worse, weaponize me against humanity. I still don’t know if I believe him: whether or not it was true, the fact was people were suffering, and I wasn’t there for them. I haven’t been back to the Fortress since.

Neutron hurls a blast of plasma towards a crowd of panicked onlookers, and I throw myself in front of them. “Get down–ngggh!!!” I shout as Neutron’s blast explodes against my back, and a wave of nausea rolls over me. The radiation from his plasma doesn’t affect me nearly as bad as Kryptonite would, but each one drains away at me just that much more.

“All those lives lost, all that blood on your hands,” he continues as he pelts me with more blasts. “And they were the lucky ones. They weren’t the ones turned into freaks and monsters by the Reach’s Meta-Bomb! A bomb that you allowed to go off! Where were you, Superman? Where were you???”

Kansas. I was in Kansas. In the ruins of what used to be the town I called home. Looking in vain for any hope that my parents had survived the destruction the reach had brought down on Smallville.

Neutron raises his hands, charging a blast he hopes will put me down for the count.

“Everything that’s happened in the last five years,” he says, “The metahumans, the Agency, everything that’s gone wrong, it’s all your fault!”

---

“Oh man,” Jimmy Olsen muttered as he frantically tapped on his L-Phone, “Big Blue’s taking a beating out there.”

To any passing observer, Jimmy might have appeared to be just another onlooker, glued to their screens as danger and disaster came down around their ears. In truth, he was using the immense computing power of his jail-broken LexCorp smartphone to coordinate a citywide network of small camera drones, something that had taken him several years and a sizable chunk of his massive inheritance to put together. Equipped with motion sensors to automatically activate when anything above the speed of sound approached them, these cameras gave Jimmy the ability to get the best possible angle on the action in a split-second and stream it live.

Most of the world saw Superman’s actions through the carefully curated view of corporate-owned news outlets like the Galaxy News Network. Those who were in the know, however, knew the only reliable way to get the facts was to get them live, raw, and unfiltered, thanks in most part to the Daily Planet. Once a respected newspaper with a staff of hundreds, the Planet was now an independent news blog with a small team, an even smaller office, a mountain of active civil suits against them, and the most trusted reporting on Earth.

Half of the Planet’s reputation came from Jimmy Olsen’s unparalleled ability to put eyes on any story in Metropolis the moment it happened.

The other half of the equation, however, was standing with her arms crossed as she watched the clouds of smoke and dust rise over the Metropolis skyline.

“Thanks for the tip,” Lois said into her own phone–an ancient flip-phone that might as well have been a walkie-talkie, before hanging up and pulling out a spiral notebook to jot down notes in shorthand. “Something’s wrong about this whole thing.”

“I know,” Jimmy nodded, “Superman was close to putting Neutron down just a minute ago, and suddenly he’s taking a beating like I’ve never seen before! What changed?”

“Neutron stopped aiming for Superman,” Lois said, “and started aiming for people on the ground.”

“Right, because he’s a lunatic,” said Jimmy, thinking he was agreeing.

“No,” Lois corrected him, “He can’t hit Superman, unless he aims somewhere that he knows Superman will have to go. Blue has to put himself in harm’s way, so Neutron can hit him again and again. It’s sick, sure, but it’s also a smart change of tactics. And that’s what’s wrong…”

“The fact that Neutron is smart?” asked Jimmy.

“The fact that he isn’t,” Lois answered. “That was my contact with the MPD on the phone. Nathaniel Tryon’s got a pretty long rep sheet from before he became a metahuman. Armed robbery, aggravated assault, possession of illegal weapons– all things that peg him as just another low-rent thug. Same thing with his school records: low test scores as a kid, dropped out at 8th grade. Nothing in any of his records shows that he’s any kind of strategic thinker, and definitely not the type of guy to make big monologues.”

Jimmy nodded, starting to reach the same conclusion as Lois. “You think he’s getting orders from someone?”

“I’m not putting anything on the record without proof,” she said as she headed towards the Planet’s office, “but off the record? This has a very familiar stink to it...”

---

“...just like you to make a mess,” said Neutron on the screen, as he dragged Superman face-first through the steel I-beams and reinforced concrete of a construction site…

“...and then fly off without cleaning up after yourself!” said Winslow Schott, the pudgy balding man in his couch, a VR headset feeding him live information while his hands worked with controls resembling those of a marionette.

“...and then fly off without cleaning up after yourself!” Neutron repeated as he grabbed the blue-suited hero by the cape and flung him skyward.

“God, you’re such a ham,” Eve Tessmacher scoffed, idly playing with her hair and snapping another selfie standing in front of the video-wall. Behind her, dozens of monitors displayed different angles of the battle, the live feed from various news outlets, the chatter on social media, and the scripts for the millions of chat-bots that were currently steering the direction of the discourse.

“I, ah, I really have to insist that you stop taking pictures in a restricted area, Miss Tessmacher,” stammered Gus Gorman his fingers flying as he coordinated Schott’s control inputs with the systems and power distribution of Neutron’s containment suit. “It’s, ahhh, it’s d-d-distracting, first of all, and that’s n-not even accounting for the, ah, the significant risk of a security leak that poses…”

“‘Poses?’” she asked innocently. “But I wasn’t even striking a pose! Ooh, what about this one!”

“All this destruction, all this suffering…” Schott continued his monologue.

“All this destruction…all this suffering….” Neutron repeated him.

“....is all your fault!!!” Schott reached a crescendo, flailing his puppeteer controls dramatically.

“...is ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!!!” Neutron screamed, his voice full of rage as he let loose with a blast straight into the air, directly at Superman, with enough power to vaporize a city block.

“He’s reaching critical mass, Winslow!” Gus warned. “If you p-push him any further, he’ll, ah, he’ll…”

“Go nuclear?” Miss Tessmacher finished his sentence. “But isn’t that the whole point?”

“Heeeeheeheeheeheeheehohohohohahaha-haaa!” Schott laughed triumphantly. “I think we got him!!!”

As the blinding light on the monitor faded, Miss Tessmacher cleared her throat.

“Think again,” she said, pointing at a speck on the screen. “See? Look, up in the–”

“Time’s up, kids,” interrupted Mercy Graves as she strode into the room, her poise and presence making the trio in the control room feel woefully immature in comparison. “We have all the data and all of the footage we need. The order from the top is to pull the plug.”

“B-b-but, but I was winning!” Schott blubbered. “Just a little longer, and I was going to–”

Mercy glared at him. “Would you like me to take that complaint upstairs?”

Schott was silent for a moment, then deflated in his couch. “...no ma’am.”

“Good,” Mercy nodded. “Schott, turn off the manual controls and activate the automated finale subroutine. Gorman, cut the signal, and activate the self-destruct on the suit’s receivers. We don’t want anything that can trace Neutron back here.”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Gus said, frantically typing signals into the control transmitters.

“And Eve?” Mercy looked at Miss Tessmacher with a contemptuous glance. “Just keep doing what you’re good at: nothing.”

Mercy strode out of the room, and the three let out a collective breath.

“That woman scares me,” Gus whimpered.

“Yeah, but maybe, like, in a hot way?” Eve remarked absently.

“What?”

“What?”

“What?”

---

Brainiac thinks.

One hundred quadrillion times per second, Brainiac thinks.

Brainiac receives the shutdown order of manual controls from Winslow Schott, the self-destruct orders for the suit’s receivers, and the activation of Neutron’s automated subroutines, and transmits them all through itself into the armored containment suit.

Brainiac monitors all of Nathaniel Tryon’s vital signs, as well as the stress and damage indicators inside the suit, and makes its decisions.

Brainiac receives a command input from the top of LexCorp Tower.

Brainiac redirects paramedics to an apartment complex where a young woman named Leslie Willis has been seriously injured.

Brainiac alters every traffic light along five city blocks to give the paramedics the optimal path to Willis, and from there to the nearest emergency medical facility.

Brainiac rewrites all public records of Nathaniel Tryon to suggest severe post-traumatic stress and suicidal tendencies after his transformation into a metahuman.

Brainiac prepares the self-destruct sequence on Nathaniel Tryon’s containment suit.

Brainiac will kill every living thing on Earth in six months, twelve days, eight hours, fourteen minutes, and 36.55486 seconds.

Brainiac does not know the sequence of events that will cause this.

Brainiac has nonetheless calculated that it is inevitable.

Brainiac thinks.

---

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, clenching my teeth and clutching my sides as my body is racked with pain from Neutron’s blast. “Maybe I could’ve done better. Maybe I could have saved more people. Maybe….maybe what happened to you is my fault…”

Neutron raises his hands again, preparing another blast.

“...but it it really is my fault…” I say, raising my fists, “...then it means stopping you is my responsibility!”

Before he can let loose again, I tap into my power reserves, the fusion batteries that power every cell in my body, the trillions of microscopic stars that give me my strength, and I enter what I like to call my ‘Flare State.’

If I do this, I’ll be powerless afterwards, an hour weakened and vulnerable for every second I spend in this state.

If I don’t do it, though, more people will be hurt.

And a choice like that, isn’t a choice at all.

With speed far beyond my normal limit, I hurl myself at Neutron, tackling him by the waist, and pulling him up into the sky, far beyond the airspace of Metropolis, higher and higher into the stratosphere.

“The air up here is going to keep getting thinner,” I warn him, “Until you can’t breathe and lose consciousness. Last chance to stand down.”

“....S-s-Superman…” Tryon’s voice comes weakly, as sickly light begins to seep out of his suit. “....hhhhhelp…..mmmmmeeeee….”

“Wha-?” is all I manage before Tryon’s suit bursts open, and the entire world becomes blinding light, deafening sound, and excruciating pain.

It was tranquil outside when Slade had arrived home, carrying a bag of blood money slung over his shoulder. Situated within the suburban section of the city, the house was sufficiently spacious, and its porch usually welcomed any visitors with a brightly illuminating bulb. However, tonight was different. Strangely, the porch was dimlit, the bulb blipping constantly as if it was about to break. The atmosphere surrounding his house seemed a little off-putting that night, but Slade still tried to shrug the worries away, believing that he hadn’t replaced the bulb in a long while. He could, actually, but his new gig had been keeping him away from home for the most part that he rarely had time for his family. It paid him well, surely, but it was heavily demanding, especially in the city as crime-infested as Gotham.

When Slade approached the front door, a bigger surprise awaited. As it turned out, the front door had been kept slightly opened. The peculiar sight made it seem like the house was begging for anybody to enter. Again, it was strange, he thought, especially when his wife was normally protective towards the house. She was a military officer, after all, just as he was before he decided to take an early pension. The silver-haired man knocked the door, calling the names of his wife and son but was left unreciprocated. Still curious, he knocked the door one more time—perhaps, a little harder—only to push its solid panel forth. He was starting to get worried, inhaling deeply as he tried to compose himself.

The interior beyond wasn’t any better, either. It was rendered pitch black, engulfed in the shadows formed through the lack of lighting. There were a couple of still silhouettes reflected by the windows at the farthest back, but that was about it. The interior was eerily silent and fixed, devoid of any signs of life. Steadily and warily, Slade made his way in, making sure that his boots knocked the floor quietly. He darted his only eye left and right, his movements as silent as a passing shadow.

“Addie? Joe? Is anybody home?”

Again, no response. It appeared that threat was imminent. Slade was unsure whether or not he was being paranoid or that dangers truly lurked around his house somewhere else. He couldn’t deny that the suicide mission in Afghanistan still haunted him to this day, even when it took place many years ago during his tenure in the US Army. Gently, the military veteran dragged and closed the door behind, barely making any noises. He faintly rode his shirt up, about to draw a pistol out of his holster. But just as he turned the lights on…

TOOT!

POP!

…He was already shot in the face before he could move further. Granted, the shot didn’t kill him, but rather, prompting him to snicker. Instead of bullets, it was the vibrant pieces of confetti that grazed against his face, launched by a platinum-haired boy with strikingly large verdant eyes standing right in front of him. Next to the boy was a brown-haired woman carrying a rounded cake, seemingly of Slade’s age. Her hair was graying just like his, albeit partially.

“Addie? Joe?” Slade asked, his face a mixture of relief and puzzlement. He quickly moved his hand away from the holster, letting his shirt hide the belt containing several knives and miniscule firearms. “Jesus Christ! You two almost got me there.”

“Welcome home, Slade!” Adeline welcomed, extending the cake in her hands, the color of the pastry half-blue, half-orange oddly like his suit of armor.

Happy Birthday, father! Joseph inwardly greeted, smiling from ear to ear as he brought a flat hand over his chest, then rode his middle finger from his mandible all the way to his torso.

“Oh, it’s good to be back, alright?”

Smiling, Slade spread his arms, embracing both of the figures he held the closest to his heart. While his son played the acoustic guitar he slung over his shoulder, his wife would sing a birthday song for him, and it melted his heart immediately.

Happy Birthday, daddy~!

Happy Birthday, daddy~!

Happy Birthday, dear daddy~!

Happy Birthday, daddy~!

They clapped hands, then lit the candles, and they showed number 57 almost like a playful reminder that Slade was now an old geezer, despite showing the barest signs of aging aside from graying hair and the barest hints of wrinkles.

“57? Really?” Slade asked, then chuckled, subconsciously caressing his graying beard. “Am I really that old?”

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart! We all know that you’re still young at heart,” Adeline reassured with a grin.

Make a wish, father! Joseph urged, then raised a pair of crossed fingers over his blonde temples, his excitement lingering in the air.

“Alright, alright… I wish…” For a moment, he closed his eye, remaining quiet as his mind pensively raced with words. He’d been so busy with his new gig this week that he didn’t even remember today was supposed to be his 57^th birthday. He was clearly unprepared, but it wasn’t like he had that many wishes, either, instead for one. “I wish Grant was here to celebrate with us,” he said, then opened his eye, revealing a shimmer of longing it held.

Joseph’s enthusiasm was replaced by the same hint of yearning, as he heard his father’s wish. His smile slightly faltered, his face faintly dropping. Yeah, I wish Grant was here, too, he admitted, his fingers dancing along the inwardly echoing words. I missed him.

Adeline tried to remain unfazed, yet despite her effort, she still couldn’t ignore the fact that she, too, had been missing her first son more than anything. Her face dropped along, but it didn’t take long until she lifted her face to glance at Slade then Joseph, trying to manage a smile. “It’s okay, you two,” she told them. “I believe Grant’s celebrating with us right now. Somewhere up there…”

Slade sighed, closing his only eye again. “Y’know, I thought I didn’t treat him that well when he was still with us. I’d been a horrible father. If only I knew he would’ve been gone, I wouldn’t have beaten him up for the smallest of troubles.” Finally, he blew out the candles, gradually opening his eye. “Do you think Grant would’ve forgiven me?”

“Slade, it’s fine,” Adeline reassured, caressing his back. “You’ve done your best. I thought I hadn’t been the best mother for both Grant and Joe, either. We barely had time for our kids before we retired.”

Yeah… Joseph nodded, nervously scratching the back of his neck. He started making a series of hand gestures again, his dancing fingers one of reassurance. But, mother, father, it’s fine. I’m not upset, okay? I understand that you guys were busy with your military stuff. It happened, and I couldn’t be more grateful now that our family manages to spend more time together. Then, an idea came across his mind. His fingers dancing and gesturing swiftly, exhilarated to share what he’d been thinking. Besides, tomorrow is weekend. Do you think we should go camping like we used to? He shrugged, a smile drawing across the lower half of his face.

“Camping, huh?” Slade confirmed, to which his son answered with a mere nod. As he moved his gaze ahead, he stifled his mouth and narrowed his eye, thoughtfully caressing his graying beard. He still remembered when he occasionally brought Grant and Joseph to a camping trip, especially during the weekends. The last time they did that with Grant, though, it didn’t work as planned, as a mother bear nearly attacked him. “Well, sure! I believe this is the best time for camping, don’t you think, son?” he approved, anyway. “And while we’re at it, I can teach you a thing or two about hunting, so the next time some wild animals attack, better get yourself prepared.”

“But wait,” Adeline objected, her maternal instincts kicking in. “Isn’t it dangerous to go outside? Haven’t you seen the news lately, Slade?”

“Oh, c’mon, honey, have you softened up?” Slade asked back. “We’re soldiers. We’ve been through worse back then.”

Joseph slowly nodded, crossing his arms as his big, verdant eyes leaped between his father and his mother. Okay… So, we’re still going to camp tomorrow, then? he asked, barely disrupting the two with a raised hand and a couple of subsequent gesturing fingers.

“No doubt about that,” Slade answered, nodding and smiling at his son.

RING!

RING!

“Excuse me.”

When that old phone rang, Slade knew he had to remain steady for any assignment—whatever or whenever it may be. As he turned around and drew a couple of strides away, the military veteran pulled the dumb yet hardly traceable phone out of his pocket, accepting the incoming call.

“Yes?” he initiated before nodding, giving ear to anything that the mysterious caller had to say next. “Yes, this is Slade Wilson. Uh-huh… Yes, yes. New York, isn’t it? I’ll be there tomorrow.”

As the call ended, Slade turned back in the direction of his wife and son, closing in on the both of them. From the looks of their faces, they seemed to be concerned that he had to be away from home again shortly.

“It’s your boss again, isn’t it?” Adeline asked, oblivious to the kind of deeds that her husband had been taking over the last years.

Slade shook his head. “It’s a different client, actually,” he simply reciprocated.

But… What about the camping trip? Joseph asked, letting his gesturing hands decipher every word spoken inwardly.

“The guy told me he’s going to call me again for the gig, so…” Slade shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t worry, Joey. We can still go on a camping trip tomorrow morning. Right now, why don’t we just enjoy the cake and call it a night?”





Now fully armored, the Deathstroke arrived at the location where he and his possible client had agreed to meet. The place where the rendezvous was held was a series of multi-floored skyscrapers belonging to one Wilson Fisk—otherwise known as the notorious Kingpin. While operating as the headquarters for the Kingpin’s business entity, the Fisk Towers were, in fact, the bases of operation for his criminal activities where numerous felonies were performed from under the tightly closed curtains. A lot of heinous deals had been sealed at the location over the years, and this one, possibly, was no exception. Entering the main office, the masked mercenary quietly stepped forth, only to be greeted by a bald man in a suit standing on the opposite side of his. A cane in his grasp seemingly supported his enormous stature, as he approached the wooden desk separating himself and the Deathstroke.

“Slade Wilson... The Deathstroke, correct?” the man confirmed, carefully sitting at the desk.

Deathstroke nodded. “You got the name right, boss,” he affirmed, then stood right across him, his mask partly muffling his voice. “And you must be the so-called Kingpin they’ve been talking about, aren’t you?”

“Hmm… I see. And you guessed it correctly, Mr. Wilson. I’ve heard a lot about you. They said that you’re a killing machine, told me that you’re the best in this business, correct?” Fisk complimented, gluing his elbows atop the desk and pressing his fingers together. “I must admit, I’m impressed that you arrived way ahead of time. Are you really that eager to be assigned for the task?”

“As long as you don’t tell me to kill babies, that is,” Deathstroke sarcastically replied, a smirk forming under his mask.

Fisk raised his brow, feigning laughter. “Ha ha… Very funny, Mr. Wilson,” he reciprocated, a flat face maintained. He leaned his back against the fluffy backrest, making himself comfortable around his seat. “Frankly, I’ve sent a man for this exact mission I’m about to assign you to, but suffice to say, he isn’t exactly a competent figure, I’m afraid. Perhaps, not as much as you are.”

“Oh, is that so?” Deathstroke asked, arching an eyebrow. “So, what can I do for you, ‘Kingpin’?”

Fisk drew himself forth, his back leaving the backrest of his seat. “Actually, let’s just consider the vulture a bait for the patrolling spiders to prey on,” he elaborated, “which means, I will need you, Mr. Wilson, to assist my man in raiding the Stark Tower. I demand those cutting edge technologies be delivered atop of this desk as soon as possible. The faster, the better.” As he instructed, he gestured at the desk he was sitting at, the tip of his index rapidly pressing against its flat, brown surface. “I suppose it’s not a difficult task for you to perform, yes, Mr. Wilson?”

Deathstroke nodded, not a hesitation shown. After all, he’d taken similar assignments in the past, although this would’ve been the first time he was assigned to raid the property that belonged to the Stark Industries. Knowing the technological marvels that one Tony Stark was capable of building, it shouldn’t be that tricky to breach through the tower, should it? “You can count on me on that one,” he reassured. “But now, the real question is, how much are you willing to pay me?”

“How much, you asked?” Fisk repeated, pensively caressing his mandible. “Hmm… Let’s see… How about one million dollars, Mr. Wilson?”

Deathstroke snorted. “One million?” he asked, arching both of his eyebrows. “Oh, please, my loyal clients can pay me more than that. Raise the number a little. Don’t be stingy.”

Fisk pondered, then smirked when an idea crossed his mind. “Oh, so you’re challenging me, Mr. Wilson,” he scoffed. “I believe that was an immensely generous amount for such a task, but fine. Two and a half million and a Stark tech of your choice. Do we have a deal here?”

“Hmm…” Deathstroke considered, his mind racing with mathematical equations. Still, it wasn’t the sum of money some of his loyal clients would’ve paid him, though he thought it wasn’t too shabby, considering he got to own one of Tony Stark’s very own superior inventions. Eventually, he nodded. “Deal!” he agreed, shaking hands with the Kingpin.

“Then, we’ve come to an agreement, I suppose,” Fisk reciprocated. “I’ll pay you once you return to the headquarters with those requirements. As for the contract…”

After the contract was signed by both men, Deathstroke went on to leave the main office, eyeing on the task and the reward ahead. Having taken harder assignments prior to today, he assumed stealing some properties should’ve been slightly faster and easier to accomplish. Or so, he thought? As his motorcycle was approached, the masked mercenary turned on the ignition, revving the engine rather loudly.

VROOM!

VROOM!

And there he went, swiftly driving his two-wheeled vehicle out of the entrance of the Fisk Towers. With much precision, Deathstroke rode past each and every thin gap separating one vehicle from another, the velocity of his motorcycle heightening by each passing second. Along the trip, he came to notice a pair of web-slinging vigilantes tangling with what appeared to be a winged felon soaring unsteadily, his only eye narrowing at the chaotic sight from afar through the crimson lens. He could only shake his head, dismissing the fray as it was none of his concerns. Though, it did make him realize something…

‘The vulture’? ‘The spiders’? he mused, then shifted his gaze back ahead, casually avoiding his motorcycle from colliding with the rear of a moving yellow van belonging to one Daily Bugle. Heh. So now it all makes sense, huh? What an amateur…

Deathstroke rolled his eye from under the crimson lens, sighing at the thought of needing to assist the man Kingpin considered to be his bait. Thankfully, it shouldn’t have taken long until the Stark Tower was reached. He could already spot the towering structure from a fair distance, complete with the striking ‘STARK’ neon light proudly decking its peak. He had to admit that whoever designed the tower, they did their homework well in capturing the sophisticated side of the tech manufacturer that the Stark family had built and run for decades.

Almost there…

FIN.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Peter Quill.” The voice was the carefully constructed purr of Aristocracy which managed to be a universal sign of ‘brat with too much power.’ In this case though, he knew it to be a carefully constructed act around a man that was truly dangerous, not the whimsy he claimed to be.

“Collector…. I had heard you were looking for me…an invite would have sufficed.” Peter, admittedly, had looked and felt better. Bound to the chair he was sat on by the mag-cuffs strapping his wrists behind him, the fetching bruises across his features gave some idea as to the level of resistance he had put up. The Badoon mercenaries had found him in one of Knowhere's divest of dive bars, and while they had no doubt been instructed to bring him alive to their temporary boss his long running hostility with their people had likely but some real motive behind their actions.

“One of the first humans in the wider galaxy, stranded out of time … and the current Star Lord, a unique mix, wouldn't you say?” Wherever the grunts had taken him was a luxuriously furnished room, no doubt in one of the bleeding expensive hotels operating within Knowhere, catering to the upper class of mining and gang bosses sent to inspect their investments in the far flung lawless colony. The Collector himself moved across the room in a flutter of affluent furs, drawing closer and closer to the bound human as he spoke.

“I've never claimed to be anything other than extraordinary.” Peter smiled up at the Collector as he drew near, although he shot a brief wink to one of the Badoon who in short order returned with a snarl, raising a fist to strike their prisoner again, before the Collector shot him a withering look.

“Do not harm the specimen more than you already have, fool.” The ancient being spat with venom which momentarily surpassed the curated impression of a spoiled whimsy, something of the truly ancient being pushing through the surface.

“But you are making a mistake of course, one I did try to warn your friends here of.” Peter's smile didn't fade as he leaned back. The dark smudges across his features were already beginning to fade, a sure sign of the power of the Star Lord flowing through his (at least partially) human frame. One of the Badoon responded with a grim snarl that could have been a dismissive grunt in their own culture, but the degree of comfort that Peter spoke with was enough to unnerve some of the others, and definitely for the Collector to raise a well maintained eyebrow.

“What is he talking about?” The Collector’s focus lost whatever theatricality remained; the full force of his stare landed on the largest of the Badoon, which judging by the embellishment of their traditional armour, was likely the leader of the hired band of reptilian mercenaries.

“A foolish warning he gave us, that we should fear what the other ‘Guardians’ would do. We subdued their leader fine enough, what could his lessers threaten us?” The Badoon was either stupid or confident (perhaps both) to not take the obvious amusement of their prisoner as a threat and responded without hesitation, a sure sign he at least believed the words.

“That's the problem with you types, you think a leader means being the big hitter. That's not being a leader, being a leader is knowing when to bring on your pinch hitter.” Peter barely flinched as the reptilian Badoon craned down to snarl into his face, the foul stench of semi-rotten meat pulsing off elongated fangs, right until a Badoon standing at the floor to ceiling windows of the suite called out.

“Uh…something's coming at us boss.”

Both the Collector and the Badoon leader responded with an aggravated “What is it?” Although the former would almost certainly be more offended at the comparison.

“Don't worry, he'll tell you.”

The words momentarily snapped some attention back to Quill just a second before the on rushing shape came into view. For the briefest flicker of time the window seemed to be filled with the shape of an almost spherical orb of wood. Not an entirely cohesive structure but instead a vast tangle of branch and root, the span of dark brown interrupted by fluttering of green moss and flowering plants. If anyone had the time to ponder this, perhaps they may have considered how unlikely it would be to find a tree on Knowhere. It was unlikely they did.

The impact came a moment later and glass that was made to withstand a potential armed rebellion from the industrial miners below buckled, then exploded inwards.

Before the Badoon could response the vast tangle of root and branch exploded outwards, whip cord vines and thick trunks of wood slammed into metal and scale and proved the victor, those standing closer to the window who had managed to keep their footing immediately sent sprawling as the botanical claymore reformed into a bipedal shape.

“I AM….GROOT!” It bellowed, a haunting visage of wooden fangs roaring into the face of the Badoon leader before swatting the usually towering reptile away with a swing of a hastily remade wooden limb. At the heart of the reborn monster a smaller figure darted, having sheltered from the impact within the mass of arboreal armour.

“Still a stupid plan, Quill.” Rocket yelled over the continuous din of combat, the diminutive genetic marvel diving through the legs of a grasping Badoon before coming up behind Peter, admittedly flash of bright light all the notice before a welding tool cut through the clamping cuffs holding him in place, just in time for the human to dive forwards out of his chair and avoid a sweep blow from a Badoon.

“It's working isn't it?” Peter half laughed back, twisting in place to bring what had previously been his chair-prison up as a weapon to clatter against the back of the lunging Badoon's head, the force enough to shatter the furniture and send the mercenary sprawling.

“Yeah, not if he gets away.” Rocket pointed to the far doorway out of the suite that the Collector was in the process of opening.

“I wouldn't worry about that, Co-Captain.”

“It's my farking ship Quill!”

As the two continued to brawl with their respective enemies while bickering with each other, the automatic door out of the suite slid open with the tall form of the Collector beginning to exit, his eyes back on the brawl before unknowingly colliding with a force blocking his path.

“Room service?”

The Collector was far more used to looking down on the denizens of the galaxy, his now otherwise extinct kind being elongated beyond the heights of most, yet when he turned to face the woman blocking his way he found himself looking up into the disconcertingly charming features of a blonde human woman. It took only a moment to realise she was hovering in the air, a revelation that was little comfort in the situation.

“Whatever he is paying you, I am doubtful it makes what I'll provide to simply step aside.” The ancient being spoke to the girl, keeping his sudden desperation out of his easy Aristocratic tone, although the theatric concerned wince of the woman soon put down any hope of that working.

“Sorry, I'm more of a personal growth goal orientated person.” Kara's wince because a friendly smile, just a moment before she flicked the Collector square at the centre of his forehead.

The force met the personal shielding of the Collector with detonation force, blowing the ancient being back into the suite with a concussive force which also shattered the doorway and ripped partly into the wall surrounding it. The human-like woman hovering place was barely pushed back in the air, having covered her eyes with her arm for a moment before darting into the room. The white and red of her outfit was momentarily a blur, the cape fluttering at her shoulders swirling around her.

“You think they've noticed now!?” Rocket yelled out just as a disabling blast from his weapon left a Badoon convulsing on the floor, even as alarm systems blared through the hotel, the very slight delay between initial impact and the current moment catching up to the response.

“But it really was fun to throw you at a building!” Kara chimed with positivity as she swept past, using the pure force of her speed to send the very last of the up and able Badoon sprawling a moment before they would have attempted to slam a rather large metallic object into the back of Rocket.

“You're both impossible.” Rocket exhaled, waving a dismissive hand in the general direction of both Starlord and Kara, before heading towards the stricken form of the Collector, who was just about recovering from his sprawled in the corner state.

“Let us not be…hasty..with any decisions we are making.” The Collector managed as he forced himself to his feet, pressing himself somewhat into the corner of the now ravaged luxury street, one of his intricate bracelets beginning to pulse red from a small light.

“He's called for aid, the request is off station.” Kara offered to her allies, rubbing one ear slightly as the powerful signal pulsed through the air, beyond the senses of any others present.

“Don't worry, buddy, once we have what we need, we'll be out of here in a tick.” Peter offered a thumbs up to the Collector before turning back to his compatriots. “Get the Ship, I'll be fine here.”

“Ugh shes going to carry us again isn't she.” Rocket grumbled before a more upbeat response rumbled out of his flora companion.

“I am GROOT.”

“Yeah well, I ‘don't’ like it.” The conversation no doubt continuing after the Kryptonian sweat up the pair of Guardians, leaving Peter alone for the moment with the Collector, his voice turning serious

“I do not know who, but someone has begun removing the coordinates of a very specific planet from every database I've managed to trick my way into.” He came up just short of the lanky robed creature, his friendly smile entirely gone. “Luckily, you're something of a hoarder, and I just know you have some very fancy, closed off, databases, rustling around in that complex of yours. So we are going on a little side trip together.”

“You'll regret crossing me, Peter Quill.’

“Perhaps, but you wouldn't be the first.”

---

-Hours Later-

Local security had already set up a cordon around the shattered luxury suite, but that was nothing that would have stopped her even if she had been unwelcome.

Knowhere had little in the way of true law, but it did have tiers of security, and the kidnapping of one of its most affluent clients was something which required a response approach what could be considered a formal investigation. Any idea of crime scene sanctity was swept aside at her presence, for most of the galaxy knew for whom her blade cut.

The smooth and graceful build of her suit barely made a noise as she ducked beneath the ruined remains of a doorway to the enter the suite, the white and black plating of her combat suit highlighting every deadly inch of her, even as her vision swept around the sight, the display of her helm's HUD reading out trace evidence as she detected it.

“Step aside, give me the room.” A few of the security officers lingered in an attempt to complete their own investigation as she had arrived, but with the barked metallic tone of her words through the helm they were quick to scatter. She did not wait for them to finish before she placed the holocommunication device before her, although by the time the being on the other end flickered into existence she was alone in the ruined space.

“Greetings, daughter.” The form of the mad Titan was blurred by the vast distance between them, but the power of his presence still bled through the scrap code of the technology, barely able to withstand his majesty.

“Hail Mighty Thanos, I have arrived at the scene of the distress beacon as commanded.” Gamora bowed her head deeply as she knelt among the devastation, the slight change in the flickering of the light of her communicator her only tell that her master had turned towards her. “The Emperor of Spartax will soon have his errant heir returned, un your name.”

“The parameters have changed, dearest daughter, the whims of the Spartoi no longer concern me, no matter their offer of aid.” This revelation caused her to look up, the black glass dome of her helm failing to entirely hide her surprise.

“My Lord? Then why do I hunt the Milano?”

“Your quarry has acquired a greater prize in his travels, bring me each of these Guardians, or if you cannot, prevent others from claiming them.” The form of Thanos crackled before turning away. “Failure cannot be an option, I will provide this news to your sister as well. See that it is you who completes this task.” Before Gamora could speak again the image of Thanos vanished, crackling away until it was nothing but empty air once more.

Gamora paused for a moment of thought and respite before standing once more.

“As you wish, Father.”

Robert had been poked and prodded for almost all his life. Every time he had been freed, the agents of his freedom had become his oppressors. Now? Now he had a way out of all of this. A benefactor, all he had to do was do one job, and his future would be his own once more. Succeed, and a brand new identity was his reward, a clean slate and a future of his own making. For the first time in over a decade, he would be the master of his destiny. Shifting uncomfortably in the itchy, ill-fitting suit, he smoothed his tie with one hand as he secured his credentials onto the outside of his breast pocket with the other. Approaching the security checkpoint as his hand was near his breast pocket, he pulled out a small capsule and slipped it into the palm of his hand, rubbing it from his chin over his mouth and up to his hair in a smooth motion. He deposited it into his mouth on the way.

Before he reached the security guard, he crunched down on the capsule, the foul taste nearly bringing up bile from the pit of his empty stomach. Robert felt a strange coldness spread throughout his body as the pill took effect. Credentials checked, he stepped through the scanner. Instead of alarms blaring, it just flashed green, and he was waved through onto the lot. Warehouses and offices surrounded him. Security officers stood at every possible juncture as they were headed towards a large glass building, with STARK INDUSTRIES emblazoned upon the side, swear trickled down his forehead, and even he was unsure whether it was due to the beating Calironia Son or simply nerves about what he had to do.

---

The empty suit stood in the corner, watching them both like a silent guardian. No words were being shared between the two friends as they sat in silence, waiting for the press conference to start. Jim's phone had been ringing all afternoon, officers and teammates trying to get in touch with him to check in. No doubt by the end of the day, his record would have a great big AWOL stamp at the top of it. Jim held no illusions; he would receive a court-martial for the events of today. A few years ago, it would have been for the death of innocent civilians, now it was more likely to be due to his involvement in taking one of Lords toys away from him.

Tony sat, pensive. Jim was beginning to realise how pale his friend was looking. Almost hollow and empty. Deep, dark bags underneath his eyes, sleep had never bothered Tony in the past; it had been an optional activity beyond a few hours and a couple of cans of energy juice. Perhaps it was the stress getting to the inventor that was the problem, if there was a problem. A real problem, he would have told Jim about it. The two shared everything; they practically conspired against the President of the United States together. They had no secrets.

Broken from his reverie as Tony took a long swig of that green gunk he had been drinking the last couple of weeks. "That gunk has to be the weirdest fad I've ever seen, and I remember that Supermodel you dated who only ate things beginning with vowels.

Tony swallowed and laughed. "Ah, Nancy! At least breakfast was easy." Jim raised an eyebrow. "She had eggs, I ate Oreos." Jim chuckled to himself slightly. "You know Rhodey, you don't have to be here for this. You could distance yourself, you'll probably still never fly again but you could leave the force with your honours and your pension."

Jim shook his head. "This is the right thing to do, and honestly, I think that ship sailed the moment I ignored the call from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs."

"Oh..."

"Yeah, General Hammond isn't going to be happy about that."

"I'm sure we can find a position for you at Stark. Probably better paid too-" Jim held his hand up.

"I'll figure something out, I can always fly commercial." Jim chuckled slightly to himself and Tony joined him.

"I can just hear it now, welcome to flight 35 from PAX West, here's a fun fact about me I used to be the Iron Patriot."

"At least people would know they were going to make it to their destination, you've not had a failed mission yet, just one last one to do-"

"The dreaded press interview." Pepper spoke as she entered the room, the two men turning their heads to face her. She handed a tablet to Tony, her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment as he smiled his thanks up to her taking it. "Here are your notes for you to completely ignore during the conference, just in case you decided you actually want to go with the prepared speech." Jim saw the smirk before it happened.

"It's not likely."

---

The raised stage stood at the end of the hall. STARK INDUSTRIES was plastered on the end of the podium. Pepper introduced him and walked off the end of the stage and out of the hall, no doubt having other more important duties to attend to. Like starting work on the damage control with Obadiah and the board. Tony cleared his throat as he walked forward, Rhodey stood at the back in his suit. The faceplate opened as he stood at ease. Arms behind his back, surveying the room for potential threats, not that there would be any in this room. All the security that people had to go through to get into this briefing, security was almost tigther as attending a press conference at the White House.

"If you forgive me, we'll leave all questions till the end." The reporters who were coiled up like springs, ready to jump up with questions, shifted in their seats. Relaxing slightly. "During the war with the Reach, I built the first ever War Machine armour. Working closely with my friends over at S.H.I.E.L.D. Not to sound immodest, but the War Machine program became one of the most important and powerful weapons we had to use to fight the reach until the emergence of SuperMan, of course." He took a drink from his glass. "At the end of the war, President Ellis commissioned the Iron Patriot program, with our very own Colonel James Rhodes-" He cast his hand back to point at Rhodey, and there was a light, polite applause in the room.

"-This program was under a trial basis. Due to more recent events, and the current climate, I am sorry to report that we will be shutting down the Iron Patriot program-" The reporters all stood up in a roar, cameras flashed and reporters clamored as they all attempted to shout their questions over the din. Tony held his hand, attempting to calm the crowd, but they continued to try and shout and scream to be heard.

Tony tapped the microphone, waving his hand to try and push them back down so that he could continue on. "Come now, people please, let me speak..."

The crowd quietened, only one man stayed standing. His eyes locked on Tony. Tony looked back at him, into those eyes. Those orange, glowing eyes. His own widened. He heard the clunk as the Iron Patriots faceplate closed. The room went from a chaotic cacophony to deathly quiet. Others turned to look as the man climbed up onto a chair, his whole body glowing now as he climbed back up onto his chair.

His voice but a whisper, but not one person in the room failed to hear it. Not one person at home watching the news had any doubt what was said. For the man climbed upon his chair and said. "For Genosha."

Then an explosion tore through the room, and all the news feeds went black.

"Nnnghhh," I grunt as my senses start to return to me, namely my sense of touch, as evidenced by the fact that everything hurts.

I'm vaguely aware that I'm on the ground, and that there's a crowd surrounding me.

Too many people...not safe....

"S...s-stay back..." I say blearily, struggling to get to my feet. "T-Tryon--"

"He's dead, Superman," I hear an irritatingly familiar voice above me.

My blurry vision clears up enough to see a man in a massive suit of advanced armor hovering in the air in front of me.



Captain John Corben, a man with whom I've had a few run-ins lately, none of which have been very nice. While technically he's US Army rather than a member of the Agency, his methods and mission are similar enough: round up metahumans and bring them in for whatever purposes the government has in mind. His suit, the Metal Zero, is loaded up with advanced weaponry and equipment to take on "big game" metahumans. More to the point, nearly every piece of Metal Zero was created by LexCorp, and it's all fine-tuned specifically to fight me.

I stand up and ball my hands into fists as I stare Corben down. I try not to hold grudges. But when all you want to do is help people, and the government's response is to spend half the country's GDP for a suit made by a diseased maniac and built just to kill you...well, it's hard not to take that a little personally.

"Once you got him out of the city limits, Neutron...detonated," he says. "You two made one hell of a mess."

"Then let me help with the cleanup," I say, taking a few steps forward.

Truth be told, I don't know how much I have left in me. I tapped into my reserves of stored power to overcome Neutron, and while it gave me what I needed to get him out of the city, it also burned energy fast. When Tryon self-destructed, I burned through most of it surviving the blast.

It's hard to even stay on my feet. I'm pretty sure a stiff breeze could knock me over right now, let alone Corben and the Metal Zero suit.

But there are people who are hurting, people who are in danger.

Which means my job isn't done.

"I think you've done enough for one day, Boy Scout," Corben says, managing to move his suit with a cowboy-like swagger. "Neutron wasn't the first one of these freak shows who's decided the best way to get your attention is a mass-casualty event."

"Oh, don't you dare start that crap again, Corben," I hear Lois as she shoves her way through the crowd. "Superman was first on the scene when Neutron attacked. I couldn't help but notice you and the Agency goons didn't get here until after the fighting was over."

"Oh, sure, he was Johnny-on-the-spot," Corben sneers underneath his faceplate. "After a couple dozen civilians got splashed, anyway."

I lower my head, but Lois presses forward. "Dozens, yes, but it would've been thousands if he hadn't been here."

"And how do we know it wouldn't have been zero, huh?" Corben glares down at her, somehow puffing out his chest under several inches of armor. "If your big blue boyfriend here had been cooperating with us from the start, maybe we wouldn't have psychos like Neutron calling him out."

"About that," Lois responds, staring down the man in a battle-suit that could flatten half the city. "None of Nathaniel Tryon's records show any kind of antisocial tendencies beyond petty thievery. Nothing in his files suggests any sort of mental instability, not until after he was in the custody of the Agency."

"Oh, and then there's the signals!" Jimmy Olsen pipes in, one of his camera drones buzzing around him. "Miss Lane--sorry, uh, Mrs. Kent--had a hunch, and asked me if my cameras can pick up stuff beyond the visible light spectrum. I said of course they can, I spent a fortune on them, heh, and- anyway, she had me look at Neutron in the middle of the fight for any sort of signals being sent to him. And sure enough, there were free-space optical beams-- basically 'laser internet' signals-- being sent directly to Neutron's suit!"

Corben cocks his head. "And I'm supposed to believe a couple of civilians?" he scoffs. "Civilians who, I might add, have been a persistent pain in the ass?"

"Believe what you want," Lois said, "But there's more to this Neutron thing than just a poor soul who was lashing out. And when I find out who's behind it..."

Corben again tries to big-boy up to Lois. "You'll what?"

"She'll do her job," I step between them. "Like you should be doing right now, helping with the recovery effort. Or at the very least, you should step aside and let me do it."

"Not so fast, Superman," he says as I try to walk past him. "Orders are to bring in any and all unregistered metahumans for threat assessment and processing."

"I'm not in the mood for this, Corben," I say. And it's truer than he knows-- I'm absolutely in no shape to fight Metal Zero after Neutron detonated.

"Well, what are you in the mood for, hm?"

I glare at him, and I can feel him smirking under his faceplate. If I were at full strength, I could fold him up like a cheap suit. After that explosion, though.....

"Jimmy," I call out. "When Neutron...went up....what was the yield of the blast?"

Jimmy taps at his L-Phone, and comes up with the answer. "Uhh, according to Brainiac, the estimated yield was about 10 kilotons. That's about two-thirds of the Hiroshima bomb."

Two thirds of....great Scott....I....I survived that? How could I....

...I try to regain my composure, and I put on my best poker face as I turn back to Corben.

"You heard the man," I say. "Ten kilotons...point blank....and I'm still standing. Got anything bigger in that suit of yours?"

There's a deathly hush in the crowd as Corben shifts back and forth, trying to decide if he's going to call my bluff.....

...and he folds.

"This isn't done, Superman," he says as he starts to turn away. "But first, I'm going to go clean up your mess."

Corben activates the thrusters on his suit and flies away, and as the crowd cheers, I almost collapse into Lois's arms.

"Oof!" she grunts as she and Jimmy struggle to hold me up and lead me away from the crowd. "Easy there, big guy. Let's get you out of here."

"There's still so many people--"

"That a whole army of emergency workers and search-and-rescue teams are helping right now," she reassures me. "Besides, Corben might not have been able to catch you bluffing, but I did. You're spent. Going out there now would just get you hurt alongside everyone else."

"Maybe," I say ruefully, "But there's gotta be something I can do."

"Dude, Superman?" Jimmy says, "You fought a nuclear-powered lunatic, tanked an atom-bomb to the face, saved half the city, and got John Corben to actually go help civilians for once. I'd say you did plenty."

"And hey," Lois continues, "There's plenty of other ways you can help that don't involve bench-pressing a city block. Like helping us get to the bottom of how and why Nathaniel Tryon got loose. There's something wrong with this whole thing, especially how he died."

I nod my head, realizing that maybe Superman's had enough for one day, and that it's time for Clark Kent to step in.

"Well, I can help out with one thing for starters," I say as we duck away from the streets into a nearby alley where I can catch my breath without the crowd seeing how hurt I really am. "When Corben told me that Nathaniel Tryon was dead..."

"What about it?"

"I was listening to his pulse," I answer. "Corben was lying."

"Your mother almost joined their number, it is noble work." The voice of her uncle stirred Kara from her thoughts, near dozing as she lent forwards on her balcony railing, watching the procession of the Warrior Guild move through the streets below. It was not an unusual sight but for its timing. There was no great celebration or moment of Kryptonian pride to commemorate, this was a display of force dressed up as a parade. Such was the pit of illwill in her stomach that she'd had trouble even enjoying the sight of the gallant soldiers in their uniforms, or her breakfast, although she'd managed to find the strength of will to do so all the same.

"You've said, a few times. That is how you all met Uncle Zod." Kara pushed herself up off the railing with a small but warm smile towards her adoptive-father, before pulling him into a brief embrace.

He laughed, the laugh of an old man, old beyond his years in this case, caught in the trap of his own reminiscing. "Indeed, I don't suppose it would take too many flaps of an insect wing to think you might have been standing here as Kara Dru-Zod." Jor-El took a step back from his neice. While her garb was as ever of fine quality, the loose fitting silks wafting around her form, inlaid with golden thread that turned burnished beneath Rao's gaze, was what those of their standing might consider barely more than sleepwear. "We need to get ready, we'll be expected."

"Whatever my name might have been, I'm sure I'd still have ended up cluttering up your life." Kara teased, with a slightly mocking tone, before sighing and nodding to the more business oriented end to Jor-El's words. "Of course, I'll only be a few moments." She could not pretend to understand, or necessarily keep track of very dreadful matter her adoptive-parents seemed to be dealing with of late, but even with her focus largely on her education and trials to follow her parents into the Science League (and a few less productive distractions) she knew that all was not well on Krypton. Whispered news out of the Hinterlands spoke of a building catastrophe, and within the shining spires of Krypton's cities the rule of the Klerics had become increasingly draconian, enough that even those who spent their days in the with minds in the Luminarium and their nights in the glitz and glamour of Kandor had begun to feel the discontent bubbling through society, no longer just confined to the Worker's Guild.

Jor-El gave her a reassuring nod, before leaving her alone once again on the balcony extending out of her bedroom. She did not spend that much time home these days, but her uncle and aunt, turned adoptive parents, largely kept it how she had left it, all the furnishing the teenage scion of one of the Science League's most notable families could want. She paused only briefly to examine her reflection in her dresser holo-mirror, having already ensured she was happy with her refreshed appearance before resting on her balcony. The length of her blonde hair was woven up into an extensive tail which reached far down her back, trailing a moment behind her as she vanished into her wardrobe.

Her outfit was another matter, several failed attempts at something she could tolerate for more than a few different angles soon lay scattered on her floor before she was once again in front of her mirror.

A deep blue bodysuit covered her to her mid-thigh where below she wore boots of red beneath her knee, demonstrating the main colours of her house. Her chest, emblazoned with the crest of House El in white and yellow, trailed into a back half-cape, giving the impression of a short jacket even if it was still a part of the bodysuit itself with detailing at her waist and thighs picked out in gold. It could be considered the current bleeding edge of her generation's fashion on Krypton, as with most of her attire, a recent purchase.

A few brief twists and turns in the mirror confirmed she was more than ready to leave. She'd not been a slender child, crueler peers taunting about her being better suited to the hard work of lesser guilds. Now with the blossoming of young adulthood, she was fairly safe to admit she wouldn't trade places for a little past bullying.

She pondered with the presence of the Warrior Guild in the city would mean Val-Zod would be present, their respective parents had always hoped -



Kara ripped herself from the confines of the sleep with something like an angry gasp. Her mind railed at suddenly crashing back out of memory into the present with the fuge of confusion she had felt many times.

Vapid, Stupid Girl

The words tinged her thoughts, not her own voice, but her mind soon adapts and considers them her own thoughts. True, of course, to think of how much time she spent on such frivalous things when her homeword had been so at risk?

She threw the heavy blanket that covered her in slightly chilled quarters that had become her home while aboard the Milano in an angry grimace, the blanket coming apart into two pieces at force of her uncontrolled strength, which only brought another exhalation of self-exasperation as she suddenly found herself in a tangle of synthetic shreds. It wasn't the first time she had lost control of her abilities since her arrival in the present, but it still aggrevated her even alongside the lingering annoyance of her dream. Ever since she had tumbled listlessly through the liminal space between realities she'd had difficulty seperating the waking world from the twists and turns of her own mind.

At least she hoped it was still her mind.

Kara flung open her closet, more a space between the bulkheads of the ship, with more controlled force than she had rid herself of her blanket. She paused with her fingers tracing over the first outfit she found among her limited collection. Her entire wardrobe had been crafted for her by her Symbioship, at least during her travels, at her direction. Which is why it was strange she didn't remeber selecting this one, the outfit from her dream. She must have simply forgotten, it was a pleasant enough memory, one of the last few good ones, it made sense she would have wanted it, she convinced herself.

It took her a moment to change and study herself in the far more modest mirror available in her current quarters. She appeared much as she had in her memory apart from her hair. She'd cut the elegant mane of gold down, or maybe it had happened in her journey, she couldn't quite remember. Now the gold fell to just barely above her shoulders even when let loose. For a moment she couldn't decide if she like that or not. Why had she done that?

Kara snorted in annoyance at her own reflection before storming from her chamber, with her focus on her emotions more than faking a sense of normalcy she drifted in the air rather than walked. The ship was dark, running off the last planetbound chronology they had encountered it was the depths of night, but even through the layers of ship she could hear some amount of activity within the Milano's cockpit.

"Hey, Peter," Kara murmered, with a slighlty tired voice she put on to suggest she'd drowsily awoken rather than being wrenched from an uncomfortable recollection, stretching as she slipped into the jumpseat closest to the primary chair the man inhabited as she flicked away at holographic controls.

"Kara, can't sleep?" He barely turned his head for a brief greeting smile before returning to this work. Ever since the Guardians had rather unceremoniously deposited the Collector back at his own complex, nabbing his hoarded celestial data in the process, he'd been busy working away at getting the Milano to their eventual destination.

"I'm not sure I even need to anymore, maybe it's just a habit?" She mused, looking out of the foreward viewing dome, the glittering light of a billion, billion stars staring back at her. "A bit scary to think about, having to fill all that time." She added, only half joking.

"Not a bad idea to keep doing it then, keep you mortal." He teased, but only slightly, there was some true advise beneath the light tone. The man born far more mortal than she, yet still thrust into a host of abilities that would forever set him apart from the world he had once known. "Especially if you get floating around the place, always makes me double check I've not busted the gravity." He more earnestly joked this time, with a slight grin, that brought the briefest chuckle through her foul mood.

"I'd apologise, but I think it's proven more than worth giving you a brief fright already." She expected another lighthearted retort, but instead found Peter frowning at a red light that had appeared on the holographic displays he'd been working on. "What is it?" She asked, severity and curiosity mingling in her tone where there had been humor.

"Distress signal." Peter's fingers drifted over the red dot, the cast of its light flickering off and on across his features. "Out of our way, and no good reason to suspect they'd even appreciate a visit from those wanted by the Nova Corps." His features were writ with the dilemma that Kara had begun to recognise even in their relatively brief acquaintence.

"Rocket would say we don't work for free, that we've got our own business to attend to." Rocket would have said that, but it was also partly her own feelings. She'd been sent to this reality, this moment, to protect what little remainded of her family, and delays flew against that aim.

"He would." Peter admitted, his finger still held above the prompt to dismiss the hail, but not quite pressing down. "But you know what our other friend would say." His eys flicked up to her, and she pursed her lips in grudging acceptance.

"I am Groot." She sighed.

"Exactly." Peter spoke once, his finger punched into the display over the 'Accept' icon.

---

The snow fell in long, deliberate lines over the jagged cliffs of Doomstadt, as if even the weather knew to carry itself with reverence here. Victor Von Doom sat upon his throne, his metal face resting against a clenched fist, while the fingers of his other hand drummed a quiet rhythm on the armrest.

He had been still for hours, if not in body then in mind. He had no mountains left to conquer, no reason to use his near infinite knowledge for anything his Doombots couldn't already do. Machines purred and ticked softly in the vaulted silence, but their presence was ceremonial at best. Even the fire in the hearth dared not crackle too loud.

The monitors embedded in the walls displayed a dozen threats, a dozen unstable nations, and a dozen more potential crises. Doom ignored them. None warranted his attention today, or any other day for that matter. Latveria was safe for the time being, and would remain so if the other countries of the world knew what was good for them.

His thoughts were elsewhere, as they often were, focused inward. Focused backward.

Richards.

For years the absence of Reed Richards and Susan Storm had been a dull ache beneath his metal skin. A wound that refused to scar over and commit itself to the past. For Doom their disappearance was eternally present, something he could never truly accept. He watched the void they had left incessantly, studied everything they left behind them, measured their downfall to the smallest inch. And, in his quietest moments, hated it. Hated it for stealing from him the only rivals worthy of his intellect - and from the satisfaction of being the one to defeat them.

It had become a ritual. Every anniversary of the day they had disappeared, Doom would return to this chamber and allow the stillness to reach inside of him, to fester within his heart like a parasite. To confront the silence where there had once been challenge. The doors hissed open, Doom glared at the figure entering the room.

A servant in forest green, flanked by two Doombots, crossed the chamber quickly but without panic. The man knelt at the base of the dais and bowed.

"My Lord Doom." he said, "They've returned."

Doom did not move. He continued to glare at the scrawny, pale man at his feet. The words seemed to drift through the chamber like smoke.

"Clarify." he said at last.

"Richards and Storm, my lord. They are alive. News broadcast from New York clearly show them infiltrating the Baxter Building."

The rhythmic drumming of Doom's fingers stopped. His hand closed into a fist, and the wooden armrest beneath it cracked, splintering slightly under the pressure. He stood, the gravity in the room seemed to shift, it felt heavier.

With a motion of his gauntlet, he dismissed the servant. The man bowed again and retreated as the throne room began to shift. Screens unfolding from the walls, arcane projections forming rings around Doom as he stepped forward. Glowing circles danced around his gauntlet, each touch of his fingers conjuring new data.

The face of Reed Richards plastered every screen, staring back at Doom as if he was taunting him. He allowed himself a small smile behind his mask. The game begins again.

---

Victor Von Doom stepped from the ramp of his gleaming aircraft and onto the manicured lawn of the White House as though it were the court of a lesser king. The guards had been given orders to stand down; even the dogs kept behind the gates. The skies were clear. The cameras were rolling. He did not wait to be summoned. He was not here as a petitioner. A flank of Doombots followed him in similar green cloaks, like a procession of bishops walking to the vatican.

He passed through the corridors of American power like a dictator taking hold of new land. Portraits of past presidents seemed to recoil in their frames as he walked past, his armor hissing faintly with each step. When he entered the Oval Office, the room seemed to contract around him, as if shrinking beneath the weight of two egos too vast to share its space.

Inside the Oval Office, Maxwell Lord rose from his seat behind the Resolute Desk, its mahogany surface polished to a mirror sheen, smoothing his cufflinks with an unhurried elegance. Lord was relaxed, smiling as the metal man and his robots filled the room. The two secret service men by his side were decidedly less relaxed.

"Victor!" Lord said, voice silked with civility. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Doom grimaced at the sound of his first name. It had been years since anyone had called him that. "You've asked before." He said, striding closer to the desk without invitation. "You begged, in fact. Latveria does not forget such things. But now, circumstances align. I have reconsidered." He paused. "With conditions."

Lord gestured to the armchairs before the fireplace, then poured two glasses of Bordeaux from a crystal decanter. "I always welcome discussion, Victor, you know that. I'm not an unreasonable man." Begging was not how he would have described his initial request, but he knew better than to deny a man like Doom his small victories.

The tension in the room didn't ease, if anything it grew worse. Doom did not take a seat next to Lord. The psychology of standing above Lord was not lost on him, despite it seeming to have no affect on the president.

"No." he said "You are many things, Maxwell Lord. But unreasonable is not one of them. Calculating, yes. Opportunistic. Predictable in your ambition." He stepped forward, letting his cloak drag across the Oval Office carpet with slow, ceremonial weight. "But not unreasonable." The secret servicemen grew jumpier by the minute, the Doombots stared at them with the kind of malice only an unthinking machine is capable of. "You've wanted me at your little table for years now. Not because you admire Latveria's sovereignty. Not because you respect my rule. But because you know that sooner or later, the world would start to spiral - and when it does, you would need someone smarter than you to keep it from falling apart."

Lord didn't disagree. He took a sip of his wine.

"And now," Doom continued, "You've run out of clever little algorithms and savants. You want me in your Shadow Cabinet because you know Reed would never agree to be a part of this. And with your Iron Patriot programme being shut down your lines of defense are breaking down. The barbarians are at the gate and you need a king to hold them back."

Lord put the wine glass down in front of him and folded his hands. "You’re not wrong."

"I never am." There was a pause. The two rulers never broke eye contact. "You have your roster of titans and tacticians." Doom said, his tone curling with disdain. "But you don't have Reed Richards. Or anyone close to him. And now that he's returned, you need something close enough to keep balance. That is why I'm here. Not to advise your puppets. Not to protect your empire. I want eyes on Richards. I want his moves tracked, his allies exposed. I want full access to the intelligence you scrape from your satellites and your spies."

"You'll have it." Lord said, without hesitationl a smile playing on his lips. "You'll be briefed directly. No filters."

Doom stared at him for a long moment, then finally sat. "Then understand me, Lord. I do not join you for peace, nor prosperity. I join because Reed Richards walks the Earth again, and I will not be denied the end of that story."

Lord nodded once. "So we're agreed."

Doom's voice was as cold as the metal that encased him. "We are aligned. Do not mistake that for friendship."

"No." Lord smiled, "I wouldn't dream of it." He held out his hand to finalise it with a shake. Doom stared down at the fleshy mitten before finally grasping it. Lord held his grip a moment longer than necessary. "Welcome to the Shadow Cabinet."

Doom's hand withdrew. "A foolish name."

Lord smiled. "Perhaps."

Doom turned, his cloak dragging behind him like a shroud. He paused at the doorway, speaking without turning. "Know this Lord. I enter into this alliance begrudgingly, but I am also a man of my word. As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, so shall Latveria."

Economos hated Mondays, especially Mondays in Arlington. Traffic had been a nightmare thanks to the new roadworks down near the outer boulevards.

Everyone was on edge in the room. It smelt damp. In the middle of the table sat a ash tray. The silver bowl was a graveyard of cigarette butts, wafts of light grey smoke wisping out from the mound. Chatter was abuzz as usual around the room. Meaningless small talk about missions, domestic details, vacations, not in that order. Economos kept to himself, sipping in his coffee cup. As a data analyst, He was sandwiched in between two agents. Stillwell sat to his left, taking a drag of a cigarette whilst Johnson was kneading her eye with a manicured fist.Stillwell was the definition of a braggadocio. Theree was an unspoken hierarchy at the agency where hotshots like Stillwell, gunning for their next promotion, were the talk of the town at the mess hall whilst low level techs and admin staff like Economos were busy twiddling their thumbs, satisfied with their paycheck and benefits they got. Economos was alright with that. Stillwell was a man who demanded results whilst Economos was a man who calculated and waited for results. Two different philosophies. Only one seemed to get all the attention though.

Economos peered around the room. Avery from Analytics. Carson from Investigations. Tactical. Administration.

Why would Hill call a meeting from different departments? As though he had summoned her, Maria Hill burst through the door, the chatter ceasing in the room. Her spine was straight as a railroad spike, iron and unbending, as she walked to the front of the tabl. A crowd of assistants and secretaries congregated around her, like ducklings.  Wordlessly, she  nodded to an red-faced assistant who was struggling with a mountain of files in her arms who began passing it out to each agent. 

" Good morning, everyone. Yes, I know how unusual it is for us to have an early meeting, especially on a Monday." Maria nodded in acknowledgement to Economos and he raised his coffee mug in reply. " I wouldn't gather all of you if this wasn't a matter of national security."

" Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet the face of the mark we're targeting over the next few months." The projector turned on and Economos thought what he saw was some sort of photo editing glitch. It was a mugshot of a person, well, as best as he could make it out. The shadow held a sign reading "DAKOTA CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT - IVAN EVANS". Before anyone could ask a question,Economos heard a snide giggle from his left side. Maria's head turned towards his direction, her gaze owlish.

" Something funny, Agent Stillwell?," Maria asked.

" Seriously, this is who we're worrying about? I've read his file before, Hill." Stillwell eyes rolled, laying back in his chair with a smug grin. "A metahuman gangbanger? Low level gang wars over territory and cocaine? Can't we just leave this to the feds?" Some other agents in the room let loose a few sniggers and wry grins. Economos remained impassive, rolling his yellow pencil in between his fingers, observing Hill instead. The senior agent didn't so much flinch, remaining stony faced. Well, attempting to. Economos had worked with Amanda Waller long enough to know to spot a copycat. He could see the chinks in how her fists tightened, the way her shoulders tensed. The power suit she was wearing was the same as the one Waller wore during her inaugration speech at D.C.

" Really?" Maria raised a single eyebrow. " Since you're so outspoken, do you mind telling me who the Agency should be more worried about?"

The laughs died off. Stillwell shrugged his shoulders, now speaking in a patronising tone.

" Director Waller's directive has been to concentrate on Superman -"

" Correction. "  Maria cut him off . " Superman is one of our primary focuses but he is not the only one out there. Big Blue is a paper tiger. He is only one man and with our friends at LexCorp, he'll be kept busy in Metropolis for a good while. He is fundamentally an outsider and effectively has no political bearing on what goes on domestically. Until he starts becoming a threat, he's a nuisance and a useful one at that."

Grabbing a remote to the table, Maria pointed it to the television, turning it on with a flick of the switch. Black and white static faded into a live broadcast on WHIH News.  It looked like there was some protest in Chicago judging by the large crowds of people wielding signs. Only these weren't any ordinary people.There was a winged woman standing on power lines and holding a megaphone. A towering giant of pure energy waving a flag that was carved out of a small tree. They were metahumans. 

" This is Christine Everhart, live at Washington D.C where the Meta Breed is continuing their third day of public protests this week.  Mr Ebon, this is the second demonstration your Meta-Breed. What are you hoping to gain out of this discussion?"

The shadow talked. There was no mouth in the blackless expanse of that living shadow, only two slivery beads of moonlight that shimmered as though they were on the surface of a lake. He spoke in a vaguely brouguish east-coast accent, harsh and unrefined. There was a second tone glued to the first, an oily slick static that seem to cling to every syllable.

" Hope that the fine people of New York be more willing to let us be in their neighborhood  without havin' a rock thrown at us."

" Are you willing to come to any compromise with Governor -"

" Compromise?"  Ebon's voice grew angry. " 'Scuse me? Ain't no word I hate anything more in the dictionary than compromise. Instead of being forced to suck their dick, we get a dollar each time we suck their dick. Lord ain't anyone new. Same as the last administration in fact. No matter if it was the most woke ass liberal up there or the most racist pig standing on that their podium, it's a mould. The president fits that damn mould. You think this power makes me different? We just the same as everyone else. Powers ain't gonna be anything new in the equation if some people on the other side got powers too. We ain't meta if you're fighting for the same old things. Way I see it, you meta if you fightin' for a new meta, baby. A new meta that's free - "

The television clicked off. The temperature in the room had changed. The boredom on everyone's faces had been wiped away by Ebon's speech and now, a stoic grimace filled their furrowed eyebrows and frowns. Economos glanced to his left.  Stillwell looked as though he had swallowed a prune. Maria stared, laser-focused, at the agent, a savored look in her eyes, before regarding the silence of the room with a commanding voice.

" This protest was just over 6 hours ago. The Meta Breed are growing fast and have the potential to become one of the greatest threats this nation has ever faced.  They had only a few dozen people in their ranks 8 months ago and now, their ranks have swelled to the hundreds across the east coast. Mr Evans here has the potential to unite the mutant, the metahuman, the vigilante and all superpowered individuals into something new that could threaten the stability of this great nation. We must prevent his rise before he can start a metahuman revolution." Maria paused to let the gravity of her statement sink in. " The first and last one we'll live through. "

Agent Harcourt, a blonde agent in her mid thirties, was the first one to break the silence, leaning forward on her elbows.

" Why not just get a sniper? He's not bulletproof as far as the files tell me."

"We kill him now and we'll make him a martyr." Maria replied, her face grim. "The movement will continue on without him.  We need to kill his image, his reputation in the eyes of the public, and then, we can properly kill him. "

" So, what do you propose, Hill?," Stillwell said, irritated.

" We need a patsy. We can't fight a meta but if we make a meta fight another meta, well....."  Maria said, a slight curl on her lip. " And I just know the perfect one...."

---

---

---

---

Robbery was never something Terry Erwell took joy in. As he wedged the bolt cutters in between the steel iron chain behind the F.E.A.S.T community centre, he was wondering how the hell he had ended up here in the first place. His partner, Turk Barrett, had proposed the job a week ago. Erwell wouldn't have even dreamt of it. Hell, he crashed at F.E.A.S.T a few times when the landlord kicked him out for inspections and had supper there when he didn't have enough left over to pay the loan sharks. He disagreed to it but when the electricity bills came in, Erwell succumbed to the pressure.

" Come on, man," Turk was behind him, egging him on. He held a crowbar in his arms that was for forcing the door open once He looked over his shoulder for signs of any cops. " How long is it going to take for you to snap through, man?"

" Just gimme a second." Erwell grunted, feeling the metal slowly give way. " It'll take 5 minutes, tops."

" Well, hurry up." Barrett stood on the balls of his feet, holding the crowbar like a lifeline. " We stand out here. Pretty soon, someone's gonna spot us in our dumb masks -"

" Dude, what the hell are you two doing behind here?"

The two criminals jumped. The voice was young and sounded like your typical teen. Erwell knew immediately who it was. It was a face that you would have seen plastered on signboards, graffitied in subway tunnels and in blurry afterimages on late night talkshows. An overly large parka shadowed his head but two gimlets of blue lightning sparked within them. His hair stood on the end as all the lights in the alleyway seem to dim in the figure's presence. Two plastic grocery bags, stretched in the seams, were held in his hands.

Static.

The vigilante dropped the bags and took off his hood. His dreadlocks coiled outwards like stretched springs and the lightning faded from his eyes, revealing bloodshot irises.

" Erwell, I swear to god I told you off last week. " Static said, exasperated. " Don't tell me what I think you're doing. For fuck's sake, man, what if the cops spotted you?"

" Uh, Static, look, this is all a misunderstanding." Barrett raised his arms up, trying to defuse the situation. You see, we were just doing late night repairs -" The hero signed. Blue electricity began to drip from his right hand and with a wave, the crowbar his partner was holding leapt out like a frog and skittered on the concrete.

" Look, look, guys." Static pinched his nose. " It's 11:30, I got chores I need to run and I don't got time to send you two fools down to the station. " Static lifted up the bags invitingly. " How's about you help me distribute these hoagies to all the folks in the shelter and I'll let you two have a bite?"

Hopper had been staring at the many screens in front of him for the rest of the day, his bearded face one of boredom and exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever had enough sleep. The young lad had been working as a surveillance operator for the Stark Tower ever since he graduated from college, monitoring and analyzing a variety of footage showcasing many different floors of the multi-storied skyscraper in real time. It wasn’t exactly the kind of gig he wished to pursue as a quantum science graduate, surely, but he had no choice, especially not in this day and age where fresh graduates struggled to find a company willing to give them a chance. For the young Hopper, landing a minor position in Stark Industries seemed like a miracle, considering his resume was either rejected or ignored elsewhere.

His burdened eyes were swift to leap between screens, the movement impressively rehearsed, as he absently slurped the cold glass of avocado iced coffee in his grip. Oftentimes, his attention moved towards the smaller screen much closer to him, strategically playing a game of solitaire with an artificial opponent. Hopper clicked the mouse every few seconds, making sure that the cards on the screen were arranged in a systemic order. While he didn’t have the sharpest brain in the world, he’d always found a way to outsmart the computer even on the hardest difficulty. Unfortunately for Hopper, he’d been so fixated on beating the game that he paid no mind to the horrific sights of motionless fellow employees subsequently occupying the other, bigger screens. It seemed that dangers were near, but he stayed oblivious. And, suddenly, the door was knocked. Plenty of times.

KNOCK…

KNOCK…

The noises were heavy yet gradual, almost as though the door was knocked with a stifled force. Initially, Hopper chose to ignore them, but the obnoxious noises wouldn’t go. They grew louder and demanding each time, and he couldn’t bear them anymore. He stood out of his seat, striding towards the door.

“One second.”

He grabbed and twisted the knob, drawing the metallic panel in his direction. The young lad could’ve only guessed that it was one of his superiors ready to tell him apart for, apparently, not doing his job too well, despite his overworking and lacking sleep. Much to his surprise, however, it was somebody else. A figure much more menacing, covered in mask and tactical armor. The mysterious figure glared through his crimson lens, Hopper’s facial expression instantly dropping in fright.

“What the—”

SMACK!

And the figure—better known to the criminal underworld as the ‘Deathstroke’—hurled the solid tip of his own lance against his face, not even letting him finish his question. The poor lad’s nose was immediately restructured, crimson fluid spilling out of his nostrils as he toppled on his back unconscious. Like a rag doll, Deathstroke kicked Hopper’s motionless form aside, then fired barrages of energy beams towards each and every monitor across him.

BLAM!

BLAM!

BLAM!

BLAM!

Eventually, he only left the smaller one that was still running the prior solitaire game played by the operator. Approaching the desk, the masked mercenary stowed the energy lance back into the sheath attached to his armored back. He closed the application, then went on to search for the folder containing the records of his brutal yet silent actions within the skyscraper. It took him a moment to scroll through the sea of files named with undecipherable codes, and the only clue that Deathstroke could comprehend was an arrangement of numbers by the end of each file’s name. By the looks of it, the numbers seemed to indicate the date and time when the raw, unfiltered footage was recorded. With that in mind, it should be easier for him to track down the…

Bingo!

…records of himself, supposedly. As expected, once discovered, barely a single one of them depicted his actions as clear as the sky. He always knew to avoid surveillance cameras when necessary, keeping his movements silent and calculated while moving from one floor upon the other. Though, surely, there were some of his victims who were accidentally caught on camera, either reacting to his ambushes or drowning in their own pool of blood. Obviously, he wouldn’t want to leave traces like those behind, preferring to either keep the authority guessing or charging whoever the soaring amateur the Kingpin had trusted to raid along. After deleting every file containing the brutal sights, the masked mercenary pulled his pistol out of its holster, then destroyed both the remaining monitor and the processor each with a moderate bang! A crater was formed on each one of them, electric sparks flaring out of their severely leaked forms.

That should do.

Now that every monitor had been demolished, he should’ve been able to reach the laboratory in peace, not having to worry about getting caught redhanded. Stowing the pistol back into its holster, Deathstroke, once again, drew the energy lance out its sheath, spinning the thin yet lengthy weapon with his gloved fingers. He strengthened his grip around the lance, his gesture making it seemed as though he was holding a rifle. Based on the tower’s blueprint he discovered earlier at the lower floor, there were emergency stairs nearby the control room that could lead him to the back of the laboratory above. The path to the upper floor was long, yet he had no choice since the elevator was positioned far across the control room.

Each stride the mercenary drew was silent and deliberate, as he climbed on each and every step ahead of him. Oftentimes, his only functioning eye paced from one side to another, making sure that nobody spotted him before placing his gaze back ahead. So far, nothing was found hampering his path until the other end was near. From a fair distance, he caught the standing form of a security guard facing his opposite, seemingly sporting a forage cap and a neatly kept hair bun. For a moment, she didn’t seem to be alarmed by his presence until…

“Hold it right there!”

…she turned in his direction, beginning to pull a pistol out of the holster. However, before she could even touch the weapon stowed by her side…

BLAM!

CRUSH!

…Deathstroke had fired his lance, the burst of energy beam instantly exploding her cranium. The once standing form had now lifelessly tumbled down the stairs, spewing out a massive rain of crimson fluid all over his vicinity. He merely sidestepped towards a handrail, avoiding the headless figure from stumbling across him. The one-eyed mercenary still kept the lance tight in his grip.

Two more steps to take…

His instincts were telling him to scan his vicinity once the other end was reached. Contrary to most of the floors beneath, the top floor was less busier than the rest, and it was meant to be both the developmental and the testing ground for the latest Stark’s inventions. Thankfully, the surveillance cameras had been switched off, and the prior lady was the only security guard guarding the area. Slowly but surely, the Terminator stowed the lance back into its sheath, preparing a gas grenade formerly tucked under his utility belt. Thankfully, his mask was designed to resist all kinds of hazardous scents, so if the grenade was triggered, he wouldn’t be affected by it at all

When activated and thrown, the gas grenade expelled a cloud of fog continuously occupying the laboratory. Noises of coughs and desperate gasps were heard all across the top floor, as the researchers fell atop the floor one by one, being forced to sleep. Deathstroke strolled through the sea of scattering humans, scanning the spacious laboratory serving as a not-showroom. The fog cleared itself, and a row of sophisticated yet underdeveloped armors became apparent. There were also gauntlets, automatic firearms, and iron scraps scattered all over the floor, seemingly leaving the grip of their now unconscious co-developers. A bunch of them did intrigue the Terminator upon discovery, most notably the specially designed gauntlets and missile launchers on the table next to him. There was also a massive prototype of what would be a Proton Cannon, though surely, he wouldn’t have been able to bring the weapon with him due to its sheer size. He inspected the weapons closely through his crimson lens, sky-blue gaze narrowing at the weapons on the table.

“Hmm… Well, these look interesting,” Deathstroke pensively muttered, his gloved hands taking hold of one of the gauntlets. He could now understand why Tony Stark would’ve taken pride in each one of his technological marvels. From the looks of it, the gauntlet was perfectly crafted, its dark silver figure partially painted in blue. There was also an appendage attached to the wrist, containing an array of multiple firearms that could be activated automatically. Not sure about how it functioned, though, but he might like to test it out right there and then, hoping that this one was nearly completed.

“Let’s see how this bad boy works…”

And so, Deathstroke wore the slightly larger gauntlet over his gloved hand, reeling his hand upside down to get a better glance at both the wrist-mounted gun and the glimmering palm repulsor capable of firing beams. He seemed more tempted to test out the wrist-mounted gun somehow. Fingers curled, he clenched his metal hand tightly, gradually pointing said gun towards the window across from his upright frame. Firing sparks flared out of the barrel, and rounds of bullets flew through the window, shattering the glass into sharp smithereens.

BUDDA–BUDDA–BUDDA–BUDDA!

CLING–CLING–CRACK!

It still felt a bit rough around the edge, sure, but it worked just fine. Perhaps, it was time for him to say goodbye to a wide array of conventional firearms in his possession, given that these kinds of technologies offered better practicality.

“Mhm… Superior tech, indeed,” Deathstroke mumbled, an impressed smirk across his veiled face. “I’m taking this bad boy with me.”

He settled an empty duffle bag formerly clinging to his shoulder across the table, ditched the gauntlet around his gloved hand, then began stowing each and every piece of superior technology he could find scattered or showcased nearby—a pair of both the gauntlets and shoulder-mounted missile launchers for himself included. As much as he was tempted to use them immediately, he’d rather keep the stolen weapons of his choice for the next occasions. After all, a number of parts still needed modifying. Once done, the masked mercenary zipped the bag, swiftly slinging its strap over his shoulder. It was time to head back to the Fisk Towers, he believed, letting the ‘Vulture’ take care of the rest.

“Good luck with the gig… amateur!”

Quick yet composed, Deathstroke strode out of the laboratory, subsequently climbing down one stairs to another. When an elevator was reached, he eventually chose to use it as a shortcut to get himself back to the ground floor in no time, eventually heading out of the raided interior and onto his motorcycle parked behind the skyscraper. However, just when he was about to get on the seat and switch the ignition on…

CLICK!

Somebody had loaded and pointed a gun close to his bright orange temple, clad in a similar mask and tactical suit as he stood right beside him.

“I’ve finally found you, Deathstroke.”

Who could this mysterious person be?

FIN.

"My fellow Americans. I wish I could say that today isn't one of the darkest chapters of our recent history, that what millions of you saw on the news just hours ago was staged or forged in any way. I honestly wish I could say that."

The look on President Maxwell Lord's face from behind the podium was uncharacteristically somber. The flash of cameras adorning the gallery of the Press Briefing Room gave his stare a more ominous appearance than intended, but the optics of the situation weren't exactly a concern on anyone's mind, much less the leader of the free world's. Having been in a strategic meeting at the time, preferring not to dwell on the incoming loss of the Iron Patriot program after his office had been sent the briefest memo by Stark's team, Lord had only barely been given the rundown of a live broadcast that had unexpectedly been cut short, not to mention cliffnotes of the immediate aftermath from official channels. Someone else in this situation might've been flustered, tripping over themselves to try and assuage the panic of a nation worried that the first of a series of terrorist attacks was coming. That this was some sort of larger coordinated effort, as the Joint Chiefs of Staff had exclaimed in their bid to try and keep Lord in an off-site bunker.

To hell with that. Upon reviewing the footage, the President knew exactly what this had been. All of his fears, his genuine anxieties about what was to come since his election had been confirmed in one of the worst ways - but that didn't mean that he was about to run from the apparent danger. He knew that this was a war that had started the minute that the Reach had placed it on humanity's doorstep. You didn't run from that and still dare to live with yourself.

"While details are still scarce, even to me, I can confirm a few key details. Both Homeland Security and the FBI have reason to believe that the attack at Stark Industries was a solitary effort. Identification of the extremist who executed it is still ongoing, as unfortunately, the individual's face was never captured on camera. And all eyewitness testimony is, frankly, impossible."

Lord opened his mouth to speak. Then stopped, paused in thought. Silent for a deafening few seconds. By the time he regained his composure, whispers could be heard emanating from the crowd in waves.

"I can also confirm that, while the number of casualties is still unknown at this time, one of them... was Anthony Stark."

The flash of the cameras went from periodic to frenzied. The whispers turned into genuine gasps. Some members of the press were yelling over eachother, others were stunned into silence. Tony Stark had been a fixture of the press for nearly two decades, ever since the late Howard and Maria had famously announced the latter's pregnancy during a press release from the Bahamas. The billionaire had left behind quite the complicated legacy, certainly. And even more questions would be asked for years to come about the manner of his death, not to mention the motives behind the announcement made just moments before the incident. But President Lord firmly raised his hand in a powerful show of strength. Those who weren't heeding the call from White House staff to quiet down were suddenly compelled to allow the President to continue.

"I can't claim to have known Mr. Stark very well, at least not personally. He was more acquainted with my predecessor, as many are aware. Under President Ellis, Mr. Stark and his War Machines were considered something of a revolutionary new measure in global defense. They were also incredibly controversial, and my former opponent spent many hours defending their use in the field in this very room. But on the subject of the need for Stark's inventiveness, for his ingenuity in keeping this nation safe, President Ellis and I never disagreed. I daresay that Tony Stark was a vital piece of America."

Lord closed his eyes. "And that piece has been ripped away from us."

With a sigh, the President opened his eyes again, a visible renewal of something within them.

"Not by human terrorists. Not by someone with a gun or a bomb strapped to them, no sniper's bullet aimed from a faraway nest. No, that would be the sort of monstrousness that until a decade ago, we would be able to understand. Not tolerate, never tolerate, but at least be able to understand. Because humanity as we all know it is very cruel and violent, and has been since the dawn of man. But we eventually evolved, becoming better as a people, living together with a general sense of decency and understanding. As a species, we were on the path."

The President could barely contain the venom in his voice as he continued. It was a tone that he had used multiple times on the campaign trail, and evoked plenty of criticism. But there had been just as many who saw it as a tone of righteousness, an honest voice in a sea of deceit that the world of politics had continually wielded like a weapon against the voting public. In some ways, it was a tone that had won him the White House.

"But these metahumans. They aren't something any of us can understand. We don't know what motivates them as individuals, much less as a whole, and how could we? They've been given power that most of us could barely conceive of. Imagine being able to do what the man who murdered Tony Stark could. And imagine that you were similarly fuelled by such a warped ideology, believing in the myth of some mutant haven so much that you would kill in it's name? Would you have been able to stop yourself from thinking you could play God? Would you even bother trying?"

Clasping both hands on either side of the podium, Lord leaned forward.

"These are the exact dangers that my administration has been warning you about since the beginning of my campaign. The curse that The Reach have inflicted upon the Earth, creating both the metahuman threat and emboldening mutantkind. The uncertainty that any of us, even the rich and powerful, are susceptible to these kinds of attacks at random. Individuals walking around with the ability to set themselves off and kill a room full of journalists living among us. Stark Industries just learned the hard reality of that fact in the worst way imaginable. I grieve for a time when that wasn't the case, but we're going to continue to live in unprecedented times for the foreseeable future. Make no mistake, my friends. This exact sort of attack can happen again. And if we don't act soon, it will."

Then, in a moment that nobody saw coming, the President stood upright and spoke words that no one expected him to. Words pertaining to something that the White House had spent weeks attempting to deny through a continued lack of comment. Lord had been in consultation with Vice President Waller about how to move forward from an apparent scandal on that scale, but until they could properly strategize, he had been advised to give no indication of it's validity. But as the former CEO of Roxxon, the President knew an opportunity when he saw one.

"That is exactly why I approved the drafting of Project Daedelus."

Eyes widened from the crowd. Multiple people turned to look at eachother, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Had the President of the United States just openly admitted to enacting metahuman concentration camps? Had he gone insane? Even members of Lord's cabinet who were in attendance seemed highly uncomfortable with such a public revelation. But Lord remained steadfast.

"I know that the public has been demanding answers. Answers about what kind of man, much less what kind of leader could possibly consider such extreme methods. I'm fully aware of how it looks from the outset, and truth be told, my staff and I were unsure of the legalities in approaching the issue. Those files were highly classified, and the method used to illegally obtain them is still under active investigation. But I think that in the interest of transparency, and in light of this shocking crime, the American people deserve to know the truth."

Clasping his hands together and resting them on the podium, the President made direct eye contact with the primary camera feed. If Lord was lying as he spoke, even his most veracious critics would be hard pressed to say that he wasn't at least damn good at it.

"And the truth is that we are still at war. I know that most of us have considered The Reach's leave of Earth to be the end of the single largest conflict that the world has ever seen, but I can't sugarcoat it. We traded peace and security for a swift end to an enemy that is still determined to kill us. And in the aftermath, we were left with the blight of metahumans. Ordinary people rendered a threat to every one of us. It's an ugly truth, but it's one that we have to embrace. And in doing so, I'll admit it here. The American government was forced to explore every possible avenue to regain that security. Project Daedelus was the direct result of that exploration."

And so it had finally come out. The headlines were already brewing, with articles being visibly typed up on phones and notepads just beyond Lord's field of vision. But he seemed eerily calm, even refraining from the hostility that had crept into his voice the minute that he'd started talking about his administration's oft-covered hot button issue.

"But the project was only ever theoretical. An exercise that considered the worst-case scenario. That was the job I've taken on as leader of this nation. I've seen the words 'internment camp' bandied about in the press, but I reject that sentiment wholeheartedly. Exterminating metahumans? Killing mutants? There is nothing to be gained by making martyrs of these individuals. I ran for office on the promise of making America, making the world itself safe from this threat. What possible justification would I have to give them a reason to fight back? To let innocents be caught in the crossfire, like those poor individuals at Stark Industries?"

The President's tone briefly softened - and gradually hardened again.

"No. There's a better way. A more peaceful alternative that can restore the balance. But before we can reach that point, security must be considered above all else. And that is why, in the face of this unimaginable tragedy, I am announcing both swift and decisive action on behalf of the United States government. Tomorrow morning, I will be signing an Executive Order granting law enforcement, at state and federal levels, access to The Agency provided caches of non-lethal power-dampening ordinance to aid in the arrest of probable metahuman and mutant citizens. I urge the governments of the world to consider the same, and offer the full co-operation of Vice President Waller."

The camera flashes were, at this point, blinding. But Lord seemed wholly undeterred.

"From there, each arrest will result in relocation to a facility that will hold them. And I emphasize hold them, because that is precisely what the compound was designed to do. Overseen by the brilliant scientific engineers Professor Anthony Ivo and Dr. Abraham Cornelius, we have built a prison specially designed to detain powered individuals. They've taken to calling it The Raft, and it's exact location will be unveiled later in the week."

As calls for questions slowly began to emerge from the crowd, Lord ignored them, again staring directly into the camera.

"My friends, I realize that there are difficult days ahead. That you may be frightened of the implications that these announcements may generate. But I assure you, everything I've done and everything this administration will be doing is in the interest of keeping all of you safe. You have my word as an American, and more importantly, a human being."

The calls for answers grew louder, nearly drowning out the President's words.

But the message couldn't be any clearer.

"God bless Anthony Stark. And God bless America."

---

Jackson had a variety of ideas as to what Arthur's gift could be. Keys to his own underground lair, his own cool-looking golden trident. But when his baby blue eyes took in the truth, not even a million dollars in unmarked bills could compare to the joy he felt at receiving his own costume.

"No way!" He exclaimed, turning his head 90 degrees to face Arthur. His mentor only nodded with his own joyous expression, confirmed that his eyes were truly not deceiving him. The young hero returned to his prize and pulled it out from the chest into the sunlight.

The costume was designed like a diving suit, with an orange upper body and everything below the torso colored black. Two vertical streaks of black ran from his waist up to his armpits, perfectly framing the costume's center piece, a golden A-shaped symbol located at the middle of his waist. The same one that served as Arthur's belt buckle.

Arthur crossed his arms. "If you're gonna be out in the field, I figured you would need some better than shorts and a tank top."

Jackson's delight was joined by surprise. "I'm gonna be out in the field?"

"Of course, we'll start off small. I have minor assignments here and there to wet your toes before we go into the deep end." Arthur seemed to pick up on the doubt in Jackson's mind. Reaching out, a reassuring hand gave his student's shoulder a squeeze. "I wouldn't take this step unless I knew for certain you were ready. I've taught you a lot, and I feel like what you still need to brush up on requires real-world experience."
Jackson looked down to the sandy ground, then into Arthur's eyes. They were blue like a cascading waterfall, and lacked any signs of doubt. There was a moment of deja vu, and it took a moment for the younger man to recognize the feeling. A year ago, the roles were reversed. It was Jackson, rising up like a geyser from the dining table to meet Arthur face to face and ask him to train him. To teach him how to properly use the abilities he had been gifted for good. Just like the first hero who set the standard for everybody else when he bravely fought back against the Reach and saved the Earth. And Arthur, picking up on that fire within him, had faith and took him on as a student.

Returning to the present, raw emotion began to swirl within his body. Like an overflowing dam, confidence swelled within Jackson.

Now, it was time for to have faith in him. And himself.

"Alright, yeah," He began, nodding. His head movement became more and more animated as the reservation exited his body. Soon, the excited young adult had returned in full form. "Taking the next steps, let's do it! Gotta make a name for myself eventually, huh?"

As Jackson brimmed with confidence, the overflow spread to Arthur. "You're going to do great, I know it." Giving Jackson a playful slap on the shoulder, he began backing away towards the water while pointing at him. "Get that on and meet me in the water. Time for some real exercise!"

...

Traversing through water with your hands and feet alone is slow. Swimming with flippers to increase the amount of force and propulsion your feet produce is fast. Crusing in a motor-propelled boat is faster. Riding on a jet-propelled jet-ski is much faster.

Swimming like Arthur blew every single one of those options out of the water.

Jackson's vision was a slideshow of the ocean floor going at x3 speed. His body was in streamline position, both arms straight in front of him as he cut through the water. Down below, sea life and scenery zoomed past in an array of colors. The young man directed himself downwards, setting himself on a collision course with the surface below before zipping back up. To be fair, Arthur's mode of aquatic transportation wasn't as much swimming as it was using hydrokinesis to its maximum efficiency. As he felt himself beginning to ever so slightly slow down, Jackson curled his body inwards. His shoulders bend and reared back and his knees bent into his chest. At that point, he focused his ability to control water on his feet, condensing the water beneath them before pushing off with all of his strength. At the same time, he willed the water around his upper body to give way. The result was a human torpedo rocketing through the depths of the sea, cheering with glee all the way.

With the velocity of a shooting star, Jackson blasted past a school of shimmering silver fish. Up ahead, Arthur was maintaining a strong lead. The way he executed the technique required far fewer boosts that launched him much farther. His protégé narrowed his eyes in determination. Directing himself upwards, he began mentally noting how long it took for his body to decelerate. And as soon as it hit, he made sure he was in position to boost again. From an outsider's point of view, Jackson was propelling himself in a zig-zag pattern, shooting up near the surface, then rocketing himself back down towards the bottom of the ocean. With his new rhythm, his upward rise put him neck to neck with Arthur. His mentor turned his head and was greeted with his ward swimming alongside him, wiggling his fingers in greeting.

"I was waiting for you to get the hang of it!" Arthur declared, congratulating him. "Alright, pop quiz! Let's try coming to a complete stop and going up to the surface!"

To Arthur, this came as easy as righting himself, raising his palms and commanding the water to act as normal. For the novice Jackson, a sudden stop was still something he needed to improve on. Jackson swore he could hear Arthur laughing like a madman as he blew past him, palms out and feet curled up like a cartoon character skidding on the ground while trying to come to a stop. When he finally came to a halt, the hero in training swam like a normal human back to the surface, his dreaded head emerging from the water next to Arthur's. He scratched the back of his head as he was treated to his mentor's light chuckling.

"Look, I'm still working on the brakes, okay?" He said sheepishly. In response, Arthur gave him a smile.

"We all start somewhere, Jackson. You're making good progress," He chimed. "If I remember correctly, we should be near the spot. There's a minor trench around here with enough debris at the bottom to serve as an obstacle cours--"

Arthur stopped mid-sentence as both men picked up on a sharp whistling sound. Turning around, they were met with the bright blue afternoon sky being painted by a red streak of smoke, a shining crimson beacon at its head. And at the base, sitting on the water, was a fishing boat Arthur and Jackson looked back at each other, keenly aware of what was happening.

With a more sober tone, Jackson spoke up first. "That was a--"

"Signal flare," Arthur finished. "Something's going on. There are people out there in trouble."

Jackson lightly gulped, his throat tightening a little. A call for help, on the first day out? Nontheless, he paddle a little ahead of Arthur. This, is what we signed up for. Nobody picks their first conflict. "Then let's get them out of it."

Arthur nodded his head and swam next to Jackson. And together, they dived back into the water, beginning the journey into uncertainty.

Obadiah Stane walked down the long walk towards the main building within the Stark Enterprise compound. His phone in his hand, earpiece held securely in his ear, speaking as he walked. "No, I wouldn't worry about the security of the project, I assure you, if anything today's news briefing will increase your budget." The bald business big shot rolled his eyes at whatever was said on the other side of the phone call as he neared the security gate, taking a sip of his coffee with his left hand he slipped his ID between his forefinger and thumb, pulling it out and flashing it with his phone hand.

The security guard nodded and waved him through. He took a couple of steps -

Knocked from his feet, his phone and earpiece were sent flying as the shockwave hit him. Coughing up the dust as he lay on his back, near the checkpoint he had just passed. Obadiah became aware of blurs of movement in his vision, swirls of colour among the greys and browns of his reality. A dull tone pierced through the ringing in his ears, he sought it out and focused on it. Bringing his attention down upon it. "Sir, Sir! Are you okay?" He felt them now, hands running over him as the security guard returned to focus. Feeling for wounds and fresh blood. As clarity returned, the numbness faded. The pain spiked, bringing lucidity.

He turned his head, his vision swaying as he did so. All around, the dust hung in the air, people groaned and tossed and turned in pain. Others limped away lazily, others just sat completely still. His attention turned to a pair of reporters who hadn't been allowed access into the venue, whose credentials had failed to clear. They were now feeling pretty lucky as they pulled themselves together and raised the camera towards the scene of carnage and destruction.

Obadiah forced himself to his feet, pushing the security guard off him. He stood and started fighting his way towards the building. Roaring at the top of his lungs. "TONY!" Catching a glimpse of the camera turning in his direction, he forced himself onwards, occasionally stumbling and catching himself on rubble. His favourite Tom Ford ruined, his coat torn and in tatters and yet he still had to stop himself from smiling. His picture would be the front page of every paper in the country by tomorrow morning.

The King is dead. All Hail the King.



WARNING: SUIT SYSTEMS COMPROMISED
//WEAPONS: OFFLINE
//FLIGHT SYSTEMS: OFFLINE
//TACTICAL SYSTEMS: OFFLINE
//COMMUNICATIONS: OFFLINE
//POWER SYSTEMS: FAILING
//LIFE SUPPORT: FAILING

Jim coughed, and as he did, he saw stars. The pain jolting him awake. As he coughed, he tasted copper and bile in his throat. His skin felt sticky and wet, and then the smell hit him, and he had to refrain from gagging and choking. A very hot shower was in order, he blinked his eyes several times trying to clear them. As his vision cleared the BEEEEEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEP continued to get louder. Realising that his vision was working, and that there was just nothing to see, he croaked his command. His voice rasped and was hoarse. "Visor." He coughed as nothing happened. "Visor, up."

His voice echoed, and not for the first time he couldn't escape the feeling of being buried alive. Starting with his little toes, he slowly stretched and explored the muscles in his body. A fresh jolt of pain raced up his spine as he attempted to move his left knee. When he did move it there was very little movement in it as the armour pushed up against something. Broken and pinned. His scream rattled his ears as he attempted to twist his left wrist, and his entire arm flared up in excruciating pain. He could feel his flesh tear and break. The good news was that if something had pierced the suit that meant that he had a fresh supply of air if his life support was offline, which it likely was. His right arm, while in pain, moved. Wheezing slightly, he slammed it down on his faceplate, grabbing into it he felt the creak of the metal, and winced as he ripped it off, throwing the faceplate away.

Jim coughed and spluttered as his face was instantly assailed by dust and debris, shaking his head and blinking his eyes he sat up as best he could, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. A lump of concrete was on his left side, from his legs to his lower chest. He could see the rebar that had pierced the suit at the join of his elbow. The fact that he could move his elbow ever so slightly at least meant that it had not tore through his joint. Which was good news as he would likely have lost his forearm if that were the case. Servos clicked and whined as he brought his right hand up in front of his face, palm down he surveyed the repulsor. With a slight twitch of his pinky, he waited for the telltale blue glow to light up his hand.

The emitter remained dark, and Jim swore. Pushing as best he could he positioned himself at an angle where he could see the chest piece, and his heart sank. A shard of metal had burst his reactor. Through material that could easily survive a rocket strike. His memory was foggy, the events before the explosion just out of reach. Whatever had exploded had an insane amount of force. He'd be surprised if anyone else who had been standing in that room had survived. The despair clawed at him, but his reasoning wouldn't let it take hold. He was still alive, and he was still in danger.

"Hold it together Rhodey." He chuckled, the action rattling his chest turning to a cough. "So you're talking to yourself now, and calling yourself Rhodey. Well, what do we need?" The answer to that was simple. He needed to free himself from the debris, once he was free he could either look for a power source for the suit or eject and try and find his way back to the surface.

Aim High

Rhodey still had power, reserve batteries that couldn't power some of the suits' more advanced systems; however, at his insistence, the Patriot armour was also packed with conventional weaponry, which was not advanced. A couple of flicks of his fingers, there was a click inside his gauntlet as a machine gun attempted to deploy. It cracked open, but not fully. Slamming his fist against debris, he coughed as a fresh layer of dust fell down. The gun popped out. Twisting his arm till it hovered over the concrete, pinning his arm, he made a solemn vow that if he ever wore this armour again, he would pack earplugs.

His hand tightened into a fist, the bullets exploded from the gun, filling the darkness with flashes of light. The cloud of dust grew, and he screwed his eyes closed, focusing all his energy on the effort of holding the gun steady and level. His ears were ringing as the sound reverberated in the small space, pain erupting in his skull as the sound rattled around inside his body. "One, two, three, four, five" It was hard to hear himself count over the din, but after five seconds, he opened his hands and the gunfire stopped. He tested a breath through his nose, and when all he inhaled was dus,t he continued to hold his breath until his lungs burned. Fighting every urge in his body, Rhodey took as small a breath as possible. Once it was safe he took another, and another.

Wiping his face as gently as possible, he opened his eyes, the collapsed wall had shattered under the assault. Using the enhanced strength of the gauntlet, he managed to break off any remaining concrete on the rebar, before twisting it as close to the arm as possible, turning it into a band that clung to him. Able to stand up he reached behind himself and did the same to the back of the bar to the best of his ability. Moving freely he bit through the pain as using both arms he lift the remaining debris on his left leg enough to shimmy himself out from under it, pushing himself to his feet, he kept as much weight as possible on his right leg. Barely able to see through the dust, he could see the sparks and spurts of fluid coming from his leg. He just hoped it was hydraulic and not blood, or this would be a very short escape attempt.

Climbing very carefully through the debris he tried to find a piece of wall that was in the correct position, or a piece of clear flooring. Anything that would give him an indication of where he was concerning the room he had been in. There was no telling with an explosion of that force where he had ended up, he could be in the basement, the same room as before or several rooms across. Had the explosion taken down the whole building? In the gloom, he saw several blank faces, eyes open. Limbs sticking out of debris, most burnt beyond recognition. Then he heard it.

BEEEEEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEP

Except this time it wasn't coming from his suit, it wasn't close. He limped as gingerly but as quickly as he could. He could see a pulsing blue light now, the silhouette of a man. The blue light appeared to be behind him, as he fought his way closer, pulling debris out of his way as he climbed his way higher. No the light wasn't coming from behind him it was - Rhodey fell to his knees as he approached. The light coming from the chest of his best friend. Tony Stark. What appeared to be a thin red and silver War Machine suit clung to him, burnt to his flesh. The metal scarred; it jutted out at awkward angles as if it hadn't properly sealed before the explosion.

Rhodey placed his hand on his fallen friends chest, Tonys eyes lost behind the mask of the suit. Rhodey dared not pull it off. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you Tony." His hand on Tonys chest curled, and found purchase. "Maybe you can save me one more time-" Rhodey grabbed hold of the reactor, twisting it slightly. Forcing passed the point of resistance. "-and I promise I'll do everything in my power to save your legacy." He pulled, and the arc reactor came free from Tonys chest, into his hand. It sparked and fizzed for a moment before it settled again into its steady blue glow.

---

Reed sat opposite Elder once more, this time without Sue by his side. At least, not in a physical capacity. In truth she was monitoring the situation through HERBIE who was hovering quietly next to the two as they spoke. Elder's face looked the same as before - calm, almost too calm for a man in his condition. He had the manner of someone who had lived through too much and learned long ago to keep most of his emotions inside.

"You've been busy." Harvey said, his tone as dry as the dust under their boots. "The first time we met, I wasn't sure if you'd crawl back down here or keep to your glass towers."

Reed gave a tired smile. "Not much glass left in the towers these days." He leaned forward, hands clasped. "But I didn't come here to talk about me. I have an update on who was tracking you."

Elder allowed a surprised expression to pass over his face, he too readjusted in his seat, leaning forward slightly as he braced against the armrest. "You don't say? Well then out with it Reed, I'm anxious to find out who would threaten myself and my children."

Reed paused for a moment, glancing down at Herbie and then back up at Harvey. They had decided to hold back the full story from Elder. Sue had instilled a good sense of caution within her fiance, and even he saw the potential danger in Harvey's reaction to the capabilities of the person tracking him. Nevertheless, they needed help, and they had very few places to turn to. "I can't say it's much of an update, only a small one. We never actually saw the culprit in the flesh he communicated with us through text on a screen. He hooked me up to a chair and forced me to make a decision - delete the safeguard I had in place to protect our identities, or delete our memories from before the Fantastic Four split up."

Elder wasted no time in replying after a short chuckle. "And of course, men as rational as us have no need for mementos, you kept the safeguard, no?" Reed didn't reply vocally, just catching the man in front's gaze with a pleading expression. "Ah, I see. A man must always look forward, Reed, never back. You have painted a target on your hide now, even bigger than the one this....mad thinker has painted on you." Elder sat back in his chair, relaxed a bit more. "Still, as selfish as it sounds this is good news for me. It seems our tracker was using me to get to you rather than vice versa."

Reed opted not to detail their battle with the android. It could stir Elder into a frenzy, there was no need to risk any disturbances. "Good news for you and the moloids." He said glancing up at Belo, who was stood at attention near the makeshift sink at the corner of the room, cleaning dishes no doubt with an ear open for any news.

"Hm. Quite." Spoke Elder "Nevertheless, you've done a service for me here Reed, it gives me a great deal of peace of mind to know that we are under no immediate threat. I would offer to do a favour in return Reed, I will not take no for an answer. The next time your 'Mad Thinker' gets in contact please radio me, I will assist in tracking him. No doubt with our combined efforts we will make short work of this fiend." Reed nodded, glad to have not had to ask for what Elder had so readily offered. "Belo, please show our esteemed friend back to the surface." He clapped his hands and Belo turned, leading Reed out of the room and up through the tunnels.

For a while the two said very little. Reed asked Belo a few personal questions but it was difficult for him to make small talk with 'normal' people - let alone moloids who had lived underground their whole life. The shoddy lantern that hung from Belo's belt made a small clinking noise as they walked, purely for Reed's benefit than Belo who could see clearly in pitch dark. Eventually Belo intercut the idle chatter with a more concerned tone of voice.

"Mr. Richards, I - uh I have something to tell you. Something worrisome that I'm not 100% sure how to communicate to you."

Reed raised an inquisitive eyebrow stopping and turning to face the Moloid. "Yes, Belo?"

"Mr. Richards, things down here are not all as they seem. I'm not sure how to explain it but I feel different from the other Moloids-"

Reed naturally interrupted, a bad habit he'd had since a boy that he'd struggled to fight against. "Well, of course, Belo, you're more evolved. I suspect, Harvey refined his process when managed to revive you and your sisters. No doubt there will be more sentient Moloids to come."

Belo looked uncomfortable, looking down at his feet and fidgeting with his hands. "No, Mr. Richards you don't understand. My sisters and I are not the newest Moloids, we were the first." Reed looked shocked. A million thoughts whizzed around his brain like wasps. He didn't reply. "Please, Mr. Richards, I need to know why I am the way I am." He took a strangely shaped rock from a pouch on his belt and pressed it into Reed's hand. He looked down at it and realised it was a small fossil, unlike any he had seen before. "I stole this from father, please tell me why I am different."

---

Reed burst through the door of the Baxter annex with all of the excitement of a kid in a toy store. He almost ran to the computer and placed the fossil in front of Sue.
"Sue! You will not believe what Belo gave me down in the tunnels!"

Sue sat quietly at the console. She looked up at him, not with her usual amused indulgence at his bursts of enthusiasm, but with a stillness that immediately froze him mid-step. He faltered, his words catching as he saw the way her lips pressed together, the faint redness around her eyes.

"Sue...?" His voice softened. "What is it?" She didn't answer at first, instead reaching out to rest her hand over his, gently drawing his excitement down to the desk. He kneeled and met her gaze at eye level. Her touch was soft against his hands, but there was something in her gaze that made his chest tighten before she even spoke.

"Reed..." she began, and her voice almost broke on his name. She steadied herself with a slow breath. "Tony Stark is dead."

The words hit him like a blow. For a long moment, Reed just stared, as though he hadn't heard her correctly. Then he drew back slightly, blinking, standing up to his full height with a hand covering his mouth and another on his hip as he stared at the ground. HERBIE gave a soft electronic whirr, almost apologetic, filling the silence neither of them seemed able to break.

"When?" he finally managed, looking back at her.

"Today. At a press conference at Stark Industries. There was an attack." Sue looked down, shaking her head. "The newsfeeds have confirmed it. President Lord already made a statement."

Reed lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his long fingers tightening against the fossil Belo had pressed into his palm until the edges bit into his skin. His mind, usually alight with possibilities and patterns, was blank.

"I haven't spoken to him in years." Reed murmured, almost to himself. Sorrow grasping at every word. "Not since before the Reach. We always said we'd compare notes, share ideas, but-" He cut himself off, his voice trailing off into silence.

Sue's lips curved into a small, trembling smile. "Do you remember the first time we met him?"

Reed blinked, and despite himself, a choked laugh escaped. "How could I forget? He walked right up to you and-"

"-and asked me to dinner." Sue finished for him, laughing through the tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

"And the moment he realized you were with me, he made a show of swooning like he was heartbroken and then sent over a bottle of the most expensive bottle of champagne they had." Reed continued, shaking his head. "But every time after that, every single time, he'd rib me about it. 'Richards, how'd a nerd like you end up with her?'"

Sue smiled, wiping tears away from her cheeks. "You know since I found out the news I can't help but think what could have happened if we'd become public earlier. We could have reached out to him and made a real difference. He might've been an arrogant playboy, but he had a good heart. Who knows what we could've achieved as a team."

Reed leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly into his clasped hands. "The world is down one more altruistic genius. Seems the stores running short on the good guys these days. And Lord will no doubt be already picking through his belongings for anything he can use to get rid of Metas."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft hum of HERBIE's processors.

Sue finally spoke. "This is going to change everything, Reed. The world loved him, hated him, needed him. His death, it's more than just a tragedy. It feels like everything's about to change - about to get worse.

Reed nodded slowly, staring down at the fossil still clenched in his hand. The weight of it felt suddenly symbolic, the past pressing into his palm even as the future shifted beneath his feet.

"Yes." He said quietly. "The balance of everything is about to change." He never realised how true that statement would prove to be.

The Wakandan Royal Car had changed a few times in recent years. With it becoming fashionable to suck up to any poor country by donating some big fancy car as a means of Armchair Activism from the big companies of the world, T'Chaka had been forced to accept a few new big name cars from big name companies who made a lot of products all equally inferior to the veritable starships that Wakanda's domestic vehicle manufacturers created. The Americans always gave them gas guzzling monstrosities which were far too big and had always managed to figure out the most ingenious ways of getting as little power as possible from the biggest, loudest engines imaginable. The British always tended to give Rolls Royce's which, while a good try, just made him wish he could ride in something from his home country, as it was essetially just a downgrade. The Germans always gave something meticulously over-engineered that looked more at home as a Nigerian Taxi than the state car of a member of a royal family member of a country people only ever pretended to care about.

Today, since he was in New York, his state car was a Lincoln. Again, a marvel of American Engineering. It managed to somehow feel both opulent and incredibly cheap at the same time. They probably thought he was so used to riding in the back of an old Mercedes that anything from the 20th Century would feel like the future as possible. But honestly, the car wasn't the major thing on T'Chaka's mind. As the car slowly moved along in the notorious New York traffic, he tried not to look out the window. It had been 5 years... 5 long years since he had been here.

^{"Do you feel safe in that suit of Compound 2187B?"}

His hands trembled a little as he remembered that day. His heart palpitating just a little. He may have been forced to give up the name of Black Panther, but his body still bore the gifts of Bast. Just because his knee had been...

<sup>"Strong, but you just need to know where... To... Push..."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"</sup>

"My King?" T'Chaka flinched as he looked to the front seat to see his beautiful bodyguard turn to look at him with concern on her face. His adopted son was the one driving. Hunter looked him in the eye in the mirror. His son read him clearly.

"Father is simply disappointed by T'Challa's-" T'Chaka frowned at Hunter through the mirror and he stopped immediately. T'Chaka kept a strong look on his face, but frankly, it just made him feel worse. He wasn't some invalid old man. He was The Black Panther. Only 51 years old. And with the Goddess' blessings, he was still able to bench-press this whole car with the two of them in it.

"Just... Bad memories." He replied. As the car pulled up to the U.N. Building, he groaned as he looked down at his ruined knee. He hated it. He hated this whole situation. He loved his son and he wanted nothing but the best for him, but what that black armoured alien had done to him... The press was abuzz around the car, by which i mean that there was about 7 reporters that had turned out for a press release from an unimportant world leader. Probably some famous actor showing off a dress down on Broadway that they had to see instead.

"Good, smaller crowds are easier to control" Hunter stated. T'Chaka finally cracked a smile. Of everything that had gone wrong, at least he could bank on the ignorance of Americans to help keep his country safely out of the limelight. As Okoye and Hunter stepped out of the front, Okoye slowly jogged around to open the door for him, while Hunter handed the keys over to a U.N. Valet that had shown up. The door opened and he stepped out, good knee first, a solid wooden cane helping him to walk with something resembling dignity. Okoye and Hunter were the only ones immediately with him. Hunter was already enough to take on anyone short of Superman. But with Okoye with him, anyone who knew anything about the Dora Milaje knew about them was that they were like Cockroaches. "If there's 1 your seeing, there's 20 you're not" And dammit, he was still king in their own borders, even if he was about to give up that from the rest of the world. The reporters sat in their chairs just outside of the U.N. building, a few office staff were also there making sure the chairs were set up correctly and a few of the building security armed with assault rifles to make sure that the non-existant crowd didn't get too rowdy. But it was standard protocol for any press release. T'Chaka stood up straight out of the car. A few flashes from camera's capturing his weakened state. His free hand almost instincitvely grabbed for one of his throwing daggers from his non-existant utility belt and he swore under his breath.

"My King, please." Okoye said under her breath. "The press does not take kindly to you murdering their members.

"I am sick and tired of being treated as a feeble old man." He grunted as he slowly hobbled towards the stage, attempting to stand tall and proud as he walked.

"Let them think as they please, Father. Your humiliation is our peoples shield. It is what all kings endured ever since the outside world invented mass media. Your leg does not make any difference" Hunter stated. He was right, of course. The only reason the Kings of Wakanda ever did these press releases was in order to go "Oh, look how poor and pathetic Wakanda is. No oil, no cobalt, no mountain of magical space rocks, just a bunch of cows, poverty and drought. Definitely not worth invading or looking into." And for 100 years, now, it had worked like a charm. While the rest of the world continued to murder each other over petty things, Wakanda sat safe within its borders continuing to develop the finest technologies, culture and arts the world had never seen. As he got to the steps to the stage, the 3 small steps looked more like Everest to him. Not that Everest used to be difficult to a Black Panther. Count have scaled it in an afternoon before the incident. He slowly raised his good leg, Okoye grabbing his arm to steady him. He almost instinctively wrenched it free, but stopped himself. He needed to look weak, he knew this... But dammit, he still had his pride. He did wrench his arm free and gave her a scowl. Okoye backed off a step and continued to look around for any potential threat.

As he finally made it up to the podium without incident, Okoye stood at the far right side of the stage, she was wearing a black suit that matched most other security teams from other countries... Of course, the hairless head making her look striking. Hunter, on the otherhand, stood only 5 steps away from him at any given moment. He wore a pair of sunglasses as well as a pure white suit. His eyes behind the glasses scanning everyone and everything in the crowd. Finally, T'Chaka slowly reached into his breast pocket.

<sup>"The human heart is on this side, isn't it?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"</sup>

And retrieved the speech he had prepared and his reading glasses (Once again, primarily for show) he took a few seconds to skim-read the first few lines and then licked his lips. "Good day, esteemed members of the press. I am King T'Chaka, Leader of the Royal House of T'Cha, champion of the People of Wakanda. I come before you today to make an announcement to the world and the United Nations as a whole."

<sup>"I will enjoy the look on your peoples face's when i throw your severed head into your throne and tell them they belong to The Reach now."

"I am not dead yet, Beetle!"

"An oversight quickly remedied."

"AAAAAHH!!"</sup>

"I would first, however, like to give my heartfelt condolences to Mr Stark's friends and family. I had the good fortune of meeting him at a fundraiser event for the droughts in middle Africa. His kind donations saved the lives of many of my people. And as is the tradition of my people, i wish to send his immediate family one of my prized cattle." He could always count on the ignorance of outsiders to think of his people as just farmers who sat around all day, dying of drought, posing for charity donation commercials and worshipping cows as if they were sacred. "His loss will be felt and mourned by the rest of the world along with America." He then got back to his prepared speech.

"It is no secret that our country suffered great damage during the Reach invasion." This was not really true, but every other country around them had been hit and their defenses held. So they had faked a LOT of footage to convince the rest of the world that they were just as helpless.

"During the devastating bombings, my body was badly damaged. My knee specifically was shattered beyond the ability of the best doctors and scientists to potentially repair. I have done my best to carry on for the sake of my people. But im afraid that my failing mobility no longer allows me to continue representing their interests across the world. And so, with a heavy heart, i announce to the world press that as of 3pm, 2 days ago. I have officially abdicated the throne in a private ceremony..." There were a few flashes of cameras from the press. They believed he had paused for dramatic effect. However he paused to have to quickly come up with a new ending for it, as the rest of this speech talked about him introducing T'Challa... However, his son had failed to show us to the meeting today. Frankly, he was furious at him for this, but he still knew how to keep his game face. He looked up and smiled. "The new King T'Challa is currently at home, building his new Political Cabinet and performing the last rites of succession to be crowned as the new King. He folded the piece of paper and put it back into his pocket. "I will take questions now."

The few reporters around looked at each other, before one of them stood up, a younger, black reporter with glasses stood up and raised his PDA pen. T'Chaka pointed at him.

"Ron Troupe, Daily Planet. Wakanda is one of the least developed African countries as far as export and import trade is concerned. Does the new King T'Challa have plans to increase trade so that Wakanda can finally join the global community. Also, do you think that your abdication will have far reaching consequences among your people and the rest of the African political landscape?" He asked. T'Chaka had to mentally scrunch up his lip. Again, T'Challa SHOULD have been here to answer these questions.

"My King will announce any such changes to foreign and domestic policy when the time comes. But our friends in bordering Kenya, Ethiopia, Uganda and South Sudan have had nothing but respect for our borders and i see no reason why that should change." Primarily because every expedition that was sent into their territory never returned and they all kept quiet in order to save face. "I believe wholeheartedly in My King's leadership. I would never have dreamed of putting him on the throne until he was ready." This was also true. Ron sat down and quickly began typing up the notes he had taken. Another reporter stood with hand in the air. He pointed to the older man with square glasses.

"Ben Urich, Daily Bugle. What do you say about the allegations of Wakanda having the charity funds given to it from the people of the world funnelled into dummy corporations filed in America to be used for tax and other fraud purposes?" T'Chaka let out a long laugh at this. He was playing it across as amusement at the ridiculousness of his accusation, but actually it was because of just how close Mr Urich to the actual truth. Tax Fraud? Wakanda mostly used the charity money for supporting other charities that alligned with their agenda's around the world.

"Mr Urich. I can assure you that not a single Americans Tax Dollar goes into my country.
Might i remind you that we have refused USAID grants on a number of occassions due to our people's determination for self sufficiency. We simply do not refuse the money for Charitable Aid donations due to not wishing to offend the good people of the world who wish to see our beautiful country flourish."

"But what about Munroe Industrie-" Urich was cut off by a hearty belly laugh from T'Chaka

"Please, Mr Urich. I am sure that that kind of Tabloid gossip makes for excellent headlines. But Mr Jameson's illustrious paper should strive to be better than all that." The laugh was more to hide the concern than anything. Munroe Industries was one of their dummy companies and it seemed Mr Urich had in fact hit the nail on the head. He'd need to have that company dealt with immediately. He continued laughing as he looked at Okoye, who subtly nodded to him, indicating she understood to quietly liquidate that company.

"Are there any questions that I may answer that are not to do with wild gossip?" A pretty young ginger-haired reporter stood up.

"Vicki Vale, Gotham Herald. What are your plans for your retirement years?" T'Chaka nodded approvingly at the question.

"I plan to assist my King in anyway i may, but mostly, i plan to help tackle the current famine in my land. I will retire to a farm i have purchased and focus on growing crops and raising livestock that can be used to feed my people. Just because i no longer serve them as King, does not mean i will no longer serve them at all." He replied. A few more flashes went off from Camera's. All the while more questions poured in and all T'Chaka could think of was what he was going to do with T'Challa when he saw him next.

****

"What am i going to do with you, Beloved?" Ororo smiled, looking down at T'Challa, post coital episode. They had snuck off to a Wakandan Safehouse in New York in order to be away from prying eyes.

"My Goddess, if it were up to me, you and i would never leave this bed again and this world would be entirely populated by our beloved children." He laughed, rolling over to look at his Kimoyo Card and saw the time, before his heart sank into his feet. "Oh well..." He grunted, before turning back to Ororo. "It appears that we have missed Father's press conference." Ororo didn't seem to disappointed.

"You didn't want to go anyway. Plus, we have another matter to attend to. We need to meet Evan on the corner of Seymour and Mace in 30 minutes. We'd never have made it in time if we went." T'Challa rolled over and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek, before rolling off of the bed and began putting on an unassuming civilian attire. Beige tee-shirt, checkered shirt, jeans. Nothing that would make him stand out. Ororo began dressing herself much the same, although it was hard to go unnoticed with her cascading blizzard of hair flowing down her back. T'Challa approached her from behind and pulled her hair up and out as she pulled a tee-shirt down.

"You know, my Goddess, i believe you would look good-" He pulled her hair up high "With a Mohawk." He laughed. "Strike awe and fear into your enemies. She looked thoroughly unamused.

"Beloved..." She scolded him as she pulled her hair down. "Come, we need to get going." T'Challa kissed her on the neck, before walking to the window and looking out. He could see all of the people walking by at once... And he could tell by the way one old man drinking his coffee in a small shop down the street was walking that they were watching this place.

"I suggest we go out the roof." He sighed.

"You know, they do work for us. You can tell them to just... Ignore you." She replied. T'Challa turned to her looking almost offended.

"And where would the fun in that be?" He asked. He finished putting everything on, before opening the door to see 3 bald warrior women with Vibranium Spears pointed at him.

"My Prince. Your King requires your presence." The head Dora Milaje ordered.

"Ah..." He replied. "Just mine?" The three warriors watched Ororo walk up behind T'Challa. "Your Princess has a prior engagement elsewhere." He replied. The head guard nodded to one of the others who walked into the appartment to take T'Challa's place. He turned to Ororo before giving her a kiss on the lips. "I will deal with father. Go see Evan, my Goddess." The guards spears retracted into bracelets on their wrists and T'Challa walked with them.

"Be safe, beloved." Ororo replied. She looked at her new bodyguard. "So, do you drive?" Her bodyguard stared at her.

"I am Nailah" She replied. "And my life is yours." Ororo smiled as best as she could.

"Well... Let's see if we can keep it that way."