The blades of grass rustled in the calm breeze, as the cool night time air crawled lazily around them. The moisture from the day hung heavy, and close. Occasionally there was a splash from the pond as a fish breached the glass like surface in an attempt at a midnight snack. They breathed together, as one. Connected by their hands in this shared moment, fingers intertwined. Slow and deliberate, a peace unbreakable. A moment frozen in time. He looked at her, and all he could see was the silhouette of her face. As if she was part of the Earth and the heavens themselves, the tip of her nose and the curve of her lips. He studied every millimetre of it.

Then there were her eyes. Usually the most azure blue, cool and calm. They were alive with life, letting a contended breathe escaped him he followed their gaze. The heavens opened up before him, the vastness of space as the Milkyway and the cosmos beyond opened up for him. The spectrum of colours danced across the night sky, but the night was not calm. It was alive, as streaks of golden yellow light raced across the sky. Something so violent as a meteor shower transformed into something truly beautiful.

Held in this moment, he felt her hand squeeze his. Three times, in a slow rhythmic pulse. Three words. Shared, but not spoken. The risk of breaking the spell was too great. He returned the sentiment, squeezing once. I. Squeezing twice. Love. Squeezing a third time. You.

There was nothing. His hand balled into a fist around the thin air, the warmth now gone. The cold clawed its way, burrowing itself deeper and deeper into its skin. The wind howled as dark clouds blotted out the sky. He sat up, looking for where she was supposed to be. Where she had always been, his hand running over the blanket chasing the warmth. The soft woolen blanket turned coarse. Pain shot up his arm as the angry fabric began to tear through his skin, his mind flared with the agony and the pain but he persisted. Pushed harder, as the blanket became cooler and cooler till only one spot of warmth remained. With all his might he pushed -

and the Earth opened up and swallowed him whole.

The cold air hit Frank like a brick. His entire body siezed from the shock of the cold air entering his lungs as he gasped for air, through the pain he savoured it. As if it was his first, his eyes slowly adjusting to his surroundings. The sense of dread, of panic slipped away from his mind with the remaining grogginess of sleep. The sorrow however, the sorrow remained. An eternal scar, running deep. Reaching over to the coffee table, he lifted the mug of ice-cold coffee and without a seconds hesitation raised it to his lips and forced it down.

The bitter liquid easing the dryness out of his throat, but adding a momentary spike of pain in his head. The pain was good, the pain let him know he was alive. He was concious, that this was the real world. Swinging his legs off the edge of the sofa he groaned as he rubbed his face with his hand, his joints were stiff and sore. As if they rebelled against this notion of leaving the blanket, of his feet touching the cold and hard floor of the cabin. A thin smile crossed Franks face as he heard the telltale pitter patter of little feet, followed by the wet nose against his palm before the silky smooth bump as Dog nuzzled his hand, brushing up against his legs.

Frank allowed himself a moment to pat Dog on the side, saving the sensation of touching something warm and alive. A scratch behind the ear and they both stood up, he did it slightly more unceremoniously. Grunting as he did so, allowing himself a moment to stretch. Stretching his muscles along his spine as he reached into the air, vertibrates cracking and popping as he did so. Dog did the same before moving over to his food bowl, and sitting before it in his attempt at subtlety. Frank shuffled over, picking up his plate from the previous night and poured probably unhealthy portions of salisbury steak into the bowl on the floor. Giving Dog a pat on the head as he placed the plate in the pile by the sink. He had never wanted a Dog. They had wanted a dog. Frank would never allow it.

Oh things were too unstable, or they were about to move home, or were they really responsibile enough to have a dog?

All the stupid reasons. The reasons that didn't matter anymore. They never mattered. They were an excuse, a block, a mistake. A regret. So when Dog had visited him on the final day day, when his life was at an end. When he was ready, and his work was complete. When he felt that fate was finally done with him, and his destiny written. Dog had other ideas.

Location: somewhere in Pennsylvania

So this is a problem, Zhane thought as he surveyed the scene from a safe distance using advanced binoculars. The foliage of the forest was protecting him from any unwanted human gaze, and he picked a good spot to land his ship. It being night also helped to cloak his kneeling position on a nearby hill. But, it seems Zhane was late to the party as the ship that Spa'ark stole and crashed was being swarmed by humans. Judging by their clothing and gear, not civilians, and most likely a local human gov types.

Zhane sighed as he continued to watch the scene. There is no way for him to get close and try to see where Spa'ark went without getting caught. He may look like a human and be good at disguising himself. But Zhane knows little about humanity or Earth from the limited research he did while travelling here from Korovia. Some backwater that has attracted some attention from other groups. Zhane is not sure why, but that matters little to him right now. Since these humans are in the way of his pursuit of Spa'ark.

Maybe listening will help, another thought as he adjusted his binoculars, and now voices could be heard. Zhane shifted his gaze, trying to find a conversation or anything that could help him figure out where Spa'ark went. It took some time before he found an important conversation that would help him. A conversation between two agents, by the look of it.

"We have searched the ship, and we have found no bodies, and it is empty, but there are signs that someone survived the crash."

"The pilot?"

"Probably, but no signs of anyone or anything else on the ship."

The male agent paused for a moment before speaking,"find the pilot." The agent sounded serious. "We do not know what we are dealing with, and Director Brand has enough to deal with now that we have another unknown alien on Earth." He sighed before continuing, "do we have any idea of where they went?"

"Based on what we could find, the alien headed west, towards the city."

"Send a team, find whatever survived the crash, and do not cut corners. I want to know what we are dealing with even if it is just a pilot."

"Understand sir."

Zhane had found his lucky break and turned off the microphone of his binoculars. "So, into the city I go, and I should not be surprised that they survived," he said, talking to himself. A bitter-sweet truth, "they are in a dead body after all." Saying those words hurt him a bit, since it was not just any dead body. It was the body of Andros, his best friend. But Zhane would hide away that anger for now, so it would not get in the way of his chase. More so now that not only does Spa'ark have a head start, but he is not the only one looking for Spa'ark.

But Zhane knows what Spa'ark looks like, unlike the humans here, so he has that going for him. He would linger for a time before leaving the area, and after making sure his ship was safe from being found by the humans. Zhane headed to the city, hoping to find either Spa'ark or clues where they went. Before these humans can, and now the hunt really begins. "I will stop them, Andros," Zhane repeating the promise he took before leaving Korovia. "I will stop them, old friend, for both you and the team's sakes."

Location: 42nd St. Subway Platform, Times Square

Meanwhile, on the other side of Times Square. The lower region of the subway, to be precise. Another story is about to unfold.

Beneath the dazzling spectacle of superpowered teens battling the gigantic beast, the beautiful destruction of those obnoxious product placement billboards everywhere, and the destroyed pavements caused by their blows.

A twisted, inhuman artist prowls through the underground scene, his face alight with glee as he hunts and slays unsuspecting commuters of New York, lost in the frenzy of this sudden chaotic event.

Life as a regular person in Fisk’s city is already a nightmare. And now it's gonna get a lot worse for those who get caught in the crossfire.

Times Square’s crowds scatter in panic, weaving through the havoc wrought by a supernatural Arthurian beast, a four-armed alien, a sword-wielding stranger, a girl wielding a scythe who materialized from nowhere, and—was that really Omniman’s kid? He seems rather green on his hero-ing.

Elektra’s eyes scan the chaos, leaving the rampaging monster to the heavy hitters while she focuses on the people caught in the storm.

She swings from rooftop to rooftop, tending to the wounded and pulling civilians from danger. She calls Misty and her husband for backup.



On patrol, she notices smoke curling from the subway passage below. She almost dismisses it until a small explosion erupts from underground.

The assassin arrives at an empty platform. Darkness presses in, silence thick as fog. Shards of glass glitter underfoot. The tunnels have been abandoned in the monster’s wake. Distant thuds from the battle above rumble through the station, making the walls tremble.

Elektra turns to leave, but a flicker of movement catches her eye through the haze and debris.

At its center stands a man in an NYPD uniform. BAP! BAP! BAP! Gunshots echo as spent shells clatter to the floor.

“Tragic, the mythical beast has taken another life, such savagery unleashed upon this world.” The mysterious man talks and is visibly offended by what happened, as if the Questing Beast had fired the shots, and blames the creature for it.

“I weep for its cause. Only to be slain by the knight draped in black. Such poetry,” The police officer stood still with a smoking gun at hand after executing a civilian.

Ironically, the inhuman artist guised as a policeman has claimed more innocent lives here in the subway than the rampaging beast tearing up the streets above.

The murals and subway walls are now misted with the fresh blood of his victims.

He turns, eyes streaked with dried blood, his face eerily blank, as if someone had erased every feature.

“Ah, an audience, welcome to my underground show,” said the faceless artist.

“You’re insane,” Elektra says, awe and disgust mingling in her voice as she surveys the blood-soaked platform and the bodies strewn across it.

“Do you like it? I call it Red Velvet River under the City. The tricky part is draining the blood of each piece; it can be messy sometimes,” Muse said, explaining his sickening art process.

“I’ll put you out of your misery!” Elektra lunges, swift as a shadow, her sai flashing into her hands.

“Everyone is a critic.” Muse lunges in too, drawing his knife, matching the assassin’s speed.

Both proceed in tearing one another with their sharp steel, both at each other’s throats.

“Oh, it’s you—the devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You’re more feminine than I pictured.” Muse taunts, dodging Lady Daredevil’s strikes with mocking ease.

Something is not right. Why am I having difficulty hitting this bastard! Elektra thought to herself.

She steadies herself, analyzing her elusive foe. His power, that’s it! It’s warping my senses, twisting my perception. He’s everywhere and nowhere at once.

The harder I focus, the less real he becomes.

SWISSSH!! SLASH!! SLASH!!

Amid the whirlwind of blades, danger crackles in the air between assassin and killer.

Suddenly, a grappling hook whips through the air. Matt bursts onto the scene, crashing into Muse with a double drop kick as he swings through the metal railings of the station.

THUDDDD!!!

The inhuman killer is sent flying, his body slamming into concrete pillars of the subway, spine snapping with a sickening crack.

“That wasn’t very nice. That’s rather tedious.” Despite his injuries, Muse manages to stand up limply.

ZIPPPPP!! Daredevil stays silent, retracting his grappling hook.

“You’re late,” Elektra mutters, exasperation flickering in her eyes as she glances at her husband.

“Sorry, I had to run in by Melvin’s, pick up my gear,” Matt said to Elektra.

“I hear ten—no, twelve—people still alive on this platform. Possibly, his hostages, their heartbeats are faint but still breathing.” Matt’s head jerks as he listens.

Elektra nods. Both horn-heads grip their signature weapons—sai and billy clubs—ready for battle.

“Move!!” The couple growls in unison, eyes locked on their target, teeth clenched in determination.

“Ah, Red… My favorite color,” purrs the elusive killer, clutching his mask in excitement.

It is the Devils of Hell’s Kitchen against Hell’s Sadistic Artist.

|| S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, Atlantic Ocean

“You cannot just blink into an active assassination attempt in a foreign capital and expect the world to shrug it off!” Dugan’s voice filled the room, ricocheting off the low beams and metal filing cabinets. “Ministers from three continents are on my line. They want to know if Overwatch is back. They want to know who authorised you. They want to know why you were even there.”

Dum Dum Dugan stood behind the desk, broad and immovable, hands braced on the worn wood. A thick moustache, weathered skin, grey at the temples, and eyes that catalogued danger and disappointment in equal measure. Tracer had rarely seen the man so angry.

She couldn’t look him in the eyes as he went on. Instead they drifted to the wall of memories behind him. Framed newspaper headlines clustered in a yellowed collage, with bold titles about crises a decade gone, faces frozen in the moment of being saved. A corkboard held Polaroids one of which Lena immediately recognisesd. A slightly younger Dugan in the centre of a photograph with the old Overwatch team, everyone close enough to be family. The image made the shouting feel like a violation of something tender.

“I am not arguing intent. But you blinked into a diplomatic incident.” he said, voice hardening. “The press is already spinning it into a comeback narrative. The helicarrier phones are lighting up. We are flying back tonight for briefings and damage control. You understand what that means?”

Lena kept her stance steady. The memory of the hotel sat under her skin like grit. “I was trying to stop a man from being killed,” was all she could muster.

“And you did not,” Dugan said. “And now half the political world thinks you are about to start a one woman intervention force. I cannot have ministers calling me asking whether we sanction vigilantes. I cannot have ambassadors demanding answers about Overwatch’s return.”

He was right of course. As the former S.H.I.E.L.D - Overwatch liason she couldn’t imagine the backlash he was getting right now. She saw the stressed it has caused him the first time; back when they called for her team to be shut down. Those weren’t fun days.

“How’d you know this was going down any?” he asked, changing the subject.

She almost gulped in response. In truth she’d had an urgent phone call a few nights ago from an old acquaintance. He had been an agent of Talon, lulled in by their promises of easy riches, not knowing what his role would truly entail. He’d made it out since thankfully, but still got the odd communications from old squadmates.

His identity wasn’t hers to reveal though. Dugan was one of the good ones and wouldn’t intentionally put him in danger, but who knows what would happen if the wrong person came across his name on a report.

She simply shook her head, trying to look innocent.

“Just got lucky I suppose.” she tried, her voice saddening the more she spoke. “Or unlucky I guess.”

For a beat the steel in his expression softened. He let out a long breath and finally dropped into the chair behind the desk, the leather sighing under him. It was clear he didn’t believe her, although from the look she knew he wasn’t going to pry further.

“You did good work, Lena,” he said, quieter now. “You gave him a chance no one else could have. I am not taking that away from you.”

She nodded once. “The vote failed.”

“Most of them were scared they would end up like him,” Dugan said. “Fear won the room.”

Lena’s jaw tightened. “Brilliant.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Officially, SHIELD is telling you to return to retirement,” he said. “That is the line I am giving the politicians. It’s a line I urge you to take.”

His hand moved across his desk, pressing the stop button on the small recording that sat between them.

“I know you though Lena,” he continued, locking eyes with her. “So unofficially, if you are going to keep digging, you need to be smarter. Stealthier. You cannot be the face of this.”

She met his gaze. “I understand.”

“Good,” Dugan said. “Because as great as it is to see you, I’m hoping we don’t do this again.”

They exchanged pleasantries as she made her way out of the office and into the metal of the corridor.
Immediately after the door shut behind her, she slumped against the opposite wall. For a moment she just breathed, letting Dugan’s words shrink to a distant, sharp thing. Frustration sat heavy in her chest. She was mad at herself. Mad at Talon and at the way the world kept rearranging itself into new kinds of harm.

After Overwatch disbanded she had gone back to the RAF expecting the cockpit and the routine to be an anchor and finding instead a desk full of forms. She and Emily had made a flat out of the quiet, small ordinary rituals that felt like a life worth keeping. That life had been enough, until it wasn’t.

She had been watching the chatter for months. Encrypted threads, old handles resurfacing, patterns in attacks that smelled rehearsed. Then Baptiste’s warning about Mercer.

Maybe it was an after-effect from the chronal displacement. Maybe it was undiagnosed ADHD. Either way, she couldn’t keep sitting still.

Dugan was right though. She needed to do better.

---

The lab was only two decks down. Somehow she’d remembered the route through the winding corridors and squads of patrolling S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

The room was cluttered with screens, tools, and half‑assembled devices. Winston was perched near the ceiling, gripping a support beam with one hand while adjusting a sensor array with the other. His broad frame moved with surprising precision, dark fur catching the light as he shifted his weight. Thick glasses rested on his nose, and his expression held the focused intensity of a scientist deep in his work.

It was an odd sight given Winston was a cybernetically enhanced gorilla. Tracer had gotten used to it over the years though.

For a moment, Lena simply watched him. The way he moved from station to station, the quiet hum of his mind working faster than most people could speak. It felt like Gibraltar again. Like old times. She had missed him more than she liked to admit. Missed the steadiness, the certainty, the way he always made space for her even when he probably was not supposed to.

“Lena,” he said without looking down. “I am glad you came. I have been reviewing the data you sent.”

She smiled faintly. “You working up there now?”

“It is efficient,” Winston replied. He dropped lightly to the floor, landing with a soft thud that made several tools rattle. He moved to a nearby workstation, tapping at a custom keyboard built with oversized reinforced keys shaped for his hands. “I started with the mercenaries. They were straightforward.”

“How straightforward?” Lena asked, scooting to his side.

Winston brought up a series of dossiers, an array of familiar faces appearing on the screen before her.

“All former military. Different countries, different units, but the same pattern. Discharged, disappeared, and then resurfaced in the private sector. No shared employer. No shared handler. No shared ideology.”

Lena’s shoulders sank a little. “So they were just hired guns.”

“Yes,” Winston said gently. “Nothing more.”

She exhaled, disappointment clear in her voice. “I was hoping for something that pointed somewhere. Someone pulling strings.”

He gave his chin a quick wiggle as if to tell her to wait, then moved across the room to another workstation, this one with a vertical keyboard angled for his reach. “But the sniper is different.”

Lena straightened. “Go on.”

Winston climbed halfway up a support column to reach a monitor mounted near the ceiling. With a few taps, he brought up ballistic data and a map of past incidents.

“Her shot does not match any of the mercenaries’ profiles. Her equipment does not match theirs. Her movements do not match theirs.”

He zoomed in on the ballistic readouts. “And we have seen her work before. Same calibre, same rifling pattern, same firing signature. Several assassinations over the past two years. Different countries, different clients, same shooter.”

Lena frowned slightly, taking all of the information in. “How do you know it is a she?”

Winston shifted to another monitor, adjusting his glasses. “One of the earlier incidents had partial surveillance. Not enough for an identification, but enough to confirm the shooter’s build and gait. Female, lean, highly conditioned. The rest of the evidence lines up with that profile.”

Lena stepped closer. “Do we have anything else on her?”

Winston shook his head. “Very little. She comes and goes. No pattern in her travel. No financial trail. No digital footprint. She appears, takes the shot, and disappears again. The only reason we can link her at all is the ballistic signature.”

“So she is a ghost,” Lena said quietly.

“In practical terms, yes,” Winston replied. “Whoever she is, she is careful. Professional. And she does not want to be found.”

She sighed, falling back into a chair. She was glad she had something, but as she stated before, she needed a direction.

“Thanks, Winston,” she said, giving her old friend a smile. “I appreciate you helping me, genuinely.”

“Just don’t let Dugan know. That man will skin me alive,” he said.

“His office did look like it needed a new rug,” she jested back.

The two fell back laughing. For a brief moment it felt like nothing had changed and their lives hadn’t forked off in different directions. She had missed this. She had missed her family.

It was then that the door slid open, revealing another former teammate.

Bobbi Morse stepped inside, a tablet tucked under her arm. She wore a fitted SHIELD field jacket over a pale shirt, blonde hair pulled back in a loose tie, sharp blue eyes scanning the room before landing on Lena. She looked exactly as Lena remembered: composed, athletic, effortlessly confident.

And for a split second, memory hit like a spark. Warm skin under her hands. A laugh against her throat. A kiss at the base of her neck.

Lena blinked hard, forcing the image away.

“Oh. I did not realise you were here,” Bobbi paused.

“Just finishing up,” Lena straightened a little too quickly. Her voice sounded normal. She hoped it sounded normal.

The last time they had seen each other had been Bobbi’s wedding day. Although then she’d spent the majority of the day reuniting with old colleagues, getting obscenely drunk, and trying to avoid how good Bobbi looked in white.

Hunter was a lucky man indeed.

She couldn’t be thinking those thoughts though. Not with Emily sat back in their flat.

Bobbi stepped past them, perching against a desk. “I’ve been helping Winston with a case. Some of the biochemical data overlaps with my old research. He needed an extra pair of hands.”

Winston nodded from his workstation, giving Lena a very knowing look. “She has been invaluable.”

Lena managed a polite smile. “Good. That is… good.”

Working with Winston might actually be a bit more painful than she thought.

Location: Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania

It was a dark night in Wilkes-Barre, the only thing keeping the city from being in total darkness was the street lights. At least in the part of the city that Zhane was in. He does not know how long he spent searching the city for any sign of Spa'ark. Zhane had not spotted any sign of those humans from the crash site yet, but seeing how they were searching for the same thing. He knew he had to find Spa'ark first, for he knew what Spa'ark is capable of, unlike these humans. However, the idea did weigh in his mind of getting help from the humans.

They share a common goal, and they would most likely want to stop Spa'ark as well if he told them what Spa'ark's plans are. But the fear Zhane has is that they will not listen to him, or worse, end up imprisoning him. He sighed as he passed a public park and took the time to sit down on a bench to think. He is a stranger to this world, and maybe he can trust the humans, or maybe he cannot. So for now, Zhane will hunt for Spa'ark on his own. However, it would be nice to have help in this matter.

Though as he rested on the cold metal bench, trying hard to figure out where Spa'ark had gone. This city may be small, but it is alot for one person, and at least since it is the dead of night. Not many people would be awake and active. "Think, Zhane, think," he pressured himself. Where would I go after crash-landing on a foreign planet, no idea of where I am, and finding a place to continue my experiments? He thought to himself as he tried to get into the mind of an evil being who seeks to control death. A process he was not fond of, but what can he do?

Maybe salvage what they could from the ship, get far enough away, just in case the natives show up. Probably try to blend in since they look human and set up somewhere. Zhane took the moment to pull out a data tablet and went to a picture of Andros. An old picture of the two of them after graduating from the academy on Korovia. Both of them were wearing white uniforms and wearing smiles on their faces. An old but good memory before becoming a Ranger. A reminder of a better time long before Spa'ark broke free from their prison.

"You okay, son?"

Zhane was surprised and caught off guard by the sudden voice and met the stranger's eyes. An old man by the look of it, on the thinner side, and wearing some human clothes and a hat. "Uh.... no," he said, being honest with the human. "Sorry, I thought I was the only one out in this part of the city." Zhane trying to explain himself so as not to seem suspicious.

"You are not from around here, are you?"

Zhane wondered how this human knew that, "what makes you say that?"

"The accent, everyone here speaks the same, and you do not, and how you dress."

"I see, is that a problem?"

"No, just an observation, and you mind if I sit with you?"

"Ah, no," Zhane made room on the bench for the old man.

Who sat down next to him.

I need to be more careful, Zhane thought as he waited for the old man to speak.

"What is your name son?" The old man asked and spoke in a friendly tone, but showing his age.

"Zhane," he awkwardly said. "What is yours?"

"Gearld and you are definitely not from here." He chuckled for a bit.

"That obvious, eh?" Zhane knows he needs a plan to blend in better with humans.

"But, enough about that, what is bothering you?"

Zhane sighed, "I am just looking for a good friend of mine, he is... not in a good headspace, and I need to find him." He was lying, of course, or at least mostly lying. "I know he could be in this city, but I have had no luck in finding him so far." Zhane's voice hints at the frustration he is having.

"What does he look like?" Gearld seemed to believe him.

"This," Zhane let Gearld look at the picture.

"I cannot say I have seen him, sorry, Zhane."

"It is late, and it is not your fault." Zhane figured that the first human he spoke to had not seen Spa'ark. Just his luck, and where is that fiend?

"Why are you up this late anyway, Gearld?" It was odd that an old man like Gearld would be up walking around this late at night, Zhane thought.

"Ah, I could not sleep, so I figured I would walk around a bit, and this is a good part of the city to be in."

"Okay," a good excuse as any, he guessed, Zhane thought.

"But, I hope you find your friend and good luck out there, Zhane." Gearld said as he got up from the bench, "you are bound to find him sooner or later, and goodbye."

"Goodbye, Gearld," Zhane gave a short wave goodbye to Gearld as he watched the old man leave from his sight.

Back to his problem, if he cannot find Spa'ark on foot, and the fiend has escaped his hands. Then there has to be some way for him to find Spa'ark. Zhane thought for a moment and had an idea. Something he can do back at his ship. So after putting away the data tablet and spending some time doing some least minute searching. Zhane started to head back to his ship with a plan in mind. Though as he left the city, he could not help but like the architecture of the city. It has its own charm to it, and meeting Gearld was nice enough.

However, Zhane is on a mission, and after reminding himself of his mission. He made his way back to his ship at a strong pace. Those humans from the crash site should not have found his ship, and who knows? Maybe they found Spa'ark somehow and are holding them prisoner, or the reverse, that they have killed the humans. Dealing with evil can possess people makes for a tricky target to kill or contain. So back to the ship and hoping that his plan works and he can track down Spa'ark. Zhane is not leaving this planet until he does.

Location: Somewhere in Pennsylvania Wilderness

The sun was just peering over the forest as the dawn encroached on the lingering night. While the forest was waking up, Zhane had arrived at his ship, still unnoticed by humanity. Though he had to rest a bit after returning to his ship and wished he could have used his motorcycle to get around. Only that would make noise and could bring him unwanted attention, especially since he was in a forest with humans in it. That is not alot of wiggle room for a bike.

Either way, once Zhane was rested enough. He went straight to the cockpit and was ready to test his idea. "Okay, so if Spa'ark did not take any of Andros' gear off when they took control of his body and stole that ship." Zhane started typing away at the computer's metallic buttons. Moving with purpose as Zhane typed away.

"Andros' wrist communicator should still be on his person." Zhane hoping that Spa'ark had not changed bodies yet as he reconfigured his ship's sensors to detect the communicator. At first, there was nothing on his sensors. "Come on, this needs to work," frustration clear in his voice.

As he maxed out the sensors' range, and it grew at a steady rate. Zhane waited eagerly for a hit, and after some moments. The sensors picked up the communicator. "We have liftoff!" Zhane enthusiastically yelled as he raised his right fist to the sky. "Wait," Zhane said as his tone wound down and he brought his hand down. "They are moving and fast..." Too fast, as he realized. "They must be in a vehicle." Still, Zhane focused on, "no matter I can track them down now and hopefully I can get by flying this thing during the day." There is a chance of someone seeing him, civilian or otherwise. But he has little choice in this matter if he wants to stop Spa'ark, so here goes nothing.

Zhane started pressing on the controls of his ship, and as its engines started to roar to life. Taking off soon after and gaining a good attitude to avoid being seen as Zhane tracked down Spa'ark, wherever they are heading.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Location: Somewhere in Pennsylvania - On the Road to Upstate New York

Sitting in the passenger seat of a blue Chevrolet Colorado pickup truck, looking out the window was a smiling-looking Spa'ark. Still in Andros's body and looking like they just survived being badly beaten up or a crash. It is true that the body took a beating during the crash, the spaceship they stole was not in the best shape when they stole it, as they discovered. But they did not think to ditch this body just yet. No, Spa'ark still had a use for this body, and its condition has actually been a boon.

For a compassionate soul by the name of Patrick Jones had spotted the wounded Spa'ark while they were in Wilkes-Barre and, after hearing their tale. A fabrication, of course. Decided to bring them along to his home in New York while they could recover and get their bearings. Fool, Spa'ark thought jokingly. Such kindness will get him killed, and it may be soon, depending on how useful Patrick can be to them.

Death is unnatural, and only they can stop it. Maybe they can convince Patrick of that once they reach his home. This world is new and fresh to them. Its people may be better suited for their reasoning. Only time will tell, and there is not a species out there that does not fear death, as they know too well. So, here is to living on Earth and continuing their experiments. Death will end, and it will be by their hand. But for now, Spa'ark is content to watch the scenery and see what this planet has to offer. And if anyone tries to stop them, then let them try. They always find a way anyway.

Sliver Ranger

Sliver Ranger

I am in the right place, it looks like, Zhane thought as he drove to the source of the commotion on his motorcycle. Passing by fleeing cityfolk. Luckily, his silver colored bike looked like a human one, at least a fancy one, and on the outside anyway. He had picked up a news feed while on his ship about something happening in the city. Zhane was on the hunt for Spa'ark. They had stopped in upstate New York based on the tracker, but since the ship's sensor max range was significant. He figured he could stop by the city and see what the problem is and not lose track of Spa'ark. Zhane had travelled a good bit from his ship, so it could not be found, so this trip better be worth it.

By the time he got close to Times Square. Zhane could see what was happening, a giant creature that looked like it was made of different parts. Something he has never seen or heard of.

Though it seemed like he was not alone. There were others there, fighting the creature, and some with melee weapons like a sword, one could fly and was then sent into a neon advert, and a human woman with a scythe that managed to hurt the creature.

Zhane had a soft smile on his face, "being backup sounds like a Ranger thing to do." Zhane said confidently and after finding a good spot to park his bike. He went into a nearby alley, and when he was sure he could not be seen by anyone. He typed into his Digimorpher the code 2-5-8-0 and said, "Let's Rocket." Morphing into the Silver Ranger.

Now ready to fight, Zhane left the alleyway and summoned his Super Silverizer in blaster form. As he calmly walked to the beast with it in his right hand. Letting the blaster charge to its max level, its energy meter rose. The creature did not notice him until he got close to the scene and looked at him with judging eyes. That was when Zhane fired his blaster at the creature, sending a rapid burst of energy at the creature's head. The shots connected, they seemed to have hurt the creature as it roared in defiance and gave Zhane a nasty glare. It felt pain and was clearly still in the fight. This is going to be a tough fight, he thought as he prepared himself.

Zhane took a short look around and was between Buffy and Dane. "I thought you could use some backup," he said to the two. Nothing clever or witty at the moment, just something straight to the point. Zhane began charging his blaster again and prepared for the creature's next move. "You guys have a plan, right?"

|| Amsterdam

The bathroom was cramped and humming with the flicker of an old fluorescent tube. Lena stood before the mirror, adjusting her appearance. Her reflection looked back at her, pale under the harsh light, hair pinned up beneath the oversized hood of the coat she had chosen. It hung off her like a curtain, but it hid the neon leggings and RAF jacket well enough. It was not much of a disguise, but it was better than walking into a crowded station looking like a traffic cone.

Her phone was wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she lifted the hem of her jacket. The bruises along her ribs were deep and ugly, mottled purple and yellow. She pressed a fingertip to one and winced.

“Lena, that sounded bad.” Emily said through the phone, her voice ringing with concern.

“It’s fine,” Lena said quickly, even though it absolutely wasn’t . “Just checking something. I’m okay.”

“You always say that. And every time I picture you limping home pretending nothing happened.”

Lena let out a breath and lowered the jacket.

“I am being careful. Proper careful. This is just a quick look around. Nothing dangerous. I will be home before midnight.”

“You said that last week.”

“And I made it home, didn’t I?” Lena forced a smile she hoped Emily could hear. “I love you. I will call you the moment I am done.”

There was a long pause.

Then, quietly..

“I love you too. Please come home safe.”

“Always,” Lena whispered, and ended the call before her voice could betray her.

She pulled the hood up, checked her goggles, and slipped out of the bathroom. The moment she opened the door, the roar of the station swallowed her. Announcements, rolling luggage, the churn of thousands of footsteps. She stepped out, then reached back and tugged the OUT OF ORDER barrier back into place, hiding the little pocket of quiet she had borrowed.

The station proper opened before her like a steel cathedral. Glass arched overhead, sunlight cutting through in pale beams. Commuters surged in every direction. Screens flickered with arrivals and departures. Security officers stood at intervals, scanning the crowd.

She moved with the flow, tapping her goggles. They powered on with a soft hum, and Winston’s furry face appeared in the corner of her vision.

“Your feed is active. The train is approaching Platform Seven in ninety seconds.”

“Copy.”

Ambassador Tomas Varg was a quiet, meticulous man who had spent the last decade auditing defence contracts across Europe. Tomorrow he would testify before the European High Court about a corporation whose financial trails led, if you knew how to read them, straight into Talon’s shadow. Lena had recognised the pattern. Winston had helped her confirm it. And now Varga was walking into a station that was far too open, far too predictable, and far too easy to kill a man in.

Publicly executing someone about to testify against them was definitely the kind of warning Talon would want to give to their collaborators. As awful as it sounded, Tracer hoped she was right.

His security team was scattered through the concourse. Lena spotted them quickly. Dark suits and subtle earpieces. Easy to spot when you knew what you were looking for. They were competent, but they were not prepared for Talon.

She drifted toward Platform Seven, blending into the crowd.

The rumble of the approaching train vibrated through the floor.

“Forty seconds.” Winston warned in her ear.

Lena scanned the platform again.

And froze.

A woman leaned casually against a pillar near the tracks. Dark hair tucked under a cap. Green jacket. Hands in pockets. Her face was half in shadow, but Lena knew it instantly. She had memorised it years ago from briefing photos.

Cheshire.

Thankfully she was not wearing the signature piece of her costume right now; the smiling cat mask that depicted her namesake. The thought of it still made Lena shudder slightly.

Her leg ached at the memory. The thin white scar along her thigh pulsed with phantom heat. The poison had nearly killed her. Angela had worked through the night to pull her back. She definitely wasn’t someone who she wanted to face again. And Cheshire did not show up anywhere without a reason.

“Winston,” she whispered. “I have visual on Cheshire.”

A sharp intake of breath crackled through the comms.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. She’s watching the platform.”

“Understood. Stay back. She rarely works alone.”

The train began to screech into the station, brakes screaming.

And then the world blew sideways.

A thunderous crack split the air. The concourse shook and smoke erupted from the ticket hall, followed by screams.

Through the haze, two shapes emerged. She recognised both of them immediately from their profiles on S.H.I.E.L.D’s most wanted list.

The first was massive. Francis Kwan’s silhouette was unmistakable even through smoke. Years of dock work had built him into a wall of muscle long before Talon ever got their hands on him. Now he moved inside a reinforced harness that fed power into the enormous grappling claw mounted to his right arm. Hook was what he called himself now.

The armour plating across his chest and shoulders was dented and gouged from past jobs, each mark a reminder of how hard he was to stop. He fired the hook of his namesake into a support beam and swung forward, the claw tearing sparks from the metal as he hauled his bulk across the floor like a living battering ram.

The second figure was leaner and far more fluid. Frank Payne; Constrictor. A former government operative whose career had collapsed under scandal before he vanished into the mercenary world. His suit was a dark, flexible weave threaded with metallic coils that wrapped around his arms and torso. The coils pulsed faintly as they charged, then snapped outward like electrified whips. Sparks danced along them, illuminating the sharp lines of his mask.

Winston’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Lena, fall back. Varga is moments from disembarking.”

Lena’s heart hammered.

She glanced back toward the pillar where Cheshire had been standing.

She was gone.

A cold spike ran through her chest.

“Shit.”

And she ran toward the smoke.

[retracted]

|| Upstate New York, Earth

The forest was too quiet for his liking tonight. It made every branch snap underfoot crack like gunfire. Leaves brushed against Pierce’s legs as he pushed through the undergrowth, keeping his pace steady so the two kids behind him could keep up.

Tall, lean, and constantly alert, Pierce had learned early that being noticed could get you killed. His hair was tied back to keep it out of his eyes, his clothes were worn from weeks on the move. Along his forearms and shoulders, thin quills lay flat against the skin, pressed close until he needed them. A few were broken from earlier fights. A few were stained. His mutation was a gift that had saved his life more times than he cared to count, and a curse that had made him a target long before tonight.

He had not planned on taking care of anyone. Then he found the two kids three weeks ago in the ruins of a gas station, hiding behind a collapsed freezer door. They had been starving and terrified, convinced the armored men chasing them would appear at any moment. He had seen that fear before. He had lived it. Mutants did not get warnings. They got hunted. They got blamed. They got disappeared. He could not walk away from them.

Pierce had heard what the men chasing them called themselves. The Forever Knights. Some kind of secret order obsessed with that King Arthur shit. He had crossed paths with them a few times too many already. Whatever their gimmick was, it did not make them any less dangerous.

The older of the two, Manny, followed close behind him. He was big for his age, broad shouldered and heavy footed, with his mutant powers erupting in the form of an extra pair of limbs that jutted out of his sides. They moved in uneven rhythm as he tried to stay quiet. His skin had a rough, stony texture that caught the moonlight in dull patches. He looked older at first glance, but the way he kept glancing at Pierce for reassurance made it clear he was still just a kid.

His sister, Helen, was small and wiry, constantly fighting her own mutation. Every few steps she flickered forward in a short burst of speed she could not fully control. She would vanish a foot ahead, stumble, then hurry back into place. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot that had half fallen apart from running. She kept one hand on Manny’s sleeve whenever she felt herself slipping.

They were good kids. Pierce could only hope he could get them somewhere safe.

A metallic clatter echoed through the trees.

Pierce stopped instantly and raised an arm to block the kids. Torchlight flickered between the trunks. The sound of boots moved in perfect rhythm, closing in from behind.

“Stay behind me,” he hissed quietly. “No matter what.”

Manny swallowed hard. Helen pressed closer to him.

It was then that the Forever Knights stepped into the clearing ahead of them. The darkened metal of their armor cut out from the green of the forest. Some wore tabards marked with faded heraldic symbols. Others held a variety of weaponry. Spears. Swords. Even guns. Their faces were hidden behind metal masks shaped like stylised visages; cold and expressionless.

The lead Knight raised his blade. His voice carrying around the clearing, filtered through the metal of his mask.

“Stand fast, wanderers. The chase is ended. Yield, and your suffering shall be brief.”

If they weren’t in mortal danger, Pierce would’ve laughed from the ridiculousness of it all.

Instead, he had to act.

His quills snapped upright along his arms, and he fired a volley of them with practiced precision. They sparked harmlessly off raised shields. The Knights merely advanced in formation, unshaken.

Pierce fought anyway. He moved with speed. With precision. He was someone who had been fighting for his life since childhood after all.

He ducked a swing, drove a quill tipped elbow into a mask, and sent another Knight stumbling with a burst of force. For a moment it looked like he might break through.

But the Knights were trained too. And sadly they were better.

A Knight swept his legs out from under him. Another slammed a gauntlet into his ribs. Manny roared and tried to charge, but a crackling net wrapped around all four arms and tightened until he dropped to his knees. Helen tried to run, but a weighted cord caught her mid burst and sent her tumbling.

In seconds all three were pinned, wrists bound in glowing restraints that hummed with unfamiliar power.

Pierce struggled against them, breath ragged.

“Where are you taking us,” he demanded, spitting towards them in anger. “What the fuck do you want with us?”

The Knight who had spoken before stepped closer. His mask was different from the others, he could see now. Solid gold instead of the silver of his subordinates. His sword lowered, but the hum of its energy remained as he spoke.

“You trespass upon sacred dominion. You harbor aberrations. The decree is ancient and unbending.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a reverent whisper.

“You shall be cast beyond the mortal veil. To your Annihilation. As was done in ages past. As shall be done again.”

And with that, the Knights hauled them to their feet and dragged them deeper into the trees. The forest swallowed them without a sound.

MRS. & MR. DAREDEVIL
MRS. & MR. DAREDEVIL

Issue# 4.1: Let the devils out.
Location: 42nd St. Underground Subway

---

“So the devil comes in pairs.” Muse glees under his mask.

For the notorious serial killer, Muse is enjoying every bit of this. He sees this as his twisted stage. For every murder he commits, and every life he takes, is a stroke of his dark art.

For the daredevils, it's different; every second counts. Hostages remain stranded below, desperate for help as time slips away.

“Careful, this guy is very elusive, unpredictable, and kinda annoying actually,” Elektra said in earshot of Matt.

“Yeah, I can’t get a read on him,” Matt replied.

“What’s the plan?” Lady Daredevil asked.

“Get close to him. Swing hard and fast until you hear his bones break.” Matt adjusts his jaw and brandishes his billy clubs.

Matt and Elektra surge forward in perfect harmony, a deadly duet of precision. Two lethal ninjas are closing in, a nightmare for anyone who is on the receiving end of this attack.

Muse braces for impact. His Inhuman ability is his only defense. However, even those who are difficult to detect are vulnerable at close range.

Elektra leaps into the air and pounces as Daredevil comes straight at him with a closed fist.

Muse draws a gun, hesitating over which one to shoot.

Too slow.

Matt’s baton ropes lash out, tangling his arm, leaving him wide open and messing with his aim.

BAP!! BAP!! BAP!!

Muse shoots wildly and misses.

Elektra seizes the moment, driving a kick straight into his face.

It is followed by Daredevil yanking his arm and dragging him towards him, repeatedly smashing his face with his baton.

In desperation, Muse catches one of his billy club and breaks it with ease, showing a bit of his inhuman strength.

The broken club slows Daredevil for a heartbeat, forcing him to switch from weapon to bare fists.

THUMP!! THUMP!! THUMP!!

The blind hero was relentless in his strike, as if possessed.

THUMP!! THUMP!! THUMP!!

Matt’s knee hammers into Muse’s torso again and again. The subway rings with the music of ribs cracking, flesh bruising, pain reverberating with every blow.

Elektra slips from the shadows, her sai plunging into Muse’s leg and pinning him in place. She spins, her kick sending Muse stumbling into Matt’s waiting fists.

Matt is ready, landing a brutal punch to Muse’s jaw—a vicious one-two that leaves their foe reeling.

Muse staggers, dazed, the world spinning in a dizzy blur. He raises his hands in defense, but it is hopeless.

Daredevil grapples with him, grabbing him by his arm.

SWUNG!! CRACK!!

Matt strikes swiftly, snapping the artist’s arm. Muse’s elbow wrenches out of place, bone nearly breaking through skin.

The onslaught didn’t stop there, as both horned heads released a flurry of kicks, knees, and punches. They trade blows, dismantling the killer piece by piece, giving him no chance to recover.

Muse collapses to his knees, battered and broken. He is simply outmatched and yet even as he endures the beating of his life, a twisted smile lingers—he seems almost delighted.

“So much pain! I didn’t know my elbow could bend the other way.” The artist mused about his injury as he knelt. He is winded and broken.

“Such a refined taste for violence, you have my respect from one artist to another, I doubt you'll give me your real identity." Muse looks at Daredevil.

"As for you, I’d know that scent anywhere: Elektra Murdock.” Muse’s grin widens beneath his mask. His artist’s intuition and sensory vortex reveal truths hidden even behind masks. He can paint a picture with just a few details and, in his twisted mind, decipher it. If only he used his detective gifts for good, the world might be brighter.

“How?…Do you know this hack?” Matt muttered under his breath, tilting his head at Elektra.

“He’s my previous client. Bastian Cooper, I didn’t know he was the infamous serial killer of New York.”

“I’m flattered that you remember, Attorney. I guess we all have secrets, huh? I would laugh harder, but I believe my ribs are broken.” Muse lets out a weak wheeze.

“An inhuman serial killer guised as a cop, with military-grade weapons. Ain’t that convenient?” Matt said, crossing his arms.

"I have my patrons who appreciate my artwork."

“He’s too dangerous to live. He knows my secret. I hate loose ends.” Elektra’s jaw tightens, recalling her promise to Asa to end this monster.

Elektra lashes out, her ropes coiling around Muse’s throat, tightening with every heartbeat as she chokes the life from him.

“No, Don’t! Leave him to the justice system. He can keep his secret rotting behind bars. We’re better than this.” Matt pleaded.

“…” Elektra let it linger; she can almost see the light leaving the killer's eyes from where he stands.

Matt moves to intervene, but then hears his wife’s heartbeat steady, signaling her restraint.

“Tch, Fine, I knew you would say that.” Elektra sighed and reluctantly stood down, listening to reason.

“I sense a lover’s quarrel or maybe a clash of ideals. Maybe you should let me go while you two work it out.” Muse wheezes, struggling for breath after the chokehold.

“…” Both the daredevils paused and looked at each other.

“Stay out of this!!” Matt and Elektra stood tall, frowning. They finish with a final boot to the face, knocking Muse out cold.

The police and the paramedics flood the subway as the devils of Hell’s Kitchen leave without a trace. The hostages are freed, and the Ripper of New York is left behind, tied and wrapped up as a gift for Commissioner Nalini Karnik and Officer Misty Knight to arrest.

Derision. Confusion. Disappointment. Anger. Chad bore it all, words from a tongue that was not his bouncing off his form that deflected so much like rain from an umbrella.

The bright lights of the Los Angeles Arena did not offer any warmth in the ring. Even into round 4. The blaze had yet to start. His opponent, Rodrigo Manzanilla was his challenger for the World Heavyweight title, and his talent was unmistakable. Technical to the core, Chad had taken every one of his blows, while Rodrigo had ducked away from him at even the slightest twitch. In the last round he hadn’t even adopted a defensive stance, just taking every hit as they came. He hadn’t felt a thing. He knew Rodrigo wasn’t weak, but he wasn’t trying to win by brute force. In his decade and a half long career Chad had never lost by any form of KO. It was the smart play: be cautious and win by decision. Chad let his coach’s words go in one ear and out the other. His ears were already full. The frozen muscles in his shoulders wanted to burn so brightly.

The bell rang. Chad sat up past his coach, long steps taking him right to Rodrigo. His arms were still at his sides. A roar of boos came but it too failed to shake his heart. Rodrigo threw a jab that bounced against the hair on Chad’s jaw. Chad threw an uppercut that ripped through the air like a gun. It didn’t even touch his opponent, yet a moment later he started to bleed, a cut forming down the side of his chin. He hadn’t even noticed, because Chad had already turned around completely. Reaching down, he took the towel off of his coach’s shoulders before tossing it over his shoulder to the ring behind him. The announcers gave word of Rodrigo’s victory as his side came in to tend to the wound that splattered the ring with blood.

Jeers taunted him as he left the ring. They couldn’t have hurt him any more than that uppercut had upon himself. “Lo siento, abuelo.”

---

The Big Cat Boxing Gym was as dingy as ever. While it was kept perfectly clean, the aged equipment gave it a rusty sort of feeling. Still, it was small and the equipment it did have was far from the standard when it came to the world stage. Yet Chad was here, a towel draped over his face as he laid back, arms crossed behind the back of his head while his feet were kicked up atop a loose tote.

After what must have been hours, a hand pulled the towel off of his face, revealing his stern mug to the outside world again. The bright blue eyes of Theodore Grant stared down at him, but their firmness didn’t stay for long. <“That show last night. Did you come to my Gym because of a plan?”>

Chad unfurled his arms, his eyes widening slightly. <“You speak Spanish?”>

Ted grimaced, knowing full well his words came like gravel caught in a tire. <“Not in a long time.”> Pulling up a seat, he cracked open a Bud before offering one to Chad, who took it but only held it.

<“I didn’t mean to hurt your reputation.”>

Ted gave a dark laugh and took a swig. <“Nothing you do could ever hurt me there.”>

Chad let out a low sigh, before admitting. <“There’s a toy store near here, and a restaurant I was recommended. The other gyms were further away.”>

Ted was incredulous. <“Toy store? You have a kid?”>

<“Squishmallows are nice. I want a custom one.”>

Ted raised his eyebrows before taking a sip. Tapping his fingers on his bottle, his curiosity got the better of him. <“What happened back there? I’ve never heard of a champion walking away from their title belt like that.”>

Chad’s facial expression shifted subtly. He slipped his feet off the tote and leaned forward, His shoulders seemed heavy. <“I...saw myself in him. I didn’t like it.”>

<“The way I see it, the one not trying in there was you. It’s not fun to watch, but Rodrigo’s fighting style is acceptable.”>

<“I know that. I’m the one in the wrong. I used to like boxing.”>

Liquid swished around Ted’s bottle as he swayed it lightly. <“You can retire. You had a career longer than most. Your body should have fallen apart ages ago but you’re built like...> a tank.” His dip into English seemed to be understood. Chad lowered into silence, contemplating Ted’s words.

Stepping away, Ted heard a familiar faint chirping, heading another room over and cracking open the closet where he kept his police scanner. Taking another sip, he poked a hand in and raised the volume.

“Route 66, we have an officer down! Monster on the street, some...skeletal...creature!” The exclamation was followed by a scream that sent ice down Ted’s spine. “What in the hell?” Fingers tapping on his bottle in contemplation, he heard a rustling, Chad rushing for the door. Paranoid old heart thumping, he called, “Hey, you better not be going where I think you’re going!” The words went of deaf ears. With a growl, Ted chugged the last of his bottle and let it clatter to the ground as he pushed the door open further, revealing a full black jumpsuit, hood modeled after a black cat. “Not this shit again.” he muttered, even as his lips failed to conceal a smile.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. Came the rap of a knuckle against the door, lowering the mug from his lips Frank looked passed the rim of the mishapen mug towards the clock hanging on the far wall. 09:03. The same exact time every single day. He nodded his appreciation as Dog let out a single bark and ran for the door, skidding to a halt before it and letting out a single woof, his tail wagging beneath him clearing any dust, debris or mud that hadn't been swept up and revealing the faintest of impression on the floor. The door opened, accepting Dogs clear invitation, and Frank returned to nursing his bitter coffee. Allowing it to wash out the creeping cold sensation from the night before, he acknowledged the red-haired teenager that walked into the house as she crouched over to give Dog a pet.

"Come on Major, lets get you ready for your walk Sir."

Frank arched an eyebrow and placed the mug down on the counter-top, the mishapen mug only had the faintest of decoration remaining on it. A '#1'. Whatever writing had been beneath that was long faded and gone, faint scratch marks from where a scouring pad had been run along it repeatedly. Sighing as he shook his head.

"His names Dog."

Pulling the harness off its hook, the young woman lowered it over Dogs head, reaching around to clip it on around his waist. A look of firm defiance upon her face as she looked straight at Frank, not at all intimidated by the cold stare thrown back at her. The stare that had been the last many men had seen.

"I can't just shout Dog when I have him off the leash at the park, can I?" A sad look crossed over her face. "No. He's the Major, after my dad." Looking up from Dog the indignant expression returned. "You can tell me its not his name all you want, but once I'm out the door its not upto you."

"I could always get a new dog walker."

She snorted derisively as she stood up reaching for the leash. Dog was now stood ever so impatiently at the door, tail wagging slowly but consistently.

"You're not exactly known to be a social butterfly Frank, besides-" She bent down, hooked Dog up and opened the door. "-The Major wouldn't let you." Door closing behind her.

The door closed, and the silence was defeaning. Frank closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to breathe. To calm. He picked up the nearby remote, and hit the power button. A burst of static and then the television came on, some morning talk show. He allowed it to run in the background, not really paying attention as he continued to nurse his coffee for another ten minutes. After which he poured the remainder into a flask, topped it off out the pot and placed the mug beside the sink. As he turned back around he froze, as he was confronted with a face from his past. It was more lined now, and a grey hair speckled across his face and head.

The mans mouth moved, but the sound didn't reach him through the fog. It was muffled, faint. Hidden behind the years. "-Frank Castle."

It was as if his head had been pulled back above water, his eyes managed to focus on the face of Sid Paxton on the television. Frank just now noticed the cover of the book sat behind him, his stomach sank as he read the title. He always knew this day would come, and the chill returned to his spine as he understood what was coming next.

[retracted]