Beverly High, Beverly Massachusetts

---

She had forgotten what a normal morning felt like. Or at least, she had forgotten what passed for normal in this particular simulation of one.

Carol had been awake before her alarm, which was nothing new. Usually it was the low pull of anxiety, the rehearsal of what the day required of her, the performance of it. This morning it was something more like the feeling after a very long run, the pleasant hollow of a body that has pushed itself entirely and come out the other side. She'd lain there in the blue-grey before-light of her room, staring up at the ceiling, and let herself have it for exactly as long as she could afford before she had to get up and be Carol Danvers, senior, Beverly High, the usual.

She'd dressed quickly. Nothing overthought. Dark jeans, a cream ribbed top, her leather jacket over the top. A pair of boots she knew from experience were comfortable enough to stand in all day. Just enough effort to count as being her on a low day.

The walk to school was quiet and grey, the kind of mid-morning overcast that couldn't decide if it was going to rain or simply threaten to for the entire day.

It became apparent the moment the doors opened that Beverly High had its own opinion on recent events.

"—did you actually watch it, the whole clip is like forty seconds and she—"

"—my dad says it's completely CGI, the government does this stuff all the—"

"—no way is that CGI, you can see the light, like actually reflecting off the water—"

"—she just flew straight through it, though. The whole thing. How—"

Carol pulled the left earbud out and tucked it into her pocket, very calmly, and continued down the main corridor.

She had known it would be like this. She had known it on an intellectual, practical level,but that was different than understanding what it would feel like to walk through a school hallway while the people around her argued about whether she existed.

Fascinating.

She grabbed her locker combination from muscle memory, not quite listening to the fragments of conversation around her. Two junior girls at the next bank of lockers had what was very clearly a paused-on phone screen between them; she didn't look directly at it but her peripheral vision was, through no fault of her own, considerably better than it used to be. The frozen image was gold and blurred and moving very fast over a dark ocean, and the caption underneath it had accumulated enough exclamation marks to constitute a safety hazard.

She got her locker open. Retrieved her books. Closed it again.

"Morning."

Michael appeared at her elbow in the way that he always did, as if he had simply manifested there at the precise moment most likely to be useful to someone. He was holding two cups of coffee from the place on Cabot Street that no one should have had time to get to before school but which Michael apparently considered a personal challenge, and he extended one towards her in a gesture that brooked no argument.

"You," Carol said, taking it, "are an actual saint."

"I know." He turned to survey the corridor with the expression of a man watching a very entertaining documentary. "You've seen the video, I assume."

"I've been trying not to look directly at it. Like an eclipse."

"Smart." He took a sip of his own coffee. "Kelly thinks it's a government actor. She's very passionate about it."

"Sounds like Kelly."

"She's made a PowerPoint."

Carol turned to look at him for the first time since he'd appeared. He looked back at her, entirely without irony.

"She's made a PowerPoint."

"Eight slides. There's a section on 'suspicious hair volume.'"

For one extremely dangerous moment, Carol felt something shift in her face that she had to work very hard to neutralise back into simple, polite amusement. "Well," she said, after a beat, "she's not wrong that the hair is a lot."

Michael gave her a sideways look that lasted approximately half a second longer than she would have liked, then moved smoothly on. "Half the football team has decided she's actually military. The other half think she's an alien. Kyle Briggs apparently spent twenty minutes this morning explaining to anyone who would listen why the G-forces alone would—"

"Kyle Briggs failed physics."

"He did," Michael confirmed, "and yet. The confidence."

She laughed then, properly, which helped. The first period bell rang. Around them the hallway began its usual self-reorganisation.

"If Kelly shows me that PowerPoint," Carol said, shouldering her bag, "I'm dropping cheer."

"You won't."

"I won't," she agreed. "But I'll think about it very seriously for at least six seconds."

She headed towards her first class, coffee in hand, past two more sets of students with phones out and voices low, before any member of staff could impress on them the importance to be elsewhere.

It was a very strange thing, she reflected, to be the secret at the centre of a rumour. To hear your own name spoken in tones of speculation and not be able to say yes, that's me, I was there, I was cold coming back through the atmosphere and the hair helmet thing is genuinely a lot of engineering for something that aesthetic.

She sat down in AP English. Opened her notebook. Wrote the date at the top of a fresh page.

Across the aisle, one of the girls from the cheer team was leaning over to whisper something to the girl beside her, phone face-up between them. Carol caught the image without meaning to. The angle was different from the one the junior girls had been looking at, this one was taken from the ground somewhere in Boston, the quality shakier, more human. A streak of gold against a flat grey sky, impossibly fast, impossibly bright.

She recognised the exact moment it had been taken. She remembered the whip of air, the specific pitch of its shriek, the way the city had looked impossibly small and impossibly dear from up there.

She looked back down at her notebook.

Outside, somewhere past the grey overcast, the sky was very wide and very quiet.

Captain Marvel had quickly been making a reputation for himself around New York. With that successful rescue of the L-Train after his fight with Boyd, as well as him quickly becoming a symbol of equal rights when he was seen beating a man who was yelling racial slurs. An internet meme of "Be A Marvel! Punch A Racist!" was going cult in a few forums. Of course, Bailey didn't particularly care about all that. He was in it to do good in the city. You know, it took a little getting used to, but Bailey was really starting to get the hang of all of this not living in a facist dystopia thing and boy did it feel good. Sure, there were a couple of loudmouths on the TV... And that couple a few units down from them in F.E.A.S.T. that were constantly using the M word. Much to Christina's chagrin, he hadn't punched them for clout.

School had started and now he was going to Empire State Elementary. Luckily, having friends in high places allowed him to get some good fake ID's to pass as a kid. He was meeting kids his own age. Of course, kids his own age were cruel and unusual. He had mostly been homeschooled for the majority of his life, Mom didn't believe in the state education, but Empire State is where Christina had gone and Mr and Mrs Xu had been very clear that his education came first. Of course, they didn't know that he literally had the Wisdom of Solomon drip-feeding him answers. He was beginning to notice that some of the powers were beginning to seep into his non-powered form. This was mildly alarming as he was afraid they might subsume his personality, but then again, the Wizard said there were trials that had to be taken. Maybe figuring this out was one. Ironically, those were the only answers that Solomon wasn't drip feeding him.

He was finally starting to explore this NEW New York. Lots of Heroes congregated here. Not unusual, same as the one he remembered, although now things were different. It was mostly hope that filled the air, rather than despair. He was tempted to look up some of his old Superhero buddies from before, but was kinda afraid they would be put off by them not recognizing him... Or more terrifyingly, the concept that they ACTUALLY did recognize him. He wondered how the Morlocks in the sewers were doing? How were Reed and Susan doing? T'Challa and Ororo? He had had wonderful adventures with all of them and then he didn't exist anymore... He hadn't read anything about any of them and was a bit too terrified to do so, in case he learned that they were wiped out too... Or even killed. Maybe even before they got the chance to be heroes... Nope, Schrodinger's Reed Richers (As Reed had once called the concept). Better to leave him as a possibility than learn he was just a bag-boy working at the local K-Mart.

As Bailey got back to F.E.A.S.T. and schlept over to his bed before falling face first into it, he heard Christina come by to call to him. "Come on, Bail, we've got a keep to earn." Bailey sighed into the muffled donated blankets before getting up and going to grab a mop from her.

All things considered... Life was good.

As Bailey and Christina were helping around F.E.A.S.T. with their usual jobs, little did they know that mystical eyes were watching. From a nearby rooftop, Kurt Flipots sat watching the pair through a scrying spell he was casting using his Banjo. The guy who gave it to him had told him repeatedly. "Do NOT stay too long in New York, there are strange magics there that may not take kindly to our presence." But he had just taken on one of the strongest heroes in the world and royally beaten him senseless. Sorcerer's, Warlocks, Wizards, Druids, what did he have to worry about. Strumming his banjo, he watched, waiting for his next move. "Dammit, i used to be a sombodeh." He grunted, getting up and strumming a few chordes. "Grand Cyclops... Head of the Silver Legion Band..." He groaned. "TIE A YELLAH RIBBON AROUND THE OL' OAK TREE!!!" He looked in to the scrying spell and watched as Bailey and Christina seemed to be racing each other with mops around the floor. "Look at him. Strong Celtic boy with just some little... like her..." He threw his head back in anger. "Poor boy..." He sighed. "No mamma or pappy to teach him where he comes from. That he is superior to that little... Gad dammit, if i only had the power..." He stopped for a second. "I do have the power. And that old bastard that's training him has got more in that big ol' stick..." He looked over the city towards General Techtronics tower. "And the Worm has got even more in that big ol' cauldron... Yeah, with all of that, there'd nary be a single one of them... or... to challenge me. I could have it all, and the worm would never know until it's too late." He giggled sadistically. As he did so, he barely noticed the light that seemed to have found him. An eerie dim glow as if an old street lamp.

He stamped his foot down on the ground. "OOP! SORRY FELLA, DIDN'T SEE YA THERE! I could have it all... Nay, i SHOULD have it all, i'm doing the work, i deserve the glory!" He strummed out a few more chordes. "On the heath, there blooms a lil floret..." He cooed as he took a few more steps. "Yeah, with the Banjo, the stick and the whatever he's got cooking back there... I could be invincible... It could all be mine... MINE" He walked back a few paces "After all, there's that ol' saying, what's yours is mine..." A mad grin smeared across his face, as he did so, his eyes began to glow orange. "And what's mine is Mine... It's Mine... It's Mine... It's Mine... It's Mine... It's Mine..." He then looked back at the images of the pair laughing. "Not yours..." He reached out his hand as a Orange glowing ring slipped onto his finger.

"KURT FILPOT! YOU'RE ALL MINE!!!"

---

It had been a few weeks since Otto’s encounter with the KRAB and the Octopus had become a shortly lived social media fad. Superhero news was no emerging trend in New York, the place was practically littered with them, but the strange circumstances around Otto’s first battle with a supervillain did manage to keep his 15 seconds of fame going for a tad longer than it would have – maybe 20 seconds of fame at a push.
Opinion was divided though, as it so often was on the streets of New York City. Some admired him, embracing the plucky young crime fighter as their own – seeing things like his impromptu slingshot across the city as an ingenuity and knowledge of the city many others lacked in the Big Apple. Others saw this as incompetence, noting how stressed and ad-hoc the plan was in the first place.
Not in the least mentioning his villain himself. People were simultaneously grateful as they were suspicious. The fight had taken place hundreds of miles off the coast of New York, with no witnesses other than the crew. The grainy security cam footage – or what was salvaged of it only served to muddy the waters further. Conspiracy theorists and those with ulterior agendas alike cried accusations of crisis actors and of a manufactured superhero situation serving more to disrupt maritime trade routes and gear the public up for a squeeze on the economy.
Otto struggled not to pay heed to it all. The attention was intoxicating. He’d spent all of his life in the shadows – at the back of the classroom. Hiding from the world and wishing someone would notice him, now they had.
Despite his best efforts though, life moved on. Both on social media and in his personal life. People eventually stopped talking about the Octopus, and Otto had opted to take a small break to focus on his studies, and his upcoming interview at Oscorp.
”…Do you think I should wear a suit? I don’t even know where to get one! Should I shake his hand when we meet? Or is that too formal for my friends dad? Do I call him ‘Sir’, or ‘Mr. Osborn’?” What felt like a thousand questions had fell from Otto’s mouth in a slurry of anxiety.

His best friend, Peter Parker sat opposite, waiting for the onslaught to stop. When it finally did he didn’t know where to start answering the questions. “Uh, yeah you should definitely wear a suit, I can lend you mine. Yes, shake his hand. Call him Mr. Osborn no doubt he’ll ask you to call him Norman. I’m not answering the rest I forgot them halfway through.”

”Ah, c’mon, Pete I feel like you’re not taking this seriously.” Replied Otto, with a glum, slightly annoyed tone to his voice. ”This is the biggest opportunity of my life, man, I could use a little help.”

Peter shot him a look that could kill a lion and rose from his chair. He shrugged his shoulders moving over to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. “I dunno dude. I guess.”
”What’s the matter man? What just because you decided not to go for the interview you’ve got to punish me for it?”
Peter sighed, not even turning to face his friend. “Yeah I’m the asshole here, you’re totally right.”
”What’s your problem? We’ve not properly seen each other for a few weeks I thought you’d be happy to see me!”
“Yeah, not for lack of trying. On my part at least.”
”What’re you my girlfriend now?”
“No, I’m your best friend, Otto. I’ve been trying to speak to you for ages now, but you’re either never around, too tired, or busy. You’ve barely even spoke to me about Ben I thought we were closer than this, man.”

Realization fell on Otto’s head like a pile of bricks. He’d been so swept up in his own life, and his double life as the Octopus that he hadn’t given any time at all to checking on Peter. For a moment he thought about telling him everything, about the suit, his powers, and his fight with the KRAB. He bit his tongue, he’d considered telling Peter previously, his expertise would have come in extremely handy when designing any prototype gadgets, but ultimately he decided it was too much of a risk. Getting someone involved in this crazy decision could only lead them to getting hurt.
”I, uh…” He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? ”Look, Pete, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been a shit friend recently. I’ve had so much on my plate recently, which isn’t an excuse, but…” He trailed off. He was never very good at this sort of thing.
Peter sighed again. “I know man, it’s fine. It’s just been a tough few weeks for me and I was really hoping to speak to you. I know I’ve got MJ, and Harry, but it’s different – we’ve been friends since forever we’re like brothers.”
Otto nodded. ”You’re right, brothers to the end. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry, we’re good. What’s been keeping you so busy these last few weeks anyway? You got a secret girlfriend or something?”

”-yeah, something like that I guess…”

“Damn, you old dog. I guess you really will need this internship with Harry’s dad if you’re going to pay for that. Trust me, bro, girlfriends cost serious money.”

---

Otto sat in the lavish waiting room with the soundtrack to his anxiety being the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the off-beat bebop tapping of the receptionists keyboard. Occasionally she’d blow a bubble from her gum and the loud pop would only serve to heighten his nerves even more. Even less frequently was the sight of anyone else entering – or accidentally opening the door to the room. It was obvious that visits to Norman weren’t very frequent, the vast majority of people either gave the message to the receptionist or mumbled an apology and something about being lost before heading back the way they came with their tail between their legs.

He adjusted the tie in his slightly-too-snug suit he borrowed from his decidedly skinnier friend and looked down at the mostly clear green folder in his hands. His entire professional career was in there, detailed in a CV that had been revised and revised a thousand times in preparation for the interview. All his studying, experimenting, and writing boiled down to a couple of pages stapled together. He hoped it would be enough.
Finally the phone rang on the receptionists desk and she answered it, giving a short nod before placing the phone back down and calling out to the nervous nerd sitting in front of her. “Mr. Osborn will see you now.”

Gulp.

Otto could practically his heart beating out his throat. He’d take another confrontation with a mechanical monster over this. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to get out of here, to run away and never come back destined for a life of mediocrity. But then the words of his friends echoed through his head, words less of encouragement and more like statements of fact. They knew how much he deserved this job and how good a fit he’d be in the company. Part of him believed them, but that nagging part at the back of his head telling him he wasn’t good enough was always there to sow the seeds of doubt.

He entered the lavish office feeling more like a peasant petitioning the king than someone interviewing for an internship. It was maybe the nicest room, Otto had ever been in. There were paintings on the wall that must have cost more than his family home. The man himself was sat, staring out of that huge window that could’ve been a beautifully painted fresco of New York City rather than a true depiction of the multifaceted boroughs that lay below.

”-Uh, Mr. Osborn, sir? I’m here for the interview, it’s me Otto, Harry’s friend?” Otto stood at the far end of the room clutching his folder like a shield. He was in his early 20s and yet being in the presence of a man like this made him feel like a little kid again.

Osborn turned in his chair in a relaxed manner, before standing, straightening out his suit and facing Otto. “Ahh, Otto. Of course I know who you are, Harry has talked so much about you.” He rounded his antique, mahogany desk and fastened the middle button on his suit jacket, extending out his spare hand towards Otto.

Otto stared back at the hand like Norman had offered him the holy grail. Shellshocked, he stood and stared for a moment, and then a moment longer, then a moment too long.

“C'mon kid, are you going to make me cross the room? Come and take a seat.” He beckoned him over using that same hand. Otto realised how far away he was and how long he was talking to respond. In an effort to make up for this mistake he rushed over and perhaps too eagerly shook Osborn’s hand.

”Oh, sorry, Mr. Osborn, Sir!” He took a seat in the directed chair and watched the imposing businessman sit opposite.

“Please, Otto, call me Norman. Mr. Osborn was my father, and I’ve not been knighted so sir definitely isn’t necessary.” He leaned over slightly “-Yet, that is. There’s still time to get on the king of England’s good side.” He winked.

Otto let out a nervous laugh in reply, unsure what to say. He let out a small cough. ”Well, uh, I just want to thank you for the great opportunity, Mr. Norm, I mean Norman. I really appreciate it.”

Osborn smiled like a shark, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers. “No problem at all, son. But I view this less as an opportunity I’m giving you and more of one we can both take advantage of. I’ve looked over your work, and suffice to say I’m very impressed.”

Otto blinked, amazed that he had spent the time to research someone like him. “You have?”

“Of course. You think I personally interview every intern who walks into Oscorp?” Norman gestured lazily toward the folder still clutched in Otto’s hands. “That’s merely the abridged version, I assume. I make it a habit to know who I’m inviting into my company before I let them anywhere near my work.” His eyes flicked up. “You’ve got an interesting mind, Otto. Ambitious. Creative. A little reckless.”

“I- well, innovation requires a certain level of-”
“-risk.” Norman finished for him, smiling. “Yes. I’m far too familiar with the concept.” There was something about the way he said it that made Otto’s skin prickle. “Tell me, Otto, these prosthetic concepts of yours. Neural integration, adaptive response systems… bio-mechanical feedback loops-” He tilted his head. “How far along are you, really?”

Otto hesitated. The truth flickered through his mind. The arms, the suit, the night sky rushing past him as metal limbs carried him between buildings, the KRAB, the way his body had changed - evolved.
“Theoretical stages, mostly.” he said carefully. “I’ve built small-scale prototypes. Nothing fully realised.”

“Hm.” He leaned back again, crossing his arms. “That’s curious.”

Otto’s grip tightened slightly on the folder. “Curious?”
“Yes.” Norman’s tone remained casual, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Because the work I’ve seen suggests someone capable of pushing far beyond ‘small-scale prototypes.’ Someone who doesn’t wait for permission.” A pause. “Someone who might test their own limits.”

This wasn’t how he thought the interview would go. It felt more like torture by the Spanish Inquisition. Otto felt his heartbeat spike and heard the blood pumping in his ears.

For a split second, he considered it – telling him. Not everything, but just enough. Enough to secure the internship, the resources, funding, a lab – everything he’d ever dreamed of. Norman Osborn backing him would change his life overnight.

But then the thoughts of his life recently came back to him. The man screaming inside the metal cockpit. The fishing trawler torn in half. The terrified faces of the crew onboard the trade ship. Power, without responsibility.

“I like to innovate.” Otto replied finally, forcing a small, awkward smile. “But I’m not reckless.”

Norman held his gaze for a few moments in silence – eyeing him up like a predator. Then slowly he smiled again. “Good answer.” He said with a wink, pointing a finger gun at him.

Otto felt the tension in the room deflate and then reinflate with something else, a different kind of anxiety.

Norman stood, turning slightly toward the massive window behind him. “Do you know what separates people like you and me from everyone else, Otto?”

Otto blinked. “…I’m not sure I’d put myself in the same category as you, sir- I mean - Norman.”

Norman chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked out over the city. “It’s not intelligence. Plenty of intelligent people end up doing very little with it.” He tilted his head slightly. “It’s not even ambition. Ambition without action is just daydreaming.” He turned back towards him. “It’s application. The willingness to act on an idea before the world is ready for it.” Otto shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Norman took a step closer, resting a hand lightly on the back of his chair. “Harry tells me you and, Peter have been working together for years.”

“Yeah. Since we were kids. If you can call that working, he’s my best friend.”

“Mmm.” Norman nodded. “Bright boy, Peter. Very bright. Different from you, though.”

Otto frowned. “Different in what way?”

“He hesitates.” He smiled. “Second-guesses himself. Questions whether he should act, instead of recognising when he can act.” He gestured vaguely. “A moral compass like that is admirable, of course. But it can also be… limiting.”

Otto didn’t like where this was going. “Pete’s one of the smartest people I know.” he said, a little more firmly than intended. “And he’s - he’s a good friend.”

“I’m sure he is.” Replied Norman smoothly. “But being a good friend doesn’t build the future, Otto. People like you do.”

Silence overtook the room again for a moment. Otto could feel the fabric of the too-tight suit pulling at his shoulders. He suddenly felt very aware of the weight of the conversation. Of what Norman was really saying to him. Of what he was offering.

Norman moved back behind his desk, picking up Otto’s folder and flipping it open - not to read it, but almost as a gesture. A formality. “So.” he said, closing it again. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He looked Otto dead in the eye. “I’m offering you a position here at Oscorp. Internship, to start. Direct access to one of our research divisions.” A faint smile. “Assuming, of course… that you’re willing to apply that mind of yours properly.”

“…You mean - I got the job?”

“Pending a few formalities.” Norman replied. “But yes, Otto. Welcome to Oscorp.”

Otto let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He felt relief, excitement, validation all crashing into him at once.

“Thank you, Norman, I won’t let you down, I swear-”

“I know.” Norman interrupted with that same smile. Somehow this came across more unsettling than any other part of the conversation. He extended his hand again. This time Otto didn’t hesitate, he shook his hand with confidence. As their hands shook, Norman’s grip tightened, just slightly. “Tell me, Otto how do you feel about marine applications?”

“Uh, you could say I have a vested interest.”

“Oh yes.” he said. “I think you’ll find we have a mutual interest there. I look forward to reviewing your work.”

As Hal stepped off the plane and back onto familiar soil of Blyniville Air Base, he took a deep, refreshing sniff of the sweet California air. 8 weeks training on the USS Gerald Ford for a top secret mission made even this place look like absolute paradise. He had a few weeks before the mission took place and was being given some basic R&R beforehand. Walking across base, he headed for the front office to sign out. Maybe go visit Mom while he was here, rather than just head straight to Vegas, which was exactly the kind of place he wanted his R&R. Entering the front office to sign all of his papers, he checked his mail box. A couple of the usual letters, mostly talking about how they could make him perform better in bed with 4 easy payments. However, on the top was a number of letters informing him of missed communications. The training facility barred any and all contact with the outside, mostly because they wanted to deny the existance of the facility. Sighing, he walked over to the front desk. "Can i borrow the phone?" He pointed at the landline. It'd take a mass of paperwork to get his mobile back. Jack, his oldest brother, had tried to call him an alarming amount of times. Jack rarely wanted to talk to him on a holiday, so it wasn't likely to be anything good. Maybe Helen's Bar Mitzva yet? Yeah, might be coming up to it. Well, he was about to get an earful. The phone rang a few times, before the familiar voice of Hal's sister-in-law, Janet, came on.

"Hello? Jordan residence." Janet said.

"Janet. Hi, it's Hal. Sorry for not being reachable, i've been..." The clerk behind the desk shot Hal a stern look. "Classified..." He replied.

"Oh... Hal... Ummm..." He heard the telltale sound of the phone being put down, but not hung up. "Jason, go get your father, tell him Uncle Hal's on the phone." Then the phone being picked up again. "Hal, sorry, Jack will be here in a second."

"Ok... How's Janet doing? Did i miss her Bar Mitzva? I'm REALLY sorry about that if i did. You should have told me, i could have had something sent in my abscence." He laughed.

"Oh... Uh... No, she's not going to be 13 till next April." She replied. She sounded worried now.

"Janet... What's going on? Jack is a sourpuss, but we've always been good, what's going on?" Hal asked, he could feel his heart sinking. This wasn't a "I'm annoyed you missed something because of scheduling" kind of voice from her, it was a "I have been dreading the fallout of this phonecall for the last month" kinda voice. The phone then changed hands.

"Hal. Mom died." Jack said. Hal stood there for a second. Not quite sure exactly what to say or how to say it or exactly... Wait, WHAT?

"Ex-FREAKIN'-Cuse me?" He yelled. "WHAT?"

"Mom died... Cancer. Started in the pancreas, quickly spread to everywhere else." Jack replied.

"NO, THAT'S NOT ELABORATION REQUIRED, YOU DILLWEED! THAT IS, YOU JUST FREAKIN' DROPPED THAT ON ME LIKE A NEWBORN GIRAFFE KINDA DEAL! WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL?" He roared down the phone, the clerk pretended to look at his watch, before bidding a hasty retreat to the back, clearly not wanting to get involved in this.

"Mom told you not to go into the Military, after dad. You should have been here."

"I HAVE TO MAKE A LIVING, JACK! WE CAN'T ALL BE THE DISTRICT ATTOURNEY, YOU ASSHOLE! DAD FLEW JETS, I FLY JETS, YOU KEEP SCUMBAGS OUT OF JAIL, WE DO WHAT WE NEED TO LIVE! AND DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT THE AIRFORCE, MOM DIED AND YOU HAVE ALL THE WARMTH OF ALASKAN ROADKILL!"

"I told you that i make good money, and with Mom's pension and dad's military pension, you could have stayed home and just done anything you wanted for the rest of your life without worry. You could have seen the signs, you could have got her to the doctors early-"

"NONONONO, YOU DICK! I AM NOT GOING TO BE MADE THE BAD GUY BECAUSE I ACTUALLY WANTED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE, RATHER THAN JUST BE THE SCREW-UP LITTLE BROTHER THAT YOU CAN BRAG TO YOUR BUDDIES AT THE OFFICE WHAT A SAINT YOU ARE FOR SUPPORTING! I AM A BIG-SHOT! I AM A CAPTAIN IN THE AIR FORCE! I MAKE MORE MONEY THAN YOU DO!"

"I hope that money gives you all the comfort mom can't anymore than."

"That was a low blow, you dick! When's the funeral?" Hal growled, ready to go to Jacks house and strangle him with the phone chord.

"Mom was Jewish, you know the rules."

"You bet i know the rules better than you do. You seem to forget that while you and Jimmy more followed Dad, I actually did my reading. The soul is to be put to rest within 24 hours of death, BUT delays are permitted to accomodate close family members as the family needs to be there to have their souls as rested as the deceased. I swear if you put her in the ground just to spite me-" The phone slammed down and Hal stood there for a second just listening to the dial tone. "BASTARD!!!" He screamed, while he slammed the phone down 4 times in frustration, before re-dialing. The phone just rang through to answering machine... He stood for a second as tears began to roll down his cheek. He then quickly began dialing Jimmy to find out about the funeral.



Hal and Jack crashed in a heap, Hal rolling a few times to get some distance between him and his brother. "Hal Jordan, you WILL know my sorrow!" Jack wheezed. Hal looked to see where they had crashed. Blyniville Cemetery... He looked around, he could see the names of the dead. Some names he remembered, Jack pointed over to one next to Hal, he dared a glance and saw the names: 'Martin Jordan' and chizzled freshly underneath it was 'And Jessica Jordan. Loving parents, who's sons will always keep them.'

"Ok, Jack. You want Therapy? Alright, let me give you some Therapy-" He growled. Shooting forward, he created a giant green fist and upper-cut Jack away from the graves. Shooting up, he went for another punch, but Jack created a large hammer that seemed to form out of the tears streaming from his face and smashed Hal in the side, sending him hurtling away. Quickly regaining his composure, Hal formed a Jet Fighter out of ring energy and zipped across the sky, before heading back at Jack from low, pelting him with green bullets, Jack spun the hammer at mach-speeds, deflecting the bullets, and as Hal closed in, quickly formed the hammer into a Scythe, before he deftly cut the wing off the Will Jet. Of course, the Jet was made of willpower, so the form was mostly for show, so it didn't crash, but the construct did seem to unravel. Hal looked at the wing to see the tears from the scythe rapidly burning through his Jet construct. Ejecting out of it, the Willpower returned to his ring and he floated in the sky, looking at Jack, who slowly floated towards him.

"Hal Jordan, you WILL know my sorrow." He wheezed again. Closing in on Hal, Hal once again went for the giant green fist punch, but it was blocked by a giant fist of tears. The pair then began quickly trading blows of lighning fast, giant fists, the fists smashing into each other and perfectly blocking them, blow for blow.

"OF COURSE I KNOW YOUR SORROW!!! MOM DIED AND MY BIG BROTHER HUNG ME OUT TO DRY!!!" He screamed, before he just straight up kicked Jack in the stomach with his own foot. Jack didn't double over, instead, he grabbed the leg and swung Hal into the way of one of his own fists made of tears, sending Hal flying. Hal was sent flying a few feet, but was caught by a Green Baseball mit, stopping himself. He then recovered and floated in the air. The pair staring each other down. "You should have waited for me." He growled.

"Sorrow waits for no man." Jack replied. In a flash, his tears formed into large spears that began quickly shooting straight at Hal. Hal quickly created a construct of a large man with chopsticks, quickly catching all the spears in his chopsticks, before bowing and disappearing.

"Why do you hate me?" Hal called. "You hated me ever since i joined the Air Force. I missed you. I missed being able to talk to my older brother. But it's always Janet when i call. Every Birthday, every Hannukah, I ALWAYS try to talk with you and you just barely acknowledge my existance. I'm sorry i had to work over this Christmas, but evil alien warlords don't take Christmas off, turns out." Jack simply floated, watching Hal yell at him. "I'm not getting through to the real Jack, am i?" He asked. Jack's eyes seemed to, for a second, lose their milky whiteness and return to their normal deep brown. "Or am i?" He whispered, his Green aura seemed to strengthen as he said this. He quickly headed away from the Graveyard, he didn't want to risk damaging any of the graves, back towards the base, Jack in hot pursuit.

As they flew over Blyniville, a green beam lanced into the sky, knocking Jack off-balance, as it did so, Hal turned around and punched him towards the ground with another giant fist. Jack smashed into the concrete, only to see Hal and May approaching him, green energy radiating from Hal's ring and May's Manhunter Staff. Jack stumbled to his feet and looked at May, very confused. "Why... Do you not know my Sorrow?" He mumbled at May.

"Because i know how to compartmentalize it." She replied. "Now that i'm prepared, i know just how to deal with you." She blasted him again, straight in the knee, sending him doubling down to the one knee. Hal then put out a hand in front of her.

"I've got it from here." He replied. Walking towards Jack, he saw Jack throw a regular punch at Hal, who caught it in his hand, before forcing Jack's balled up fist back into his own nose, sending Jack stumbling back a few paces. "Yeah, Jacky, that's the problem with these things. They take you for a ride, but they suck out everything a little too quickly. It's gonna need a new host soon." Hal just kept advancing.

"KNOW MY SORROW, HAL JORDAN!!!" Jack cried, before jumping at Hal, who quickly ducked under the jump and threw a punch upwards into his gut, Jack landing in a heap. Jack kept his fist balled as he got up again. Hal looked at the Sorrow ring... It was shaking, trying to move down Jacks finger, but Jack had his thumb pressed underneath the ring. The Ring was already trying to escape, but Jack wouldn't let it. Was he trying to help Hal? No, that makes no sense, he doesn't know anything about the mission. Hal ducked under another punch.

"You're not the Ring anymore, are you. You're just Jack." Hal sighed. Hal dodged a few more lamps coming from Jack. "Jack, i'm a Boxer, the Army trained me to kill people with my bare hands, you are a DA that gave up on Tae-Kwan-Do because it made you too sweaty. You aren't going to beat me like this." He sighed. A tear construct fist launched at Hal, but it quickly destabilized and just splashed on the ground. "Jack, let the ring go and just talk to me." He sighed. Jack dived at him, but Hal caught his arms and rolled back to kick Jack over himself, before he kipped back up to his feet and walked over to Jack slowly trying to push himself up. He grabbed Jacks arm and pulled him to his feet, before pulling him into a hug. "Come on, bro. You don't need a ring. You just need to hug it out with me." He said a solitary tear began rolling down his cheek. Jack's eyes slowly turned back to their deep chocolate brown as the Ring finally managed to slip away from his finger and shoot off eastwards at Mach speeds. The Sorrow Lantern costume melted away and the brothers were just left embracing.

"HAL, I'M SORRY, I'M SO SORRY I HAD TO BLAME YOU!!!" Jack cried.

"It's alright, bro. I get it. I'm an easy target." Hal patted Jack on the back as Jack began squeezing harder.

"NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, IT WAS ME, IT WAS ALL ME! I DIDN'T CHECK ON HER AS MUCH AS I SHOULD HAVE, I KEPT SAYING NEXT WEEK, NEXT WEEK, NEXT WEEK! I WAS RIGHT THERE! YOU COULD COME SEE HER FROM JAPAN OR GERMANY OR QATAR, BUT I COULDN'T DRIVE 30 MINUTES DOWN THE ROAD? WHAT KIND OF SON AM I?! I KILLED HER, HAL! I COULD HAVE SAVED HER, BUT I JUST SAT THERE AND LET HER DIE AND I WAS TOO WEAK AND PATHETIC TO ACCEPT THAT!!!" He sobbed loudly/

"Jacky, you did what you could. You did what you needed to. You needed to be strong for Janet and Helen and Jason. I don't mind. I'm pissed that you buried her just to spite me, but... I can't hold a grudge." He patted Jack on the back harder. "Let it all out, big guy." Jack's sobs quickly abated as he slowly began to slump forward, completely drained of all energy by the ring. "May, can you call me a bus?" He asked. As he did so, Sinestro and Dex slowly floated down towards them.

"If you attempt to tell anyone of what happened, i will decorate my litter box with your entrails." The cat growled.

"Hal Jordan, we need to go after that ring." Sinestro demanded, forcing the Green Power Battery into Hals hands. Sinestro's eyes were noticably bloodshot.

"What did he make you see?" Hal asked.

"Irrelevant. The Director just informed me that the Orange ring is attacking New York and that Grey ring is now bee-lining for it. This cannot be good." May turned back to them.

"I have just received word, S.W.O.R.D. Agents are present and they engaged the Orange Ring alongside Captain Marvel. We need to get there now."

"Captain Marvel? The guy from the Lava Golems incident?" Hal asked. "Alright, me, Sinestro and Dex will get there ASAP, you follow along in The Bus. And make sure Jack gets some good treatment... We gotta talk properly when i get back." He then spun a finger around his head to indicate he was going as green, gold and red streaks shot into the air, heading East.

Sims slowly paced around on the ceiling. Being upside down helped him think. He had run every test imaginable on that staff. He needed to find a way to quantify the unquantifiable. I mean, there was the old saying of "Magic is just science we don't understand" But he had literally witnessed magic... Wait, there was an idea... Maybe, instead of approaching this as a scientist, he approached it as a wizard... God his life really had gone utterly off the rails since Bailey came into his life. He looked over to the holding cell to see Boyd pacing around upside down as well, seemingly mimicing his actions. That thunder bolt really had fried that things mind well and truly. If there was a God or other divine being deciding on his fate... Oh wait, the kid had already told him The Fates were real. Well, in that case, if The Fates were benevolent in any sort of way, please for the love of god, make Christina not be right. That kid was already out of touch with reality as is, no need to add more gas to the fire. He shook his head and dropped down from the ceiling, before approaching the Staff. It floated, bolt upright, a minor hum eminating from it. Reaching out and grabbing it, he stood for a second. Well, he wasn't getting his brains turned to goo just yet... Or maybe it was an Asbestos type thing where his brains would randomly turn to jelly and leak onto the floor at some point 10 years from now... Well, in any case, he was fine for the moment. He thought for a second and then looked over at Boyd, who had his face pressed to the glass, watching with his beady little eyes "Sterces Ruoy Lla Laever" It worked for Bailey, why not him? A few seconds passed, but nothing happened.

Well, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure what to expect. Then again, Bailey said that this was part of a test for him. If all the test involved was saying 4 magical words and suddenly, boom, everything laid bare, then, honestly, it wouldn't have been much of a test to begin with. On the other hand, there was always the possibility that this Staff was somehow biometrically coded to only work for the Champion anyway. He'd need to get Bailey in to repeat the test. "?Sterces Ruoy Lla Laever Esaelp" He asked. Scientific method required variation and repetition... Eh, who was he kidding, he just wanted to make sure it wasn't as stupid as "Using the Magic Word." Because he would be kicking his own ass for days if it was that simple. He then heard a beeping from his watch. Time to feed Boyd again. He looked over at the cell, only to see a shivering silvery web cocoon in the corner of the room. He quickly walked over to look. Pressing the intercomm. "Boyd? Are you alright?"

"Averice..." a voice came from the cocoon. Averice and unending hatred..." The boy shivered and clearly felt fear. "They come for what's not theirs." At that point, Sims' Spider-Senses went off. Clearly, Boyd's senses were more powerful than his own. "To paint the world with his own colours." Sims immediately ran over to his security console. "The Orange is here..." Sims quickly activated the security grid, only to find most of it was down and all the camera's were just displaying a glowing orange colour.

"What in the god-damn?" He grunted, before pressing another button. As he did so, a small cove opened in the wall, before he rushed inside, before a few seconds later, emerging in a jet black body suit with red webbing patterns all over it. If what was coming was enough to scare Boyd, then he needed to make sure he was kitted up. This was actually somewhat special, because, although he had designed and made the suit and the changing mechanism over 20 years ago, this was the first time he actually had the opportunity to wear it. Looking down at the mask in his hand, he quickly pulled it over his head. "Containtment field, maximum. Lights off!" He ordered as the room went pitch black and the only source of light was emanating from the crystal atop the Staff of the Gods.

*Shhhhink. CRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUNCH!* rang out as the darkness was pierced by a glowly orange light. A large orange Car-Jack had forced the security doors open. "Woo-hoo-hooo! Baby, it's all mine, baby! And i may just have to keep this lovely tower too. Make a BEAUTIFUL Reichskanzlei for my GLORIOUS new Empire! The Empire of ME!" The flying fat man giggled as he floated lazily through the air, creating a glowing orange effect wherever he went. His pockets were clearly full of things he had picked up on the way through the defenses, suddenly he stopped and looked at the staff "OoOoOoOoOoH!" He cooed as his lips flapped from one end to the other, floating over to it, he was suddenly stopped by an energy field. "What in tarnation?" He poked and prodded it, before slamming his fist against it. "Oh well, no matter, it's just more stuff for me." He giggled, before spotting a computer console and floating towards it, casually strumming the banjo in his hand. Suddenly, the music from Filpot was slowly infiltrated by a pair of *FWIP* sounds, before a spear of black and red catapulted straight through Filpot and smashed onto the floor. Sims looked down at his feet to see no orange glowing bastard underneath his heels. "Oh, Pu-LEASE! You didn't think i was gonna assume nobody wasn't home?" The voice came from behind Sims, who immediately webbed back up into the shadows, but as soon as he started his ascent, his Spider-Senses screamed at him, quickly he changed direction and went to a different corner. Only to be met by the orange glow appearing next to him. "Oooh, i love the DIGS, son. Mind if i?" Sims immediately shot to another corner, but was followed by a pair of glowing, orange webs that grabbed his back and pulled him off the wall, he shot another set of webs to help him swing into a controlled landing, only to look back up and see Filpot now had a pair of glowing, Orange webshooters of his own on his wrists. "Oh, and that mask, i'm gonna need that too." The Orange web shot for his face, but with his instant reflexes, dodged around 4 strands. He flipped across the room and towards the console, banjo music reverberating off the walls. He needed Bailey's help now and he knew it. His spider-senses screaming at him as he went for the console. He knew, danger was in the room, so why was it...

Pressing the console button and landing, he suddenly realized he was in the same cell as Boyd, the door slamming shut behind him. The banjo music cut off as he looked to see Filpot outside the glass strumming himself a triumphant victory fanfare. Filpot pressed the intercom button. "Illusions, son, best get used to it. You're gonna have to deal with them every time you escape." He strummed a few more times. Then stood idly for a second, he scratched himself under his third chin, then pressed the button again. "A-and put that mask in the food airlock, because i want it. Comeon, gimmegimmegimme. Also, tell me how to call the big cheese, i need him here."

"I was trying to call him when you imprisoned me." Sims grunted, the voice filter in his mask making him sound much deeper and more intimidating.

"AND A SYNTHESIZER? WHOOO BABY I NEED THAT MASK. GIMME BEFORE I SMASH MY WAY IN AND PEEL IT FROM YOUR CORPSE!" He growled, seemingly growing increasingly unhinged. "No wait... Staff first. Stick to the plan..." He comforted himself, floating back towards the staff, but then spotting Sims' desk and getting distracted, before going through the drawers, pocketting everything he could grab."YOU HAD TOO MUCH CRAP IN THERE, NEXT TIME, GIMME SOMETHIN' GOOD TO TAKE!" He screamed across the room at Sims, before he put on his big smile again and floated over to the energy field. He quickly created a large, orange Jackhammer and began pounding away at the field to try and get at the Staff within.


S.W.O.R.D. had made it a dedicated surveylance team for each Ring to make sure one team was tracking each rogue ring at any given time. With the Orange Lantern entering New York, a communique was sent straight to the top:

>Orange-Admin: Director, the Orange Lantern has appeared in New York. Initial reports suggest Kurt Filpot, known terrorist, is in possession of it. Requesting Captain Jordan and his team be deployed immediately.
>Director: Negative, Captain Jordan and his team are currently engaging the Silver ring.
>Orange-Admin: Understood, requesting deployment of an Agent team to secure the site and attempt to prevent the rings escape.
>Director: Approved. Team 41 is currently the closest unengaged team.
>Orange-Admin: Understood, sending deployment orders to Captain Briggs and her team.

Banjo had no idea he'd tripped the silent alarm at the tower. As such, already, police were beginning to cordon off the area, creating a perimeter and preparing for breach. However, they had received orders that a special team was being called in to deal with it. So, just for the moment, their job was to keep anyone getting themselves involved. By "Special Team" most of those on the ground were expecting some kind of Cape to show up. Hopefully Thor. Instead, a black van with no markings drove to the cordon barrier. The driver flashed their badge and was waved through. Backing the van up to the entrance to the tower, the back doors opened and 10 people, dressed head to toe in full tactical gear, masks with nightvision and all equipped with assault rifles, grenades and breaching gear. The leader held up a hand and waved for them to breach the building. Running to the front door, the leader inserted a card into the security system. A few sparks shot out, before the door opened and the 10 man team moved silently into the building.

Pushing into the building, they made their way up the stairs in a standard 5x5 cover formation. The leader was holding a device that seemed to grow increasingly more orange as they moved up the building. Through the headset, a voice from HQ came.

>"Team 41, please be advised, Captain Jordan's team has failed to secure the Silver ring and it is now heading your way. Prepare for the possibility of a multi-Ring encounter."

The leader put a finger to their ear. "Roger that. Expediting operation." They whispered. The leader waved their hand harder to indicate double-time. Moving to the floor with the highest concentration of Orange energy, the team continued to move. Before suddenly footsteps could be heard... Lots of footsteps. Immediately, the team took cover, preparing for a large force, they silently moved towards the most defensible position and hunkered down, preparing for the assault. A bright orange glow came from down the corridor. Raising their hand, the team leader silently ordered to hold fire for the moment. That's when they saw something they weren't entirely prepared for. Goose-stepping down the corridor to the banjo-filled sounds of "Erika" as what looked like a WW2 Panzergrenadier division made entirely of orange light. The Captain immediately closed their fist and the team opened fire. Bullets shredding through the glowing orange soldiers. S.W.O.R.D. had been preparing for this and, with Hal's assistance, had developed a special tungston coated round that seemed rather effective against Emotional Constructs. The leader pulled a grenade from their flakjacket and pulled the pin, before throwing it towards the advancing wave. An explosion shredded through the remaining soldiers. The leader pressed their comms again.

"Command, we've got... Nazi's..."
>"Repeat, Captain."
"We've got Nazi's. Captain Jordan's assistance is required. We are going to move to a more defensible position until reinforcements arrive. No casualties so far, but most likely a probing attack."

****

F.E.A.S.T. wasn't the richest establishment, so nobody had a bed, everyone was sleeping on Army style cots. Bailey lay in his cot, staring at the ceiling. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Not like his Spider-Senses, boy was he missing those at the moment. Just something... Hearing the sounds of sirens going past outside, that confirmed that something was wrong somewhere. But at the same time, this was New York. Something was ALWAYS happening somewhere. But, tonight, he had this sinking feeling in his stomach, that it was going to be bad. He also couldn't help but think about his old friends, still. Those in the other world... His mother... There was no guarantee that she existed in this world... But there was no guarantee that she didn't, either. He looked over at Mr and Mrs Xu. They had been good to him. Taken him in without a question, got him learning, showing him love and compassion as though he were theirs... But what if... What if his Mom existed here and felt the same way? Another police car went past, blues and two's flashing. He slowly got out of his cot, making sure not to wake Mr and Mrs Xu. Tip-toeing to the door, he slowly turned the handle- "Yo, Bail... Where you going?" The whispered voice of Christina called.

"Something feels wrong." Bailey whispered back. Christina threw off the covers to her light sheet to reveal she was already fully dressed, rolling silently out of her own cot, she grabbed her jacket with the chinese-style dragon on the back.

"Wait for me." She whispered. The pair of them silently made their way outside, while Christina checked her phone. As they got outside, Christina tapped Bailey on the shoulder. "Ummm, Bail, they've cordoned off the General Techtronics. Something's going down." She immediately dialed up Sims. The phone rang through to voice mail. The pair looked at each other, before Bailey set off at a run around the corner into the alleyway, followed by Christina.

"SHAZAM!!!"

Grabbing Christina, he rocketted into the sky and towards the roof of General Techtronics. Flying over the tower, they saw the police cordon, as well as the black van. "Cool, they called in SWAT." She said. "Whadya think? Terrorists? Techno-Gang looking to score?" Marvel's magical ears picked up a faint sound.

"Banjo music..." Captain Marvel replied. Descending to the roof, he put Christina down. "Stay here. He's either after the Staff or someone to use as emotional leverage on me. Just stay here and stay hidden." He ordered, before reaching down to the opening he usually used and pried it open with his bare hands. BANJO, IF YOU HURT A SINGLE ONE OF MY FRIENDS, I'M GONNA GONNA BEAT ON YOUR SKULL TILL I HIT TONGUE!" He roared into the hole, before dropping down.

The glowing yellow lightning bolt on his chest illuminated the room, as best it could. He heard the faint sound of banging on glass. He looked over at the isolation room to see Sims in his full costume, while Boyd simply cowared in his web cocoon. Looking around the room, Bailey was missing his Spider Senses more than ever. He then heard the sound of grinding metal. Looking behind himself, he saw a pair of bright orange chainsaws coming up through the floor, beneath the Staff of the Gods. He rushed towards it, only to be stopped by the energy field. He looked back at Sims, who was guesticulating wildly. In a flash he was over by the glass and pressed the button.

"BAILEY!"_"Averice...""BAILEY! IT'S BANJO, HE'S GOT A NEW WEAPON!"_{"Purest Averice..."}"LET ME OUT SO I CAN DEACTIVATE THE FIELD!"_{"Mixed with the purest of hatreds..."}"PRESS THE RELEASE!"_{"He has it..."}

Captain Marvel heard that last remark from Boyd as he turned around to realize Banjo had cut through the floor under the field and now had his hand with the Orange Ring on it wrapped around the staff, the Orange energies seeping into the staff, the crystal ontop created a field that resisted the orange energies.

"Oooh, it tickles." Filpot giggled, his teeth now sharp and jagged, his sclera having gone completely black as his iris glowed Orange.

"Banjo?" Captain Marvel asked, a little concerned by the creature he saw before him. "Banjo, buddy, you don't look so good."

"It ain't no thang, Big Cheese." He cooed, slowly floating up and rolling over in a floating cartwheel. "I just feel GOOOOOOOOOD! Like it can take on anything... Like i can just... Take eeeevveerryyyytthhiinngg He hissed as he coiled both arms and legs around the Staff of the Gods and ran his now elongated, jagged, snake-like tongue up it. Bailey winced hard.

"Great, now i'm gonna need to get that steam-cleaned." As he said that, a whisp of Orange energy lashed at the crystal and a bolt of golden lightning lashed back, striking Filpot on the head, he then suddenly had a look of purest revelation on his face.

"What about a little gas cleaning instead?" The tendrils of Orange energy pushed under the energy field and formed up into the form of a woman in a long trenchcoat, mouth pulled apart at the seams to reveal jagged teeth, as if a smile, but not quite, eyes wide open. "Your good buddy Solomon just gave me an idea. See, if i'm gonna make a new Reich, i'm gonna need some muscle... And the Old Reich definitely had some good muscle in its corner!" He giggled sadistically. The woman constructs mouth opened wide, as if a snake unhinging its jaw and orange smoke began pouring from it. Marvel took a step towards it and with an almight punch, shattered the contructs head. This turned out to be a mistake as a geyser of the orange smoke erupted from the neckhole, illuminating the room. Marvel flew back a few meters and covered his mouth with his hands. "MEET DOCTA POISON! A Lovely doctor who made sure that all those things like your little girlfriend were converted for the good of the world. Converted from living to dead. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" He hollared a cruel laugh as the Doctor Poison constructs head re-established itself. It then lunged at Marvel, who, once again, threw a punch, shattering her, but releasing more straight into his face. It was very much like acid reflux, like someone had just poured an entire pot of pepper down his throat. The construct reconstituted again behind him.

Marvel turned, coughing and spluttering, desperately fighting for some air, as he summoned a lightning bolt into his hand and threw it straight at the contruct. This time as it shattered, the gas went up in flames, this triggered the sprinklers and a heavy rain from the ceiling fell upon them, dampening the remaining smoke. Filpot grabbed the staff and began shaking it furiously. "GOD DAMMIT, SOLOMON, STOP TELLING HIM THE ANSWERS!!!" he screeched in an unholy high pitch. The staff zapped him again "Oooh, i didn't know about him. You know what, stick, i think we're gonna get along like a house on fire!" He giggled. This time, the tendrils of Orange energy constituted into what looked like a Creature From The Black Lagoon, but with a Swastika on his belt. "Stick says this boy is from that same place as your lava golems you fought, but he had the sense to help the right side back in the day. What do you mean his time? Oh wait, you're not from here, is ya?" He giggled. He hit himself in the head with the stick and suddenly a revalation seemed to appear on his face. "Wait... No... Oh HELL YEAH!!! OH THAT'S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IMAGINABLE!!!" He laughed again. "U-Man, we got some intruders on this level, go bring me their heads! Oh, and their gear, it looks cool!" He cartwheeled around inside the energy field again, sadistically giggling.

Launching forward, Marvel grabbed the U-Man construct as it began to leave, except the construct grabbed his throat back. It was actually MUCH stronger than Bailey had imagined. He was still spluttering from the gas attack, combined with the energy constructs fingers around his throat. What the hell was he even dealing with? As he wrestled the glowing fish-man, he could tell it was some kind of energy construct, made from the powers of Avarice. Legends said it was constructed by the Guardians of the Universe. With a name like that, clearly on par with the guardians of the Rock of Eternity. If they made this power, who knows what else they could create. Thanks Solomon. Punching the Fish-man across the jaw and sending him spinning for a sec, he grabbed him from behind and suplexed him straight into a wall, where the pieces shattered. As they did so, he saw Doctor Poison jumping to elbow him in the face while he was on the floor. He rolled out of the way, which was a good thing, as the elbow left a large dent in the floor. He then got to his feet, just in time to let out a holler of pain as he was hit in the back by a laser blast. Turning around, he saw an Orange Contruct with a nazi uniform and what looked like a skull for a head advancing on him with glowing eyes.

"STICKY HERE CAN SHOW ME ALL OF THE DIFFERENT GREAT HEROES OF THE CAUSE FROM ALL ACROSS THE TIMELINES! HOW DO YOU THINK THE WIZARD KNEW ABOUT YOU?" Filpot's voice was climbing higher and higher, more ear-splitting with each construct he manifested. Another one started to form. Looking almost like Captain Marvel, but with a Swastika where his own Lightning Bolt should be.

"COWARD!" Marvel yelled. The big, bad, aryan master-race has to hide behind its jackbooted bullyboys?" He called. He needed to provoke Filpot into coming out. But Banjo could see through this, even in his addled state.

"Fightin' fair is a suckers game. NOW HAND OVER THE..." He stopped and grabbed his head as he tried to actually think about what he wanted from Marvel. "No... NO I DON'T NEED ANYTHING FROM HIM. KILL HIM! SLO- NO, FAST! KILL HIM QUICK AND WE CAN MOVE ON!!!" He laughed maniacally. Filpot was clearly losing what little grip he still had on reality. As Captain Nazi dived for him, he grabbed him and threw him hard at the safety glass keeping Boyd and Sims locked up. Sims immediately jumped out and webbed Doctor Poison and the newly formed Baron Death together, before delivering a spine-shattering kick that broke both in half.

As Marvel and Sims faught the good fight against every increasing numbers of Nazi constructs, Boyd slowly poked his head out of his cocoon. He gulped, before looking at Marvel. Not a single shred of fear on his face. No, he WAS Bailey Briggs, he was the one and only Spider-Boy. He needed to fight too. Shredding his way from his cocoon, his over 4 arms grew from his back as his face became the man-spider again. Lunging out, he grabbed ahold of a construct of Iron Dictator and bit it's head clearn off with a single bite, the construct dissolving as he did so. Filpot screeched in rage as one of his new favourites he had just learned about was cut down.

"YOU AND YOUR WEB OF LIFE MAGICS! YOU AIN'T NOTHIN' COMPARED TO ME AND THIS RING!!!" as constructs of Ubermensch, Sea Wolf, Horned Owl, Gudra, Kamikaze and Usil all sprung to life and headed out of the door to hunt down those their master had called for the deaths of. Boyd set off at a run after them, all the while, Sims flipped over to the door.

"Captain, we need to fall back. He's making too many of them." He yelled over the din of the ring creating constructs and the sprinklers still raining on them. Setting off at a run, Marvel backed over to the door. Summoning another lightning bolt, he threw it straight at the Captain Nazi construct, the bolt getting jammed in its stomach, before Bailey launched himself into the air and double-axe-handle punched it straight towards the ground. As the bolt made contact with the soaking wet floor, the other constructs were all quickly electrocuted, exploding one by one. Marvel lanced in the water and saw the orange energies beginning to reform again.

"What do i have to do to make these guys stay down?" He sighed under his breath, before setting off at a run for the door and following Sims and Boyd.

****

As Team 41 made their way into a lab with only 1 door for an entrance, the team were quickly turning over desks and taking strong defensive positions. 2 of them by the door with mirrors were watching each corridor. One of them saw the glowing orange. "CONTACT!!!" He yelled, before everyone jumped for defensive positions. Ubermensch was the first at the door, gunfire ringing out and ricochetting off his chest, the construct smiling, before blasting one of the team with laser-vision, sending him to the floor. "GET DOWN!" The leader yelled, as everyone took cover. Sea-Wolf leapts straight through Ubermensch and into the room. At that point, Usil stumbled back across the hall behind Ubermensch with Boyd biting at him, with Usil firing off arrows wildly. Orange Construct shards that vaguely resembled Gudra shot past the door, along with Sims, who clearly was delivering a flying kick. Marvel finally arrived next with Kamikaze hanging off of his side. Marvel grabbed Ubermensch around the neck and flopping into his back as he curled up put his feet in the constructs spine and kick with such force that the drop ceiling tile shattered along with the orange construct. Looking in the lab, he saw 2 members of the team were down, while their team leader was wrestling with the Werewolf construct.

Pushing themselves off the wolf, their mask was caught and pulled off by its claws, they pulled their sidearm and emptied the entire clip into the wolf. At that point, the leader turned to look at Captain Marvel, just in time to see him grab Kamikaze off his side and hold him up as the rest of the team riddled the construct with bullets.

And then Marvel's heart seemed to stop.

The team leader staring at him was a face he knew all too well.

Far too well.

The one he kept seeing in his dreams.

_"M-" "MOM!!!" Boyd behind him yelled, just after biting Horned Owl's head off. Boyd launched himself straight at the team leader. Her short, crewcut ginger hair was new, but they both recognized the face anywhere. Several bullets found their mark in Boyd, but he landed on her in a big 6 armed hug, the other team members rushed over as Tabitha Briggs went for her side-arm.

"M-Miss!" Marvel yelled. "Hold you fire!" He launched himself to stand over the pair of them and prevent the team from shooting.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, GET IT OFF OF ME!" She yelled, Marvel grabbed Boyd by the collar, all 6 arms and his legs curling up under him like a kitten as he picked him up with one hand, then offered Tabitha his free hand to offer her up. Inside, Bailey had gone all but catatonic, but luckily for him, the Courage of Achilles was keeping Marvel's mind in check and on the task at hand. Surrendering himself entirely to instinct.

"We have a large number of those things coming for us and not much time to plan our next move." He claimed. "Are you all that's coming?" He asked Tabitha. She stared at the spider-monster in his hand.

"No, we've got experts on that ring coming." She replied. "Frost, check on Apone." She ordered as one of the men moved to the downed team member. Sims moved in and pressed a few buttons to lock the door.

"So, you represent someone who knows about what's happened. We need information." He ordered. Tabitha looked at the strange allies they had found. Some kind of Superman, a Spider-Monster and a guy in a full body suit.

"We believe that someone has come into contact with a magic ring known as The Orange Lantern. It feeds on Averice and Greed. It has taken control of the being that is wearing it and is forcing them to act on these emotions." She replied, quickly patching up a scratch on her arm. "Our experts have similar rings that should be able to forcibly dislodge it." She replied.

"What's the ETA on your experts?" Sims asked. _"Sadness..." Tabitha put her finger to her ear.

"Base, we have made contact with Captain Marvel and other friendlies. ETA on Green, Red and Gold?" _"Sorrow..."

>"ETA is 5 minutes. However, the Silver ring has just entered the building. It's homing in on something there."

"CRAP!"_{"An emptiness..."} She looked at the others. "Everyone stop feeling sad this instant. Any sorrow that you might be feeling, push it down as hard as you can, i'm not losing a member of the team. _{"He knows what she can never..."} "And what the hell is your... Pet doing?" She asked, before grabbing her mask and nightvision. Marvel looked down at Boyd who looked back up at him and waved. Suddenly he noticed tears forming in the eyes of Boyd, he then looked around at Tabitha who wiped her own eyes from the tears leaking. He suddenly heard it.

"Bailey Briggs..." A voice came around. He shook his head as suddenly the tears began forming in his own eyes. "Bailey Briggs you know the greatest of sorrow..." He couldn't help himself. He dropped Boyd and slowly walked out of the door, before walking to a window across the hall from the lab and looking to see the glowing silver ring outside.

"CRAP IT'S HIM!!!" Tabitha growled, before raising the gun. Sims pushed it down.

"Are you crazy?" Suddenly every gun in the room was pointed at either Marvel or Sims.

"That Ring is about to take his body for a ride, we need to stop this or this is going to get SO much worse." She growled, tears now cascading down her cheek as a river. She raised the gun to Marvel, but... But... But she didn't... She couldn't shoot... Something was preventing her from doing it.

"Sir, Orders! Do we fire?" Tabitha's mouth opened, she couldn't say it, she couldn't bring herself... What the hell was going on.

"Bailey Briggs you know the greatest of sorrow... Take the ring and ease it..." The voice continued. Sims rushed over to him.

"Captain!" He shook Marvel's arm, before slapping him in the face, completely unphasing him. "CAPTAIN! WHO GAVE YOU YOUR POWER?!" As Marvel put his hand through the window, pushing through it like it was paper, the ring going for his finger. "CAPTAIN! WHO GAVE YOU YOUR POWER?!"

"Shazam..." As the lightning bolt hit Bailey, Sims was sent flying. As the team moved out into the hall and looked, they would see the young boy with his flowing red locks turn to them. His eyes were white and tears flowed from his cheeks. He wore a costume similar to Captain Marvel's, but with the symbol of the Sorrow Ring on his chest instead of the lightning bolt.

"You will know my sorrow..." Bailey wheezed.

---

"For England, James?"

"No. For me."

The two laughed as they clinked their pint glasses and took a hearty swig from each of their respective pints. Opposite the burly, rough, but charming James Bond sat Alec Trevelyan - his oldest friend, if you could call him that. They were much closer to brothers than they were friends. Both grew up under the same, extremely strange circumstances - both orphaned at a young age and quietly folded into the machinery of the British state before either of them were old enough to properly understand what that meant.

What began as scholarships, tutors, and 'opportunities' gradually became assessments, evaluations, combat training, psychological conditioning and eventually service.

By the time they were old enough to question it, the path had already been laid out for them - not that they were aware. And the path had been walked to perfection, like a a platoon doing a drill display. They had been molded into Britain's new generation of professional killers - or at least that was what his test was due to prove.

"So just how did you get your double-oh before me, Alec? Whose gears did you have to grease to cut the queue?"

Alec looked back at him with a wry smile. His features were thin and handsome, with high cheekbones and a pointedly slavic look to him. "What's that old phrase? Age before beauty? Maybe it was the other way around this time."

"Oh, come off it. You're seriously not going to tell me how it went, even after I bought you a pint of that piss you call beer?"

"Definitely not. Classified information, my friend. Need to know basis." He made a finger gun and pointed it at James, closing the mock trigger of his thumb down and pretending to shoot him - right through the eyes. "Maybe if you manage to keep yourself alive for this one the top brass'll let you be privy to my adventures."

Alec laid a brown manilla folder down on the grotty wooden table between the two. James stared it at wide eyed, glancing between it and Alec. "You're taking the piss, right? Is this really it?"

Alec raised his hands. "Open it and find out for yourself. Oh, and be quick, the message is set to self destruct as soon as you open it." James raised an eyebrow. "Just kidding."

---

There was an icy chill on the wind blowing through the streets of Kraków, one that necessitated an overcoat and set the young agent on edge. He'd killed before, but this was different. There was more on the line now, maybe anything at all was more than before. He was a man who came from nothing and moved through life like a spectre - drifting from event to event, location to location, like he barely existed at all. Now was the time to change all that, to be brought into the fold of a small, selective, elite cabal of operatives with a licence to kill. If he couldn't be a normal human he'd become something more - a myth.

And yet, it all felt too much. For once he had something to lose.

Enough of that. Compartmentalise those feelings, push them down far below the surface. There was no room for emotion on a job like this. Emotion makes a man week, makes him sloppy, makes mistakes.

He adjusted his tie, approaching the inconspicuous black door, stained with graffiti that almost worked as a repellant for anyone silly enough to go knocking on doors at this time of night. No, the only people who would knock on a door like this were those in the know.

James knocked thrice and waited, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets and glancing around the winding cobbled streets, with its old street lights casting an orange glow onto the pavement. For a moment he allowed himself to be lost in thought - as we all do, even the most hardened of killers - imagining himself settling down in a place like this. Finding someone and retiring to a normal life in a fairytale city like Poland's previous capital. But such life wasn't for someone like him.

Finally, the sliding peephole opened to the noise of metal hitting metal and a pair of eyes stared out at James. He turned casually, leaning forward slightly as the voice called out in Polish:

"Password?"

How delightfully cliche thought James before replying. "The girls are late."

There was a grumble and the slide shut close again, the noise of a key turning in a lock signifying his correct answer as the door swung open and James stepped through and down the narrow staircase. He was met at the bottom by a woman, dressed in evening wear sitting behind a desk lit by a sombre lamp. A deep purple strip of carpet lead the way through a pair of heavy wooden doors to her left.

"Hello, sir. Please may I take your name?"

James smiled back at her, had he not been on the job he'd have extended his stay in Poland, if only to take this beauty out. "You don't recognise me?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"You wound me. Jan Kowalczyk."

She flipped open a small ledger beside her, tracing names with one painted fingernail. "Ah, Mr. Kowalczyk, I'm sorry for my rudeness. Your table has been reserved and the bar staff will have your drink ready for your arrival. The auction begins in 20 minutes."

"Thank you, dear." He began to walk away, only to be stopped in his tracks at the sight of a large metal detector blocking his path into the hall. He could feel the cold steel of his Walther PPK pressing against his ribs. It seemed he was going to have to do things the old fashioned way.

In one movement he unclipped his shoulder holster, took off his jacket, wrapped the holster and gun underneath it, and turned back to the receiptonist.

"Excuse me, my love, you wouldn't happen to have a cloak room would you?"

"Erm, sorry Mr. Kowalc-"

"Please, call me, Jan."

"...My apologies, Jan, but we don't."

"Hmm, that is inconvenient. Could I trust you to hold onto my coat then Mrs..."

"It's Miss, and you can call me Oliwia. Don't worry, I can keep your coat until you return."

"My deepest thanks."

The heavy wooden doors opened into a haze of cigarette smoke, amber lighting, and hushed conversation drifting beneath the crackle of old jazz records.

The club beyond was decadent in the sort of exhausted, joyless way only truly wealthy criminals could achieve. Velvet booths curved around polished tables crowded with crystal glasses and silver trays while waitresses drifted silently through the room like ghosts - not daring to say anything other than their usual canned phrases for fear of what it could result in for them.

Bond moved through the room effortlessly, barely turning a head as he made his way to the table reserved for him. There was something unsettling about assignments like this - how easy he found it blending into a room full of predators.

Arms dealers masquerading as businessmen laughed over whisky beside politicians pretending not to recognise them. Women hung from their arms like expensive accessories, some smiling sincerely, others with the hollow detachment of people enduring the evening rather than living through it.

There were very few times all this glamour wasn't hiding something rotten. James sat down, a martini arriving at his table shortly after. He recited the key facts from the document Alec had given him in his head.

Former SHIELD operative.
Elias Blackwell.
Missing six months.
Multiple confirmed kills.
Stolen experimental technology currently unaccounted for.
Termination authorised.

His first official kill as a double-oh. The thought sat heavier in his mind than he expected. Something about this humanized him more than he'd thought. Just why had this man - a former officer from MI6's friends across the pond - decided to defect and leak information to the worst types around the world? The thought pursued him like a cruise missile.

A passing waitress offered him champagne from a silver tray. "Champagne, sir?"

James took one with an appreciative nod. "Thank you."

"You seem nervous, sir."

He looked at her properly then, breaking the doubts in his mind. She was young, pretty, with intelligent eyes. He spotted faint bruising near her wrist hasitly hidden beneath makeup.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only a little."

He took a sip from the champagne. "Perhaps I'm worried I've dressed too formally."

"The worst men here usually dress the best."

Before he could answer, the atmosphere inside the club shifted subtly, the same way it does as an Opera is about to start. The curtain parted and out onto the stage strutted a short man wearing a ridiculous suit with a ponytail.

"Gentlemen, I am proud to welcome you to tonights event. Please have your auction paddles at the ready, the bidding for our first batch of beauties starts at 2500000zł."

Following behind him walked a line of women, each in various states of undress and distress. Bond could see that some of them were used to this charade - being pranced about like show ponies - while others were entirely new to the concept. He felt a sick feeling in his stomach, how he wished he had his gun now. How grateful he was that he didn't. It would take everything within him to resist putting a bullet straight into the heart of the little rodent on stage taking delight in these poor girls misery.

He had a job to do.

He scanned the room, glancing from sweaty oligarch to ugly arms trafficker over and over again until he spotted him. He'd changed his appearance a bit - shaved his head and made an attempt to grow a beard - but it was definitely him. Blackwell. He was being led out of the hall by an imposing looking man in a suit roughly pulling along a scared looking girl by her wrist.

Bond took a sip of his martini and grimaced. It had definitely been stirred, not shaken. With that he rose from his seat, giving sheepish smiles and ducking his head as passed through the eyeline of those around him and followed the three into the backrooms.

They disappeared behind a door in a hallway full of them. James took a deep breath, approaching the door and readying himself. He wished he could have prepared more, scoped out the next room for the layout of this one and maybe entered through the window or another unexpected avenue. But there was a girl in there, and he had no time to waste.

He gingerly opened the door and was greeted with a disgusted look from the tall man.

"What do you want?!"

"My apologies, I'm actually looking for someone."

"Can't you see we're busy?!"

"Well yes, in fact..." He opened the door and waved an arm through. "Excuse me, dear. I believe they need you on the floor."

The girl took her opportunity and ran out, to the bewildered expressions of the two remaining men. He quickly took in the room. Not much room for maneuvers. There was a filthy looking bed, a bureau, a chair, and a stripper pole in the centre of the room. He could see that Blackwell was keeping his stolen goods both figuratively and literally close to his chest - it being hidden within a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and being clutched to his mid section.

James locked the door behind him, turning back to the two. "Now, chaps, this isn't exactly the kind of threesome I was hoping for." He smiled.

The room exploded in a cacophony of movement. James surged forward, grabbing the top of the wooden chair and violently swinging it across the face of the taller man. In response the brute let out a series of explitives, grabbing hold of one of the chair legs and yanking it out of James' hands.

James reacted quickly, letting go of the chair as quickly as the man grabbed it causing him to stumble back into the wall as the agent positioned himself behind the pole. For every swing and jab with the chair, James dodged low and high, causing the chair to splinter and split as it collided with the metal. Finally, Blackwell joined the fray, trying to pincer James who blocked a one handed punch with his forearms and narrowly ducked under another swing of the chair which collided with the wall and burst into the sum of its individual parts.

Bond rolled forward and to his feet, turning on his heels as the two pursued him. He took a grip of the bureau with both hands and spun it on its side straight into Blackwell's midsection. The thug continued his advance, sending heavy punches to James' midsection and arms as he tried desperately to defend himself. Finally he spotted an opening through the onslaught, and turned his hips shooting an oblique kick straight into the knee of the man which sent him wincing in pain and falling to the floor. He followed this up with an axe kick to the throat which left the man gasping for air and struggling to hold on to life.

Now unbothered by being outnumbered, James straightened his tie and turned towards Blackwell - who to his surprise was pointing a pistol at him. James slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"I thought this was a no-shooting party."

"You thought wrong."

"Seems so."

"Now, whoever you are. You're going to tell me exactly who sent you and what info they gave you about me and then we're going to take a quick walk to my friends in the main hall. I'll let them deal with you."

"Hm. A coward as well as a traitor."

"Neither are relevant in this business, we're all deadmen serving a higher power. Me? I just decided to go where the money is."

"I've no time for mercenaries."

"Well you'll have no time for anything at all shortly."

James nodded. "Well, if this is to be the end, do you mind if I have a smoke before I'm hung, drawn and quartered?"

"Fine, you can smoke while you tell me everything."

James reached into his suit jacket pocket. No gun, of course, he'd have to improvise. Slowly he began to pull something from the inside pocket, and all at once tossed it at Blackwell.

The fountainpen flew through the air and embedded itself directly into his shoulder. James cursed his aim, he had been aiming for his throat. Still, just enough to offset his aim. A bullet fired and punctured the wall - James acted quickly grabbing the bottom of Blackwell's wrist and forcing it upwards to a shower of more gunshots.

James forced a headbutt into Blackwell's nose, breaking it and smearing blood over his face. In the struggle they wrestled over to the window and James quickly backed off slightly before sending a forceful kick to his midsection. The glass cracked and finally broke against the pressure and Blackwell tumbled out backwards.

The case opened just in time, wedging itself between the remaining shards of glass and wood and groaning against the weight as Blackwell hung from the window by his wrist. Inside a glowing gem, one that could fit comfortably into the palm of James' hand stared back at him.

"Please! Save me! You can have the stone just let me live!"

James stood for a moment, that same cold chill blowing in from the street. Finally, gently, he took the gem from the case and slid it into his pocket. With a sneer that encapsulated the disgust he felt for this man - a man who would betray his institution and side with scum who would run an operation like this - he punched the case shut, and Blackwell's only leverage slipped and sent him tumbling through the air down to the concrete below.

"Case closed."

---

Bond entered the high-tech modern office, decorated with antique furniture and relics from another age. Polished mahogany shelves lined the walls beside transparent digital displays glowing softly with streams of encrypted intelligence. A centuries-old naval sabre hung beneath a holographic tactical map. Leather-bound books sat beside touchscreens worth more than most London flats.

M was a walking contradiction.

Bond had remarked to Trevelyan more than once - always under his breath - that the old woman seemed determined to drag British intelligence simultaneously into the future and the past. One moment she was authorising satellite surveillance through SHIELD orbital systems, the next she was lecturing agents about proper decorum and the death of professionalism.

Personally, James suspected she simply enjoyed intimidating people.

The office windows overlooked a rain-soaked London skyline washed grey beneath heavy clouds. M sat behind her desk with reading glasses low on her nose, calmly reviewing a tablet filled with field reports without even acknowledging Bond's arrival. He knew better than to announce his arrival, and so he waited. This too was part of the ritual, a show of respect

Finally, without looking up she spoke.

"You look terrible."

Bond glanced down at his bruised knuckles. Dried blood still lingered beneath the skin despite his efforts to wash it away. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Was Kraków enjoyable?"

"I've had worse holidays."

M gave a faint hum of acknowledgement as she set the tablet aside. Her sharp eyes finally lifted to meet his. There was nothing warm about her gaze. No pride. No congratulations. A job like hers required a degree of self control so strong you could have mistaken her for emotionless.

"Elias Blackwell is dead."

"Yes, ma'am."

"The stolen artifact?"

Bond reached into the inside pocket of his coat and carefully produced the small glowing gem before placing it onto the desk between them. Its faint blue light reflected across the polished wood. For the first time since he'd entered, M's expression shifted slightly. She looked interested.

"You looked at it?" she asked.

"Briefly."

"And?"

Bond shrugged faintly. "It glows."

M did not smile. "A SHIELD research division in New Mexico lost three laboratories attempting to understand that object. Six researchers died. One disappeared entirely."

Bond glanced back toward the stone. "What exactly is it?"

"If I knew that, 007, this conversation would be considerably shorter." The designation still felt strange hearing it aloud. Not lieutenant, not commander, not even 'Bond'. It was a number - a weapon that had finally been given its name. M leaned back slightly in her chair. "You completed the assignment despite entering hostile territory unarmed, causing substantial structural damage, losing local surveillance support, and leaving behind a body that Polish authorities are currently attempting to explain to the press."

Bond considered his response for a moment. "With respect, ma'am, the body isn't particularly difficult to explain. He fell."

M ignored him. "You also deviated from mission parameters to assist a trafficking victim."

"I don't regret that."

"No." She replied coolly. "I imagine you don't."

A silence settled over the office, the only noise was the pitter patter of rain tapping softly against the windows. Finally, M folded her hands together on top of the desk. "The section chiefs were divided on you."

Bond raised an eyebrow slightly. "Oh?"

"Some consider you reckless. Others think you're emotionally compromised. One rather colourfully described you as a 'blunt instrument in an expensive suit.'"

"Well, at least he noticed the suit."

"But," M continued, "They also noted your adaptability, psychological composure under pressure, and willingness to complete the mission at any cost." She opened a drawer in her desk and removed a small black folder. "You've officially been granted double-oh status effective immediately."

Bond stared at the folder for a moment without moving. It was strange. After all the years of training, conditioning, examinations and violence...this was all it amounted to. A simple folder pushed across a desk.

M watched him carefully. "No witty remark, 007?"

Bond slowly picked up the folder. "I was trying to think of something patriotic."

"And?"

"I couldn't."

"Hmm. Quite." She reached into her desk once more, producing a golden bullet and placing it point up on the desk. "I'm afraid it's not all good news, Bond."

"It never is." He picked up the bullets and rolled it in his palm. "What's this? A souvenir for my new status?"


James took a step back, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the ground. This was like all of his Christmasses rolled into one only for him to find he got nothing but coal each time. "And just how long will that take?"

"I won't lie to you, Bond. We've been on Scaramanga's tail unsuccesfully for decades now. My predeccesor made it a priority of his and still made very little progress. Nobody knows where he is or what he looks like, so I think it's fair to assume he has a huge edge on you wouldn't you agree?"

"I can't wait that long. What if I found him first ma'am?"

"That might change the situation dramatically, wouldn't you say?" Finally a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

---

---

To call the research and development division of MI6 'cutting edge' would be to do it a disservice. The brightest minds and most abstract thinkers clamoured for a place amongst its alumni. Sure, their cousins across the pond led the world in their research and reverse-engineering of alien artifact, but their actual human development divisions were hampered by layers and layers of bureaucracy that preferred to aim its gun towards the stars.

Oh yes, the average SHIELD agent was very jealous of a double-oh's gadgets.

And the mastermind behind it all was Q. If M was the strict mother of the household, keeping everything together and running like a well oiled machine, then Q was the doting father. Ready to shower his children with gifts.

"Ahh, Bond. Or should I call you, 007?" The unassuming older gentleman said as the agent entered his lab. He stood up from behind his desk and gave him a congratulatory handshake with a warm smile.

"Bond is fine. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the codename."

"Pish posh. Don't be modest. Everyone gets used to it sooner or later." He rounded around his desk and led Bond into the lab proper. Various lab coats were testing a variety of inventions far too complex for even the greatest minds to decipher. "I don't want to disappoint you bond, but the situation being that it is means the support I can give you is a bit more...subdued than normal. We just can't risk a man like Scaramanga getting his hands on any of our usual gadgets."

"Well, there's a vote of confidence. My first mission and you're already expecting me to fail?"

"Not Scaramanga." Q pressed lightly against the filter, causing the gold band to split apart and reveal a tiny adhesive capsule hidden beneath. "The filter contains a micro-transmitter with a magnetic and adhesive backing. Plant it on clothing, jewellery, handbags, vehicles, anything likely to stay in close proximity to the target."

"And the cigarette?"

"A disguise. Nobody questions cigarettes in casinos, bars, or nightclubs. Especially attractive women." Q handed it over carefully. "The transmitter is SHIELD-assisted technology. Nearly impossible to detect unless one knows precisely what they're looking for."

Bond turned the case over appreciatively. "And here I thought smoking was bad for me."

"It is. Try not to inhale." Q moved further down the table and lifted what appeared to be an elegant Omega wristwatch, draping it over the back of his hand as he displayed it for Bond. "This one I fought very hard for."

Bond slipped it onto his wrist and glanced at the watch face "It tells the time?"

Q gave him a deeply unimpressed look. "Astonishing deduction, 007. Yes, amongst its many miraculous capabilities it does indeed manage to perform the basic function of a watch."

Bond strapped it onto his wrist. "And the other miraculous capabilities?"

Q clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly beside the workbench. "Scaramanga is, above all else, a marksman. One does not earn a title like The Man With the Golden Gun by missing. The moment he decides to take a shot, you'll likely already be dead."

"Comforting."

"Which is why we've designed the watch to detect focused optical surveillance. Rifle scopes, high-powered sights, long-range targeting lenses - anything directing concentrated magnification toward the wearer triggers the sensor array hidden beneath the bezel."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"The watch flashes and vibrates the instant someone sights you through a scope." Q smiled faintly. "Think of it as a polite tap on the shoulder informing you somebody several hundred yards away is about to remove your head."

"So no checking the time while using it."

Q ignored him again, already reaching for the next object: a polished set of cufflinks. Bond paused. "Nice pick, Q. These will go great with the new suit."

"Yes, well, I know you like to be a snazzy dresser." Q pressed top of the cufflinks with his thumb and it clicked open. Inside sat an impossibly thin filament wire wound tightly around a miniature motor. "Garrote wire. Monomolecular edge. Strong enough to cut through steel handcuffs."

Bond gave an approving nod. "Subtle."

"You'll notice a recurring theme."

"Meaning?"

"You're hunting a man who survives because he expects spectacle. So I've equipped you with things he won't expect."

Q finally stopped at the last item resting alone near the edge of the table. A small ivory-coloured radio no larger than a cigarette packet.

Bond picked it up carefully. "This doesn't look very dangerous."

"It isn't. That's why it's important." Q folded his arms behind his back. "Long-range encrypted transmitter disguised as a standard civilian radio receiver. No satellite signature. No digital footprint. Entirely analogue."

"Bit old fashioned."

"Exactly." Q pointed at him with a surprising amount of irritation. "Scaramanga is believed to intercept military communications before agents even know they've been compromised. The man practically lives inside the modern surveillance state. So for this assignment we've gone backwards."

Bond looked over the collection once more. Nothing exploded spectacularly. Nothing invisible. Nothing absurd. No lasers. Very different from the normal Q-branch modus operandi. "You've gone to a lot of effort here Q. What's the occasion?"

"I can't put in a bit of extra legwork for a friend?" Q's expression dimmed slightly. "Scaramanga killed two agents I equipped in Hong Kong." He adjusted his glasses carefully. "One of them was a friend. I don't intend on having another die on my watch."

The humour in the room evaporated. Bond chose not to make the obvious pun. He gave him a quick nod. "Understood. Don't worry Q, we'll get our man this time."

For a moment neither man spoke. Around them the laboratory buzzed with life - engineers shouting measurements, prototype drones whizzing through testing chambers, sparks showering somewhere deeper within the facility. Finally Q cleared his throat and forced some levity back into his voice. "Now then. Before you go getting yourself murdered, there is one final matter."

Bond sighed. "There's always one."

Q reached beneath the desk and produced a set of car keys, dropping them into Bond's palm.

"Oh no." Bond muttered.

"Oh yes."

"You do remember what happened to the Aston Martin in Marseille?"

"I remember what happened to three Aston Martins in Marseille."

"That wasn't entirely my fault."

Q looked genuinely offended. "One of them ended up on a roof."

Bond slipped the keys into his pocket with a grin. "Then I'll do my best to only lose two this time."

"Do try. Treasury's begun referring to you as an active financial threat. Regardless, I think you'll like this one, Bond."

---

James had read through the one page file on the man known only as Scaramanga umpteen times. To call it sparse was an understatement. Any information that could be gleamed from its pitiful script was near useless, bar one lead. A member of the SDU (Special Duties Unit) in Hong Kong had found a lead on a gun-maker. One legendary in skill, enough to suit a man like Scaramnaga's needs. Other than that, all he could find from the document was that his target was likely to be from a Spanish or Portuguese speaking country, and from how long he'd been operating had to be at the very least in his 50s.

It was nothing at all to go on, really. But a fools hope was all that Bond had.

The plane touched down in the afternoon and by night Bond had gotten his bearings. He'd found his hotel, had a few drinks, and been aquainted with his new Aston Martin. It was now time to do some proper sureillance.

Bond had left his hotel with the only lead being the gunmaker. Preliminary contact with the MI6 associates in Hong Kong had led him to their only source in the night market. Rain battered down on the neon stained streets of Chongqing, mixing with steam that rose from food stalls packed shoulder beneath hanging gardens of signs and exposed electrical wiring. A place like this was more similar to London than most would realise. It was loud, humid, and overcrowded - a city constantly speaking over itself.

Bond moved through the night market like he'd lived there for years. His hands were stuffed in his overcoat pockets and his collar turned up as he passed gamblers, sailors, triad, prostitutes, and businessmen without drawing a second glance. Somewhere above him a woman laughed from an apartment balcony while Cantonese opera crackled through a battered radio nearby.

His contact in the SDU - a young Lieutenant by the name of, Hip - had given him only a name before disappearing back into the crowds.

Liao Wei.

If the rumours surrounding the man were true, he was less an engineer and more a sculptor who happened to work in firearms. Custom pieces. Precision rifles. Exotic ammunition. Supposedly half the professional killers operating east of Europe had carried one of his creations at some point. Including - Bond hoped - Scaramanga.

A narrow staircase hidden between two food vendors led upward into darkness. Bond climbed slowly, each wooden step creaking beneath his shoes until the sounds of the market dulled into a distant murmur. At the end of the corridor sat a rusted metal door. Bond knocked twice and waited. Nothing happened for some time and he considered other ways in just as the hatch slid open - an old pair of eyes gazing out and studying the agent carefully.

"You are lost."

"Story of my life." Bond produced a cigarette, lighting it calmly. "I'm looking for someone who appreciates craftsmanship."

The eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of craftsmanship?"

"The expensive and deadly kind."

A long silence followed. Both sets of eyes staring back at each other waiting for the other to break. Finally the hatch shut again. Several locks disengaged one after another before the door creaked inward.

The workshop beyond looked more like a watchmaker's laboratory than an armoury. Precision tools hung from immaculate walls while disassembled firearms rested beneath hanging lamps. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and burnt metal.

At the centre of the room sat Liao Wei himself - impossibly old and thin, spectacles low on his nose as he adjusted something microscopic beneath a magnifying lens. He didn't look up as Bond stepped further into the room, his helper - the one who had opened the door - stood by the side of it, glaring at him.

"You are the police?"

Bond wandered slowly through the room, examining the craftsmanship around him. "Do I look like police?"

"Not quite. You look worse."

On one workbench rested an assortment of bizarre weapons: pistols with skeletal frames, hollow-point rounds with strange grooves carved into them, even what appeared to be a fountain pen with a trigger mechanism built into the cap. He felt like he was in an evil inversion of Q's workshop. "I was told you manufacture speciality items."

"I manufacture for clients."

"And if one of your clients happened to specialise in gold bullets?"

For the first time the old man paused. He held what he was working with still in his hand before calmly placing it on the workbench behind him, his gaze still fixed on it. Liao slowly removed his glasses. "You should leave."

"Ah." Bond nodded slightly. "So we're finally getting somewhere."

"I do not know this man."

"But you've heard of him. That's more than most can say."

The room fell to silence, Liao still avoiding Bond's gaze. Bond picked up the strange fountain pen from the workbench, turning it over in his fingers. "I wouldn't do that." Liao warned reaching a hand out towards him.

Bond clicked the top experimentally and a bullet violently shot from the end with a metallic snap and embedded itself into the wall opposite. Bond raised an eyebrow. "Charming."

"I asked you not to do that."

Bond casually stepped closer, holding the weapon loosely now. He swung it between his fingers, allowing the end to swing towards the gunmaker haphazardly as casual as he liked. "Here's the problem, Mr. Wei. Somewhere out there is a professional assassin trying to kill me, and your name has appeared beside his."

The old man's expression hardened immediately. He made micro movements trying to avoid the path of the deadly writing utensil. "You should not say such things here."

"Why? Afraid he'll hear me?"

"No." Liao's voice lowered carefully. "That's something you should be afraid of yourself."

Bond slowly lowered the weapon, though he did not put it down. "I'm not here to arrest you." he said calmly. "In fact, if we're both careful, then this conversation never happened."

Liao studied him for several moments, considering his options. In his line of work he'd met men like this many times. They weren't to be trifled with. He let out a sigh. "I've never met him personally, I just supply the bullets." The old man moved toward a locked drawer and carefully removed a single golden bullet before placing it onto the table between them. "He sends a courier to have them delivered. Never the same person twice, but there is one constant."

Bond looked down at the round. He had to admire the craftmanship, it was almost elegant in design, like gazing at a Caravaggio painting.

"He collects these from a nightclub singer in Wan Chai."

"A second courier?"

"I did not say that. My part of the job ends there."

"But she handles deliveries."

Liao remained silent, replying instead by scribbling an address onto a scrap of paper and sliding it across the table reluctantly. Bond glanced down at the name. Club Éclipse.

"How often does the handover take place?"

"Tonight." Bond looked back up sharply. Liao's face had gone pale with regret already, as though he'd realised too late he'd said far too much. "If he learns I spoke to you-"

"He won't."

"You cannot promise that."

"No." Bond admitted. "But I can promise something else." He calmly pocketed the pen in his inside pocket. "I intend to kill Scaramanga before he has the chance to kill me. If you're lucky, this will be well before he catches wind of any of this."

---

Club Éclipse wasn't at all what Bond had expected. Far from the seedy back-alley gambling establishment with cheap alcohol and cheaper women that he'd come to expect from missions like these, it was in fact an up market establishment, complete with a black-tie dress code and better yet a live band. The lead of which Bond was eager to make contact with.

The club sat high above the harbour inside one of the newer luxury towers. Its entrance was guarded by polished marble, velvet ropes, and men in black suits who looked more military than security. Jazz drifted softly through hidden speakers while wealthy patrons laughed over baccarat tables beneath crystal chandeliers that reflected gold light across the room.

Bond adjusted the cuffs of his dinner jacket as he stepped inside and glanced around the room. If Scaramanga truly operated through places like this, it told him something important already.

The man had taste.

He resisted the urge to play a quick game of chance, (One that would no doubt turn into a long session of multiple games) and made his way over to the main lounge. A singers voice floated above the muted conversations dotted around the room at various candlelit tables.

Around him, politicians, businessmen and triad lieutenants sat hypnotised by the performance, but Bond noticed what they didn't. She was looking for someone. She was a professional for sure, but through her entire performance she was searching for her courier.

The song ended to a sea of applause. The singer gave a graceful bow before disappearing behind a velvet curtain at the rear of the stage. Bond savoured his drink for a moment, before finishing it and rising from his chair. Time to work.

---

The backstage corridors were narrow and dimly lit compared to the glamour outside. Staff hurried past carrying drinks, makeup kits and armfuls of costumes without paying Bond much attention. Wealthy men wandered in and out of private rooms here often enough that confidence alone functioned as identification.

Bond found her near a dressing table lined with glowing bulbs. Up close she was even more beautiful than on stage. But her beauty did little to hide the sad expression that stared back at her in the mirror. She looked at him through that same mirror before speaking.

"Fans usually wait until after the second set."

Bond smiled faintly. "And miss the opportunity to be the first compliment?"

"That depends." She turned slightly in her chair. "Are you actually here to compliment me?"

"Amongst other things."

She gave him a smirk, turning in her chair and motioning to another chair. "Then take a seat, Mr...?"

"Bond." He took the chair opposite her. "James Bond."

That was intentional. A tester to see her reaction. He immediately saw the flicker in her eyes at the mention of his name. Any employee of Scaramanga was unlikely to know his target, this indicated she was closer to him than just someone he paid.

She recovered quickly, reaching for a cigarette from a silver case resting beside the mirror. Bond moved before she could light it.

"Those'll kill you." He produced Q's cigarette case from his jacket instead and offered one toward her. She hesitated only briefly before accepting.

"English cigarettes?" she asked.

"One of our few successful exports." He lit it for her. As she leaned closer the faintest smile touched Bond's lips. "Here. Take the box, a memento from a fan." He offered her up the rest, only to be met with a palm that rejected them.

"I'm afraid I've got my own, Mr. Bond." She inhaled slowly before studying him again through the smoke. "So what does an Englishman want with a nightclub singer?"

"Honestly?"

"That would be refreshing."

"I was told someone here might know where to find a man."

Her expression changed again. From curiosity to concern. "What kind of man?"

Bond leaned back casually. "The sort who prefers gold bullets."

The atmosphere shifted immediately. You could cut the tension with a knife. Then her laughter broke the electric in the air. "I think you've had too much to drink, Mr. Bond."

"Entirely possible."

"You should leave this alone."

"I've heard that before. I have trouble taking advice."

"Take it this time."

Bond watched her carefully now. Every instinct told him she knew far more than she wanted to admit. But he also sensed something else beneath the composure. She crossed the room toward a small cabinet and poured herself another drink before finally speaking again. "Men who search for Scaramanga disappear."

"I'm used to disappearing. I do it on my own terms though."

"You don't understand." She turned back toward him fully now. "He sees things before they happen. Knows where people will stand. Where they'll run. When they'll panic." Her voice lowered slightly. "You don't hunt a man like that. You survive him if you're lucky. And no one. No one has been lucky yet."

Bond rose slowly from his chair. "And yet you still know where I might find him."

For several moments she said nothing. Then finally she spoke. "Tomorrow night. Kowloon." She moved to her dressing table and scribbled something onto a napkin before handing it over reluctantly. "An abandoned rooftop overlooking the night market. If your man exists, that's where he'll be."

Bond glanced down at the address. It didn't take a genius to work out this was a snipers nest. "You're very helpful for someone who wanted me to stay away from this."

Something almost sad crossed her expression. "Maybe I don't like watching men walk blindly toward their deaths. At least with this you'll know where you're going to die."

Before Bond could answer, a voice called from further down the corridor. "Linh! Five minutes!"

She looked toward the doorway before turning back to Bond. By the time she did, the composure had returned completely. She was a perfect performer. "You should go now, Mr. Bond."

Bond slipped the napkin into his pocket and offered her one final smile. "You know, most women buy me dinner before trying to have me killed."

For the first time all evening, she genuinely smiled back. "Then perhaps I'm old fashioned. Maybe it should be you buying me dinner."

Bond turned and disappeared back into the noise and glamour of Club Éclipse. As much as he'd have loved to have dinner with Miss. Linh, there was no time to waste.

Bailey sat reading his book. A rather beat up copy of The Hunt For Red October, missing half of the front cover. Jack Ryan's Harrier had just put down HMS Invincible, when Tabitha opened the door and walked in, sighing. "Hi, Bailey." She called, collapsing on the ratty sofa of their room. She wiped her brow.

"Any luck?" Bailey asked, looking at her.

"You'd think with President Lord removing all of the mutants from their jobs that we'd get a better market." Bailey looked at her with a look of shock. "Hey, i don't LIKE it, but i'm trying to look on the bright side. She sighed. "This is why we don't support Facism. They don't solve problems, just create scapegoats." She then looked at Bailey and outstretched her arms. "Come give mom a hug. I need it." She called. Bailey got up and walked over to her, collapsing onto the sofa next to her and embracing her in a hug. "I swear a hug from you makes this whole dystopia thing seem bearable." There seemed to be a commotion from down the hall, screaming and wild animal sounds.

"What the-"

"Eugh. Another failure. Throw it on the pile and bring in the next one." Madam Monstrosity sighed as she looked down at the barely breathing, malformed cat-like creature. As a pig in a labcoat nodded and moved to the head of the gurney to begin wheeling it away, suddenly there was a loud bang sound. Then a gust of wind. "Oh joy, more distractions. Deploy the Horde and bring me whoever is causing that disturbance on a slab." Suddenly, the door caved in as an enormous humanoid-crocodile flew through it. A number of people stood in the now-opened doorway. At the head of them was the small Spider-Boy. "Oh, #5, you returned. And you brought some more meat. Excellent work. She said, before walking over to the computer and beginning to type on it. A bone spike flew from the doorway, straight through the monitor. She looked around and saw Spyke had thrown it, before fist-bumping Spider-Boy. "You do know that killing the monitor doesn't do anything to the files, right? Typical dullards." She sighed, before pressing a button. "Horde, kill them." She then looked at the clearly pregnant Storm among them. "And bring me the mutant with child, could prove useful." Almost instantly, an explosive Vibranium shard hit her arm and exploded, blowing her arm clean off. Madam Monstrosity looked down at the severed stump, then at Black Panther who had thrown it. "Owww..." She stated, before a few seconds later, sinew, bone and other gore exploded from the stump recreating her arm. Suddenly, the roar of countless animals came from behind them, Black Panther patted Spider-Boy on the shoulder, before turning around to face the incoming horde.

"I'm here for my mother." He growled, stepping forwards. The battle going on behind him as if it was miles away.

"Good, you may take her." She waved a hand over to the gurney being removed by the pig. Bailey looked over in mute horror at the writhing mass of flesh and ginger fur with cat-like eyes staring back at him. "Subject #31 proved unreceptive to the process, i have higher hopes for Subject #47... Or maybe even the mutant, which from now on shall be named #82" She sighed as she walked over to a computer and began entering the information. The Pig in the lab coat backed away as he saw the trembling boy walk over to the horrifying remains of his mother.

"M... Mom?" He trembled. The mass looked back at him with its malformed features.

"B... Ail...Ey?" It wheezed. Something that might be considered a smile began to creep across its face. "Yo... U... Alwa... Ys... Make... It... Bet... T.... Ter..."

"Mom..." He pulled the mask from his head, tears streaming down his face. The face of sorrow unimaginable quickly proceeding to the second stage of grief.

"Don... T... Be... Cr... Uel..." She begged, but Bailey had already turned back to Madam Monstrosity.

"Fix... Her..." He growled. Not his usual chipper self. Madam Monstrosity didn't even look away from the computer.

"#31 is beyond fixing. An utter failure." She didn't seem to notice the Fwip sound as a web shot past her head, but instinctively ducked as the Spider-Boy catapulted himself towards the computer she was working at, his feet going straight through the monitor. He turned to look at her cold, unfeeling face as tears streamed down his own.

"FIX HER!!!" He screamed, so loudly that his voice went a little hoarse at the end.

"Did your hearing fail along with your obedience? She is dead already, anything left is merely dying neurons firing off." She sighed. "But take sollace that #47's chances of survival have been raised a whole 4.63%. It's a noble sacrif-" At that point, Bailey's hand lashed out and grabbed her face, instinctively, the spider-hairs on his palms dig into her skin as he ripped down, tearing a considerable chunk of skin from her face and leaving a palm-shaped bloody mess of her face. She stood there staring at him, before the skin grew back rather quickly. "An interesting use of your powers." She sniffed, before touching her face and wincing in the only display of anything other than mild boredom that he had ever witnessed from her. "And the pain inflicted is quite unbearable. This is very fascinating." Bailey looked down at the skin on his hands that he had ripped off and stared, horrified at what he had just done. The skin seemed to slop off and melt away. Then looked back to see Madam Monstrosity begin jotting down notes.

"This is for the threats to my queen." the familiar voice of the White Wolf came from behind her as Bailey's face was splattered with gore as Madam Monstrosities chest exploded with the White Wolf's vibranium-clawed hand burst through her stomach. She looked down at the heart that was clutched in his hand. He continued to squeeze it lightly to force the blood to continue pumping through the expertly un-severed veins and arteries. "Tell Mr Briggs the location of the rest of your victims and you may yet live." Monstrosity looked down at her heart.

"An expert bit of surgery, worthy of my own efforts." She sighed. "But there are far worse things than death. And this body is but a shell. The High Evolutionary still has use for me... Unless i tell you of his plans." She looked back at Bailey. "We will meet again, #5" She sneered, before her heart suddenly stopped and she slumped forwards. White Wolf continued to try to pump her heart manually, but quickly gave up. At that point, an explosion rang out. In typical villain fashion, Madam Monstrosity had set her base to self destruct in the event of her death. Supervillains were nothing if not sore losers. Bailey tried to approach the horrifying remains of his mother, but was grabbed by Black Panther.

"Come, Bailey, you need to live." Bailey squirmed against the vibranium claws, before quickly being caught in a hurricane carrying the both of them out. The Humanimals remaining were fleeing, the heroes who had come to help him giving chase, not that he was watching or caring. He kept his eyes on the malformed mass of flesh that used to be his mother until the very last, as flames began engulfing the entire building.

As they stood outside, Bailey stood staring at the burning building, tears streaming down his freckled cheeks. "I know you hurt now, Young Bailey, but your mother is in... A better place now." Another hand patted his shoulder, looking up to see the form of Spider-Man.

"Killing her wouldn't have helped... No matter what dog-boy over there thinks." He scowled lightly at White Wolf. Bailey broke down to his knees and began crying, tears flowing that he never even knew he had.

Meanwhile, stood next to him, Captain Briggs stood watching the scene unfold with tears flowing down her own cheeks. "I... I don't understand. Who are these people?" She asked, before looking at the crying boy. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!!!" She screamed, tears flowing down her own cheeks as well. She constantly wiped them away. "Let me out of here, you super-powered little- She raised the rifle up, before suddenly finding herself in the highstreets of New York. She had grown up here, she had had a life here, she had... She'd done so much... But when the invasion happened... Wait, what invasion? The Fire Trolls? No, that wasn't it. She walked down the street again, passing people she didn't recognize. Someone on TV giving a speech, their podium had the Presidential Seal on it. Who was that? Not any president she recognized. Moving to a shopping mall, she walked in and saw to the right of her, a book shop. A new Clive Custler was on sale... Somebody she knew would love that. Who was it...? Nobody she could put a finger on right now. The door to the store seemed to be engulfed in a glowing light. But, to her left, was the army recruiter office... She looked in her wallet. Down to her last $20... Whoever wanted that book... She needed her own life to think about now. Turning left, she walked to the door, only to suddenly be stopped as something shoved her back. A shadowy black figure. Featureless, vaguely an outline, like something you were only looking at out of the corner of your eye.

"Look, kid, i don't know what you are or what you want from me, but i have to get on with my life. Sure, we all have regrets, but we need to move forward." Tabitha grunted. She moved forwards again, only to be stopped once more by the figure trying to shove her, but this time, she managed to grab and pull the shadowy figure into a headlock, before kicking it out of the way and turning to run through the door to the recruiters office.

Suddenly she was in her old appartment. This was wrong, she got evicted after the company went bust and she couldn't afford the rent. She walked around, mildly comforted by everything being exactly where she remembered it. Her bedroom, the en suite bathroom, the spare bedroom... Why was there a baby cot in here? Of course, yeah, one time she thought she was pregnant after that one night stand with that jerk over in Coast City. But turned out to be a false alarm. It's weird though, how many times she kept thinking about that baby that never was. Every so often, she would find herself looking in a bookstore and thinking that she should buy something for the baby when it came, only to remember that it was never really a thing to begin with. She shook her head and walked back out into the living room to see the diminuative captain Marvel stood before her, his Silver Lantern costume adorning him, the cloak over his head.

"Tabitha Briggs. You... Know my Sorrow." He wheezed.

"Sorry, kid, but i don't." He raised the ring to her, wisps of silver energy swarmed around her, forming into shapes that she didn't recognize. She waved them away. "Enough, kid."

"Please..." The voice that came was less echoed, like the Silver Rings weilder had previously been, it was more... Sincere. /"Please know my sorrow." He begged.

"Look, i thought i was gonna have a kid, then i didn't. End of story, i'm not getting hung up over this." She walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, hunkering down to her knee's to come face to face with him. "Look, kid, you lost your mom. That sucks, it really does. I lost mine too... Granted not to something QUITE that horrifying. But you gotta move on. She's gone and she isn't coming back. She'd want you to move on." She pulled him into a hug. He started crying again, but this time, it was REAL tears. Tabitha used the distraction as her hand moved down his arm and to his finger. Grabbing the ring and trying to quickly wrench it off, instead Bailey let out a scream of purest horror.

"KNOW MY SORROW!!!"

Immediately, Tabitha was blasted by a thousand memories, labour, birth, taking home her baby, holding him as he screamed all night, watching him in the ICU as he barely struggled to live through Scarlet Fever, taking him home, 10 whole birthdays, that time he played Soccer in the appartment and broke her mothers vase... But she still had that vase... Everything flooded her mind at once, she closed her eyes, desperately trying to block eveyrthing out. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of Orange and everything stopped. She came to her senses. Looking around, she could see the rest of the team on the floor, most blubbering incoherently. The Spider-Creature was in front of her, biting the head off of an orange construct.

"DON'T WORRY, MOM! I GOT YA!!!" Boyd yelled, devouring the glowing orange SS officer. She looked down the hallway to see Captian Marvel destroying more of the Orange nazi's, he seemed to be flanked by a pair of beings made from flowing tears, they looked like the people she had seen in her vision, the Black Panther and Storm. The Storm construct shooting bolts of lightning made from the tears, while the Black Panther simply decapitated others with his claws. The man in the jet-black costume seemed to finally come around, shaking his head and reaching his hands under his mask to wipe away the tears.

"Dammit, i never wanted to relive that one again." The old man growled. He reached a hand down to Tabitha and pulled her back to her feet. "The Captain seems a bit distracted." He grunted. "I suggest we grab the others and fall back for the moment, let them tire each other out while we regroup. When are your experts getting here?" Outside of the building, there was 3 lights in the distance, glowing stronger and brighter. Green, Yellow, Red.

"That'll be them." She replied, quickly finding her gun from the floor, quickly checking the magazine and the chamber, she grabbed one of her fallen team and began pulling him down the corridor away from the battle going on in front of them, meanwhile, Sims had webbed the rest and was pulling them down the corridor with no effort.

****

Up on the roof, Christina was regretting her choices not to come down with them. Frankly, it was freezing up here. Maybe she should call her boyfriend. After all, his hot, muscular abs would definitely keep her warm up here... As it on queue, though, instead 2 men and a cat landed nearby. They all seemed to be colour-coordinated. WAIT A SECOND, she knew them from the forums "HEY, LANTERNS!!!" She called. The 3 beings turned to her. "What the heck are you guys doing here? Don't worry, Captain Marvel has this under control, you can leave." She smiled and waved. "Also, can you give me a lift down to the ground? It's kinda breezy up here." Hal moved towards her.

"Look, civilian, we are here to deal with 2 incredibly dangerous artifacts." He said. "Do you know where they are?" He held up his ring to her. "They look like this, but one is silver and the other is orange." Before Christina could answer, a call came in over Hals earpiece.

"Captain Jordan, this is Captain Briggs, we need IMMEDIATE assistance, Captain Marvel has been taken by the Sorrow Ring and..." She paused for a second. "We need immediate assistance." She repeated as she swallowed her words. Hal looked at Sinestro.

"Damn, Marvel has been taken over by the Sorrow ring." He called. He looked back at Christina. "Stay here, and stay safe. Captain Marvel has been compromised, do not approach him under any circumstances, he's EXTREMELY dangerous in this state." Horror flashed across Christina's face.

"N-No! You gotta take me with you, i've got to help him." She walked towards them, but then, the door to closed door on the roof exploded in a violent erruption of Orange energy and Banjo burst through the roof. He floated there, slowly strumming the banjo.

"He has access to another powerful arcane artifact... This presents a greater problem." Sinestro growled, adopting a defensive stance.

"MY BROTHERS!!!" Kurt cried out, laughing maniacally. "YOU GOT 2 CHOICES. HAND OVER THE RINGS AND WALK AWAY, OR I'M GONNA PRY THEM FROM YOUR COLD DEAD FINGERS!!!" He roared.

"He's just a fat guy with a ring, what's the worst that could happen?" Hal sneared.

"Green Lantern, you have never faced an already empowered individual who has been taken by a Ring. The powers can interact in ways you cannot imagine." Sinestro looked deadly serious.

"Oh, and you got the good captains little [EXPLETIVE] girlfriend. Kick her off the roof while your at it, her kind deserve little else." In immediate response, Hal put himself between Christina and Banjo.

"Ah, that would make you the guy making the Nazi's we heard about." Hal cracked his knuckles and sneared sadistically. "I'm gonna be honest with you, i've always wanted to punch a Nazi for Uncle Sam, so thanks for making the dreams of this man come true."

"Did you say this one was a Nazi?" Dex called. "The cultist made her disdain for your kind very much known to me. I will enjoy stripping the flesh from your bones." Dex growled Filpot snapped his fingers and the staff of the gods raised up to him.

"OH CRAP, HE'S GOT THE STAFF!!!" Christina called.

"The what?" At which point, Kurt opened his mouth and a horde of SS officers seemed to burst forth in a stream at Christina, Hal, Dex and Sinestro all raised a construct shield to deflect the blast, but with a zap from the staff, the shields were shattered and the 4 were tackled off the roof by the horde. Hal grabbed Christina as Sinestro and Dex simply carried themselves into flight. They looked to see the horde streaming from the roof shatter on the ground 500ft down. The 3 flew a little away to keep their distance. Meanwhile, Kurt simply wrapped himself around the staff of the gods as Jormungandr coiled around the roots of Yggdrasil. Dex then let out a roar of frustration and charged. "Alright, Dex has him busy for a bit. Sinestro, what's the likelyhood of him running out of energy and us taking him quietly?"

"Unpredictable. He has 2 other sources of immense power interacting with him. Maybe minutes, maybe years." He growled.

"Look, we gotta find Bai-Captain Marvel. If we can get him to the staff, he'll be able to take it back." Christina called.

"Far too dangerous." Sinestro called. "With the indicated strength, speed and power Captain Marvel possesses, that Sorrow Ring will make him more dangerous than even the Orange. Taking you to him is suicide." Sinestro floated to her.

"He would NEVER hurt me." She scowled at him.

"In this current state, he will hurt everyone and everything." Sinestro tapped his own earpiece. "Report status of Captain Marvel" He put it on loudspeaker so everyone could hear.

"Captain Marvel seems to have reverted to the form of... A boy, looks physically 10-12 years of age." The voice replied.

"That means he's given up The Power." Christina called to Sinestro. "Yo, lady, did he ever say the word Shazam?"

"Affirmative." She replied.

"That means he's just a normal kid now. Get me down there, let me talk to him. I can get through. Sinestro threw her a sideways glance.

"The only thing you can get through to is the ring and it will be indifferent to your plea's." Sinestro replied, floating and trying to think of a different solution. The orange and red energy dancing in the background as they watched the fat guy fight the cat. Christina looked up at Hal, who was still holding her.

"Gold, we've gotta give it a try." He sighed.

"How many times must i tell you this, Green Lantern, the rings do not work that way. They are the most raw and unfettered representations of emotion. You cannot simply appeal to their humanity as they have no humanity, just their emotion." He sighed.

"Then let me appeal to his emotion." Sinestro looked back at the battle, then down at Christina.

"Fine, but be it on your own head." He sighed, before flying down towards where Captain Briggs was.

"WAIT, SERIOUSLY?" Hal called. "WHY DO YOU NEVER GIVE UP THAT EASILY WITH ME?!"

****

Somewhere, Bailey walked through a swirling silver void, the silvery wisps not able to touch him, though, as if a barrier was up keeping them exactly 4 meters away, no matter how far he walked. He didn't quite recognize where he was or what was happening. As he continued to walk, he heard the roar of a warrior and the whoosh of something running past him, he turned, but saw nothing. a whoosh of supersonic air past him, the death-roar of a mighty lion, so many sounds. "Ummm... Hello?" A crash from above, he looked up and saw the spectral outline of something holding the barrier above him up. "Atlas? Is that you?" He asked.

"My dear boy... We are all here. Always with you." Bailey turned to see a man stood in fine regal attire, his dark skin radiating a kindliness to him, a crown atop his head, he also appeared to be wearing a lion pelt as some kind of sash.

"King Solomon." Bailey replied. The man nodded.

"It is rare that i get to talk with the champion like this, come, we have much to discuss." The kindly man becked Bailey to follow him. Bailey did so, walking into a bright light.

It wasn’t long after the news of heroes in Metropolis saving Christmas broke before images of the invitation hit just about every billboard and ad spot in every city boasting a resident hero. Therapeutix was well known in medical circles for their cutting-edge research into genetics and gene therapies. Tickets were prohibitively expensive, so a guest invitation to their annual charity gala was prized. Special guests were always the draw for the event, if not the philanthropic aspect. Most years, the it was a chance to mingle with some of the top minds in genetics, but this year Therapeutix had a different plan in mind - an open invitation to all active heroes. It was a gamble; there was no way to send invitations directly or collect RSVPs, so there was no way to actually guarantee a single hero would show up. They placed their bets and cast the dice anyway.



The event planning team had the gala down to a science. It was always hosted in the same beautiful, historic building - now a natural history museum that boasted a stunning ballroom event space - with the same table setup. The only thing that changed year-over-year were the floral centrepieces and the caterer to keep it fresh.

Venue, catering, and event team staff were scurrying around madly ensuring everything was it its place. This night had to be perfect, because if the bet on their open invitation to heroes didn’t play out, they couldn’t risk anything else going wrong or it could be their worst year of fundraising since the last recession.

By the mid-afternoon, everything was in place. The tables were laid beautifully with ivory and gold from the floral arrangements to the dinnerware. The ballroom itself evoked the opulent elegance of the Rococo period. It was something of a running joke that the building - once a stately mansion - was built over a century too late for the period they were trying to emulate. It was hard to imagine finding a better space to host the gala - every corner and detail was rich with decorative appeal. The almost sea-foam green paint and gold accents complimented the ivory and gold gala decorations beautifully. If nothing else, everyone would walk away commenting on the aesthetics of the gala. With the finishing touches ready, all of the staff scattered to either get ready to attend the party themselves or take a well-deserved break before the real work began.



The ballroom was stunning in the daytime, but it seemed to glow with some kind of divine light at night. Softly dimmed incandescents cast the perfect golden hue to make what had seemed like such a bright and generous space during the day turn into something more intimate by night. Event staff stood at the entrance confirming invitations before letting gusts through. The only ones who got through without one were heroes who arrived masked and dressed to the nines (or their costumes, as some preferred).

The guests were already beginning to fill the ballroom and hors d’oeuvres were being circulated on trays, waitstaff deftly manoeuvring through the space. The room was filled with the hum of conversation and swish of silk evening gowns. Excitement thrummed with each new guest that walked in. Each time, all eyes turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of a hero arriving.

Zach was still a little too warm from Ace O’Clubs.

Not all at once. Just in pieces. Cinnamon and chocolate still on his tongue. Heat stuck in his gloves. His face faintly sore from smiling too much, too fast, for a night that had somehow involved a magical snowstorm, a fake Santa, Thor, Starfire… and one very green stranger.

And, apparently, saying I helped save Christmas out loud and not entirely joking.

Metropolis didn’t care.

The farther he got from the bar, the more the cold slipped through his coat, and the faster the adrenaline started wearing off into something sharper.

Still excitement.

Just… not the fun kind anymore.

Zach shoved a hand deeper into his pocket, brushing the Polaroid tucked inside. He slowed under a streetlamp and pulled it out just enough to look.

Thor. Starfire. Green Guy. Him.

Proof.

That the whole insane night had actually happened. The snowstorm. the illusions he’d thrown into a real fight, the fact that no one had told him to go home and leave it to the professionals.

It was Still real. Still kind of impossible. And now, this was apparently, his life now.

He looked at the message on his phone.

Clearly, no one explained the family business to you. We’re fixing that. Finish your drink. We’re meeting tonight. –Z

Zatanna.

Not a fan. Not a troll. Not some random occult weirdo with an unknown number.

Zatanna.

Zach exhaled through his nose and kept walking, his boots clicking against the pavement. The city glittered around him in full holiday overkill. Lights wrapped around every surface, windows packed with gold ribbon and glass ornaments, music drifting out of storefronts like it had something to prove.

Everything looked bright.

Normal.

Expensive.

Meanwhile, he was heading straight into what felt a lot like a magical ambush set up by a relative he’d never actually met, and who apparently already knew enough about him to be disappointed.

“Great,” he muttered, adjusting his scarf. “Love that for me. Save Christmas, almost have my first drink, and now I get summoned to Wizard Family Court.”

The joke helped.

A little.

Not much.

He checked the address again as he turned the corner, and slowed.

Of course.

Of course it was.

A theater.

Old, too. Shut down by the look of it. The marquee was dark, letters missing. The gold trim around the front had dulled with age. But the place still had presence. Like it remembered what it used to be.

Zach tipped his head back, taking it in.

“Okay,” he said under his breath. “That is… annoyingly on-brand.”

The front doors swung open before he touched them.

No one there.

He let out a breath through his nose. Of course.

Then he squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

The lobby smelled like dust, velvet, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Low amber lights glowed along the walls where they definitely shouldn’t have had power. Gold leaf peeled from the molding in thin strips. Torn red fabric clung to the stair rails like the place had decided to fall apart in style.

Then, from deeper inside

Light.

One spotlight snapped on. Then another. Then a third. Precise. Like someone backstage had just called places.

Zach stopped just inside the doorway.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

The stage was lit.

And at the center.

Zatanna.

Not casual. Not toned down. Not “off-duty.”

No.

Full magician.

Top hat, perfectly angled. Tailored jacket sharp enough to cut. White shirt, gloves, fishnets, boots—the whole look. And somehow it didn’t read as a costume.

It just looked right.

Like this was what she was supposed to look like.

A wand rested in her hand like it belonged there. Not decorative. Not optional.

Zach felt something in his chest shift a little.

Because suddenly it clicked.

This… this was what he’d been trying to imitate all this time.

And this?

Was the real thing.

Zatanna tipped her chin slightly.

“Zachary.”

Yeah.

That was worse than “Zach.”

He put a hand to his chest. “Wow. Full government name. Strong opening. I feel judged already.”

“You should.”

That was so immediate it almost made him laugh.

Almost.

He started down the aisle, boots dull against the worn carpet. “You know, most people start with hello.”

“I know.”

“Cool. Great. Good to know this is personal.”

By the time he reached the front, he looked up at her and spread his hands. “So. This is either magical orientation or the most stylish kidnapping I’ve ever seen.”

A playing card flicked into existence between her fingers so smoothly he almost missed it.

“If I were kidnapping you,” she said, “It would already be too late”

Zach blinked.

Then snorted. “Okay. Rude. But fair.”

She stepped down from the stage without rushing. Not slow either. Just… deliberate. Every step placed exactly where she meant it.

By the time she reached him, it didn’t even feel like a height thing. She just felt… more put together.

Her gaze moved over him once, and suddenly he was aware of everything at once. His hair probably a mess from the wind, the fact that he was trying very hard to pass all of that off as confidence.

“You’re late,” she said.

“You texted me after I’d already had the weirdest night of my life,” he shot back. “I think I get a little leeway on dramatic timing.”

“You almost drank spiked hot chocolate.”

Zach froze for half a second.

Then, because commitment was doing a lot of heavy lifting tonight, he folded his arms and raised a brow. “What, were you in the ceiling vents? That’s… not comforting.”

“You asked first.”

“Because I’m eighteen.”

“Because you were paying attention.” A slight shift in her tone. Not softer. Just more precise. “Good instinct.”

That caught him off guard enough that he didn’t have a comeback ready.

Which was honestly embarrassing.

He recovered quickly. “So you can say nice things. Good. I was starting to think the hat came with emotional repression.”

There was just a hint of amusement in her expression, and it was gone as quickly as it came. “The livestream,” she said.

Yeah. There it was. Zach rolled one shoulder. “Mm. Yep. Knew we were getting to that.”

“The cards froze because your focus narrowed under stress. They multiplied because you reached for output instead of control. The glow was excess. The levitation was pressure. And your wand responded because, somewhere under all of your performance, you already know it isn’t just a prop.”

He just stared at her.

No jokes. No chat spamming reactions. No “wow, cool effects.” Just… a breakdown.

Like she’d been watching the whole thing with a checklist.

Zach let out a short laugh. “Wow. Okay. So this really is orientation. Just with more judgment than I was hoping for.”

“You want less judgment?” she said. “Cast better.”

That got him.

He laughed. Because honestly? If he was going to get verbally destroyed by his glamorous magician cousin in an abandoned theater, at least she had style about it.

“Noted,” he said. “For the record, I think I handled things pretty well.”

“In the park?” she said. “Yes.”

He blinked.

“…Wait.”

“You had more control in active danger than you did on camera,” she continued. “The snow work was simple, but clean. The decoys were well-timed. The stabilization on Thor was messy, but it worked.”

Something in his chest lit up before he could stop it.

Relief. Pride. A little bit of oh, okay, I didn’t completely screw that up.

Then, “You’re also relying too much on instinct, improvisation, and hoping confidence will carry you through what you don’t understand.”

And there it was.

“Well, in my defense, no one exactly handed me a family grimoire and a welcome basket.”

She didn’t answer right away.

“…No,” she said after a moment. “They didn’t.”

That threw him off more than anything else she’d said so far. That was annoying. He looked away first, eyes drifting over the rows of old seats instead of her. “My parents weren’t really into this side of things,” he said, aiming for casual and missing just a little. “Giovanni the stage legend? Great. Marketable. Easy. Actual magic? Suddenly it’s ‘nonsense.’” A small flick of his fingers, like he could wave that off. Didn’t work. “I spent years building tricks around something I apparently wasn’t supposed to believe was real. Then my room starts floating on livestream and…” He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Turns out ‘magic nonsense’ gets a lot less theoretical when your furniture’s in the air.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just watched. Which was somehow worse.

He kept going anyway. “And yeah, before you say it, I know. Maybe they were wrong for the wrong reasons, but I’m guessing this is where you tell me they weren’t completely off for being freaked out.”

“Fear isn’t wisdom,” she said. “They don’t get credit for being afraid of something they refused to understand.”

Zach looked back at her.

She stepped a little closer, wand lowered. “No one taught you what this is,” she said. “No one gave you structure. Or context. That isn’t your fault.”

That landed harder than he wanted it to. Of course it did. He let out a breath and tipped his head back, staring up at the stage lights. “Okay,” he said. “Great. Love that. Hate how much I needed to hear it.”

For a second, something warmer flickered across her face.

“The problem,” she said, “isn’t that you have flair.”

Zach glanced at her. “Good. I’d be concerned if it was.”

“The problem,” she continued, ignoring that, “is that you use it to avoid uncertainty. I use it on purpose.”

He grimaced. “Wow. You really came ready to ruin my self-image.”

“No,” she said. “I came to fix it. Try to keep up.”

Then she turned her wrist, and a single playing card appeared between her fingers. Plain. White-backed. Nothing special.

She held it out.

Zach looked at it, then at her. “No glowing runes? No dramatic family branding? I feel a little let down.”

“Take the card, Zach.”

He took it.

“One card,” she said. “One spell. Hold it in the air.”

He blinked at her. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He let out a short laugh. “You saw what I did tonight. I made illusion copies of actual superheroes.”

“Yes,” she said. “And now you’re going to levitate one card without multiplying it, setting it on fire, distorting the room, or checking if you look impressive while you do it.”

He stared at her. Personally attacked.

“Silence is part of the lesson,” she added.

“Oh, that’s evil.”

“No,” she said, adjusting her hat. “It’s basic.”

He inhaled slowly and looked down at the card.

This should’ve been easy. Seriously. Compared to everything else tonight? This was nothing. No crowd. No chaos. No giant glowing anything.

Just a card.

Which was probably the problem. Because there was no one watching. No chat scrolling. No camera. No adrenaline pushing him forward before he had time to think. Just him. The card. And her, standing there like she already knew how this was going to go.

Zach exhaled and tried to focus. Not on the performance. Not on how it would look.

The feeling he’d started to recognize. The way words stopped being words if he paid attention to them long enough.

He adjusted his grip slightly, eyes narrowing at the card like that was going to help. “Just one,” he muttered under his breath. “We can do one.”

Zatanna didn’t react.

Which somehow made it worse.

He swallowed and tried again. Slower this time. Actually thinking about it instead of just… jumping.

The word formed in his head first. Then, quietly. “Etativel”

The card twitched. Okay, that was good. Then, it lifted. A few inches. Wobbly, but there. Zach’s eyes lit up. “Ha! See? Easy…”

Then, the card shot straight up.

A flash of violet light, and suddenly there were eight of them. Spinning. Orbiting his head like he’d accidentally summoned a low-budget halo. Sparkles drifted down around him like the universe was trying to commit to the bit.

Zach stared up at it. “…You have got to be kidding me.” Then he slowly lowered his gaze back to Zatanna.

“…Okay,” he said. “You have to admit the presentation was solid.”

She closed her eyes. As if she were choosing not to lose patience. Then she opened them again, sighed and flicked her wand.

The cards froze midair. Another small motion, and all but one dissolved into violet smoke. The last one drifted down between them. She caught it cleanly and held it up. “This,” she said, “is why we’re starting now.”

Zach rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “In my defense…”

“You don’t have one.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

He snorted.

Yeah. Okay. Fair.

She slipped the card away. He didn’t even see where, and looked at him again.

“You’ve got instincts,” she said. “Good ones. You think fast. You adapt. You know how to control attention.”

Zach perked up slightly. “I’m hearing a compliment. This is new.”

“You’re also a hazard.”

“And there it is.”

“You lean on improvisation because it works,” she continued, like he hadn’t said anything. “Until it doesn’t.”

Zach lifted a shoulder. “In my defense, ‘it works’ has been doing a lot for me so far.”

“That won’t last.”

Yeah.

That landed.

He didn’t have a joke ready for that one.

Zatanna turned and started back toward the stage. “Come on.”

He followed without thinking. “That’s it? No speech? No dramatic ‘this is your destiny’ moment?”

“You’re getting a lesson,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t confuse it with a performance.”

Zach huffed out a quiet laugh and climbed up after her. The Polaroid was still tucked in his pocket. Still there. Still real. Everything tonight still real. Just… more complicated. He glanced at her as he stepped onto the stage, then shook his head slightly to himself. Magical family intervention in an abandoned theater. Sure. Why not.

M A R T I A N M A N H U N T E R
M A R T I A N M A N H U N T E R

The Therapeutix Gala
New York City, USA
@King Kindred@ThatDeercat

Of all the times J'onn wished he could smoke, this was one of the more tiresome. Here he was, outside the truly gorgeous venue, watching the guests within truly seem to have a marvelous time, and yet his heart clambered to just head home then and there. Truly, he was most likely being paranoid. People wanted to honor their heroes, and the new superheroes were the newest form of such. That could be all that this was. Just a way to honor the heroes and make a little money as a bonus.

However, the words 'cutting edge genetic research' kept circling around his head. Therapeutix was known for it. It was also one of the fields of study Mal-the Doctor had been most involved in, even in college. He could still recall long nights in their shared dorm room of hearing the rants about how the Green Martian genome would be so much improved if only...No use dealing on the past, even when the past was the culprit behind those specific words sounding so sinister. Pair that with the fact that many of the heroes he'd met seemed to have genetically inherited their powers though and he could get at the root of what he feared. Still, that was all it was, a fear. And if other heroes didn't fear it, then he could just go home or push himself to join in as the Green Guy so that he didn't let the fear control him.

On the other hand though, perhaps some caution would not be amiss...But he couldn't just wait out here for something to go wrong. If something went wrong (or if it turned out just to be a splendid party where he could just relax and hear the praise of the other heroes, which it could always end up being), he would need to be on the inside. But what would be the best way to get in without an invitation?

Just then a car drove up front with another guest, dressed in a suit and tux with an eye-catching golden haired woman in red at his arm. J'onn kept out of sight and observed the valet as the pair were escorted into where the man could flash his invitation and the car was driven away. That gave him an idea.

In mere moments, he took on the form of the valet, then waited a minute before coming in to seem to await the next car. The others barely gave him a second glance as they awaited the next car. A quick excuse let him slip away to the bathroom before the real valet showed up, which with any luck would just be excused as Deja Vu. (He really did not want to have to erase memories. It was dangerous on the target's mind and, always a hassle to get right). Then once he'd ascertained where any cameras were and that there were no witnesses within, he then adjusted himself to take on the form of a non-descript gentleman of means, then withdrew into the ballroom to mingle with the rest, helping himself to one of the canapes a waiter was serving. He was a guest after all. He may as well indulge in some of the pleasures. As he looked around, taking in all the beauty, he couldn't help but smile. It really was a gorgeous gathering. Perhaps, he could allow himself to enjoy tonight after all.

---

The splendor and opulence of the ballroom was truly spectacular, only enhanced by the charm and general good humor of most of the guests within. As Cay'an looked around, she realized that not even the High Chairman's New Year's Gatherings, where attendance was a prestigious honor worthy of only his inner circle, were half as wonderous. And it turned her stomach. How dare humans be so prosperous while Martians were forced to scrouge in the dirt for crumbs! Their planet was a divided one with near-constant wars and the people, so mentally deficient. Yet their elites could enjoy such festivities annually, for little to no reason at all! As a fundraiser! Where was the justice in that? The fairness?! Visions of the hall burning while those within were carted off to the fire or to serve their betters in manual labor danced in her mind. But she forced it down. Now was not the time to indulge in such fantasies.

She grabbed a glass of champagne then started looking around, taking sips. Her other arm was still around her current pawn, who had gotten her in here as his 'plus-one', so now she needed to keep on the look out. From all that she'd studied and learned about Thor, he was sure to either be here or to arrive at any moment. She knew there would be competition from the other women of the room, but she was in her best disguise tonight. She would have him wrapped around her finger in no time. And given that it seemed like he was becoming friends with 'Green Guy' as the papers tilted him, Thor might also be able to lead her to Manhunter as well. Everything would go even better than she'd dreamed, as long as she didn't fail to draw him in.

---

Paris Island, Dakota City
Dakota City Medical

"You have powers..." grimaced Frank. Frank wasn't concerned though. Puny Virgil may have gotten powers as well, but he was still Puny Virgil. Powers wouldn't change who he was. Their dynamic may have changed to that of a more equal status, but Frank was sure that he was still superior in every way. He mustered up a laugh to quiet the noise in his head. "Good. I was starting to get tired of you not being able to put up a fight."

Virgil wasn't buying what Frank wasn't selling at all. For the first time since he's known him, Frank didn't seem scary at all. It wasn't just the powers that made Virgil feel this way. This moment just made it possible for him to see Frank for who he actually was. A weak punk who could only feel strong when he beat on those that he saw as weaker than him. And if Virgil had to be honest being able to finally see this sucked. It took out all of the joy in their upcoming fight. That didn't mean he wouldn't still give him what he deserved. The beatdown of his life. "Daisy and Richie, get out of here and head to the Community Center. I won't be able to focus if I'm worried about you two. I'll meet you there." He was glad that his mom was already off work. He didn't need her discovering her son had powers from being in a gangbanging incident nor did he need her to end up caught in the crossfire.

Daisy reached out for Virgil. She wanted to say something. She wanted him to know that he didn't have to fight, but the words were stuck in her throat.

Richie grabbed her hand and softly pulled it down. "He'll be okay. Let's trust him." They turned to head out of the parking lot when Richie called out to Virgil. "Kick his ass, Virg!"

Virgil was about to respond, but Frank beat him to it. He conjured a fireball in his right hand and pulled back to launch it. Time seemed to slow for Virgil. He didn't know if it was a side effect of his powers or his concern for his friends putting his mind into overdrive. He thought back to the gun he was given back at the Big Bang and formed a finger gun. He was glad that lightning and electric currents were faster than flames or people. He didn't waste time charging the energy. He needed it to release immediately. He shot Frank with a blast of electricity. It only pushed him back, but it did its job of stopping him from attacking Daisy and Richie. "Hey, hothead! Your fight's with me. Or can you only fight the defenseless?"

"You're gonna die, freak!" Frank yelled before charging at Virgil with an enflamed fist.

Virgil felt the power surging throughout his body and focused it in his right hand. Electricity surrounded it, sparking wildly. This was going to take some getting used to. He clenched his fist and charged towards Frank. The two met in the middle. Virgil threw a jab at Frank's face while Frank hit him with a gut punch. The two punches connected at the same time. Frank was thrown backwards while Virgil hunched over with a hole burnt into his shirt. Virgil tried to catch his breath before he was able to barely mutter the words, "This was my favorite shirt, you jerk."

Virgil mustered the strength to stand to his feet. He needed to end this fast. He couldn't afford to accidentally blow up the hospital or drag this fight on much longer. He wasn't sure how his powers worked and was afraid that he'd need to recharge if the fight prolonged itself. He surmised that in Frank's case he didn't have that problem. Just like the Firebenders in Avatar as long as he had oxygen he'd be fine. Virgil thought back to Frank's first fire blast from earlier and charged electricity in both of his hands. He was betting it all on this next move.

Frank jumped to his feet fueled with rage. Fire blazed from his eyes and all he could see was red. He noticed the electricity surrounding Virgil's hands and conjured flames around his own. He brought his hands together to combine the two flames and shot them forward in a scorching stream of heat.

Virgil released his two beams and watched as they connected with Frank's. The two seemed to be even in power, neither having the edge in this beam struggle. The heat at the epicenter of their attacks expanded causing an explosion that rocked the area and sent Frank flying. Virgil was somehow able to remain in his spot, albeit tumbling a bit from the shockwave. When the smoke cleared he ran over to Frank who was drifting into unconsciousness. "Frank, 9. Virgil, 1. It looks like your hotstreak's over."

---

Her information had to be taken at face value - as sketchy as it all seemed. It was the only information he had to go on, even if it all was too good to be true.

Bond readied his Walther PPK, screwing on the silencer as the heavy rain dampened the sounds of his footsteps and wettened his hair. He made his way through doors and up stairs, over the partitions between roofs and sidling along ledges that split others. Finally he reached the door that blocked the way to his target.

Before barging in he made some preliminary checks. A quick peek through the keyhole confirmed there was nothing blocking it - if the door wasn't unlocked it would be easy enough to be picked, or at worst kicked in. He peaked around the corner and caught the sight of a black sniper rifle barrel pointing out of the window, with the rain battering the long silencer hanging off the end as the gun swayed and tracked the targets on the street below.

This fit the M.O. Scaramanga was never seen, never caught alive. It made sense that he shot from a distance. Bond relfected that his name might've been better fit as 'The Man with the Golden Bullet' over the Golden Gun.

He readied himself against the door. Lockpicking - even with all this rain - might make too much noise for a man holding a heavy caliber weapon like that. James had the element of surprise, but this could quickly be turned against him if he spent too much time looking for a stealthy way in. Even if he'd lockpicked his way in it would take half a second for Scaramanga to draw his firearm and point it directly at him. No, the forward approach was much better this time.

With a heavy boot he kicked open the door and pointed his pistol square in the eyes of the man in front. He was bespectacled, with a small moustache and a mature hairline. His outfit - much the opposite of what Bond had expected - was a light blue checked shirt tucked into a pair of tan chinos with a similar shade of brown shoes. He barely had time to react before the pistol was pointed directly at his head. He didn't react at all, in fact, maintaining his sight through the rifle.

"I didn't expect it to be this easy to catch you."

"Who said it would be this easy?"

He swung the rifle around quicker than Bond could react, swiping the pistol out of his hand and sending it skidding across the floor of the dirty rooftop shack with its tin roof. Bond reacted as quickly as he was caught - sending an elbow into the centre of the rifle and holding his assailants wrist in place with his other hand. The rifle reacted in kind to opposing forces applied to it and spun in the opposite direction to the pistol.

The moustache reacted quickly, sending an uppercut underneath his gripped arm straight to the jaw of Bond that forced him stumbling backwards. He put up his dukes, blocking another 4 strikes before sending a jab followed by a Thai knee to the midsection that enabled him to pull Bond's attacker into the clinch. He stepped out wide and spun him around, sending another knee into his midsection before sweeping his leg out from underneath him and throwing him flat on his back.

Scaramanga wasn't to be defeated though, as soon as he hit his back he refused to let the wind escape him. He rolled over the shoulder closest to bond in a half iminari roll and tangled up Bond's leg into a straight leg lock. A good move for every situation but this - a strategy that would have caught a lesser man than the expertly trained double-oh agent.

Bond stepped back around the side of the leg lock before it could be perfectly secured and dropped an elbow into the chest of the man, forcing him to let go of the lock as a whole. Both men rolled to their feet and emerged gripping their hidden knives. Bonds hidden in his inner coat pocket, the man opposites within his boot.

They clashed blades, sparks and the noise of metal hitting metal echoing out against the rain as they fenced and parried each other across the room. An occasional punch or shin kick adding a spice to the modern day duel.

Finally Bond advanced forward once more, pressing his serrated blade to the throat of the man in front. The only problem was the edge of the combat knife pressing itself into his stomach. They were at a standstill.

"It seems we're at an impasse."

"Seems so." His accent was far from Spanish. It was distinctly midwestern American.

"I have to say you're not what I expected."

"What exactly were you expecting?"

"Well, I expected a man with a golden gun to be a bit better dress-"

He was stopped mid-sentence by a small vibration in his wrist and the glint of a flash in the corner of his eye. The wristwatch Q had provided.

Bond's eyes widened, pulling the blade half an inch back and planting the sole of his shoe on the mystery mans solar plexus and forcing him back along the room with such force that it caused him to fall back and collapse to the ground. Just in time as the crack of a gunshot echoed through the night air and a bullet crashed through the window and pierced the air between them, embedding itself into the ground.

Both men shared a nervous glance between each other, a silent, solemn vow that communicated everything they needed to know. They had no idea who each other was, but neither of them was the man they were looking for.

They both clambered to their original spot, gripping their respective weapons and gazing out the window. Up on high, far away but just close enough to see stood a figure. One wearing a bright white suit, with a rain poncho pulled up over their jacket and their face. On their hip pointing up to the lightning that tore the skyline was a bright golden sniper rifle - one unlike either had seen before.

Bond couldn't see the figures face. He couldn't see any identifiable features from him. But somehow he knew. He knew that he was smiling.

The figure took off quickly, ducking away under cover of rain and darkness along the roofs. He was too far away and too high up for them to get to quickly. The rain would obscure his tracks and any noise. Scaramanga had been one step ahead.

Bond turned to the man he'd fought as soon as he'd turned to him. For a half second they readied their weapons, and then in a silent agreement they holstered them against their side.

"So, you're not Scaramanga, then?"

"Not quite. The name's Felix Leiter. SHIELD agent."

"Bond. James Bond. MI6."
"How can you tell?"

"No way they'd send anything less for a target like this. I'm lucky enough they've got me on this detail."

Lucky. Quite the word to use. Far away from anything Bond would have described the situation.

"Well, Cowboy. It seems we've both been led down the rabbithole with no clue how to get out."

The sound of ziplines and the agents zipping down them punctuated the air. Too many to be allies.

"Well, what's say we make our own clues, limey?"

"Must be my lucky day."

The footsteps of balacava'd men surrounded the shack, around and on top. Felix raised a finger to his lips, maintaining as much of the broken secrecy they had as possible. He pointed his other thumb to a long, wide case next to him and crouched as quickly and quietly as he could - unlocking it when he was close enough.

Bond approached him all the same. Inside was two weapons, both as sci-fi and foreign as Bond would have expected from a SHIELD agent. They both stood, facing the door and the window that their assailants had to come through. Bond gripped the H&K G11 experimental rifle in his hands, while Leiter was pointing a SPAS-12 in the direction of the window without the barrel penetrating out of it.

The two agents nodded to each other. Bond could only appreciate the mutual professionalism received from an ally he'd held a knife to only moments ago. Both had been trained enough to know what was next.

The door was kicked in for a second time, the masked men attempting to burst their way in at the same time as the ziplines jumped down and into the room.

The three round burst made short work of the three making their way through the door, the two barrages piercing through the first man and into the two following. A volley of shotgun blasts sent the three abseiling in through the windows sliding down their ropes until their corpses ultimately fell onto the streets below.

Again, the two agents nodded to each other. There was no time to be lost with idle chatter. Now was the time for hard facts.

"Have you got an escape plan, cowboy?!"

"Plan, no. Escape yes." Called back Leiter, loading more shells into his shotgun. "I've got a plane not far out the city. Thought I could walk there though, didn't expect shit to hit the fan so quickly."

"How big's your plane?"

"What's it matter how big it is?"

"I've got an Aston Martin and I've promised a friend I won't lose it."

"Big enough, pal. Always happy to ride in style."

Bond smiled back at the American. He liked this guy.

---

The door was hanging almost off its hinges from being kicked in twice now. Felix gripped both ends and with a mighty tug broke it from the frame. Just in time too as a shower of bullets hit and richocheted off the metal door from a pair of agents standing at the end of the roof.

Felix turned over his shoulder and communicated everything he needed with a nod and a stern look. Bond put a hand on his shoulder, both men crouching slightly so that the door was almost flush against the ground. Bullets continued to ping off their makeshift shield until they were in range. With his rifle slung over his shoulder with the strap, he reached for his Walther and with ruthless precision dispatched one of the agents with two shots to the mid section and one right between the eyes.

In the meantime, Leiter charged the remaining agent who was desperately emptying his mag and turning to run away. Felix pushed the door towards his back, sending him stumbling down as the SHIELD agent followed it up with a mighty forearm - sending the man tumbling to his doom off the roof.

Bond checked the slide of his pistol, glancing up at Felix. "I like your style."

"Thank you kindly."

The two cautiously checked their mags, taking what they could from the equipment around them as they had a hurried conversation. "So just what exactly are SHIELD doing in Kowloon, Mr. Leiter? Scaramanga seems a bit out of your teams realm of interest."

Felix was loading a few shells into his shotgun. "You're not wrong there. It's not Scaramanga we're worried about - its who he's been working for."

"And who, pray tell, is that?"

Felix stopped for a moment, resting the butt of the shotgun against his hip with the barrel pointing into the air. "Ever heard of HYDRA?"

"I can't say I have."

"I'm not surprised. They collapsed not long after the war. Some small pockets here and there during the cold war, but nothing we couldn't handle."

"So you're saying they're back?"

"We're worried they never left."

Before they could continue the sound of a helicopter broke the noise of the rain, more ziplines announced the arrival of further Hydra goons being deployed on buildings all around them.

"Time to go."

"You said it, pal."

Their exit was hurried even further by the return of the helicopter, making its way to their position and this time with the two large miniguns pointing in their direction. They began to sprint as a shower of bullets followed them, the horrific tearing noise of the miniguns only matched by the loud clanging that the bullets made as they hit concrete and steel.

James, with his pistol still at the ready, shot a number of bullets through the window of an approaching building, just in the right spots so that when he jumped and threw his shoulder the glass smashed cleanly. Leiter jumped through the space and over James and both tumbled onto their stomachs, the helicopter continuing its path with its guns destroying the room around them.

"Your friends seem upset." Bond shouted over the noise.

"HYRDA ain't very good at letting things go!"

The helicopter swung around outside the shattered windows, floodlights cutting through the rain and sweeping across the building interior like prison searchlights. Bond caught sight of black-armoured figures fast-roping onto the adjacent rooftop. Too many of them. "If we stay here we're dead in thirty seconds!"

Leiter saw it too. His eyes flicked around the ruined room quickly. Destroyed furniture. Liquor shelves. Wiring hanging exposed from the ceiling. Then finally gas lines running beside the kitchen wall. Felix allowed himself a smile.

"I've got an idea!"

Felix reached inside his combat vest and pulled out a pack of gum. He opened it and began unwrapping a piece inside.

"Felix, if your plan is to die with minty breath I think we should explore some alternatives!"

Felix put the gum in his mouth and chewed quickly. "What can I say? Flying makes me stressed!" The SHIELD agent quickly took the gum out of his mouth and tossed it towards the damaged gas pipe beside the kitchen. It stuck right where he wanted it. "Time to move, James!"

The two men sprinted through the opposite doorway just as the room behind them vanished in a violent orange fireball. The blast wave punched through the walls and windows simultaneously, engulfing half the floor in flames and forcing the helicopter to veer sideways through the smoke. It almost crashed into a building opposite, the blades sparking and slicing at the concrete before the pilot took control once more.

But Felix wasn't aiming to destory the helicopter. He was aiming to cause chaos.

HYDRA agents shouted across rooftops while civilians below screamed and scattered through the rain-soaked streets of Kowloon. Car alarms began blaring beneath the gunfight above.

Bond and Felix burst out into a narrow alley three floors below via an emergency stairwell, both coughing through smoke and dust.

"You must tell me what brand of gum you buy." Bond quipped.

"Limited edition. SHIELD's own brand."

The alley opened onto a packed street market still operating - albeit with a hint of tension in the air - despite the chaos overhead. The rain and hum of electronics did a good job at masking the noise above, and Kowloon was no stranger to trouble.

A spotlight hit the duo and the sound from a loudspeaker ehcoed from above like the voice of god. "Targets visual confirmed."

Felix looked upward. "That's not good."

Bond followed his gaze just in time to see the helicopter banking around the buildings toward the street itself.

"Oh dear."

The mounted guns opened fire. The market erupted into panic. Food carts exploded apart beneath the barrage while crowds scattered in every direction. Bond grabbed a terrified child out of the line of fire instinctively, shoving him toward cover behind a concrete pillar before diving alongside Felix through a fish stall.

The Aston Martin sat nearly a block away beneath flickering neon signs exactly where Bond had left it earlier that evening. Unfortunately between them and the car stood about twenty armed HYDRA agents. Felix checked the shells remaining in his SPAS-12. "You still think this is your lucky day?"

Bond straightened his cuffs calmly despite the bullets flying overhead. "Mr. Leiter, if this were my lucky day I'd be in Monte Carlo with a martini."

Another explosion erupted nearby. "You get us out of here and I'll make you a martini myself!"

Bond suddenly grabbed a hanging electrical cable next to them and with quickly used the garrote wire from his cufflinks to cut it in half. It started sparking beside them and looked toward a flooded section of the street where several HYDRA troops were advancing.

Bond tossed the live wire into the water and shockwaves rippled through it. The electrified floodwater surged outward in bright violent flashes, sending the approaching soldiers convulsing violently before collapsing into the street. The remaining agents recoiled in panic.

Bond adjusted his tie. "Shocking behaviour."

The two men sprinted through the confusion toward the Aston Martin as the helicopter descended lower between the buildings behind them like a mechanical predator. Felix lowered to a crouch-run as they passed the bodies, gripping the tactical vest of one of the agents and dragging his unconscious body behind them.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not going back empty handed. We're taking him with us."

He pressed the unlock button and the one for the boot as they approached. Bond vaulted over the bonnet and slid directly into the driver's seat while Felix quickly loaded the unconscious man into the boot and climbed in opposite him still clutching the shotgun.

The engine roared to life instantly. "Now this is nice."

"You Americans say the sweetest things."

The helicopter dropped into the street behind them just as Bond buried his foot against the accelerator. The Aston Martin surged forward through the neon-lit streets of Kowloon, its tyres fighting for grip against rain-slick asphalt. Around them the city became a blur of glowing signs, crowded intersections and startled civilians diving out of the way. Bond threaded the Aston between taxis, delivery vans and market stalls with the sort of confidence that suggested he considered traffic laws more of a polite suggestion than a rule.

Behind them the helicopter remained stubbornly persistent.

It climbed above the rooftops only to descend moments later between the buildings, its floodlights sweeping across the streets as twin miniguns spat streams of fire toward their position. Concrete shattered behind the Aston while rounds chewed through signs, storefronts and anything - or anyone - unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.

"Bond, we've gotta lose this guy!" Felix shouted over the noise. "The plane'll be a sitting duck if he follows us to the runway!"

"I've got a plan."

Bond didn't bother to elaborate just yet. Instead he continued driving, taking turns that seemed increasingly random. They crossed canals, doubled back on themselves and circled entire city blocks. To anyone else it would have looked aimless. To Bond it was simply a matter of finding the right piece of terrain.

Eventually he spotted it. A drawbridge spanning one of Kowloon's harbour channels, already beginning to rise to allow a freighter through beneath it.

"How's your hacking?" Bond asked.

"Good enough. What do you need?"

"I need that bridge up as quickly as possible."

Felix produced a compact SHIELD device from his vest and flipped it open, tapping into a small keyboard.

"Piece of cake."

Bond wasn't entirely convinced. Americans had a tendency to describe incredibly complicated things as simple right before they exploded. Still, a glance in the mirror showed the bridge beginning to rise faster than before, its warning lights flashing as the mechanism groaned into motion. Felix gave a satisfied nod.

"There. Now what?"

"Now we hope your technology is as good as you say."

The helicopter emerged from between two office towers behind them, descending lower as it closed the distance. Whoever was piloting it had clearly decided that things were personal.

Bond accelerated.

The Aston's engine roared in protest as they charged toward the rising bridge. Rain hammered against the windscreen while the gap beneath the structure widened steadily. Behind them the helicopter followed, committed now to the chase.

At the last possible moment Bond activated the nitrous and the Aston leapt forward. Simultaneously he touched the handbrake just enough to unsettle the rear wheels. The car swung sideways as it hit the incline of the rising bridge and launched into open air.

For a brief second there was only rain, steel and empty space beneath them. Then the Aston's headlights slid down and a pair of machine guns emerged from behind them. Bond pressed the firing stud mounted discreetly into the steering wheel and the machine guns erupted to life.

Tracer rounds streaked through the darkness toward the pursuing helicopter. The pilot answered immediately, the two streams of fire crossing one another above the harbour while the rain flashed silver in the muzzle bursts.

Bond wasn't trying to destroy the aircraft. Even he knew that was optimistic. He merely needed to distract the pilot.

The rounds shattered sections of the windshield and forced the helicopter slightly off course, but fortunately, slightly was all it took. One of the rotors clipped the steel framework of the rising bridge. The sound was deafening, the scream of metal against metal practically played in slow-motion as the two watched in hope.

The helicopter lurched violently sideways as fragments of rotor blade exploded outward. For a moment it appeared the pilot might regain control. Then the tail section struck the bridge itself.

That ended any hope of recovery.

The aircraft spun twice before slamming into the steel structure and disappearing into a blossom of orange flame. The explosion illuminated the harbour below and sent burning debris raining into the water. The Aston landed hard on the far side of the channel. Bond fought the wheel, corrected the slide and accelerated away before anyone involved had the opportunity to change their minds.

Beside him Felix looked back through the rear window at the burning wreckage.

"I take back everything I've ever said about British cars."

Bond allowed himself a small smile. The remainder of the journey passed considerably more peacefully. By the time they reached the airfield the unconscious HYDRA operative had begun stirring in the boot. Bond watched as Felix and a pair of ground crew loaded both prisoner and Aston Martin into the cargo aircraft.

"Please tell me he isn't bleeding on the upholstery."

Felix glanced at the captive. "A little."

Bond sighed. "Q is never going to let me hear the end of this."

"Club soda my friend. Works a charm."

Several hours later they were airborne. Bond occupied the co-pilot's seat while Felix guided the aircraft through a blanket of cloud that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. The prisoner remained secured in the cargo bay behind them, still groggy and thoroughly confused.

"So where exactly are we headed?" Bond asked. "Because I'm still no closer to finding Scaramanga than I was this morning."

Felix nodded toward the rear of the aircraft. "That's what I'm hoping our friend back there can help us with. We're headed back home. Safest place for the interrogation."

"And where is home?"

Felix smiled. "Don't worry, James. I'm sure everyone will make you feel more than welcome."

A few hours later the clouds ahead began to part.

Bond had seen photographs of the SHIELD Helicarrier before. Intelligence briefings. Grainy reconnaissance images. The sort of pictures that inevitably made revolutionary technology look rather ordinary.

The reality was something else entirely.

The colossal vessel hung suspended above the clouds like a floating city. Massive engines thundered beneath its structure while aircraft moved across its vast flight deck in carefully choreographed patterns. Sunlight reflected from steel and glass alike, turning the entire machine into something that looked less engineered and more mythical.

For perhaps the first time that day, James Bond found himself momentarily speechless.

---

Otto had been waiting in the queue for what felt centuries - as it often does in lines like these. People just waiting for their chance to be rejected at the door. The invitation had listed all active heroes, but it seemed that some people were trying to stretch the definition of this pretty loosely. The bouncers definitely had their work cut out for them, not that it seemed to bother them very much. They looked to be taking as much joy out of rejecting people as they did from letting the bigger profile heroes cut their way past the queue - much to the chagrin of the onlookers too nervous to speak up for fear of being sent away.

Some had shown up in suits - banking on 'don't you know who my father is?', others had makeshift costumes and crude magic tricks to try and trick the doormen into thinking they had powers, one person even tried to flash an organ donor card and argue that this made them a bigger hero than any of the costumed freaks in there.

Otto paid little attention to it all, he adjusted his rental tux as best he could. It fit, albeit being very slightly too large to accomodate for the Octosuit underneath. Showing up out of costume would just be a danger to him at this point, and its not like anyone knew him without the tentacles anyway. He dropped the wireless headphones, currently bluetooth connected to his phone currently playing the greatest hits of Steely Dan, down to his shoulders as he got closer to the front of the line. He'd experimented with using earbuds, and even an inbuilt sound system for his mask, but dropped both for fear of the first being a trouble to remove without taking off his mask, and the second for fear of these being hacked and used against him.

He stood up straight and began to speak as he faced the doorman, who silenced him with a palm turned to face him as he turned and pressed a finger into the earpiece. Otto patiently waited while the bouncers ignored him and talked casually to each other. This was his first mistake. Otto had never been to a place as upmarket as this, and the pubs and clubs he and his friends frequented were best described as 'cheap and cheerful'. What mattered here was confidence. Giving off the aura that you belong. Otto had just demonstrated that he didn't at all.

"Uh, guys, I think I'd like to enter the gala now." He finally spoke.

"Oh would ya? Hey, Frank this guy would like to enter the gala" One of the bouncers said in a mocking tone, elbowing his pal gently in the ribs.

"And just who are you supposed to be? The bombastic bag man?"

"I'm the Octopus! You don't watch the news? I took down that giant crab monster in the bay?"

"Pfft, I ain't heard of ya."

"Oh, no I have heard of this guy!"

Otto's eyes sparked with joy. A surge of hope paced through his heart at the thought of being recognised, and of getting into the gala.

"Yeah! This guys that sign spinner on 47th street!" The second bouncer snapped his fingers. "That's it! Octopus Auto Sales!"

"What?"

"Octopus Auto Sales. Route 9. Big inflatable octopus out front. Wavin' all them arms around."

"That's not me."

"Coulda sworn it was."

"It's not."

The first bouncer squinted at him. "Listen buddy, this ain't the event for sign spinners. You either take a hike or we throw you on one."

---

Otto sat on the roof opposite the gala scratching his chin and wondering if he should just bin it all and go for a sandwich. No. He said internally. You are a superhero. You belong here.

That was it, who was he to let those two meatheads tell him who he was? All his life people like that pushed him around and told him what to do. Not tonight. He thought about swinging his way in, finding an open skylight or making one. But if he used his tentacles he'd either need to take off his suit jacket and shirt completely - and god knows he had no clue how to re-tie his bowtie without a youtube video and 30 minutes, or let them tear through the back of the suit entirely. That might have looked cool, but this suit was a rental and he did not have the money to spend if he broke it.

He'd need to do this the old fashioned way.

Sneaking around the perimeter of the gala building, and keeping clear out of view of any staff, he found his way to what he was looking for. An open window, just big enough for him to slide through. The most coveted of all secret entrance routes - the bathroom window.

Stacking various refuse and boxes from the alley around him, he balanced on his makeshift jenga pile before launching himself through the window. He landed with a mighty thud, in a crumple against the bathroom floor.

Beverly Flight Center, Beverly Massachusetts

---

"Baby Danvers! It's been a while."

Despite her generally not approving of the nickname, Carol couldn't keep the smile entirely off her lips as the wizened figure of Larry Khan approached her. A second generation Pakistani-American, Carol had little doubt 'Larry' was just a name men like her father had thrown onto Mr Khan in lieu of actually learning how to pronounce the real thing, but it was the only name she'd ever known him by, or heard him use.

"Hey Larry, sorry about that, I guess I … Just haven't felt the itch in a while." A complete lie, ever since her brother had snuck her to the airfield without her dad knowing she'd been in love with flying. She just didn't need Mr Khan and his Airfield to get that fix anymore. It wasn't the thought of flying that had brought her back to the airfield today. Grief never really seemed to leave her for good, flooding back in waves after months of being able to handle her life. Most of her better memories of her brothers were here, she'd just wanted to be where she could feel them most.

"It's ok, you don't need to explain that to me." Larry smiled, turning to open the door to the somewhat ramshackle office that made up the closest thing to ATC at the airfield. Once inside she was immediately hit with the sputtering noise of an ancient AC and the smell of slightly burned coffee wafting from the pot. It was enough to hit her with a wave of memories of the three Danvers' kids spending far too much time here and not at home. One half of the primary room of the simple structure was made up of office desks with ancient computers, the other half a series of beaten up couches and a few vending machines. The border between office and lounge was made up entirely of a rather low lying reception desk that was almost never manned separately from whoever just happened to be at one of the office desks.

Despite the presence of several dedicated seats, Carol moved to hop up onto the reception counter, her old spot when her brothers were crashing on the couches with their friends. Usually one of them gave her a hand up. Larry laughed slightly, but didn't protest, moving to begin pouring two cups of coffee from the steaming pot. The sorry state of the AC, which had certainly not improved in the long years of service, resulted in a hot enough room that Carol removed the comforting layer of her brother's flight jacket, resting it over her lap.

"I suppose your one doesn't fit anymore." Larry returned with both mugs, holding over one to Carol. Steam wafted from the liquid in an affirming torrent of its temperature. She took a sip right away, she had always enjoyed her coffee as hot as possible, that it could no longer burn her was an added bonus. As she finished her sip she let out a shallow laugh.

"Not for a few years." When Steve had first earned his wings with the Air Force they'd celebrated along with Khan, his family and the other airfield regulars. It was then that they'd revealed what they'd done for her, a custom jacket in the style of her brother's to wear while he was away. It had been one of her most treasured possessions, until the good luck it was meant to bring her brother had failed. Now she had his old one to wear.

"That was a good day." Larry mused as he sat down at one of the desk, the embattled hum of the ancient computer stirring to life as he woke it up. Some of the tech at the airfield was a little less dilapidated, thanks to the effort of Larry's nephew, but he was still loath to throw away anything that still had some life in it. She knew that both of their memories of the past were tinged with the power of nostalgia, but it was hard not to get swept up in the feeling while sitting where she was.

Carol was about to offer another tidbit of their ancient history, before one of the doors in the back swung open. A taller and much younger version of Larry pushed through the creaking hinges, carrying a great bundle of wires in varying states of disrepair.

"Uncle, I told you, you've got to take better care of-" Imran Khan stopped in his tracks as he saw her, a look of shock and then a more icy distance passed over his features. He didn't mention anything further, simply focusing on pulling what must really have been a vast tangle of wiring free from the storage cupboard. Larry glanced between them, his weathered face crinkling into a confused smile.

"Imran, look who it is! Carol Danvers. You remember her, don't you? The four of you used to be inseparable when you were kids. Always running around the tarmac together."

Imran's jaw tightened. He yanked the last coil of wire free from the cupboard with more force than necessary, the bundle of copper and rubber slapping against his thigh.

"Yeah. I remember." His voice was flat, stripped of any warmth the memory might have carried. He turned toward the front door, the wires trailing behind him like a reluctant tail. "I'm going to work on the radio in the hangar. Don't wait up."

The door swung shut behind him with a definitive click.

Larry blinked, coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at Carol with the helpless bewilderment of someone who had missed every beat of a song he thought he knew by heart.

Carol stared at the closed door. The coffee in her hands had gone from scalding to merely warm in the span of that brief, bruising encounter. She set it down on the counter beside her thigh.

"I'll be back," she said, sliding off the counter. The flight jacket slipped from her lap and she caught it one-handed, balling the worn leather against her chest before pushing through the same door Imran had disappeared through.

It was a deceptively far walk to the hanger, airfields being what they were it would take only a few moments in a vehicle, but on foot it was a rather more tiresome trek to catch up.

The hangar was cavernous and dim, lit by the gray afternoon light bleeding through the high windows and the sickly yellow glow of a single fluorescent tube that had been flickering for as long as she could remember. Imran was already at the far end, kneeling beside an open panel in the hangar's ancient radio console, wires spilling across the concrete like entrails.

She crossed the distance between them, her sneakers scuffing against the oil-stained floor. He didn't look up.

"Imran."

His hands stilled on the wiring. Then resumed. "I'm working."

"I noticed." She stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked beneath the skin. "You want to tell me what that was back there?"

He pulled a wire free with a sharp tug. "What was what?"

"Don't." The word came out harder than she intended. She softened her voice. "Don't do that. We both know you're not going to pretend you don't know me for Larry's benefit out here."

He set the wire down slowly, deliberately, and finally looked up at her. His eyes were dark and furious in a way that made something in her chest clench.

"Fine." He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. He was taller than she remembered — they'd been the same height the last time she'd seen him up close. "You want to know what that was? That was me not being in the mood to play catch-up with someone who spent four years pretending I didn't exist."

The accusation landed like a slap. She opened her mouth, but he wasn't finished.

"Every day at school. Every hallway, every cafeteria, every class we shared. You walked right past me like I was a stranger. Like we didn't build that stupid model F-16 together in your garage. Like I wasn't at your house every weekend for three years." His voice cracked on the last word and he pressed his lips together, turning his face toward the radio console. "After Steve-"

He stopped. Swallowed. The fluorescent light buzzed and stuttered overhead.

"After the funeral, you didn't call. You didn't come by. You just... vanished. And then I'd see you at school laughing with those girls from the cheer squad and it was like — like Steve never happened. Like none of it ever happened."

Carol's throat had gone tight. She stared at the oil stains on the concrete, at the frayed edge of her brother's jacket clutched in her fist.

"Imran, I—" Her voice was rough. She tried again. "I'm sorry. I am. I know I was... I wasn't good to you. After. I wasn't good to anyone."

"Sorry." He repeated the word like he was testing its weight, finding it insufficient. "You know what sorry gets me? Years of silence, of watching you act like you'd never met me."

"I said I'm sorry." The words came out sharper now, the guilt in her chest curdling into something hotter. "What do you want me to do? Go back in time?"

"I want you to—" He threw his hands up, the bundle of wires swinging. "I don't know, Carol. I want you to acknowledge that it happened. That it hurt. That you weren't the only person who lost something when Steve—"

"Don't." The word came out like a blade. Something in her snapped — a thread she'd been holding taut since she walked through the hangar door. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me what I lost."

Imran's mouth opened, then closed.

"You lost your friend." Her voice was shaking now, and she hated it, hated the tremor, hated that she couldn't keep it together in front of him. "I know. I know you did. And I'm sorry about that — genuinely, Imran, I am. But you want to know what I lost? I lost my brothers. The only people in that house who gave a single damn about whether I ate dinner or came home or was still breathing." Through the pain of her own thoughts she could feel the desire to fight, to fly, blazing within her. She had enough of her senses remaining to fight it down, to keep it from burning into reality in the glow of her eyes. Even still, she missed that as she took a step forwards the ancient pavement beneath her forward foot began to blister and crack.

She was moving toward him without meaning to, closing the distance between them.

"And after he was gone, you know who was left? My dad. My drunk, checked-out, couldn't-find-his-way-to-the-kitchen-if-you-drew-him-a-map dad. So yeah, Imran. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that your friend's little sister was a little mean to you at school. I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sorry I sat with the cheer squad and pretended everything was fine while my father drank himself through every bottle in the house, because I was fourteen years old and alone." Her voice broke on the last word. The fluorescent light buzzed and buzzed, filling the silence she'd left.

Imran stood very still. The anger had drained from his face, replaced by something else, something raw and open that made her want to look away.

"I didn't know," he said quietly.

"Of course you didn't." She wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, furious at the tears, furious at herself for crying in front of him, furious at the whole miserable architecture of her life. "Nobody knew. That was the point."

It was fortunate he was entirely focused on her, because as the emotion boiled within her, that same fluorescent bulb hanging on high began to glow with more intensity than it had in years, the old fitting practically screaming to contain the energy flaring from her.

"I would have come," he said. "If you'd called. If you'd let me in. I would have been there."

She laughed, a broken sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. "Yeah. Sure you would have."

"I mean it." He took a step toward her, and the wires finally slipped from his fingers, pooling at his feet like something surrendering. "Carol, I mean it. I would have come. I would have sat on your porch every night if you'd let me. I would have—"

"Would have, would have, would have." She shook her head, pressing Steve's jacket harder against her chest. "That's the thing about would haves, Imran. They're easy. They don't cost you anything. You get to say them years later and feel like you did something."

"That's not fair."

"No." She met his eyes. "It's not. None of it is."

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Ran a hand through his hair, that same nervous gesture he'd had since they were kids, pulling at the curls at the back of his neck when he didn't know what to say. She remembered it so clearly it made something ache behind her sternum.

"Look," he said, softer now, and the anger was gone entirely, replaced by something that looked dangerously like the boy she'd known. "I'm sorry I didn't see it. I'm sorry I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn't look hard enough at yours. And I'm sorry I was an asshole about it just now. That wasn't … I shouldn't have laid into you like that."

The sincerity in his voice was like a crack in ice she'd spent years building. She could feel it — the warmth of it, the pull of it — the part of her that wanted to step forward and let the whole frozen structure come down.

She almost did.

For one breath, one terrible, vulnerable moment, she almost let herself soften. Almost let the words come — I missed you, I missed this place, I missed having someone who remembered Steve the way I did — almost let the wall crack and crumble and let him see the wreckage behind it.

But then she thought of the chair she'd put up to block her own door. The empty bottles lined up on the kitchen counter like headstones. The way she'd learned, bone-deep and permanent, that the only person who would ever reliably be there was the one standing in her own skin.

She straightened. Pulled the jacket on, Steve's jacket, her armor — and zipped it to her chin.

"Thanks for the apology," she said. Her voice was steady now. Steadier than she felt. "I mean that. But I didn't come back here looking for anything. I came back because I wanted to sit on a counter and drink bad coffee and remember my brother. That's all."

Imran's face fell. She watched it happen, watched the hope drain out of him like water through cupped fingers. She made herself not care.

"Carol—"

"I'm fine, Imran." She turned toward the hangar door, Steve's jacket settling across her shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. "I've been fine for a long time. I don't need anyone."

She turned to leave with more haste than could really be written off as someone who didn't care. Imran at first made to follow her but stopped in his tracks. The moment Carol had slipped out of the hanger, that ancient light fitting had finally given up, plunging him, and the ruin of their old lives, into darkness.