[IC] Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ A MULTI-FANDOM SINGULAR UNIVERSE ROLEPLAY ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

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^{◼ G M (s): Lord Wraith ◼ C O N S U L T I N G G M: TBD ◼ G E N R E: Fandom ◼ T Y P E: Sandbox with linear and Collaborative Arcs}

^{"We all wish we had super powers."
"We all wish we could do more than we can do."
S T A N L E E ( 1 9 2 2 - 2 0 1 8 )}

N O T A B L E I N D I V I D U A L S:

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BRAND, ABIGAIL - Abigail Brand is the Director of S.W.O.R.D.

CORNELIUS, DR. ABRAHAM - Dr. Abraham Cornelius is the current head of Project CADMUS and visionary of the new wave of super soldiers.

DJOSER, THEO RAMSES - King Theo Ramses the Second is the current ruler of Kahndaq, currently pursuing a relationship with Bialya to form a union between their two nations.

FURY, NICHOLAS J. - Director Nicholas J. Fury, or simply 'Nick', oversees S.H.I.E.L.D.

FISK, WILSON - The Mayor of New York City.

SIRTIS, BEATRIZ MARCIA - Queen Beatriz Marcia Sirtis of Bialya is the ruler of Kahndaq's neighbouring nation.

STEDMAN, CECIL - Cecil Stedman is the director of the covert paramilitary Global Defense Agency.

WALLER, AMANDA - Amanda Waller, or 'the Wall', oversees A.R.G.U.S. and its subdivisions.

N O T A B L E I N F O R M A T I O N:

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A.I.M. - Originally an offshoot of Hydra, Advanced Idea Mechanics or A.I.M. is best described as an organization of scientists and their hirelings dedicated to the acquisition of power and overthrowing of all the world's governments through science and technology. The organization supplies arms and technology to various terrorist and subversive organizations to foster a violent technological revolution and to generate profit.

A.R.G.U.S. - The Advanced Research Group Uniting Superhumans, A.R.G.U.S. is an international group headed by Amanda Waller, specializing in the ‘procurement’ of superhuman resources.

◼ D.E.O.: A subdivision of A.R.G.U.S., the Department of Extranormal Operations is run by Special Secret Agent Robert Todd, otherwise known as Mister Bones. The subdivision monitors and catalogues superhumans and those with abilities, using this data to prevent any threat to the general public.

◼ PROVIDENCE: Providence is a specialized militarized offshoot of A.R.G.U.S. that was created in response to the Nanite Event. A public-facing entity, perhaps more so than its parent organization, Providence's first priority is to cure the naninte-infected EVOs; if a cure cannot be secured, then they are to contain the threat. As an absolute last resort, Providence will issue a kill command, but their official doctrine is 'Cure, Contain, or Kill.'

EARTH PROTECTION FORCE - The Earth Protection Force was once an intelligence organization established in secret by the US government in the wake of the Roswell incident to counter extraterrestrial threats on Earth. It served as the primary planetary defense agency throughout the Cold War and the early 21st century before S.W.O.R.D.'s founding. Soon after, the EPA had its funding significantly reduced, and almost its entire staff was transferred to the new agency before the organization was dissolved six months later. Conspiracy theories regarding the EPA appeared on the internet, claiming it currently operates as a secret black-ops unit filled with Men in Black agents, with its sole purpose now serving as a failsafe in the unlikely event that extraterrestrial threats manage to bypass the impenetrable defenses built by S.W.O.R.D

FOOT, THE - The Foot is a ninja clan founded during the Bakumatsu after the Hamato Clan, like other clans, was dismantled and consolidated around the kazoku. They operated as an organized crime syndicate akin to the Yakuza, even though the two gangs often clashed over territory in the Japanese archipelago. But the Foot's use of ninjutsu, their entry into corporate espionage and sabotage, and their subtle operations allowed them to survive relatively well into the present. Its leader, known only as The Shredder, then became personally involved in expanding operations to the United States, particularly in New York City. Their presence arguably prevented an all-out war with the Hand from breaking out. Even though the public doubts their existence, those who have encountered them understand why it's best not to get crushed by the Foot.

FOREVER KNIGHTS, THE - The Forever Knights are a centuries‑old secret order obsessed with controlling, weaponizing, or eradicating anything they consider “unnatural,” a definition that has shifted with every generation. Originally founded in medieval Europe to hunt dragons and other mythical beasts, the order splintered over time into competing sects, with some focusing on hoarding alien technology and others on purging metahumans, mutants, and extraterrestrials from Earth. One of their factions, headed by Sir Enoch, was halted five years ago by Ben Tennyson, with many of its members ending up in prison for their crimes, including Sir Enoch. Due to the nature of this blow, the organization has since gone underground.

GLOBAL DEFENSE AGENCY - A clandestine and covert paramilitary law enforcement intelligence agency, the Global Defense Agency is overseen by Director Cecil Stedman and is tasked with monitoring and handling global superhuman threats. Operating from a hidden base beneath the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, the G.D.A. is presumably affiliated or associated with the United States federal government. However, its operations extend far beyond domestic borders. Despite nearly no one knowing of it, it is one of the few agencies willing to sponsor superheroes in place of traditional law enforcement.

JUSTICE SOCIETY - The Justice Society, or Justice Society of America, otherwise known as the J.S.A. was an active organization of Superheroes following World War II before being forcibly disbanded following the conclusion of the Cold War. Often considered the 'Golden Age' of heroics, the J.S.A. gave birth to the modern image of the masked or caped hero and enjoyed a period of unregistered activity that endeared them to the general populace. However, attitudes changed and calls for accountability eventually led to the Society going their separate ways.

HYDRA - Initially known as the Brotherhood of the Spear, HYDRA's beginnings took place as far back as the thirteenth dynasty in connection with the cult of Imhotep. Over time, the Brotherhood left Egypt and ingrained itself like a multi-headed serpent into all facets of human society, from science to magic to politics. The Brotherhood's name was almost prophetic however, as they came into possession of the Spear of Destiny, the very weapon used to pierce the side of the Christ. Much of HYDRA's power and influence came from the Holy Lance, but it was lost after World War II. Without it, HYDRA receded into the shadows again before ultimately splintering into several factions.

NANITE EVENT, THE - The Nanite event occurred five years ago in the small European nation of Abysus due to the interference of A.I.M. during the Stark Expo, which led to a breach. Despite a failsafe that prevented any airborne nanites from becoming active, quarantine ultimately failed. In the fallout, these nanites have spread in some form all over the globe. Thankfully, they seem unable to self-replicate outside of a living body. Strangely, only planet life in Abysus seems to host nanites; they are attempting to spread but Providence has teams around the border of Abysus creating a one-hundred-metre deadzone.

PROJECT CADMUS - A shadowy organization within the government that is run with impunity, answering to only Director of Homeland Security Alexander Pierce and the President. Created in response to the successful creation of a super soldier in Captain America, Cadmus has been dedicated to recreating the same serum that transformed a young man into Captain America. While efforts to replicate the serum have been inconclusive, Cadmus has crafted several experiments to help humanity stay ahead in the age of superheroes. Due to the success of the Weapon X Program under his supervision, Abraham Cornelius was promoted to and currently is the director and lead scientist of Cadmus. Cadmus willingly works with every government organization, but never without quid pro quo and never on the books.

PURPLE DRAGONS - The Purple Dragons is a street gang founded in New York City's Lower East Side. It is particularly known for utilizing the image of a purple dragon in their graffiti, tattoos, and even clothing. Their activities include racketeering, illegal gambling, arms trafficking, extortion, assault, and murder. The Dragons were merely one of the gang vying for control until Hun and Angel emerged as its leaders, aggressively expanding their operations across the city. And within a couple of years, the street gang found itself seated alongside the most influential crime families on the East Coast. At the same time, a rumor quickly spread around the underworld that ninjas bearing a red, trident-like footprint on their uniforms have been seen alongside the Purple Dragons and their leaders.

R-KER ISLE - Rising from the East River between the Bronx and Queens, this formidable prison houses only the most dangerous inmates and superpowered villains alike, its reputation as unforgiving as its walls. Ryker’s Isle's history is steeped in darkness, having served as a prison during the Cold War. Ryker's Isle loomed as a symbol of oppression during that time, its concrete walls and looming watchtowers stretching shadows across the restless river. When it was renamed 'R-ker' Isle by order of Mayor Fisk, it returned to its role as a maximum-security prison. Still, rumours persist that the anguished and experimented souls of the Cold War victims still haunt its halls, their cries echoing through the night. Notably, it is also the origin of the escaped fugitive known as Sticks, a Japanese soldier who is really good with the blade.

S.H.I.E.L.D. - The Strategic Homeland Infiltration and Espionage Logistics Division is a shadowy branch of the United States Government and operates with the highest security clearance within the borders of the U.S.

SPEEDWAGON FOUNDATION - Founded by Robert E.O. Speedwagon in the early 20th century, the Speedwagon Foundation existed primarily as a means to funnel their founders wealth in oil and real estate into effective research of and defense against certain paranatural phenomena. With extensive research into vampirism, ancient humanity, and the mysterious Stand phenomenon, the Speedwagon Foundation particularly specializes in those areas where the line between magic and metahumanity begins to blur. Through liaison with SHIELD and ARGUS, the Speedwagon Foundation remains one of the leading private interests in the globally developing superhuman community.

STANDS - A largely misunderstood phenomenon toeing the line between metahumanity and magic. A Stand typically manifests as a ghost-like entity bound to its user, sharing effects and damage between Stand and user/host. Stands come in a variety of forms, possessing innumerable distributions of power, durability, range, speed, precision, and developmental potential. Almost every Stand possesses some kind of special ability, shared with its host, ranging from elemental control to the manipulation of time itself, though these abilities are typically metered with an esoteric restriction or activation condition. Stands have remained largely unknown due to the secrecy of the phenomenon: the Stand ghosts themselves appear imperceptible to those without Stands or enhanced abilities of their own, though a handful of ordinary humans have managed to overcome this factor through feats of will. Stands were originally believed to come from an extraterrestrial virus, killing most hosts but infecting a select few with powerful abilities. However, further research has indicated Stands can manifest from a variety of phenomena, the nature of which is still being researched to this day.

S.W.O.R.D. - The Sentient World Observation and Response Division is a joint venture between S.H.I.E.L.D. and A.R.G.U.S. aimed at collecting information on extraterrestrial worlds while also being Earth’s first countermeasure to any threat from the stars.

T.C.R.I. - Techno Cosmic Research Institute is a scientific corporation headquartered in Brooklyn, New York that performs research and development of new products and technologies for space and sea. Their partnerships with S.T.A.R. Labs, LexCorp, and various corporations and research organizations worldwide have led to breakthroughs in deep-sea and space exploration. In recent years, however, the institute has begun developing an alternative propellant for rockets and space stations. But they're facing public scrutiny after an explosion at one of their facilities caused a chemical leak that spread to the nearby city of Dakota and led to a mass mutation with its victims being referred to as a "Bang Baby" by national media. CEO Baxter Stockman has yet to respond or even comment on a situation that happened just days ago.

WATCHER'S COUNCIL, THE - An ancient and largely secretive organization tasked with observing, training, directing, and ensuring the Slayer line over centuries. Originating from the original Shadowmen, the Council has historically sought to control the Slayer with knowledge, prophecy, and ritual. They present as guardians against darkness; while their methods often prioritize order and authority, there are those in their number who influence in different ways and following the fractures of the Slayer line, the council has branched

WOLFRAM & HART - A powerful law firm operating as a front for ancient demonic forces. They have deep ties to corruption, chaos, and manipulation. Their influence extends across legal, political, and supernatural spheres, and they often shape events from behind the scenes. They are devoted to advancing the interests of darkness, particularly those aligned to the Old Ones.

O N G O I N G P L O T S:

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_{H A W K M A N}

THE ETERNAL NIGHT

Premordial forces are disturbed when fanatic cultists follow archaeologists who unearth a hidden city in South America that was meant to be left buried and forgotten. Inside were twisted creatures imbued by the power of the bat-god, CAMAZOTZ, who is determined to bring about the end of the Fifth Cycle by way of the Eternal Night. To do this, the bat-god requires sacrifice wrought by a deathbringer, and he has set his eyes on CARTER HALL.

^{Driving Player: Lord Wraith
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^{#001
#008
#013
#016}

_{Z A T A N N A}

STRANGE ACADEMY

TBD

^{Driving Player: Ezekiel
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#002

_{B E N 1 0}

INTERGANG

TBD

^{Driving Player: Natty
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^{#003
#007
#011
#014}

_{B L A C K K N I G H T}

HEIR

After learning of his estranged grandfather's death, directionless loser DANE WHITMAN suddenly comes into possession of a mysterious sword apparently containing the spirits of his family line stretching back centuries. It becomes quickly apparent that the sword won't be simply ignored, and Dane is thrust head-long into a war that's been raging for a millenia, forced to face a destiny he neither asked for nor could anticipate - and there's a long journey in store for him.

^{Driving Player: Roman
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#004

_{S E C R E T W E A P O N S}

A NANITE PROBLEM

TBD

^{Driving Player: Sep
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#005
#017

_{B A T G I R L & S U P E R G I R L}

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

TBD

^{Driving Player: Ruby
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#006
#012

_{M R & M R S D A R E D E V I L}

KISS, KISS; KILL, KILL

TBD

^{Driving Player: Silverstein
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#009

_{B U F F Y S U M M E R S}

LIFE'S A BEACH, THEN YOU DIE

TBD

^{Driving Player: Stormyx
Players Involved: TBD
Related Posts:}

^#010

_{G A M B I T & R O G U E}

X GONNA GIVE IT TO YA

TBD

^{Driving Player: Pacifista
Players Involved: Hillan
Related Posts:}

^#015

[Lord Wraith]

Every story has a beginning.

Ours begins in stillness and silence._______________________________

_______________________________Unknowable stillness and silence.

The human mind can not comprehend the absence in which the world began. An endless dark sky above bottomless waters—the great Void, completely devoid of light or life. But from beyond this Void, Ōmeteōtl, the Two-God, looked down from their lofty perch in Omeyocan and gave birth to four sons.

A father filled with pride, the Lord of Duality looked upon his offspring and named them, East, North, South and West. Each was given dominion and power to shape the Void and give it life.

The eldest, East, also known as Xipe Totec, bore the title of Flayed Lord. Xipe Totec would grow to govern the fields, signalling new beginnings within the void. Ordained in glistening jewelry, Xipe Totec would become the Red god of agriculture, rebirth and goldsmiths.

The next born, North, took the name Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, the Black god of the night sky, knower of all thoughts, the ever-present jaguar god and the mighty omnipotent hunter. It was Tezcatlipoca whose name would live on and govern over his brothers, uniting them as the Four Tezcatlipoca.

For himself, South, the second youngest, chose the name Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent and the White god of the Winds. Quetzalcoatl harnessed the flow of time and knowledge, bringing about books and calendars. When the time came, Quetzalcoatl brought maize to man and filled their bellies.

The youngest of the Four Tezcatlipoca was West, the god of warfare and the fearsome Huītzilōpōchtli. The stinging hummingbird of the left, Huītzilōpōchtli, was Ōmeteōtl’s greatest protector and the sole defender against the Infinite Night, a terrible fate to be yet wrought by the bat god, Camazotz.

When the sons of Ōmeteōtl reached maturity at six hundred years of age, they brought forth the first sun, signalling what would be the beginning of the first cycle. Life was breathed into the void, but life required sacrifice. And so, Tezcatlipoca sacrificed himself to the fires of the sun, and the first cycle of man officially began.

But this cycle was doomed to fail. Though the world was thriving, Quetzalcoatl’s own heirs began to meddle, and Tepeu and Kukulkan, along with Huracán, created animals. They were created first but could only squawk, howl, or roar, failing to speak or worship the gods. In frustration, the animals began to rebel, and eventually, jaguars, with their powerful jaws, consumed the whole world and all upon it.

After meddling with the First Cycle, Quetzcoatl, the third-born, was sacrificed to the fire to begin the Second Cycle. This time, the Earth was populated by a people made of wood. These people walked to every end of the Earth and multiplied, but they were heartless, soulless, and emotionless, lacking memory of their creators. They gave no reverence or respect to the gods. Despite another failure, Tezcatlipoca grew jealous of Quetzcoatl’s world and wanted to be the reigning Sun. In his fit of envy, Tezcatlipoca turned himself into a Tiger and threw Quetzcoatl from his throne. In response, the winds brought forth terrible storms and the world was engulfed by hurricanes and floods.

The Third Cycle was not wrought by one of the four sons, but by the ruling deities of rain and storm, Tlaloc and Chaac. From the waters rose people made of mud, but these were soft, limp, and could not think or speak, so they too were destroyed. But this world too came to an end when Quetzcoatl rained fire and ash upon Tlaloc’s creation.

At the end of the fourth sun, the gods gathered at Teotihuacan to decide who had to sacrifice themselves for the new cycle to begin. While the gods deliberated the next cycle, Huehuetéotl, the elderly fire god, started an immensely large, sacrificial bonfire. Its flames reached the heavens as the gods continued to deliberate and debate amongst themselves, but none of the most important gods wanted to jump into the flames.

Suddenly, one stepped forward. The rich and proud god Tecuciztecatl, the Lord of the Snails, moved towards the fire, but not before he suddenly hesitated, and during that hesitation, the hero twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque, linked hands and together leaped into the roaring flames.

Tecuciztecatl moved to stop the twins, realizing all too late that two suns would overwhelm the world, so they threw a rabbit at Xbalanque, and he became the moon. The two celestial bodies were set in motion by Ehecatl, the god of the wind, who fiercely and violently blew the sun into motion.

The Fifth Sun continues to this very day and is ruled by Tonatiuh, the sun god. This fifth sun is characterized by the day sign Ollin, which means movement. The death of this cycle is heavily guarded by Huītzilōpōchtli, who defends the world from the Eternal Night. It is said that this world will come to an end through earthquakes, darkness and all the people will be eaten by sky monsters.

Those who worship Tontiuh are considered to be the People of the Sun, and therefore, their sacred duty is to nourish the Sun god through blood offerings and sacrifices. Failure to do this would cause the end of their world and the disappearance of the sun from the sky.

Were Huītzilōpōchtli ever slain, it would leave the world vulnerable to the Endless Night. His end would herald the way forward for Camazotz as the world is plunged into darkness.

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

|| Present - St. Roch, Louisiana

The busy diner was bustling with conversation as people came and went about their morning. The welcoming aroma of coffee was laden with the sizzling smells of frying bacon, sausages, eggs and pancakes. Outside, the small diner’s patio lay the rest of the St. Roch Food Hall, the center of the St. Roch market. The market was a sprawling collection of vendors, ranging from a farmer’s market to numerous food and beverage establishments to artisanal goods and services.

It was an essential visit for anyone making their first trip to St. Roch.

At least, that’s what Pratt had been told. Smiling to himself, he sipped on his coffee before looking down at his watch. Tapping the antique face, he watched the second hand continue to tick by while admiring the empty booth in front of him. The din of constant conversations was enough to keep Pratt out of his own head, but they didn’t distract from the droning television in the corner.

Tensions continue to escalate in the Middle East as Kahndaq and Bialya approach the final stages of negotiations to unite their nations. The union between the sovereign Kahndaq ruler and the Queen of Bialya has left leaders of the neighbouring countries, Qurac and Umec, on edge, with both nations ramping up military preparations amid fears of hostilities from Kahndaq’s ongoing expansion.

In local news, crime in St. Roch is at an all-time low, thanks to the efforts of the admittedly controversial Hawkman. A local ‘powered individual,’ Hawkman has sparked significant debate, with some calling for his arrest and others praising him as a hero or guardian angel. Known for his use of extreme force and antiquated weaponry, many residents of St. Roch wonder why this vigilante has yet to be detained.

We now go live to an interview with Commissioner George Emmett—

“Heh,” Pratt stifled a small chuckle, smiling behind his mug as he took another sip of the bitter, hot liquid.

Hawkman was not a name that Pratt had heard in what felt like a lifetime. Before Palmer, Pratt had been the first Atom, serving alongside Hawkman in the Justice Society. Back in a day and age when people were a lot less cynical about men and women running around in colourful capes and tights.

Carter Hall, or Katar, had been a hell of a warrior. But for every bit the warrior Carter had been, Shiera was that and a looker. Pratt gave his head a shake, suddenly realizing he had been holding his breath, still remembering the first moment he saw Shiera remove her helmet.

The red hair that spilled down over her angelic shoulders was more than just a taste of her beauty and enough to set fire to the hearts of men everywhere.

It made sense why Carter always fought for her.

The ding of the door’s bell caught the elderly man’s attention, raising his aging eyes as Pratt looked towards a younger, dark-haired man.

“Ah, Raymond!” Pratt called, motioning towards the man at the door. “‘Bout time you learned to read a watch.”

“Apologies, apologies,” Ray replied, “Ryan and I are scrambling to get the ‘Atom Project’ off the ground, but now we have Pym’s legal team coming after us.” He paused, letting out a sigh, “Thanks for meeting me, I know Carter’s been–”

The ding of the bell suddenly echoed through the diner, cutting off Ray mid-sentence as the door was forcibly kicked open. Standing in the doorway was a man robed in a black jumpsuit, a crown-like emblem upon his chest, while either hand gripped a gun connected to hoses that ran to a container of sorts attached to his back.

“I heard you folks wanted to spice up your life. Well, here I am.” The man cackled, “Your favourite flavourful foe, the Condiment King!”

“This is what passes as a villain for you kids?” Pratt asked as Ray shook his head with a smile.

“Poor sucker doesn’t realize this ain’t Gotham.” Ray chuckled.

“You boys havin’ a giggle, are you? I hope you relish the moment you made the Condiment King bring out the hot sauce.”

“Is he serious?” Pratt asked Ray, “Are you serious?” Pratt stood up, addressing the Condiment King, “You haven’t even made a demand? Do you want my wallet? I feel like I should buy you a real gun.”

“I uh-” The Condiment King stuttered, “I-, I demand you sit down and uh, no wait, I mustard insist.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Pratt began rolling up his sleeve, “I’ll put his lights out myself.”

“C’mon, Al, just wait a minute-”

“Yeah, listen to your friend, old man. I’d hate to put you in a pickle!”

“A pickle isn’t a condiment, it’s a damn garnish.”

“No,” Palmer interjected, “I actually think I’m with Sir Sauce on this one.”

“It’s the Condiment King!” The costumed man roared, “That’s it, I’d had enough—”

He was cut off midsentence as a rope dart smashed through the glass door, wrapping around his throat before the Condiment King was dragged through the broken glass. Stifled screams of agony erupted from his mouth amidst the clatter of his weapons hitting the ground.

Clawing at the weapon around his neck, the Condiment King tried to free himself before suddenly his feet left the ground, and he found himself staring directly into the silhouette of a winged man.

“Aren’t you a stain on society?” Growled the bare-chested warrior as he held the Condiment King aloft.

“Did he just?” Pratt asked as Palmer was equally dumbfounded.

“Yup,” Ray nodded,

“Hawkman cracked a joke."

[Ezekiel]

Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A
Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A

^{"Misadventures Of The Magical Variety"}

|| Strange Academy — New Orleans, Louisiana

The senior student common room had that particular quality of quiet that only existed between eleven at night and whenever Magik decided to blow something up.

Zatanna had learned to appreciate it.

She was cross-legged on the wide windowsill at the far end of the room, one knee drawn up to her chest, a book balanced against her thigh. Not one of the assigned texts, those lived in a neat stack on her desk, spines uncracked, radiating the low-level guilt she'd gotten very good at ignoring.

This was older. A slim volume with no title on the cover and a faint smell of woodsmoke that had nothing to do with the fireplace across the room. She'd found it slipped between two reference texts in the east wing archive three weeks ago, which meant either someone had hidden it there deliberately or the archive was doing what archives in places like this occasionally did, deciding for itself what needed to be found.

She was choosing to believe the former. It prompted a fair number of questions but ones with slightly less terrifying answers.

"Trats morf eht gninnigeb."

The words came out barely above a whisper, her lips hardly moving. On the windowsill beside her knee, a small origami bird she'd folded from the corner of a torn envelope slowly unfolded its wings and took a single, tentative step. Then another. Then it walked directly off the edge of the sill and she caught it without looking up from the page.

She'd been working on the animation for as long as she'd had the unmarked text, following along with its incantations of seeking. It had been the easiest part of the text to translate, although she was starting to believe that was due to the rest of it being rather heavier on the secrets.

Meanwhile her creation still hadn't adjusted to the concept of gravity.

"Zatara."

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Zatanna asked pleasantly, turning a page.

"That's from the restricted archive." He wasn't asking. Julian was very good at recognising things that were out of their usual place and very bad at recognising when that wasn't actually his business. He might very well have been correct, she wasn't sure where the text originated from, just that it certainly wasn't supposed to be where she found it.

"Is it?" She turned another page. The paper bird sat very still in her palm, as if it too was waiting to see how this played out.

"You aren't supposed to remove those without supervision, even you." There was a particular flavour of satisfaction in his voice. "Strange's going to hear about this."

Zatanna finally looked up. She regarded him for a moment with a measured patience she didn't truly feel. "Julian," she said, "You've been standing there waiting for me to look nervous." She closed the book. "You can go."

Something moved behind his eyes, the particular frustration of a person who'd rehearsed a scene and found the other party had different lines. He held her gaze a beat longer than was comfortable, then let out a short breath through his nose.

"Enjoy the book," he said, with just enough edge to imply he hadn't decided what to do with the information yet. Then he left, his 'followers' trailing after him.

Zatanna waited until the sound of footsteps had faded down the corridor before she looked down at the book in her hands.

The thing was, he was right. She wasn't supposed to have it. Even if she could claim innocence in how she had acquired it, that didn't entirely absolve her continued studying of the clearly unmarked text.

She'd known that before she took it off the shelf. She'd known it the whole three weeks she'd spent with it tucked under her mattress, reading it in the margins of nights like this one. The question she was still working out, the one she turned over quietly while the Academy creaked around her in the dark, was whether supposed to and allowed to were the same thing here.

She wasn't sure they were, anymore.

The paper bird made a small, determined movement in her palm, lifted off her hand, and flew directly into the fireplace.

Zatanna watched it go.

Three weeks, she thought, and it still hasn't figured out what to fly toward.

There was probably a lesson in that she didn't care to consider. Her eyes settled to the view out the window. It was often said that New York never slept, and many cities could of course lay claim to vibrant night lives. New Orleans was different, it wasn't so much that it never slept, it seemed to come alive at night. Even as the last hours of the day trickled away, the city began to hum with an increasing activity that echoed the crescendo of a jazz track.

Those who looked for Strange Academy with ill intent, or without the gift of magic, would see only a humble but well maintained courtyard among the antebellum buildings of the French Quarter. Those permitted to find the Academy could see its true form inhabiting the Courtyard, a space impossibly large for its physical moorings.

For now, that meant that as Zatanna gazed out at the city, she did so under the anonymity of ancient spells.

She needed to be somewhere else for the night, and much as she was sure the glamour of Vegas had once beckoned her father, the siren song of New Orleans reached out for her.

In years gone by the act of leaving the grounds this late had been something far more challenging. The third window on the east corridor had a gap in its seal that Facilities had been meaning to fix since, she was sure, time immemorial. The ivy on the outer wall had been old enough and thick enough to hold her weight without too much complaint, and the ward on the south garden gate had a four-second delay on reset that she'd mapped out the first month she was old enough to care about what existed on the other side of it. These days, as one of the older students who didn't come with a risk of spontaneous combustion, she could simply walk out and deal with any sense of disapproval the next day.

New Orleans at midnight was not a city that noticed one more person moving through it without purpose. The French Quarter was warm and loud around her, all spilled light from open bar doors and competing conversations of brass bands bleeding into each other.

She stuck to Frenchman Street, there were plenty of bars with histories at least as long, if not longer, than the country. They tended to attract types from both the mortal and magical world. She ordered a drink and let the music do what it always did here, which was fill up the parts of her head that the Academy tended to leave occupied with ambition and anxiety.

She was halfway through it when she spotted Khalid.

He was across the street, which was strange enough on its own. But it was the way he was standing that caught her attention, very still in the way that had nothing to do with patience, facing a narrow alley between two buildings with his hands at his sides. Around him people moved in the ordinary way. He simply stood, as if he hadn't noticed any of it at all.

She crossed the street.

"Khalid."

He turned, and for just a moment, a fraction of a second she might have imagined, there was something behind his eyes that she didn't recognise. Then it was gone, and it was just Khalid, blinking at her.

"Zatanna." He glanced back at the alley, then at her, then made the very deliberate choice not to look at the alley again. "You're out late."

"So are you." She kept her voice easy. "What are you looking at?"

A pause.

"Nothing," he said. "I thought I saw something. I must have been mistaken."

She looked past him at the alley. It was empty. Brick walls, a rusted drainpipe, a stack of pallets. There was nothing there. Nothing that she could see, anyway.

"Come on," she said, after a moment. "I'll buy you a Coke."

Khalid smiled, and it was the right smile, warm and slightly relieved, and she matched it. They began to cross back across the street together.

"Remember when we used to go out into the city and people would still recognize you? Must be a relief that's stopped." Khalid spoke without a hint of the almost robotic nature of his stare, the calm and friendly voice she was used to.

"I'm sure when people think of Zatanna Zatara they still think of a scared little girl, quite forgetting it's been over fifteen years. Like Madeline, I suppose." Zatanna looped her arm into Khalid's as they walked. He was tall enough, even if his build was more on the slender side of athletic, for her to rest her head on his shoulder as they did. "That, and people notice less when there's drink and music, I don't think we were roaming Frenchman Street at midnight when we were six."

"Time flies when you're trying to make sure it remains flowing the right way, I suppose." He laughed, she followed a moment later, before he spoke again. "I heard they offered you the family residency, thinking of heading back to Vegas?" His voice remained even, but she could sense the anxiety of the question.

"I'm sure my Dad would have liked that, I'm not sure I can go from helping Strange save the world to pulling rabbits out of hats, seems a bit of a downgrade." Zatanna sighed, pushing a strand of black hair back behind her ear. "But, I don't think that's fair of me. My dad's life wasn't a waste."

"Of course not, Z." Khalid's hand gave her own a squeeze, before they untangled themselves, just before arriving back in her original bar. "But that doesn't mean you haven't found something greater."

Zatanna gave him a smile, not voicing the sudden flash of a thought that she wasn't sure if that was true.

"Come on, there's one very fabulous cocktail and one very boring coke waiting with our names on them."

[Natty]

|| S.W.O.R.D. Station Two, Orbiting Earth - 2:04 p.m. EST

The room is silent except for the low hum of ventilation. Ben sits alone at the metal table, shifting uncomfortably in the fold-out chair provided to him. His hair is messy, and the oversized ravager garb he’s wearing had begun to stink slightly. Truth be told, his entire body probably stank right now. Understandable given he’d spend the last week or so crammed in a barely flying badoon transport shuttle. Such conditions had become the norm for him over the last few years, although he had a feeling it probably wasn’t the best look when one was about to be arrested.

At least he still had the Omnitrix, though. The device sat tightly on his wrist. His eyes kept glancing down at it as he weighed up his options. He had a couple of different options for getting out of this situation, although given he was sat here with full access to one of the most powerful devices in the universe, Ben had a feeling that his captors were probably someone who knew how to deal with a rampaging tetramand.

He didn’t have a chance to test that theory as the door across from him slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

The sharp click of heels on metal echoed through the room before the woman even stepped fully inside. Ben immediately knew she wasn’t some lowly grunt when he saw her. She moved too much authority. Her green hair tied back, black coat crisp, and tablet glowing in her hand. She didn’t even give the boy in front of her a glance as he took her seat across from him, her eyes fixated on her screen.

It took Ben some concentration not to gulp. Instead, he lifted his chin slightly and tried to appear brave.

“You were found drifting in a derelict vessel on the edge of our patrol grid.”

Her voice was cold and commanding. She didn’t even have to shout. All Ben could think about was his old principle.
She continued.

“No ID. No transponder. And broadcasting a Plumber distress code.”

Ben’s eyes flickered. “You picked that up?”

“We did,” Brand says. “But the Plumbers haven’t operated in years. Their files are sealed. Their bases abandoned. Their codes obsolete.”

Ben leaned forward slightly. What the flark did she mean by obsolete? His mind raced. His grandfather, Max, had filled his head with stories of his old days in the Plumbers, a galactic defence force for the planet. Sure, they hadn’t done too much since before he’d been born, but he’d seen a few of the old bases all those summers ago.

“They weren’t obsolete when I left. Who even are you?”

“Director Abigail Brand. S.W.O.R.D.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sword? That’s… subtle.”

Brand ignored the comment. She merely tapped on her tablet before turning her eyes towards his wrist.

“And then there’s that.”

Ben glanced down to follow her gaze but kept quiet.

Brand didn’t wait for a response, though, before she began to scroll through whatever information was in front of her. “It’s emitting energy signatures we’ve never catalogued. Genetic data from dozens of species. Some hostile. Some extinct. Some… beyond classification.”

“It’s not dangerous,” Ben stammered. “Not unless someone makes it dangerous.”

Brand’s expression didn’t change. “We’ll decide that.”

Her tablet pinged softly. She paused, glancing through whatever she had clearly just been sent. Then finally, her eyebrows lifted a fraction.

“Well,” she murmured, “that explains a few things.”

Ben watched her carefully. “What?”

She read aloud.

“Benjamin Kirby Tennyson. Age fifteen. Reported missing at age ten. Multiple Plumber‑level incident reports. High‑risk extraterrestrial encounters. I remember reading some of these before. You were on the ship above Rushmore. And…” She stopped again, eyes narrowing at a line on the screen. “Oh. Your grandfather is Max Tennyson.”

At the familiar name, Ben’s posture shifted. This could only be good news. Everyone loved Granpa Max. Right?

“You know my grandpa?”

Brand’s mouth tightened. Almost a smile. “Only the stories.”

Ben smirked faintly. “Yeah. He’s good at those.”

It was at this point that Brand finally set the tablet down. A flicker of hope filled him.

“So. Benjamin Tennyson. Where have you been for five years?”

Ben exhaled. “Off‑world. I left Earth to fix the Omnitrix. Things went sideways and then... I got stuck out there. I’ve been fighting, surviving, trying to get home.”

Brand folded her arms. “You expect me to take your word for it?”

Ben sat up straighter.

“I’m the kid who saved the universe. I beat Vilgax. I stopped the Forever Knights. I protected this planet more times than I can count.”
He leant back, letting a smile escape his lips. “So tell me, Director… are you going to let me go home or not?”

Brand’s brow furrowed. Only slightly, but enough. She stood without answering before moving towards the door. Ben found himself in silence once more.

|| S.W.O.R.D. Station Two, Orbitting Earth - 5:15 p.m. EST

Ben sank into the couch in the station’s lounge, the cushions swallowing him in a way that felt almost unreal after months of sleeping on metal, stone, or whatever patch of ground hadn’t been trying to kill him. He tugged absently at the drawstrings of the S.W.O.R.D. hoodie they’d given him. Navy blue, soft, with the agency’s logo stamped on the chest like they were a sports team instead of a secretive government organisation. The matching joggers completed the look. He still wasn’t sure if the whole thing was meant to be comforting or intimidating, but the idea of a government organisation having merch amused him more than it probably should have.

He still smelled faintly of the soap from the shower. A real shower. Hot water. Steam. A drain that didn’t lead into the vacuum of space. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood under running water without worrying about rationing or filtration or alien parasites. And the sight of a normal, rectangular, boring bar of soap had nearly made him emotional. He hadn’t known how good it would feel to scrub months of intergalactic dirt and grime off his skin until he’d watched it swirl down the drain.

For the first time in a long time, he felt human.

The lounge was quiet, lit by the soft hum of overhead panels. A set of metal shutters covered the large viewport on the far wall. Ben stood, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders, and crossed the room. He hesitated for a moment before running his fingers along the control strip.

The shutters parted with a low mechanical sigh.

Earth filled the window.

Hanging beneath the station like a painted marble, he saw the blue oceans swirling with white clouds, continents edged in gold by the rising sun. It looked close enough to touch. His breath caught in his throat. He’d been told he was allowed to go home, under S.W.O.R.D.’s watch, of course. Some kind of provisional release or agreement between Brand and whoever still had authority over Plumber archives. He hadn’t caught the details. The moment they’d said the word home, his brain had stopped processing anything else.

Five years.

Five years gone. Five years of running, fighting, surviving. Five years of wondering if he’d ever see this view again.

When Tetrax had come to offer him a lift to the creator of the Omnitrix, Ben hadn’t thought twice. A trip across the universe was the trip of a lifetime. Little did he know that as soon as the creator, Azmuth, had finished his work and they were on their journey home that they’d get attacked by space pirates. He had found himself trapped in an escape pod and accidentally jetisoned to the nearest planet, and that was the last he’d seen of the diamond-coated form of Tetrax. He didn’t even know if he had survived the pirate attack.

What followed had been a gruelling couple of years of travelling across the far reaches of space in an attempt to find a way home. He’d had fun on his adventures, of course. He’d saved people and their worlds. Fought alongside other well-intentioned individuals. Even had a talking raccoon help him configure master control of the watch. But even through it all, the thought of finally making it home was all that fueled him. Hell, he would have even settled for some of Grandpa Max’s insect and fish-based “Protein Surprise”, or an argument with his dweeb of a cousin.

And finally, it was all over.

A soft chime broke the silence behind him.

Ben turned as a uniformed S.W.O.R.D. officer stepped into the lounge, posture stiff but not unfriendly.

“Tennyson. Your shuttle’s ready.”

Ben nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He grabbed the duffel bag resting by the couch and slung it over his shoulder.

He took one last look at Earth before following the officer out of the lounge, heart pounding with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

|| Ailanna Prime, Edges of deep space - 5:34 p.m. EST

The medical chamber was dim, lit only by pulsing green biolights embedded in the walls. Machinery hummed in steady rhythms, pumping fluid through thick tubes. Figures in sealed suits moved around a massive form strapped to a reinforced slab. They were precise. Clinical.

The creature’s skin twitched.

As one of the workers leaned in to adjust a restraint, a stone‑like arm snapped upward with impossible speed, crushing the worker’s throat in a single motion. The body dropped. Alarms blared. Lights flickered violently.

The creature’s eyes ignited, burning red, ancient and furious.

Vilgax rose from the slab, fluid cascading off his armour-plated skin as his spare hand moved to rip the tubing from his body. He inhaled a deep, rumbling breath that vibrated the chamber walls.

His voice rolled out like a war drum:

“Where is Tennyson?”

[Roman]

_{Location: New York}

I

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

I wake up when it's already far gone the first rays of morning light breaking through my window and for a brief and fleeting moment feel a sense of peace as wakefulness washes over me; and then I hear my phone vibrating next to me on the nightstand as a call comes through, and as I roll over to check it my gaze sweeps past a small photo of Dad framed on the shelf, and my serenity is sucked out of the room with an audible 'pop' and replaced with a viscous malaise and a whirling storm of grey misery inside my head. The number calling me is a New York number but not one I recognize so I ignore it, rolling back onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut, sinking my body into the mattress, and willing unconsciousness to pull me under once again; but I can't. I need to piss.

The phone's ringing again when I come out of the bathroom. I take a few steps across the room, shivering in the open air in nothing but my boxer shorts; it's the same number again. I can't imagine anyone has anything important to tell me that requires back-to-back calls, but I google the number out of curiosity and the result freezes me to the spot and furrows my brow hard. It's a Manhattan law firm, and a pretty prestigious one at that.

A hundred worst-case-scenarios push through my mind like a hurricane. Debts I'd forgotten I had piling up and come to collect; powerful rich people I'd not realized I'd hacked off arriving to payback a grudge; court orders and subpoenas I'd unwittingly breached now here to haul me off to jail; sharks that had circled Dad before he died now hunting me down, smelling fresh blood in the water. I look out the window down to the street. It doesn't look like a long enough drop to do the job, and I can't risk a broken leg or two and an ambulance trip and a hospital stay. I can't afford any of that.

The phone stops ringing and goes to voicemail, and this time, whoever's on the other end actually starts leaving a message. Before my nerves can get the better of me again, I pick up.
"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse from a couple days of not actually talking to anybody, and more than a little shaky from the chill and my still-racing heartbeat. I hear a slight startle from the caller for my interruption of their voicemail, and then brief sounds of shuffling papers.
"May I speak to a Mr. Whitman, please?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Dane Pendragon Whitman?" The voice on the other end clarifies, and I wince slightly. It has always been an embarrassing middle name.
"Yes, speaking." I confirm again.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitman. My name is Thomas Nichols, and I'm calling from Latham & Watkins. I'm a solicitor; is now a good time?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my sheets up around my shoulders around my bare torso to stave off the chill, rubbing my thighs with my free hand to soothe the goosebumps.
"I'm a little busy," I lie, "what's this about?"
"I understand, Mr. Whitman, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. It's in regards to your grandfather's estate."

I pause again, puzzled. I never knew either pair of my grandparents; Dad was estranged from his father even before we left England for good, and any connection to my mother's side of the family walked out when she did. Since I was six, it had only ever been me and Dad, and for nearly a year now, it's only been me.
"Mr. Whitman?"
I break out of my fugue.
"Sorry. I don't know any of my grandparents. I certainly don't know about any 'estates'. Are you sure you have the right person?"

There's the sound of paper again, and then Thomas Nichols rattles off practically every legal identifier that could be applied to my person, all of which I confirm one data-point after another with an onbvious tone of stunned surprise and not a small amount of incredulity.
"We're very thorough here, Mr. Whitman." Thomas says, in a way that indicates that's as close as I'm getting to an apology for some nebulous and strange legal professional having quick-fire access to every possible item of personal data that could be catalogued about me.
"Clearly." I reply, in a way that indicates the apology is not accepted. I hear him sigh, and honestly that just winds me up.
"It may be easier to do this in person, Mr. Whitman. Are you able to make time this afternoon and visit my office? I assure you, it is in your interests."
I'm sure he meant for that last bit not to sound ominous and vaguely menacing, but he failed all the same. Still, I look at the time; it's just crawling up to noon, and today is a Thursday, and I'm unemployed. Yes, I have time - I'm just not sure I want him to know that. I tell him to hang on while I check my diary, and make a deliberate racket of moving about my apartment rifling through assorted stationery and discarded rubbish.
"I can move some things around and be with you for three." I say, trying to convince myself as much as Thomas Nichols.
"Three works perfectly, Mr. Whitman. Thank you very much. My assistant will be happy to receive you when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you later on."

He hangs up, and I take a moment to repeat his part about his assistant in a mocking tone of voice while jawing a fake mouth open and shut with one hand, and then I set about finding a clean pair of jeans and trying to remember if I even own a shirt.

---

I'll be frank; I found the Latham & Watkins office building to be gaudy, or at least the front of it - gold-plated, or something to look like gold, a grand revolving door and their name emblazoned in impactful black font stamped above it. It was emblematic of the version of New York I didn't like: glittery lights and impossibly tall buildings and people in suits swapping made up parcels of companies for obscene wealth; like the Bronx or Melrose or East Harlem didn't exist. Like the average New Yorker wasn't some guy eking out a living waiting tables for tips and standing in line for the food bank every other Sunday.

I pushed the thoughts from my mind before they darkened my mood irretrievably, and pushed through the revolving door at the same time, entering a well-lit lobby blanketed in a quiet calm, interrupted only by the soft 'ding' of an elevator or a phone-call being taken. Directly ahead of me was a reception desk, and the receptionist behind it waited for me in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know I was certainly expected and ready to be received, but only at my leisure and there was no rush or obligation to approach quickly. I did anyway.
"Mr. Whitman?" She asked, before I'd even thought about opening my mouth to introduce myself. I closed my flapping jaw and nodded. She smiled warmly like my arrival was the defining moment of her day.
"Thomas' office is on the fifth floor; the elevators are just behind me on the left-hand side. I'll let his assistant know you've arrived and he'll await you just as you get off."
I mutter a thanks, not really sure I have anything else that needs saying, and she smiles again and goes back to her computer in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know the interaction was over and I was expected on the fifth floor post-haste. The elevators were behind her on the left-hand side, and I leant against the back wall of the lift as I ascended, crossing my arms and tapping my foot, irritated but not really able to articulate why or what with.

Thomas Nichols' assistant did indeed await me just as I got off; I'd barely planted one foot past the door when he was already upon me, clarifying my identity and hoping my journey wasn't too strenuous and thanking me for making the time to attend in-person. I waved away his platitudes, finding the crisp air of corporate politeness cold and unpleasant, and mostly eager to get whatever new wrinkle to my creased life this was out in the open. He guided me quickly down the corridor and back to what was clearly his desk, several dirty mugs littering his workspace next to a laptop and a small calendar. There was a small sofa opposite the desk, and I automatically moved to take a seat, only to be stopped short.
"No need, Mr. Whitman. Thomas is ready for you now - you can head straight in." He explained with a plastered smile, gesturing at the door next to him. I nodded and pushed through the door without any further delay.

"Mr. Whitman," Thomas Nichols opened with, standing up from his chair and moving toward me to take my hand in a firm grasp and deliver a solid shake. He's a lot younger than I expected him to be - we probably share an age bracket, if not a tax bracket - and well-dressed, African American with a navy suit that fits him snug and complements his eyes. I can smell his cologne. He smells nice. He catches me scrutinizing and I clear my throat, looking away. "A pleasure to meet you in person. Please, take a seat. I trust you didn't have any difficulties getting here? We appreciate you coming in person."
He gestured to a sleek-looking chair on the other side of the desk to his own, and I plopped down into it ready to hear the spiel.
"You said this was in my interests?" I replied, bored of the copious pleasantries I'd already endured and keen to get on with it. I was also hungry, and there was a decent deli a block from here.
"Direct to business - I like it. Yes, it is. As I mentioned on the phone, this is all in regards to your grandfather's estate."
"And as I said, I don't know any of my grandparents or their estates, so if you could explain...?"
Thomas shifted slightly, clearly holding onto some uncomfortable news. I just looked at him until he said it.
"I'm afraid to inform you Mr. Whitman that your grandfather passed away late yesterday afternoon."

He pauses, clearly wanting to give me 'space' to 'process', and we just stare at each other for a couple seconds. I'm half expecting him to carry on, but he doesn't, and eventually I just say:
"Okay. So what's this about his estate?"
Thomas clears his throat and takes a stapled sheaf of papers into his hand from in front of him on his desk. He holds it up slightly and skims over the first page before returning his gaze to me.
"Mr. Garrett-"
"Mr. Garrett?" I ask, and Thomas falters awkwardly.
"Uh- your grandfather. Nathan Garrett."
"Huh." I say, and Thomas starts to say something, thinks better of it, and continues.
"Mr. Garrett has stated clearly in his will that upon his death, the entirety of his estate - all stocks, bonds, liquid finances, property and land - will be passed down, after due tax and duties are paid, to his closest living descendent." Thomas puts the paper down and looks at me. "Now, I am to understand your father, a Mr..." more paper-shuffling, "'Ewan Whitman', is deceased?"

My face flashes hot. Thomas notices and his expression immediately falters and flips to one of mortification. I take a moment to let the knife slink through me and control my features, and then clear my own throat and nod, inviting him to carry on with only the slightest wobble in my voice. Thomas smiles a thin, apologetic smile.
"Well, um...that would make you, Mr. Garrett's closest living descendent. And therefore the recipient of his estate as laid out in his will."
I nod slowly, taking this in, slightly feeling like I'm being set-up.
"And, uh, how...much? Would this estate come to?"
Thomas flips through a couple pages of the stapled sheaf and looks back to me.
"Well, it's primarily Appleby Castle in Cumbria and the surrounding grounds - roughly 27 acres - and all current furnishings therein, and then once we've liquidated stocks and options as per your grandfather's instructions, after levying appropriate taxes and duties and, naturally, our fees, I would reasonably estimate..."
He paused for an unbearably long time, and I watched him squint and re-read his papers as he did some quick internal math.
"...$184.7 million. Give or take."

He looks over at me as I faint and slump forwards out of my seat.

- - -

When I come to a few moments later, Thomas Nichols has laid me flat on my back and has prepared a glass of water. I look around the room and spot his assistant leaning in through the slightly-ajar door and when he notices me noticing him, he blushes and quickly ducks out. I push myself up and sit on the floor, take a sip from the glass, and try to soothe my heartbeat. I fail.

"Apologies, Mr. Whitman. I probably should have expected the news would be rather shocking."
I look up at him as he kneels next to me, completely dumbfounded and not wasting a single second trying to hide it.
"I think 'Dane' will be fine given the circumstances, Thomas." I say, letting him take my hand to help me up. His skin is very soft.
"Please, 'Tom'. It's not everyday I get to tell someone they're soon to be a multi-millionaire." He replies, cracking a very charming grin as he makes the joke.
"Multi..." I whisper softly, and feel myself getting light-headed again. I put an arm out to steady myself, and Tom is quick to lend me his shoulder before we guide me back into the chair as a team.

"How, um, how soon?" I ask when my head's stopped spinning. There's a microsecond of a wince from Tom and my heartrate spikes again.
"Now, that is the one...wrinkle. There's only two stipulations to what is otherwise one of the most incredibly straight-forward wills I've ever had the pleasure of handling."
I raise a single eyebrow.
"Not that your grandfather's death is a pleasure." He's quick to clarify. "My apologies. I deal with a lot of...conflict, in most of my cases. It's a welcome relief to deal with one so simple."
I nod in understanding. "So what are these 'wrinkles', then?"

Tom goes back to the papers.
"Well, the most pertinent is that no part of your set inheritance is to be released to you until, and I am quoting directly, "they have proven themselves worthy to live as Camelot lived". That is to say, no monies will be transferred, no furnishings relinquished, and you will be turned away from the Appleby grounds and considered trespassing until such a time the property is released to you."
"What. The fuck. Does that mean." It's all I can bring myself to say. I am simply agog. This feels like one big joke, and in mighty poor taste. I get an immediate sense of perhaps why Dad cut ties with him long before I was born. Tom smiles sympathetically, my reaction obviously not unexpected.
"Mr. Garrett has left detailed instructions with his solicitors - us - as to how such a quality is determined."
"Okay. And they are?"
"Per Mr. Garrett's instructions, we are not at liberty to divulge that information to you."

I go red. I go very red, and my fists ball up, and I start coming up with expletives best delivered from the angry side of a pointed finger and things I can smash up in this stupid fucking tasteless rich-person beige-nightmare high-rise office and that window is definitely high enough up-
"Mr. Whitman- Dane- it might be prudent to hear out your grandfather's second stipulation." Tom hurriedly says, trying to cut off my fury before it boils over; my nose scrunches and I push my index fingers into the corners of my eyes and I take one very long, deep breath.
"Do go on, Tom." Come my words through gritted teeth.
"No part of your set inheritance is to be released until you have been deemed 'worthy'...except one very singular and specific artefact in your grandfather's possession that, I am lead to understand, has been in your family for centuries, and is also described by Mr. Garrett in his will as being "the key to unlocking a virtuous heart and noble spirit"."

Despite it all, I am utterly intrigued. I have an unshakeable feeling of being puppeted like some dancing marionette on strings, jingling and jangling about for the amusement of some rich dead asshole - a rich dead asshole who is, apparently, my Grandad - but the word 'artefact' excites me in a schoolboy way, like I've been given my own chance at playing Indiana Jones, and it might hold something of the family history I'd otherwise been completely removed from up until now, and also $184.7 million is $184.7 million. If this thing was the 'key', then I can sure as hell find the 'lock'. I calm myself down, letting go of my momentary apoplexy.
"Okay. Where is it?"
Tom looks at his watch.
"I should think it would be with you shortly, if it hasn't already arrived. Your grandfather was quite clear in that other arrangements would be made for its delivery, that he assures are quite foolproof. I suppose FedEx isn't for everybody, is it?" He cracks a joke again, chuckling weakly. I stand up.
"Thanks, Tom. I'm going to...go find it. Whatever it is. Thank you for your time, I think?"
"Yes, it's all rather odd, isn't it?" Tom says, standing with me and showing me to the door. He clicks at his assistant and points to me when he looks up, making silent orders to escort me back down to the lobby. "Take my card. As soon as you've figured out Mr. Garrett's wrinkle, you give me a call, day or night. I wish you the best of luck, Dane."

I give Tom and his assistant one final set of half-hearted thanks, and then as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside the office building, I sprint toward the nearest subway station.

[Sep]

]FIVE YEARS AGO

Tony Stark stood there surrounded by the buzz of activity. Scientists and technicians scrambled around, the general air of activity was electric. Tony just stood there, more content than I had ever seen him. In the years prior to his kidnapping he had seemed happy, in his own way. Though it was superficial, there was always something down below the surface. Something darker, and more twisted. After he returned from the desert in clawed its way nearer to the surface, and throughout the War Machine project I had always thought that his heart wasn't truly in it. It wasn't, ofcourse and that is what led them here. To Abysus. I couldn't pretend to understand half of what was going on. The Salazars stood discussing something with Ryland over a tablet, Doctors Riva and Vanko off near the nanite containment unit arguing with Andrew Forson. I eyed that trio with a little bit more suspicion. I knew Riva well, and Forson passed every concievable security screening that I could throw at the man. Yet Ivan Vanko was the son of former soviet scientist Anton Vanko, who had been kicked out of the United States due to allegations Tonys father made. I didn't trust him nearly as far as I could throw him. Looking down, servos whirring as I lifted my hands up I flexed by steel-gray fingers when I realised, I could throw him pretty far if I needed too. "You don't understand the powers that you're dealing with!" "Yo Rhodey!" "You knew what you were singing on for, you know why we brought you here-" Pulled from the revelry by the very unserious voice, thrown across the room amidst some of the most serious minds of our generation, I looked up to see Tony now looking directly at me. That stupid cockeyed smile upon his face, the kind that Rhodey knew he was going to be insufferable... because he was feeling clever about himself. "What you're proposing could mean the very end of the world as we know it!-

_________________________________

"What is it Tony?" I said, walking towards him. Waving away the offered half glass of wine he picked up off a nearby workstation and waved in my direction. With a slight head tilt, the faceplate for my helmet swing back up. A cold wave of air washing over my face. The smell of a dozen different blends of coffee assaulting my sense of smell, numerous keys tapping away at computers and the faint buzz of electricity. All smells and sounds the helmet was designed to filter out, unless I desired. It took me a second to register and push my way passed them.

"You're insane! If you activate their self replication function without any safe-guards in place, you could cause a cascading effect-"

"Oh nothing, just wondering if you wanted to bask in my greatness-" I smiled sardonically back at him, and as he registered the expression he looked taken aback a moment, before laughing and slapping me on the shoulder. Gently, I couldn't feel the gesture through the suit but the meaning was clear."Oh don't look at me like that, this time tomorrow the world is going to be a very different place-" Despite the weight of the suit, I allowed to be taken along by his arm as we walked in step around the lab. He sipped playfully at his glass of wine as he walked. "Oh I know what you're going to say. Now Tony, I've heard it all before. Smart bombs, smart guns, smart lasers. Then once you were done killing things, it was the smart crop, smart brick, smart bottle. Now you're just doing smart robots."

"That's why I brought you here, now if you aren't going to do it then get the HELL out of my way and I'll do it myself-"

I stopped suddenly, my sudden change in momentum spun him around to face me. Lifting my gauntleted hands I grabbed his shoulders with a grim, and serious expression upon my face. As I spoke, the act began to stop as the smile spread across my face. "Please don't give up your dayjob of being a brilliant scientist, genius-"

"Playboy and philantrophist?" Tony added helpfully. I was about to retort when there was a loud bang followed by a snap and a crash. Instantly I pulled Tony back, the visor popping down with a hiss sealing across my faceplate as the HUD reappeared before my vision. The various diagnostics and sensors swepped across my vision, as I panned around the room I doubled back as the system locked onto an unconcious man lying on the floor, Vanko. His face bloodied Riva stood over him with a bloodied wrench in his hand, and Foster with his back to him as he keyed buttons on the terminal like a man possessed.

Tony brushed around me as he failed to move the armour out of his way. I tried to stop him, however he ducked under my arm. Swearing I continued to prime weapon systems, running through checklists in my head. Trying to take inventory of the space around me, who was moving, who wasn't. Most everyone in the room appeared to be looking at the bloodied scene infront of them. As I peered through the motion sensors though they told a different story, as very slowly two figures appeared to be moving at my sensors extreme range. Slowly and methodically. In an effort to flank me, no doubt was my initial thought as I worked hard to also maintain my line of sight on the events unfolding right before me. I just needed a distraction, something to get into position so I could take out as many of the hsotages as possible without putting them at risk -

"What the hell is going on here?"

---

PRESENT DAY

---

"You realise that's not normal, right?" Noah gawfed, but Rex merely ignored it as he spoke. He could feel the sudden chill as a shadow crossed over atop him, blocking him out from the heat. In what was supposed to be a secret vacation. Providence had been good to him, it had given him a home. Something to do, somewhere to be and some pretty good people to be around. What he didn't like, was White Knights insistence that he was nothing more than a weapon. A tool to be used when and where he saw fit, and to be damned with the concept of anything else.

It had taken him several attempts at running away, with verious degrees of success in order for him to get White Knight to agree to letting him have a friend, even if that one friend was just Noah. "Just once, I want to be able to sit and chill for about, five minutes. Is that too much to ask for-" Rex opened his eyes to see which of his babysitters had been sent for him this time, then arched an eyebrow. A figure stood looming over him. His face was long, his eyes like fire-blue slits. The rest of his face was smooth and metallic, with long flowing white hair falling from behind his head. His entire body appeared to be as if it was well chiselled stone, with a dark yet shiny hue to it.

Rex sat up slowly, eyeing him with suspicion. He could sense the nanites, but this was something different. Every EVO he faced was a mindless rage monster, whether they had been human originally or not. Despite the figures lack of mouth he could hear the faint metallic breathing, rasping its way through his face. "Hey so, I'm not entirely sure what's going on here, but if you're looking for a barber, I'm sure I can come up with something-" Before he could finish his thoughts, two long strands of wire dropped from the figures wrists and as he grabbed onto them Rex could see the spark of electricity. "Woah now!" Rex rolled as one of the crackling whips was brought down onto his sun lounger.

Screams now pierced the air, as he rolled one way and then the next trying to stay out of the freaks path of attack. "All you had to say was that we were in your space dude -ugh- we would have moved." There was a whir, and a clank as he pictured the blueprints in his head. Swinging his arm around in a block that would hardly succeed, his arm grew and shifted shape. A large orange blade now existing there, his arm growing directly into the hilt of the weapon.

There was a clang as the whip slapped onto the sword, spinning around the blade coming within mere centimetres of his face. Rex pulled back against his opponents pull, digging his heels in in an attempt to hold his ground. "So my names Rex, what's yours?"

[Ruby]

[retracted]

[Natty]

|| Bellwood Docks, Earth - 9:43 p.m. EST

Fog rolled thick across the waterfront, swallowing the rows of rust‑red shipping containers until they were nothing but hulking silhouettes. The air tasted like cold metal and diesel fumes. Gunfire cracked through the night, each burst lighting the mist in stuttering, ghostly flashes.

Max Tennyson ducked behind a stack of splintered pallets, his bright Hawaiian shirt half hidden beneath a bulky, well‑worn bulletproof vest.

“I told you not to engage yet” he said as he turned fire with compact alien blaster.

Beside him, Gwendolyn “Gwen” Tennyson crouched low, her black tactical gear blending into the shadows. A blue facecloth covered the lower half of her face, but her eyes burned with focus. A glowing violet sigil hovered over her palm, its edges crackling as it expanded into a shimmering shield that absorbed the next volley of plasma fire. Each impact sent ripples across the barrier like stones thrown into water.

“They were Intergang, Grandpa,” she snapped, breath fogging the air. “Last time we waited, they got away with half a crate of alien weapons.”

Max risked a quick glance around the pallets. The fog parted just enough to reveal shapes moving between the containers.

“And this time the buyer is already gone. We needed him.” He gave her a stern look as he spoke.

Gwen felt a familiar pressure settle behind her ribs. They had been tracking Intergang and the Forever Knights for weeks, watching both groups stir in ways they had not in years. Max had barely agreed to bring her tonight, and only because he knew she would have gone alone if he refused. He said she had been taking more risks since Ben vanished. Maybe she had. But someone had to keep pushing. Someone had to do what was right.

Another burst of gunfire slammed into Gwen’s shield. Cracks spiderwebbed across it, glowing bright for a heartbeat before dimming.

Gwen gritted her teeth, sweat beading at her temple. “I am not letting Intergang disappear again.”

She thrust her free hand outward. A telekinetic wave rippled across the dockyard, distorting the fog as it surged forward. It hit a stack of metal barrels with a thunderous clang. The barrels toppled like dominoes, crashing down on two Intergang goons and sending them sprawling in a tangle of limbs and curses.

The effort drained her. The shield flickered, shrinking to a thin, trembling disc.

Three remaining gunmen stepped out from behind cover, weapons raised, their silhouettes sharp against the fog.

Max pulled Gwen close, shielding her with his body despite the danger.

“Gwen”, he breathed, his voice filled with panic.

“I know,” she whispered, bracing herself.

The gunmen took aim.

A green flash erupted from above, cutting through the fog like lightning.

Something spherical and armored dropped from the sky with meteoric force. It slammed into the first gunman, launching him backward into a shipping container with a metallic boom that echoed across the docks. The sphere rebounded instantly, ricocheting off another container, then another, smashing through the dockyard like a living wrecking ball.

Cannonbolt.

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

“It can't be.”

Cannonbolt hit the second gunman square in the chest, folding him around the impact before sending him crashing into a stack of crates that collapsed in a dusty avalanche.

The third gunman panicked. His plasma blast caught Cannonbolt mid‑bounce, the impact sending the armored sphere spinning wildly through the air.

He caught himself, unrolling mid‑flight with practiced ease.

Another green flash lit the fog.

Wings snapped open. Multifaceted eyes gleamed through the fog. Stinkfly hovered above the dockyard, tail curling forward with predatory precision.

The eye stalks pulsed and swelled before they expelled a rapid‑fire stream of sticky green sludge. The slime shot out in rhythmic bursts, each pulse accompanied by a wet, organic thrum. It splattered across the last gunman, pinning him to a forklift like a fly trapped in amber.

Stinkfly dove, wings folding tight as he streaked toward the immobilized thug. Mid‑air, another green flash engulfed him.

Ben Tennyson burst out of the light, momentum carrying him forward, fist cocked back.

One clean punch knocked the final goon out cold.

Ben landed lightly on the concrete, boots skidding slightly on the damp ground as the Omnitrix powered down with a soft, familiar chime.

Gwen lowered her facecloth, eyes wide, breath still shaky.

“Ben?”

He grinned, breathless and triumphant.

“Miss me?”

[Lord Wraith]

And so the angel fell in love with the deathbringer.

The pair were offered a choice: to face death as judgment or to choose to go on living, bonded together. With her hands on his face, the angel embraced her deathbringer with a kiss, redeeming the fallen to the light. Together, they chose life, despite the guilt it would carry. Neither knew this choice came with a further burden, an eternal life, doomed to be reincarnated across time and space until they saved as many lives as they had ended.

Doomed to fall in love again and again, only to watch each other be ripped away by the throes of death, over and over. Each life born ignorant but when awakened, burdened with the pain and guilt of the last, urging them forward again and again until the debt was paid.

An impossible debt that had to be repaid in full.

|| 1936 - Giza, Egypt

“The tomb of Prince Khufu!”

The musty air filled the lungs of those entering the Great Pyramid. Hal Jacobs rubbed his hands together excitedly, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat upon his head. Beside him, the men in grey uniforms stood guard as the venture’s sponsor, Dr. Anton Hestor, followed behind the archaeologist.

“Do you believe the Claw is here, Herr Jacobs?” Hestor asked, adjusting the small, round-framed dark glasses that sat atop the bridge of his nose.

“The Claw of Horus?” Hal replied, “It’s possible, but not a certainty. The Claw was created by Nabu the Wise and then ally Teth-Adam. Nabu was Prince Khufu Maat Kha-Tar’s royal adviser, court magician, and confidante. A gift for his king, there’s reason to believe Khufu was buried with it.”

“Prince Khufu,” Hestor turned the name over in his mouth like a bad taste. Smacking his lips as though he wanted to be rid of the taste before speaking again. “Prince Khufu was not of royal blood was he? History has very little about the late prince beyond outrageous claims of him being Horus in human form.”

“Claims some took very seriously,” Hal replied, kneeling beside a wall of hieroglyphics. “The story goes that Khufu fell from the skies, so struck with love that Horus gave up his divinity to be with Queen Chay-ara. The Queen was said to be the most beautiful woman to ever grace the shores of the Nile. Even Hathor herself paled in comparison compared to Chay-ara.”

“And where did this queen come from?”

“The glyphs tell us she was found by the High Priest, Hath-Set, who assumed by her golden adornments that she must have been a pharaoh sent from the sky. Hath-Set positioned Chay-ara as a puppet leader, at least until Khufu arrived and the two fell madly in love.” Jacobs explained.

“In his jealousy, Hath-Set drove a knife forged of a celestial bronze through the heat of Chay-ara only to die at the hands of Khufu moments later before he too succumbed to his wounds. The Court Magician, Nabu the Wise was the first to discover the dying Priest and royals, administering aid but ultimately unable to save any of them.” Jacobs continued.

“A myth states that their souls were bound from that point on, Khufu and Chay-ara destined to find each other in every subsequent life. Their love causes Hath-Set to return only to destroy and begin the cycle anew.”

“And what of the claw?” Hestor asked, “A silly love story isn’t exactly what Shmidt was hoping to uncover here.”

“It was buried with Khufu.” Jacobs replied, following the detailed wall further and further into the tomb.

“These tombs,” Hestor began, following between Hal flanked on either side by men in black uniforms bearing a tentacle bearing skull. “They are usually, how you say, booby-trapped, nein?”

“Not in the way the stories or moving pictures would have you believe, Doctor,” Jacobs replied. “There are no trigger tiles and certainly nothing reanimated wandering the halls.”

“On zat, we will have to agree to disagree.”

“Very well, but in my experience you’re more likely to find maze-like hallways which confuse and disorient the intended tomb raider leaving them to a long and agonizing death. Or even more simply-”

Jacob’s arm suddenly shot out, grabbing the front of Anton’s attire before his guards hands shot to their weapons.

“Pitfalls.” Jacobs added, motioning towards the ledge just beyond their toes. “A fall at this height is more than certain to break something, the least of which is not your neck. Surviving the fall, even worse.”

“Danke, Herr Jacobs,” Anton nodded as the archaeologist looked around for a way to cross.

“The pit at least should mean we’re close to the sarcophagus.” Jacobs muttered, the fire of the torches flickering against the intricate wall.

“Some of these symbols, they appear irregular, alien, nein?” Hestor asked as Jacobs moved closer to the wall. Gold etchings within the brickwork felt as though they were calling out to him.
“I think I can translate them.” Jacobs replied, an electrifying sensation passing through his body as he touched the strange metal inserts. A pulse shot through his skull, pain as though his mind was suddenly opening every last pocket within his brain.

A Pinkerton badge was gripped firmly in his hand.

The jolt of sudden movement from a horse between his legs.

The clang of a hammer striking an anvil.

The smell of lavender, mint and thyme inside a congested mask.

The feeling of steel striking against his own steel sword.

The embrace of a woman while the people chanted for Prince Khufu.

An alien world and a living metal.

And then darkness and a single word.

Deathbringer.

“Ah, it would seem that the myth was not correct.”

A sudden shot rang out, the sound of the gun nearly deafening within the stone walls of the ancient tomb. Jacobs felt his eyes widen in shock, a hand moving to his forehead before blood-stained fingers faded to black. His body slumped to the ground. Only now, after touching the Nth Metal, did he recognize the face of Hath-Set.

“Sorry, mein freund, there will be no love for you in this life.” Hestor replied, crushing Hal’s hand beneath his boot. “I couldn’t risk the Claw falling into the hands of my oldest enemy. Not when my new allies have a war to win.” He holstered the smoking gun, the Mauser easily sliding into his holster.

“I’ll see you in the next life, my Prince.”

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

"Yako ajaw Camazotz!"

|| Present - St. Roch, Louisiana

It starts as fleeting dreams.

First come the nightmares.

Then the déjà vu.

Faces don’t change; the same eyes live on from generation to generation.

Suddenly, a smell, a taste or a touch jogs another memory. An alien planet appears before his eyes. A woman with red hair looks into his eyes, before a hand caresses his face.

“Katar Hol, my body, no, my soul, is forever yours. Bonded to you.”

Their chambers disappear, replaced by a cockpit that Carter doesn’t know how to navigate and yet effortlessly handles the controls. Turbulence rocks the ship from side to side as the whirling worm hole threatens to rip it apart before the vessel is suddenly swallowed whole.

The smell of smoke fills his lungs. The ship had been torn apart, the cabin depressurized. Where was Shayera? Katar could feel the Nth Metal wrapping around him, cocooning him within his wings before the sudden impact lurched him awake, and suddenly Carter Hall finds himself alone in a bed torn askew.

The nightmares had been increasing since he had returned from Brazil.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” An incorporeal voice stated before the glowing silhouette of a man appeared in front of Carter.

“Craddock.”

“Hello, Hannibal,” Craddock replied merrily, “I thought I’d hang around for a bit.”

“You make one pun…” Carter muttered, his voice trailing off as he pulled himself up from the bed. Grabbing a half empty bottle of amber liquid from his nightstand, Carter took a sniff before pouring it into a nearby mug.

“Isn’t there supposed to be some coffee with that Irish?”

“Can I pour you a drink?” Carter deadpanned. Craddock scoffed at the other man’s retort, his ghostly hands coming to rest on his immaterial cane while he floated above the desk.

“You made quite an impression on the underworld. You know this business isn’t done.” Craddock continued while Carter dressed himself.

“Camazotz has marked you as a Deathbringer, and he won’t stop until he gets his Eternal Night.”

“I already told him, Carter Hall doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Not even Shayera?” Craddock laughed, “Come now, old lad, you killed for Katherine’s honour and dignity, Hanibal, it must be driving you up the wall that even after touching your fabled Nth Metal, Kendra feels nothing for Carter Hall.”

“Are you only here to comment on my lack of a love life?”

“No, old friend.” Craddock replied sorrowfully. “I’m afraid this is a warning. The next time we meet won’t be as friends. In the coming war against life and death, I’m afraid my lot has already been cast and my loyalties will oppose yours.” The gentleman ghost paused.

“Unless, you reconsider becoming the Deathbringer.”

“You already know I won’t, Craddock.”

“Very well, then I suggest you start polishing your mace before the bodies begin piling up in St. Roch.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Craddock shook his head sadly, “No, Hannibal. It’s a warning.”

|| Several Weeks Ago - St. Roch, Louisiana

“You really ought to get out. When was the last time you’ve been on a dig?”

Ray Palmer’s voice landed on deaf ears as his friend continued to pore over the ancient manuscript in front of him. The small dark-haired man smiled as he gently massaged his own temples. While there were many adjectives to describe Carter Hall, the most frequently used one was stubborn.

“Look,” Ray stated, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulders. “I know things with Kendra have been rough, y’know on account of you having all your memories and your wild, passionate past while she-”

Ray paused.

“Y’know, doesn’t.” He offered meekly as Carter’s pupil sharply pivoted to glare at him from the corner of his eye.

“How articulate for a man with four PhDs.”

“Oh, hey, a response that was more than a grunt, glad to see you’re still able to speak in at least one of the thousand or so languages you allegedly possess.”

Carter suddenly stood from his desk.

When Ray described his friend as a museum curator who taught part-time at St. Roch’s University, Carter Hall wasn’t exactly the image most people conjured up. Rearing to his full height, the dusty office full of unpacked crates overlooking the main exhibit hall suddenly felt a lot smaller.

“If we’re going to engage in snark-to-snark combat,” Carter growled, coming towards Ray.

“Then I’m going to need a drink.” He added, his expression softening as he nearly cracked a smile while reaching for a small pantry behind the small man and producing a pair of glasses along with a simple bottle.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Ray smiled, accepting the glass while Carter poured a small amount of the amber liquid into it.

“This is from my grandfather’s collection.”

“Your son’s?” Ray asked as Carter topped his drink up.

“We are not playing that game tonight.” Carter shook his head. “The Hall family tree and my various incarnations are far too entangled.”

“Hank is a spitting image of you, Al was showing me photos taken after the last great war. Hawkman and Hawkwoman, the muscle of the Justice Society of America!”

“Those were the days,” Carter lamented while pulling open a drawer. “Cigar?”

“Not for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Carter replied before snipping the end off and lighting the thick cigar. He took a long drag before pulling a ring of smoke towards the ceiling. Swishing his drink about, he let out a heavy sigh.

“There was a damn kid touring the museum yesterday. ‘Bout seven, named Ethaniel. What the hell kind of name is that?” Carter said before taking another drag off the cigar.

“Does the guy calling himself, Hawkman, really get a say on picking names?” Ray chuckled.

“Ethan, Nathaniel, pick one, it ain’t hard.” Carter exclaimed, “And c’mon, the damn Atom, you’re not exactly the picture of originality yourself.”

“Better than Ant-Man.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Carter replied, the pair of glasses clinking as they touched.

A small knock came from the office door frame as Carter turned to see his dark haired grad student standing in the doorway. Ray could feel his jaw drop at the sight of the young woman, looking from her back to Carter. Gold-coloured eyes contrasted against her darker skin while the long hair perfectly framed a lithe frame that did little to hide its toned muscle.

“She’s a little young-”

“Yara Flor, the idiot speaking is Dr. Raymond Palmer, Dr. Raymond Palmer, Yara Flor.” Carter interrupted Ray with a swift elbow to the ribs that left Ray too winded to speak further.

“Miss Flor is my graduate student, top of her classes, she came highly recommended.”

“Sorry to intrude, Professor.” Yara replied, “But there’s a Ms. Elsa Bloodstone here to see you.”

“Please inform, Ms. Bloodstone that I’m in a meeting right now.” Carter replied dismissively, pausing only as Yara began to smile.

“Ms. Bloodstone said you’d say that.” She replied before holding out an object that had been hidden behind her back.

“So she sent this to ensure you’d see her now.”

The object itself was clearly Mesoamerican in origin, but there was something about it that immediately caught the attention of both men as they put their drinks down, Yara finally having their full attention. Ray’s eyes had gone wide as Carter stood, taking the object out of Yara’s hand, feeling it pulse against his hand as it reacted to his touch.

“Carter, that’s-”

“Nth Metal.”

[Silverstein]

Issue #1.1: The man on top of the Empire State.

“3... 2... 1...” Behind the teleprompter, a shadowy figure gives the mayor his silent cue.

“Greetings, God-fearing people of New York City. This is your Mayor Fisk speaking. I hope you have a wonderful evening, just as I do. Enjoying the lovely activities that this rich city has to offer. The same city that our forefathers have built and cultivated throughout the years.”

“The blueprint was there; you just need guidance from a competent man such as myself.”

“What a long way we have come. SAFER streets, SAFER neighborhood. No terrorist attacks that the city can’t handle, and crime is at an all-time low.“

“It can only be done under my rule of law and my brave task force, enforcing strict discipline and thorough surveillance and restoring order to this once ruined state.”

“Discipline is what separates us from animals and those wretched vigilante degenerates.”

“We are united as one, like a well-cog machine working together, and I am proud of what this city has become.”

“Which is why we must continue this tradition, please be advised that curfew will start in less than an hour after this broadcast. I only ask for your cooperation to ensure the city’s peace continues.”

“REMEMBER GOD IS WATCHING AND GOD BLESS THE PEOPLE OF NEW YORK,” Fisk said with utter conviction, looking straight at the camera.

The final words land with a chill, more threat than comfort.

Ever since the modern Justice Society had a fallout, Mayor Wilson Fisk has taken the liberty of governing New York and created a false narrative of an orderly Utopia under his rule.

Every night, he airs a broadcast, projecting his vision and reassurance to his city. His face is plastered on every sign, every mural, every TV screen, and every billboard. He is the voice of the city. Their glorious leader. Their benevolent dictator. Their Lion in this concrete jungle.

The once-vibrant entertainment hub of Times Square is now heavily curated and largely controlled by the system. It is saturated and mixed by the propaganda of a man in power. Cameras are stationed at every corner of the street, ensuring everyone is monitored.

Lady Liberty be damned for what she represents and what the Big Apple has become.

The message ended, and Multiple sirens blared off immediately from all sides. The people of New York are well aware of the drill.

His law is absolute. You don’t have to like the rules he set, but to anyone who opposes his law, his word shall be set as an example and a cautionary tale to others. Fear is what keeps them in check.

By the time the siren ended. The streets were almost empty, and New York was lifeless during the late hours.

Mayor Fisk smirked at the sight and leaned back in his chair, looking at his peaceful empire from his high-rise view. He polished his jeweled scepter with a severed PURPLE index finger preserved at the tip of its crystal. One of his many sources of influence.

---

Issue #1.2: Holyman, Sinnerman.

Murdock’s Residence.

It is the dead of the night, and the air is calm and steady.

The sleeping urban city of Hell’s Kitchen is heavily surveilled even at this hour, and Mayor Fisk’s strict curfew is still in full effect, meaning any unauthorized personnel who were still up in the streets at this time would be dealt with and would be subjected to arrest. Police are stationed at every corner of the neighborhood. Multiple drones hover in the sky to monitor their activity.

It was an uneventful night in the neighborhood until..

Matt Murdock received a phone call from one of his nuns back at the Clinton church.

“What’s wrong, darling?” His wife asked while lying in bed right next to him.

“I just received a call from the church. I think someone broke in.” Matt quickly got off the bed and suited up, donning his black shirt and wrapping his fists with bandages.

“You’re not coming?” Matt asked.

“I can’t have an important meeting by noon. Besides, I’m not really a church girl, Matthew. Especially the things I did to you last night, I don’t think the church would approve of me tying their beloved pastor,” She giggles while lying seductively on their bed.

“Stop.” Matt sighs, exasperated by her teasing, though he can’t quite hide his smile.

“Don’t forget your mask, honey.” Elektra throws a black rag at him. Matt nodded and sprang into action.

Clinton Church

“Why are you doing this?” Sister Mary weeps after being tied up along with the rest of her colleagues.

“NOTHING PERSONAL, SISTER, IT'S JUST BUSINESS, GOTTA START SMALL AND BUILD MY STREET CRED IF IM GONNA BE THE NEXT KINGPIN, THE SOONER WE ROB THE PLACE THE BETTER.” The nun got her answer. Out of the dimly lit light, a huge avian silhouette appears, stretching its elongated neck towards her.

A monstrous, owl-faced figure storms the silent cathedral, talons gouging the floor. Its five-foot wings drape like a cape—a living myth stalking the pews.

“COME ON, BOYS, HURRY UP AND ROB THAT OFFERING BOX CLEAN,” the monster demanded of his two thugs.

As they ransack the sanctuary, a metallic thud slices through the silence, snapping their attention away.

“You shouldn’t be here; this is a sacred place.” A man steps out from the shadows and brandishes his billy clubs.

“WHooo.. How did you sneak up on us?” The owl asked.

As rude as it may be, Matt didn’t respond and simply ignored the question. He was solemnly focused on the number of people inside the cathedral. His head twitches. His radar sense tells him there are three hostages and three intruders within the vicinity. One of which is near the nuns. The other is near their boss in the middle of the altar.

He hears their hearts pounding—agitated, armed, rattled by his presence. Their fear is thick, almost tangible, and he drinks it in.

He can identify two as human, and the one talking has a human heart with a different anatomy from the rest. Almost animal-like. He can perceive the winged beast’s shape through his extrasensory gift. “Huh, a mutant?” He thought to himself.

“Forgive me, father, for I know what I’m about to commit,” He muttered under his breath and looked up at the crucified figure dangling on the wall. He clenches his fist, ready to brawl in the name of protecting this church.

Without warning, the Irish masked boxer throws his baton on the ground and ricochets it at the hostage taker’s temple, knocking him out unconscious before the fight even begins.

The second thug lunges, but Matt’s fist crashes into his gut, then an elbow cracks his spine. He grabs the man’s head, slamming it into a pew, then hurls him down the aisle like yesterday’s trash.

“USELESS!” The owl’s screech ricochets through the cathedral out of pure rage, a sonic blade that overloads Matt’s senses and staggers him in agony.

The winged beast ferociously charges, talons slashing at the dazed boxer. Matt weaves instinctively, muscle memory guiding him through the onslaught.

Claws rake Matt’s shirt, drawing blood. He counters with a sharp right jab and a ruthless kick aimed low.

The Owl shielded himself from the boxer’s attack with its massive wings, and the two disengaged in combat.

“You fight like an animal, just as I do. What kind of vigilante are you? Kicking someone in the gonads is not a very heroic behavior.” The birdman said as he adjusted his jaw and went several feet above ground.

The owl takes flight and swoops in once more. Only this time, Matt is prepared.

His attempt to tackle the boxer in his flight is met with a headbutt from the horned head. Blood bleeds from Matt’s gums as a result of this double-edged attack.

The winged beast doesn’t know what hit him and has gone down on the floor, all dazed and his brain rattled.

Matt straddles the fallen Owl, fists raining down in a relentless barrage. The sanctuary echoes with the brutal rhythm—a grim symphony of violence.

“No.. more, No.. more.. I yield, I’ve learned my lesson,” Owl pleaded at the mad man, mustering what little strength he had left to speak. The beatdown was so intense that it reverted the winged beast back into the timid financer. Feathers mixed with blood piled up around them as he realized what he had done.

Matthew felt the blood dampening from his fist and stopped before he crossed a line that he might regret.

“Who are you?” One of the nuns asked, trembling in fear as if the devil manifested in this holy place.

“Just a regular churchgoer. Tell Pastor Matthew I really enjoyed his sermon last Sunday.” He limply stands up and cracks a pitiful excuse of a quip, trying to liven up the mood after his brutal display of beating these thugs into a pulp.

“Call the cops, tell them what happened.” With that said. Matt escaped through the church’s back door and call it a night.

Matthew returned home all battered and exhausted and was greeted by Elektra.

“You wouldn’t believe what transpired this night. I just beat up a giant owl by the inch of its life.”

---

Issue: 1.3: The Ripper of New York City.

“Ugh, I’m going to be late.” Sleep-deprived, irritable, and uncaffeinated, Elektra leans on her horn, trapped in a sea of honking cabs and unmoving cars.

Despite Mayor Fisk’s iron rule over his city, there is one thing he can’t solve: the morning traffic is forever engraved in the city’s culture.

Morning New York traffic can be a bitch. And to make matters worse, the city has concocted a surprise checkpoint during this busy hour.

There is a checkpoint at every corner, and police are inspecting every car, scanning each person’s registration and biodata through the system.

“Looks like someone’s piss. Rough night, Attorney?” An inspector knocks on Elektra’s window.

“Oh, hey Misty, what’s with the sudden inspection?” Elektra’s face brightens as she spots Misty Knight—one of the rare good cops in a sea of corruption.

“Just maintaining the peace and order through the Mayor’s orders. " The lady cop said.

“Uh-huh, sure. But really, what’s going on? Don’t hold out on me. Lunch is on me if you spill.” Elektra grins, pressing for the truth.

“Do you know bribery is a serious offense?”

“...”

“Nah, I’m just messing with you. You better keep your word.” Misty drops the cop routine, slipping into the easy banter of a friend.

“Off the record, we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. Some Jack the Ripper wannabe, targeting women at night.” She leans in, voice low.

“That’s very bold of him,” Elektra added.

“Exactly. We girls have to stick together. The streets aren’t safe, no matter how much the Mayor pretends otherwise,” Misty says.

“I’ve said too much. Take care, Mrs. Murdock.” Misty waves Elektra on, eyes already on the next car.

Elektra nods and drives off. She’s on her way to meet her next client, Bastian Cooper, an NYPD officer accused of breaking and entering without a warrant.

---

Issue #1.4: A Hitman from Hell

Foggy & Page’s Co. - Business District

Somewhere, in the heart of New York, lies a resistance in the form of a small journalist company. An independent press that’s uncurated by the system and actively fights corruption through journalism despite the threats from the cops and Fisk supporters. Unlike the rest of Fisk's media outlets, they don’t sugarcoat the news and maintain the spirit of fairness, freedom, and democracy in this dystopian New York.

“Morning Page. Did you get enough sleep last night?” Foggy asked Karen, brewing a hot cup of joe.

“Not really ,those stupid drones keep hovering over my window every hour, breathing down my neck. Safer city, my ass.” Karen said, groggily scratching her temple as she entered their rundown office.

“Well, turn that frown upside down, cuz i have two things that might perk your day. First, your decaf, extra sweet, no milk.” Foggy said with a smile, handing Karen a mug.

“Second, I have a scoop that will rock New York and put a smoke on Fisk’s arse.”

“Lemme guess, we finally have some dirt on Mayor Fisk's illicit funds? Or maybe that Jekyll and Hyde financer that has happened on Hell’s Kitchen.. Or maybe that new serial killer on the loose?” Karen said all giddy.

“Those are interesting stories, but no, not quite..” Nelson pulls pictures out of his coat.

“Apparently, there’s been grave robbery at St. Patrick’s, and the police are already there to prevent the news from spreading out.”

“Kinda morbid, yet intriguing. What’s so special about it?” She asked.

“Get this, there were no valuable stolen, only the coffin of one ‘Benjamin Poindexter.’ A black-ops guy who serves the country and was given a hero’s burial by the city a few years ago. I've done some digging on this guy; it turns out he has some screw loose and has killed more casualties than his actual objective. Think of him as a psychotic John Wick.” Foggy explained.

"And that's not the weird part, I have a reliable source that one of the cemetery's caretakers saw some ninjas roaming around those parts before the incident happened. Now the question is, what do they want with that corpse?"

“Pause. Did you just say, Ninjas?” Karen repeated in disbelief.

“Yeah, Ninjas.. Wanna go check it out?”

[Stormyx]

B U F F Y S U M M E R S
B U F F Y S U M M E R S

---

Mists clung low over the graveyard; the borderland of life and death. A strange place at the best of times and tonight no different. A damp no-man's land where fog crawled crooked headstones and sank into the earth until the air was thick with scents and every step stirred them. Swollen rainclouds loomed from above; holding back a storm that was threatening to break with teeth. The air just held the feeling of something violent. Through the gloom, a shape moved. Tall and broad shouldered, silent as if carved from the very fog itself.

Spike moved silently in the way only predators ever could, a crossbow slung over his shoulder. His face was cut by the life he lived; pale blue eyes that caught what others missed, a brow scored by old wounds, the quiet movements of a hunter. He paused as the fog curled about his boots. That same silence was a pressing weight, broken only by the groan of old oaks. Hollow trees, chalk-white and brittle, lining the path ahead, the path that lived away from the road and led to the woods. Those deep roots kept them upright even as the wind whistled through them with a hollow chorus that gave the old vampire pause. His nostrils flared, pulling in the damp air like a hound. There it was. Sharp and acrid, almost buried beneath the mud and rain. Burning wood. Smoldered stone. Beneath it, something else unmistakable, “...fruit?” he whispered under his breath, frowning faintly.

He followed the scent through the growing mists until the shape of a crypt emerged, broken and decrepit but still clawing skyward. A body lay slumped at the threshold. His lip curled and he crouched low in the ruins to observe. “Class,” he muttered to himself. “Used to have a bit of it.” Inside, light flickered, and the sound of chatter grew. Carefully he pushed the door ajar and was met by the smell all at once. Sweet and artificial and wrong. The crypt was occupied alright. A loose group of vampires sprawled around; half lounging and half-living in the space. One exhaled a thick cloud of the fruit smell, tossing the vape to the next in line. Another of them shook around at a clear cup and ice clinked around softly in dark, diluted blood. Spike stared at it. “...They’re icing it now?”

“--I’m just saying,” one of them was mid way through a thought. “If this Slayer is that big of a deal, someone should actually try, right?”

“Literally,” another said, sipping from a bedazzled flask through a straw. “Worst case is that you get dusted but that’s like, kind of already the lifestyle.”

“Yeah but imagine if you win,” a third chimed in. “You’d be like, everywhere.”

“Okay but like, where even is she?” the first said again. The vape back in his hands as he drew from it, his words cut through the mango-berry fog cloud. “I’ve been trying to find her and it’s actually impossible I fear.”

“She’s probably hiding or something,” another scoffed - rattling the ice around in her cup obnoxiously; clots sitting like boba pearls amidst the ice. “It totally builds her brand.”

That was enough of that, Spike decided. He pushed the door fully open and felt the eyes of all five vampires snap to him. “She’s not hiding,” he said. Now that he had the full view of the room, his brow quirked. Various apparatus here and there - an espresso machine. Syrup pumps, vape cartridges all lined up. Disgusting. He took from his jacket pocket a cigarette and lit it - the trail of smoke fighting against the wafts of artificial cloud.

“You know that’s like, so gross right?” one of the vampires said with a look of disgust upon her own face.

“Yeah. Right,” Spike responded nonchalantly. “As I was saying,” he continued, “she’s not interested in you. Bigger fish and all that.”

“WAIT!” One of the vampires exclaimed, standing to her feet, arms outstretched. “Are you William the Bloody?” she asked, grinning. “If so, that is actually WILD.”

“I used to be,” he shrugged.

“That totally tracks, so vintage.”

“--No but wait,” another one said, holding out a finger, sucking up the blood pearls from the iced drink before continuing. “He goes by “Spike” now, and he’s like, totally de-fanged.” The five of them all looked around at each other, then to Spike, then to each other again.

One of them snorted out a laugh. “That can’t be your name! Shut up! No way, Spike? Like what are you even? A puppy dog?”

“Isn’t it like, because he’s a punk and wears spikes? Or did he kill people with spikes or something – like, either way it’s so cringe and so aggressive.”

“Low-key problematic,” another added, nodding seriously.

“I’m not bloody cringe,” Spike protested. “Been dead longer than you’d been alive and then some-”

“Okay boomer,” one of them laughed, setting them all off all at once. “Just tell us where the Slayer is. Rumour has it you’d know and we’re trying to find her. People say she’s intense and we want to experience it at least once, you know?”

“Yeah,” another said, raising her cup to the air. “We want to make it a group thing.”

“And I’m telling you,” Spike interrupted at last. “She’s not for you.”

“Gatekeep much?”

“You wouldn’t last.”

“Rude.”

“Yeah, so rude.”

“She’s literally just a Slayer, it’s our job to like, take her–”

“Yeah,” Spike spoke again. His eyes having darkened already as something cold formed and settled behind them. “That’s what all you freshers think.” Just a Slayer. Those words turned over in his mind with a bitterness and he felt it then. That he was old. They spoke of it like it was a simple title and a challenge. Something to be sized up and take a run at. They had no idea. They’d never know, they’d never understand what that meant, what it meant to exist in this cycle and dance between demons and darkness and the wider world. To live and die by it, to orbit something that burned as bright and brutal as she did and to stand at even the edge of her as she threw herself again and again into the dark like it was the only place she ever belonged.

Hell, he’d killed two Slayers himself once. Not her though, not Buffy; and somewhere along the lines he started fighting beside her, for her, because of her. A slow breath left him. These children, these idiots, stood here talking about her like she was a story and something to try on between sips of their cold foam iced espresso blood matchas. This was a game to them.

“You totally just spaced out–” one of them cut in.

“She hasn’t got time for you,” Spike responded, returning to the present scene in front of him. His voice low. “She’s with him.”

“...Who?”

Spike didn’t answer. He just moved and the first of them barely had time to react before Spike had stepped to him, a stake immediately thrust his chest and his dust scattered, drifting through the haze of vape and Spike swore he could smell the putrid Mango-Berry even in the plume of ash and dust as if it had seasoned the vampire all the way through. The others were sloppier; moving without reason or instinct to guide them. Just a weak bravado but Spike pushed through them without hesitation, and without much effort. A turn here, strike there – ending each of them without flourish.

When it all finally settled, he glanced down at one of the abandoned cups. Ice half melted and blood thinned to something almost pink. “She’s bigger than the Slayer now.” He sat and settled himself upon a coffin, relighting his cigarette as his eyes traced the outlines of the place.

Somewhere beyond and below him, Buffy walked a path he couldn’t follow.

---

She dreamed.

Not as mortals did in soft, fleeting colours that slipped with morning. No, she dreamed of something far away, yet drawing nearer to her present. A convergence where realities would collide. A cold ground, endless under her weight and a red sky above. A red night stretched without an end; fire bleeding across a muddled crimson cloud-wrack, stretching, stretching. Veins of red, and always the sound of drums, the slow heart beat of war. A rattle in her own lungs was the sound closest to her; sharp, dying breaths.

A dream that Buffy Summers had walked many times, over years of her life since she was awakened as the Slayer - the prophecy settled and written in her dreamscape. It met her always, the path of it worn as familiar as an old scar but this was no nightmare. This was a soft unravel, a glimpse to her own future. The constant. The direction that she was always heading toward. The waiting embrace at the end of a journey.

It had always been a dream that had been hers. A thing that lay misunderstood; but there. Always there.

It was the Crown of Sineya that gave it all clarity. That thing bestowed upon her by the Amazons, made from the first of them. The first Slayer. Her essence and strength, her memories to become a doorway. The clarity of the Slayer line made real. A way to reveal the pathway of the liminal state between worlds; the riverway to the boundary of life and death. A way down. The edges of her dream shifted as she moved and the ground beneath her was no longer fixed, but flowing. Visions of a battlefield unraveled into something deeper and older as the red sky dimmed and darkened and the whispers began.

There was no water that made this river to fill the banks, only memory and voices. The songs of the Slayers who had come before and they all brushed against her as she stepped forward, the fragments of their lives and battles won and lost. Moments that had never been hers and yet lived within her all the same. Echoes that whispered wordlessly to pull her onward along a current she did not resist. The air grew still and that red sky had long since collapsed into shadow, and there he waited as the river stilled at its edge. Buffy had done this before. Died. Crossed. Returned. This boundary could never hold her the way it held others.

Stone rose up around her, vast and shapeless, forming something akin to a hallway. A throne room that had not been built, but imagined and brought there by concept. Imposing and expecting of her; not entirely seen and not entirely understood and at the centre a figure shifted at the edged of perception. Shadow abound, and even the mind of the Slayer with all her infernal energy could not settle on something absolute to create and perceive him.

Hades.

For a while there was silence, but she had come this far. Whatever this was, whatever he was… She would face it.

At last he spoke.

“Here beginneth the lesson.”

[Natty]

|| Bellwood Docks, Earth - 10:21 p.m. EST

The fog had thinned, leaving the dockyard quiet except for the distant lap of waves. Intergang lay scattered across the concrete, unconscious or webbed to machinery. Gwen and Max stood with Ben near a stack of crates, the adrenaline finally fading.

He had spent the last half hour or so explaining everything about where he’d been the last few years. Explaining about Azmuth and how he has fixed the Omnitrix from detonating. About being separated from Tetrax after the pirate attack. And then about the years that followed. The alien worlds he had seen. The people he’d saved. There was a lot he had omitted though. He didn’t want them to know about the prison worlds. The suffering he’d seen out there. The suffering he’d experienced himself. He didn’t want them to worry too much.

“…and then the ship finally drifted into S.W.O.R.D’s patrol zone. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in a cell.” Ben finished the last part of his story, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Kid, we thought you were gone.” Max let out a long breath and shook his head.

His Hawaiian shirt moved in the breeze, bright and familiar in a way that made Ben’s chest tighten. Max looked older, a little more lined around the eyes, but the warmth in his face had not changed at all. Seeing him again filled him with so much joy.

“Takes more than the galaxy to get rid of me.” Ben laughed, feining the cockiness he often had.

He did not say the rest. That he had replayed their faces every night. That the silence of deep space had felt heavier than any enemy. That he had missed them so much it hurt.

Gwen, already unmasked, watched him with a mixture of relief and worry. She looked different from the girl he remembered. Taller. Sharper. More sure of herself. A confidence in her eyes that made it clear she had grown into her power. She was not his dweeb of a cousin anymore. Given the makeshift costume she was wearing and the magical tricks she had been performing as he arrived, it was clear she had stepped up in his absence.

“Five years, Ben. You cannot just show up like nothing happened.” She finally managed.

“I know. I am sorry. Really.” He looked between them, guilt tugging at him. “But what were you two doing out here.”

He knew it was a clumsy redirect the moment it left his mouth. He was not ready to keep talking about himself, not yet.

Gwen opened her mouth, clearly about to call him on it. She saw the strain in his eyes instead and let the objection go.

“Intergang has been moving alien weapons again. Big shipments.”

Max nodded, before chiming in himself.

“And their buyers are the Forever Knights. They’re reorganizing. Intergang is supplying them directly.”

“Seriously.” Ben groaned. “I leave for five minutes and everything falls apart.”

“Five years,” Gwen corrected.

“And SWORD has not been much help. They show up late, take credit, and tell us to stay out of the way.” Ben could hear the annoyance in his voice as he spoke.

Gwen glanced upward.

“Speaking of which...”

Blue lights swept across the dockyard. A SWORD dropship descended, sleek and angular, humming with energy.

Ben’s breath hitched.

For a moment, the sound was not a dropship at all. It was the roar of the cruiser that had ambushed him near the asteroid belt. The one that boarded without warning. The one where he woke up strapped to a table.

His hand twitched toward the Omnitrix, thumb brushing the dial before he caught himself.

Gwen noticed. She shifted a little closer.

The ramp lowered. Agents spilled out in formation.

The lead agent stepped forward, tall and armoured with his visor down. Ben did not recognise him.

Max clearly did, and he didn't look happy.

“Agent Kincaid.” He greeted coldly.

Agent Kincaid simply gave him a short nod in response before turning and pointing towards Ben.

“Tennyson. You were instructed to remain under observation and refrain from unauthorized transformations.”

Ben froze for half a second.

He really should have listened when they rattled off the conditions of his release. But hearing it now, it was just bullcrap. The idea of standing still while people he loved were in danger made his skin crawl. He was not sure he remembered how to be just Ben anymore.

Ben stepped forward, irritation flaring.
.
“I want Brand here. Now. She is the one who signed off on my release. She can talk to me herself.”

“Director Brand is occupied right now.” Kincaid replied sternly with the same official nonsense he’d quickly grown accustomed to during his brief stint on the SWORD station.

“Occupied with what?” Ben asked, his jaw tightening.

“Classified.”

Ben let out a humourless laugh.

“Of course it is.”

Kincaid’s tone hardened in response.

“And until she is available, you will follow protocol. That includes no transformations.”

Ben’s voice sharpened. This was ridiculous.

“I saved my family. What exactly did you expect me to do, wait politely to die.”

“That is irrelevant. You violated protocol.”

“I did not violate anything. You were not here. I was.”

“You are under SWORD jurisdiction.”

Max stepped forward, standing beside Ben rather than in front of him. His voice was calm and steady, carrying the weight of someone who had outranked men like Kincaid long before SWORD existed.

“Kincaid. You and I both know Director Brand will want to hear about this from me directly. If she has an issue with how Ben handled himself tonight, she can tell him herself when she is free.”

Kincaid hesitated.

“We will give our statements.” Max continued, tone firm but diplomatic.”Then we are leaving. You can log this as a warning if you need to. But you are not detaining him. Not tonight.”

Kincaid’s jaw worked behind the visor, clearly debating what Grandpa Max had stated. Whilst not a member of SWORD, it was clear his days as a Plumber still held some weight.

“Fine. A warning. This time.”

Ben exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

Gwen stepped closer and brushed his arm lightly. It was a quiet check-in. Ben gave her a small nod. He was alright. Or at least trying to be.

Max clapped a hand on his back, shaking him back to things.

“Come on. I'd offer you some dinner but all I have is that stew you always hated.” He laughed, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

Ben cracked a smile.

“I actually kind of missed it.”

|| New Jersey, Earth - 10:36 p.m. EST

The dropship’s floodlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a derelict alien vessel half submerged against the pier. The hull was torn open from the inside, smoke curling from ruptured vents. The air smelled like ozone and blood.

Brand stood at the breach, her coat whipping in the wind, her jaw set like iron.

A field scientist in a sealed suit approached carefully, stepping around the bloody bodies of the boarding team before them. Their armor was shredded. Some were slumped against walls. Others were less intact.

“Director, we have completed the preliminary sweep.”

Brand did not look away from the carnage.

“Report.” Was all she said.

The scientist swallowed before continuing.

“Some of the wounds are consistent with Brood infiltration. Parasitic entry points. Rapid tissue consumption.”

Brand felt the word settle in her mind like a weight. Brood. Of all the parasites in the galaxy, they were the one species she never wanted loose on Earth. Not because they were unstoppable. Not because they were clever. Because they were efficient. They did not improvise. They did not hesitate. They did not negotiate. They consumed.

She clicked her tongue as he continued.

“But others… others were done by something stronger. Much stronger.”

Brand’s eyes narrowed.

“Survivors?”

“None.”

She finally turned to him.

“The pilot?”

Someone had to have been piloting the craft. Brood were too primitive.

“Gone. Whatever was in here escaped during the crash.”

Brand’s jaw tightened.

“Direction.”

The scientist checked his scanner.

“Based on the breach and the tracks, toward the city.”

Brand looked out toward the distant skyline, lights flickering in the night.

“Send a search party. Full sweep. I want whatever came off this ship found.”

She stepped deeper into the wreckage, her boots splashing through regeneration fluid.

“And I want it found before it finds anyone else.”

[Ruby]

[retracted]

[Lord Wraith]

|| Several Weeks Ago - St. Roch, Louisiana

“Elsa.” Carter began as he walked into the main foyer of the Stonechat Museum, “Yara delivered your message, I see your trinket, you have my undivided attention.”

“‘Bout bloody time, Dr. Hall.” Elsa replied with a wink, “I didn’t wear my nice knickers for nothing, figured I’d swoon you with a gift, you buy me dinner, and we can talk.”

“Business?” The male asked, his gravelly voice hard to distinguish from a growl.

“Business, and whatever else comes up.” The blonde woman retorted. “Got a client who’s certain he’s found El Dorado. Problem is, he wants to send us to Brazil.”

“El Dorado is an Aztec myth; the Aztecs weren’t in Brazil.” Came Carter’s monotone reply.

“That’s what I told ‘im.” Bloodstone replied, “‘Cept the bloke gave me that, certain it was Aztec gold, you and I both know that’s not gold, innit?”

“No, it’s definitely not Aztec gold, but it’s not Mayan or Incan either, it’s-”

“Not of this world,” Another woman’s voice interrupted as Carter’s eyes were drawn to the speaker. A wave of deja vu washed over him as he looked towards the short-haired woman; her soft, sun-kissed skin took on a caramel hue in the warm light of the museum foyer. While the auburn locks of her longer pixie cut gave way to copper tones scattered throughout.

Sharp golden eyes met Carter’s own as the woman stepped past Elsa, extending a hand of her own. Tension sat between them, as Carter felt himself compelled to embrace the woman. The call of Shayera’s soul beckoned him forward.

“I make you an offer. Accept this death as judgment. Or choose to live again. If it is life you choose, you will have it for eternity. Reincarnating across time and space until you save as many lives as you have ended.

That is the debt you owe.”

It was always agonizing the first time. To meet Shayera before her memories had been restored, to live in a state of unrequited silence without being able to communicate their grand romance across space and time.

Suddenly, Carter felt the mighty need to hit something.

“Kendra, Kendra Munoz-Saunders, I represent my fiancé, Kristoff Roderik.”

That was another blow.

“Fiancé?”

“Yes, Carter,” Elsa interjected, “Some men actually have feelings and act upon them.”

“Oh,” Kendra exclaimed, looking between Carter and Elsa, “Is this going to be a problem? I had no idea the two of you-”

“No,” Carter replied deadpan as Elsa burst out laughing.

“Carter Hall and me? He’d be so lucky, but Carter’s the most emotionally stunted man I’ve ever come across. I could throw my knickers in his face, and I have, he’d still not taken the clue, luv.”

“Can we get back to business?” Carter’s eyes darted between Kendra and Elsa impatiently.

“Apologies, yes, Mr. Roderik believes that this metal is part of the myth of El Dorado, I’ve personally had the metal tested-”

“You’ve handled it?” Carter asked, his brow narrowing as he looked at Kendra.

What sort of game was this?

If Kendra had handled the Nth Metal, then she should’ve had her memories restored. Could Carter have been wrong? Was the woman standing in front of him not Shayera? Her eyes were so familiar; people change, but never the eyes. Her eyes showed no recognition for him, no affection for this face, this body.

She had given her heart to another already. Was the cycle finally broken? Was their debt paid?

“Is there a problem?” Kendra asked hesitantly as Elsa looked at Carter with a raised brow.

“No. Continue,”

“Uh, okay, anyways, the metal doesn’t originate here on Earth, probably doesn’t belong in this galaxy. Mr. Roderik, however, believes both the Aztecs and the Spanish mistook it as gold due to its, well, to be blunt, golden sheen.”

“Why Brazil?” Carter asked, handing the trinket back to Kendra.

“This sample was recovered there, and as far as I know, no one has ever looked in Brazil for El Dorado.”

“Because it’s not there,” Carter grumbled.

“You have an issue with being told what to do, don’t you, Mr. Hall?” Kendra teased, attempting to lighten the tension. Carter felt himself staring again; he could have sworn that it was Shayera talking directly to him.

“Darlin’, you have no idea.”

“What is Bloodstone’s role in this?” Carter asked, attempting to sway the conversation off of himself again.

“She was my first pick, my fiancé, on the other hand, insisted on you. Elsa is willing to compromise and do a joint dig. Her crews are already on site, and Mr. Roderik’s plan is packed and waiting. We’d love to have you along, Dr. Hall; however, I’m content to go back to Kristoff and tell him you weren’t interested should you say no. We will still be completing the dig.”

“We could always get Rex Mason,” Elsa suggested, watching Carter glare back at her at the mention of Rex’s name.

Carter stared at the two women for a second, exhaling heavily before turning towards the staircase behind him.

“Yara,” He roared, “Grab my to-go bag and anything you need.”

“We’re going to Brazil.”

|| Present - St. Roch, Louisiana

“Do you think Craddock was telling the truth?”

Ray asked as Carter tore into another crate. Wood splintered and flew in every direction as Carter angrily tore the box apart with his bare hands.

“Have you ever considered talking to, I don’t know, someone actually licensed?” Ray commented, immediately regretting the jest as Carter’s ember-like eyes swivelled around to glare at him.

“Where’s your grad student? Isn’t this more her kind of work?”

“Yara’s visiting some new family in Brazil; she won’t be back for a couple more weeks,” Carter growled back.

“What exactly happened in Brazil?”

Carter let Ray’s question hang between them for longer than he should have. His silence prompted Ray to begin to leave before Carter took a deep breath, finally speaking.

“We messed up.” He started, “I messed up.” Carter corrected.

“So Kendra’s not-”

“I don’t know,” Carter added, the broad-shouldered man taking a seat before running a hand through his short hair. “I still think she is, but that’s not how I messed up.”

“What did you do?”

“I think I ended the world,” Carter replied. “I killed Huītzilōpōchtli.”

“Wheat low how what?” Ray asked. “Carter, even with four Ph. D.s, I’m going to need you actually to explain.”

“Huītzilōpōchtli, he was said to be the Aztec God of War and was also the last line of defense against Camazotz, the Bat God who intends to end the world in Eternal Darkness. I led the expedition right to the hidden city, and Huītzilōpōchtli got in their way.” Carter explained.

“His blood is directly on my hands, Elsa didn’t hesitate to gun him down, and now, Craddock said the forces of the dead were rising. I saw Camazotz’s forces; you’d never forget them. Undead red eyes hungrily staring back at you.” He continued, curling and uncurling his fist as he spoke.

“Carter, I don’t mean to play down the end of the world, but haven’t you faced an apocalypse at least five times now? Mythology has a place, but those legends are always misrepresented. If this ‘Camazotz’ was unleashed by Wheat-, I’m going to call him ‘Harry’, by Harry’s death, then there was more than likely something that was imprisoning him.”

“Won’t matter, Ray,” Carter answered, “There aren’t enough heroes. This isn’t 1952 anymore; there isn’t a Justice Society to ride in and save the day.”

“Then, that’s what we change,” Ray replied optimistically. “You’re hardly the only superhero operating, and you’ve got me. Hawkman and the Atom, it’s a solid start. I bet between you and Pratt, you’ve got some other contacts.”

“I might know a few long-lived friends still,” Carter muttered, brushing his hands before standing as the Nth Metal flowed over his body, the winged helmet appearing on his head before a massive pair of wings flourished from his back.

“I need to talk to Nabu.” He stated.

“We need to find the Claw of Horus.”

[Natty]

|| Bellwood, Earth

Ben stood in front of the magazine rack, pretending to look at the crossword books while his eyes kept drifting to the covers beside them. Headlines about the rise of modern heroes. Blurry photos of flying men streaking across city skylines. A grainy shot of someone in a bulky armored suit catching a falling car. Another magazine speculating about a vigilante in black who’d taken down an entire gang in Gotham. A red‑and‑blue blur photographed mid‑swing between skyscrapers. The world had grown capes and legends and headlines. People with powers. People saving lives. People doing exactly what he wasn’t allowed to do.

He swallowed hard.

The last week had been a rollercoaster.

His parents had cried. Like, full‑body cried. His mom had hugged him so hard he thought she might crack a rib. His dad kept touching his shoulder like he was afraid Ben would vanish if he looked away. They’d spent two days refusing to let him out of their sight.

Then came the shopping spree. Apparently, when your ten‑year‑old son comes back as a teenager, your first instinct is to buy him an entire wardrobe. Jeans, hoodies, jackets, and shoes. Gwen had dragged him through every store in the mall, holding shirts up to his chest and muttering about “color palettes” and “vibes.” He didn’t know what half of that meant, but she seemed happy, so he let her. Thankfully one thing that hadn't changed in five years was his favourite hockey player staying at Bellwood, meaning he got to be the proud owner of his latest jersey, his number 10 gleaming in green on the back and front.

School was another question. It was too late in the year to enroll. Too weird to explain. Too dangerous, maybe, with everything going on. Max had said they’d “figure it out,” which usually meant they’d deal with it later. Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to go back anyway. Not when the world felt like it was sprinting ahead without him.

He had been looking forward to getting back to the action all week. Tonight was the first time Max was letting him join a real stakeout, and he’d been buzzing about it since breakfast. Gwen insisted stakeouts required an unreasonable amount of snacks, which was how they ended up here. It wasn’t hero work, not really, but it was something. A distraction. A step toward feeling useful again.

He grabbed a soda and a bag of chips, trying to shake the feeling off. Gwen joined him at the counter, arms full of snacks she definitely didn’t need.

“You good?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.” He lied.

The cashier scanned their stuff. Ben was reaching for his wallet when the bell over the door jingled again.

A man in a ski mask rushed in, waving a gun with both hands like he barely knew how to hold it. His voice cracked as he shouted at the cashier to empty the register.

Ben’s heart jumped. His fingers twitched toward the Omnitrix.

He ran through options in his head. XLR8 could disarm him instantly. Diamondhead could block the shot. Four Arms could punch him through the wall. Quite frankly anyone would've put this punk in his place. He pressed the side button, activating the selector.

Before he could make his choice though, Gwen’s hand closed around his wrist.

“Don’t.”

He looked at her, confused and frustrated.

She stepped forward before he could argue. Calm. Controlled. She flicked her fingers and a pulse of mana knocked the gun clean out of the man’s hand. He yelped, stumbled, and Gwen swept his legs out from under him with a glowing arc of energy. He hit the floor hard, groaning.

The cashier stared. Ben stared.

Gwen dusted her hands off. “Let’s go.”

Ben followed her out, cheeks burning. He didn’t say anything as they moved.

All he could think about were the magazines. The heroes. The headlines. Gwen, handling everything like she’d been doing it for years.

And him, standing there, useless, with a watch that could turn him into anything.

It wasn’t fair.

|| Knowhere, Space

The warehouse lights flickered as a towering, broad‑shouldered figure stepped inside, flanked by half a dozen armored enforcers. White fur bristled beneath battered pirate leathers, the black stripes across his feline features catching the dim light like claw marks. The shattered remains of a Nova Corps chestplate clung to his torso, scorched and cracked from battles long past. As he moved deeper into the room, he reached up to adjust the heavy cybernetic cannon grafted to his right arm, the mechanism whining softly as its plates shifted. A metallic grey patch covered one of his eyes, whilst the other narrowed as it took in the wreckage around him.

Titus let out a low growl.

“Look at this mess,” he muttered, voice echoing off metal walls. “My territory. My supplies. My people. And some cloaked scavenger thinks he can stroll in and help himself.”

His men spread out, weapons raised. The only illumination came from a few dying overhead strips and the glow of exposed conduits sparking on the floor.

Titus continued, louder now, letting his voice carry.

“We’ve been hearing stories. Something tearing through my protection racket. Something ripping apart my crews. Something stealing tech like it’s building a damn shrine.”

He stepped over a shattered drone, its chassis crushed like paper.

“I don’t tolerate thieves. And I don’t tolerate chaos in my streets. Whoever you are, you’ve made a very expensive mistake.”

A dry, rasping laugh drifted from the shadows.

Every man froze.

The laugh came again, deeper this time, vibrating through the metal supports of the warehouse. A cloaked figure shifted in the darkness between two towering stacks of crates.

Titus raised a hand, signaling his men to hold.

The figure stepped forward, his cloak falling away. The room went silent in response

His body was towering and monstrous; half‑healed and half‑mechanical. The sickly green of his was fused with jagged sheets of metal and machinery. Wires snaked across his limbs. His tentacke-like limbs flexed and rippled, while his eyes burned into his onlookers like a pair of twin suns.

Titus’ men recoiled.

Titus himself took a single step back before catching himself.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come find me, Titus.”
Vilgax spoke, voice low yet filling the room all the same. “You lost your arm to a child. And now you hide in this scrap‑heap, pretending to be a king. Let me help you reclaim what was taken.”

[Pacifista]

“Robbie! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were helping someone move in the next town over.”

A brown pair of eyes flickered in between the small crown of men standing around the pool table in the otherwise dead and dusty midday bar. “We got done early, thought I’d stop by.”

Leaning down to line up a shot, Joe said, “Fixing to play? Well, you can hop in next round. Shouldn’t be too long now.” Tongue slipping to the edge of his mouth in focus, he made his shot, the cue ball clipping the 7 and sending it spinning to rattle around the corner. Mouthing a swear, he stepped back as the next player swooped in.

“We were trading ghost stories. Leo’s son was nosing around with the Acra Manor. Said he heard screaming.”

“The place up on the hill?” Robbie asked, leaning in and pretending to be interested in the pool game.

Joe’s eyes narrowed only to soften after a moment of thought. “Right, you’re newer. Some old money used to live there. He was linked to some missing persons some years ago but the charges were dropped. Shady as all hell. He was always rumored to keep gold in his walls but he died a few years back. The police poke in once in a while but they’ve never found anything weird, and I’ve never heard of someone who broke in and came back. We’re thinking the missing people are still there, in spirit.”

A clatter came from the pool table. Leo slammed his fist on the edge. “Not while I’m lining up my shot!”

“Shit, not like you were making it anyway.” Sliding in to take his turn, Joe continued, “I was gonna mention the bodies they found under the old school when I was a kid-”

“Again?” blurted the third party, a somewhat younger black man looking up from his phone. Daniel got a nasty look before Joe leaned down, the mood sour as he took his shot, sinking the 7 and moving to take the 8.

“Okay, we can change the subject. You heard about the guy rampaging in Huntsville? They keep saying ‘EVO’ whatever the fuck that’s supposed to be. Nanites? Seriously? But they’re not even pretending it’s not really just about mutants. That magnet fucker was all about ‘evolution’.” Danny shook his head. Joe’s nostrils flared. “Hey, I’m not saying all mutants are a problem, I just don’t think those libs in the government care about the truth over whatever political correctness wins at the polls.”

Leo scoffed. “Yeah, what are you going to do, stretch your earlobes at us?”

As Leo and Joe chortled, Robbie stepped over, grabbing Joe as he moved to shoot and banging his head down on the table. Wrestling with the stunned man, he forced open his jaw and clamped in down on the corner, raising his elbow and dropping it. In an instant, there were more teeth on the table then pool balls. It was pure violence, that which was resting behind Joe’s benign words, that so many would gladly evoke if they were beyond recourse.

“You there Robbie?” Joe asked, holding out the usual cue stick. Leo was putting the balls back into position as Danny went off to grab his own stick for a fresh Scotch Doubles.

Snapping back, Robbie reached his hand out, but ultimately pulled back. “Nah, I dropped something on my foot earlier and it’s starting to hurt. Next time?”

Joe gave a hapless shrug. “Alright then, next time it is.”

With one last look at the group, those brown eyes fell onto Robbie, flaring with anger for a moment before he left the bar. Out on the street in the muggy day, he turned a few corners, then into an alleyway before shrinking a few inches and narrowing considerably. His dirty blonde hair became long and brown with a shock of white running through the front. Fishnets over her black top, her face was stiff as she processed her instinct for violence. She didn’t think it was undeserved: this area was full of racist slimeballs. But that was secondary. The doormat laying down and taking it was what really bothered her. The passivity in a place where action was needed instead. But she hadn’t acted either. It wasn’t who she was anymore. She was out for herself. She’d gone Rogue long ago.

---

Spinning a wad of cash that was pinched between his thumb and finger, Remy gave a light smile as Anne approached. Recognizing an aggression in her step, she slowed her roll, hoping her mood didn’t show too much on her face. He didn’t even seem to notice, she thought, waving the cash before sliding it into his coat pocket. How he wore than thing in this weather was beyond her.

“Ah, Cheri. Won enough at darts for pizza an’ a’ motel. Ol’ idiots never saw the Gambit coming. Wanna drive?” Snapping the jangling keys out of the air as he tossed them at her, she gave them a look, spotting the old beat up Hello Kitty keychain that had belonged to the original owner. She felt her mood melt away, restraint exchanged for control. He’d give her the wheel, and- god dammit she could never stay mad with him around.

Remy slipped to the other side while Anne moved to the door. She gave a toothy smile, nodding northward. “I can do you one better, sugar. Got a score for us, big mansion up the hill. Old money, bad rumors: I got the feeling there’s something hiding there.”

A whistle blew from Remy’s lips as they slipped into the car. “Fancy part of town, eh?”

Hands tight on the wheel Anne let them slacken a bit. She spotted a particular parlor a ways up the road, figuring Remy had noted it while he was waiting. “We’ll hit it when it gets dark, we’ve got a few hours. In the meantime, pizza sounds mighty fine right about now.”

^{Made in collaboration with @Hillan}

[Lord Wraith]

|| Present - Chicago, Illinois

Sheets and pillows were tossed askew across the large mattress. Sweat soaked into silk sheets, the woman atop the bed writhing as her hands alternated from caressing her own satin and lace-draped form to gripping the mattress tightly.

“...Katar…”

Sheets tore as her breath quickened, a moan escaping from betwixt her lips before her eyes shot awake, and the woman sat up, eyes darting around the room before adjusting her slip to cover herself again properly.

A light suddenly illuminated from the lamp in the corner of the room, eliciting a gasp from the woman who frantically scrambled for a sheet to drape over herself before realizing the man in the chair was her fiancé.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, Kendra.”

“Kristoff!” The woman exclaimed, her chest heavily heaving up and down, sweat glistening upon her ample bosom. Her eyes darted from Kristoff's seat in the corner chair back to the bed that was nearly stripped, to the pillows, blankets and sheets strewn about the floor surrounding the bed.

If she herself didn’t know better, it would look as though she had taken a lover in the middle of the night.

“You startled me,” Kendra continued, raising a shaky arm to wipe a few beads of sweat from her brow as she sought to catch her breath. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as though it was threatening to break free of her chest. An uncomfortable warmth burned at the back of her ears and the nape of her neck.

A shiver ran down her spine as she tried to remember her dream. Coarse hands, a musky smell of a man’s sweat. Her feet dangling in the air, all while called in the throes of passion, passion she had never felt with her fiancé.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Kristoff replied flatly, “You were having quite the dream, I felt I would be intruding to come to bed now.” His words were playful, but Kendra could tell by his tone that Kristoff was bothered.

Ever since they had returned from Brazil, Kristoff had been on edge. Every little thing set him off; his level of irritability was unlike anything that Kendra had ever seen in the three years they had been together.

“You should have woken me,” Kendra attempted to flirt back, trying to compose herself, “I would have much rather had you than a dream.”

“I won’t be second to anyone,” Kristoff answered, standing from his chair. “Not to any dream man, nor any archaeologist-”

“You requested that Carter Hall come to Brazil, he kissed m-”

“Don’t give me that crap!” Kristoff roared, “I saw the way you looked at him, Kendra. I saw the way you kissed him back. I heard you just now. Have I not suffered enough embarrassment?”

“What are you expecting me to do here, Kristoff? If you want the ring back, just damn well say so! I’m not looking to end this relationship.”

“Can you imagine the headlines?” The man scoffed, “No, this marriage is happening, no matter how unhappy you’ll be.” He suddenly winced as Kendra pulled her engagement ring from her finger and hurled it across the room. The setting cut Kristoff’s cheek before he held a hand to his face, pulling it back to look at the blood on his fingertips.

“I am not a damn trophy wife!” Kendra hissed while Kristoff bent down and picked up the fallen ring. “The headlines? The fuckin’ headlines? Your relationship is falling apart, and you’re worried about your image?”

She stood up from the bed, grabbing a nearby robe and angrily wrapping it around herself.

“I can’t believe I ever thought-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Kristoff’s tone was venomous. “I have given you everything, and you’re the one who’s happy to throw it all away.”

“Happy?” Kendra snapped, “Do I look happy?” She let out a frustrated shriek.

“But we were,” Krisfoff growled, “Before you and that lecherous-”

“Carter Hall is not the problem,” The woman interjected, “You invited him, you pushed us to spend time together, and he got mixed signals. Ever since, you’ve treated me like I was unfaithful-”

“YOU KISSED HIM!”

“HE. KISSED. ME!” Kendra yelled back.

“You’ve always loved him, you can’t stay away from him, can you?” Kristoff practically spat the accusation towards Kendra, spittle flying from his mouth.

“You sound like a crazy person. What is this sudden obsession with Carter Hall?”

“I can’t even look at you anymore.” Kristoff replied, turning his back towards Kendra, “I’m going to the house in the Hamptons. I need some space.”

“We have a wedding to pl-”

“I’m keeping this,” Kristoff spoke over Kendra, holding her engagement ring. “I’ll return it when I do. Provided you’re still here.”

“Kris-” Kendra softened her tone, “I’m not going any-”

“I’ve heard enough lies from you for tonight.” He interjected again, “Goodbye, my dear, I’ll see you when I return.”

Kendra quickly found herself alone in a room that had previously been both hers and Kristoff’s, but in that moment, she found it feeling very foreign and not at all like home. Collapsing on the edge of the bed, she found herself lapsing into old habits, digging her finely manicured nails into the underside of her forearm before stopping as her thumb traced a scar along the bottom of her wrist.

She fell to her side, viciously fighting back the tears welling up in her eyes. She had never felt so manipulated in her entire relationship with Kristoff. Had she truly done something so terrible that he couldn’t love her anymore?

Why did all of this keep coming back to Carter Hall?

“A gift, for when you’re ready.”

Kendra’s eyes opened again as she reached under the bed and pulled out a small box. Carter had given it to her before they departed from Brazil. She had opened it then, but then cast it aside, given everything that had happened following Carter’s kiss.

It was inappropriate to even entertain, but Kendra had never been kissed like that before in her life. The passion she had felt behind the kiss, even as repulsed as she was. Carter was able to convey a love that Kristoff never had in any of their intimate moments. The gift in the box could only have been a further token of those affections. Which made it completely unacceptable.

Still, she hadn’t brought herself to throw it out.

“And instead, you hid it.” She muttered to herself, once again opening the wooden box, only to be greeted by a gold cuff inside.

“Bit ostentatious for my taste,” Kendra commented, sniffling slightly before picking the cuff up and sliding her wrist into it. The metal vibrated on her skin; it felt alive before suddenly it tightened, creating a perfect fit.

“Huh,” She let out the sound of mild shock while examining her arm. “It looks like, what did Carter call it, Nth Metal-”

Her question was cut off as Kendra suddenly screamed. The cuff began to rapidly vibrate before exploding along her arm, digging into her skin and crawling inside of her. Leaping up from the bed, Kendra clawed at her own arm, frantically trying to get the metal out of her before she tripped over the daybed and plummeted through the glass balcony window.

She screamed once more before plummeting over the railing and falling towards the streets below.

|| Present - New Orleans, Louisiana

In another life, Nabu had been Khufu’s chief advisor, Carter’s chief advisor. A powerful magician, it was Nabu who had harnessed the power of the Nth Metal, a substance foreign to Earth, native only to Katar Hol’s homeworld of Thanagar, to create the weapon known as the Claw of Horus.

Capable of drawing power from a planet’s core, the Claw allowed Carter to pack his punches with the full force of Earth’s magnetic field. Essentially, punching with the mass of the planet behind each blow. At the very least, it would help Carter in the fight against god to ensure he wasn’t punching nearly as far above his own belt.

Nabu himself, unfortunately, had physically passed away several millennia ago, but he lived on as a cosmic entity, one of the four Lords of Order. The Claw of Horus was hardly Nabu’s only invention, and indeed, it was far from his most powerful, as he had created a helm which allowed him to use the wearer as an avatar.

The Helmet of Fate.

“So, this helmet will tell us where the Claw is?” Ray asked from his perch on Hawkman’s bandolier. The miniature man never got tired of watching the cities and countryside fly by while he rode as a passenger on his friend.

“No,” Carter replied, “There should be someone at the Strange Academy who can use it. If they can use it, they can ask Nabu. Nabu then points us where we need to go.”

“Usually, your plans involve more punching.”

“That’s plan B.” Carter retorted, a small smirk appearing on his face beneath the winged, beaked helmet.

“Another joke from Hawkman, you’re getting soft.”

The trip from St. Roch to New Orleans was a quick venture. Situated almost due north of St. Roch, it barely merited flying, but in times of war, the scenic route was hardly favourable. Ray, despite being a mystic skeptic, had insisted on tagging along to the Strange Academy.

“What makes you think they’ll even let you talk to Nabu?” Ray asked as Carter banked East over New Orleans.

“It’s an honour to talk to Nabu, they’ll be happy to oblige,” Carter replied, landing on his feet before Ray jumped from his chest and returned to normal size. Cracking his neck, Carter felt the Nth Metal reabsorb into his body as his wings and armour retracted. A small grimace washed over his face as the uncomfortable sensation of liquid metal pushing through the pores of his skin overwhelmed his senses before it was quickly over.

Looking up at the school, Carter paused before proceeding. His eyes lingered on the door as he stood frozen.

It was never this easy.

“Well,” Ray smiled before taking a step forward, “When all else fails, I guess we knock.”

Carter nodded, raising a heavy fist before the mountain of a man dropped it against the hardwood door with a solid thump.

---

|| Present - Chicago, Illinois

A cold wind ripped through the towering skyscrapers as goosebumps rose on the unconscious woman’s skin, stirring her awake before the slip-clad woman realized she didn’t feel cold.

Kendra looked down towards the streets hundreds of feet below the cathedral spire she currently sat in, perched underneath a bell that hadn’t tolled in many moons. The last thing she remembered was falling from the balcony of her penthouse.

She stood, bare feet hesitantly stepping forward before giving her wings a quick flap.

Wings?

Kendra’s eyes widened in horror before she realized her back was adorned with a massive pair of wings. They reflected a golden sheen even in the pale moonlight shining down from above the windy city.

“Am I dead?” She asked herself, spinning around, trying to get a better look at the extra appendages on her back. As she moved in a circle, Kendra took in her surroundings, seeing water beyond the city, three bridges connecting it back to the mainland.

“This isn’t Chicago,” Kendra suddenly realized as she looked at the unfamiliar skyscrapers, until a familiar ‘W’ logo in the distance caught her attention. She should have known the stench of New Jersey the moment she woke up.

“Gotham.” She cursed under her breath.

|| Present - Chicago, IllinoisGotham City, New Jersey

“This is Gotham.” Kendra continued with a gasp of realization.

“How the hell did I end up in Gotham?”

[Sep]

"So my names Rex, what's yours?"

Rex pulled back on the blade, the whip hanked against the blade before the masked man twisted his arm and the whip slackened. Rex stumbled slightly as he was knocked slightly off-balance, recovering by allowing the sword to be re-absorbed into his body and twisting into a forward roll. "Okay then, so that's how it's going to be-" Rex heard a characteristic woosh overhead, and didn't even need to look before a blue beam shot out from the sky knocking his adversary in the chest and sending him reeling. There is the telltale hum in the air of arc reactor energy, the thud as the heavy armour sets down and then the whirr of silos as Rhodey stands back up to his full albeit augmented height. The blank faceplate perfectly mirroring the blank faceless expression from the man with the whip. Rex sorts his stance, adjust his feet just as he was taught as Rhodeys voice comes booming out of his helmet.

"Back away from the kid."

Rhodey turned to face Rex, the faceplate slipping up momentarily. "You okay kid?"

"Other than the fact you tracked me, yeah." A small apologetic smile creeped along the airmans face. No further explanation necessary.

Suddenly Rhodeys faceplate snapped back down as a group of white-shard like projectiles collided with the armour. The gun on his shoulder moved to track the incoming fire but before it could get a lock there was a blur of something blue and the gun fell to the ground. Severed at the connection, sparks flying out of the armour. A large mechanical wolf landed next to Rex, it turned to Rex but before Rex could react it dodged to the side, a man in a green suit swiping at it with its sword. The sword collided with the Wolfs claws in a series of blocks and parries. A large hand clasped itself on his shoulder and Rex twisted, large metal fist at the ready. It collided with something equally as solid, and he winced.

A large crystaline club, growing out of the arm to what looked like a falt, bald lizard. "Calm down kid, we're on your side." The lizard pulled Rex to the side as Rhodey turned, noticing the new interloper and tried to disengage from the whipping evo. The lizard lowered his arm towards Rhodey and several shots of the small projectile diamonds shot out. Lancing out at the armour Rex looked on in horror as the projectiles actually scratched and cut into the armour. Not enough to draw blood, but mroe than he was expecting. And Rhodey too, from the fact he never even attempted to dodge the shots. Used to just tankingt he damage.

"No wait, I think there's all been some kind of big misunderstanding-!" Rex walked forward, Noah at his side. Before he could get very far he heard a whoosh of air behind him, the pair looked as there was a swirling disc of red and black energy. AS they looked at eachother perplexed he felt the wind knocked out of him as he was clobbered by the diamond-club.

Spitting up dirt, Rex pushed himself off the cold and dank floor. Immediately noticing the difference in. Everything. The calming rolling waves were gone, the vacuum filled with an eerie silence. The cool but refreshing summer breeze was replaced with a cold that threatend to cut him to his core. He heard the scuffle of footsteps behind him. Turning to face them as a group. There was the Lizard-Monster, Mechano-Wolf, Whip-Boy and behind them stood a small girl. Her black hair covered her eyes, her hands disproportionately large compared to the rest of her. A second pair of arms with normal sized hands came out from about the middle of her torso.

A protective large orange hand infront of Noah he stood ready. Looking brave, or what he thought looked brave. "Who are you people, where have you taken us, what do you want?"

None of them spoke, and he was about to ask again when a smooth silken voice echoed from somewhere behind him. "I'm sorry for the inconvienance. I sent them to collect you." Rex turned to see the man descending a staircase, his long regal jacket flowing with every step. Long hair sat perfectly, with only the smallest white streak on either side of his head hinted to any sign of imperfection. His right hand encased in a golden glove, that went up his arm and seemingly connected to some kind of brace that surrounded his body and covered the left of his chest.

"It's been a long time Rex. Welcome, to Abysus."

[Roman]

_{Location: New York}

II

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

I slide through closing doors into the subway carriage and plonk myself down on a seat, breathing hard and thinking about how out of shape I've let myself get. It's still before 5 so it's pretty quiet, and the few other passengers in the car don't even spare me a first glance, let alone a second. It's New York, after all. When the train arrives at my station I get off, having caught my breath in the in-between, but the sense of urgency has worn off slightly: if the delivery has arrived already, it'll be waiting for me, and if it hasn't, I've got nowhere to be; I'll sit and doom-scroll all day until I hear the buzzer go.

When I get to my building my lift is still out for the third week running and I curse the super, whom I've called personally at least three times and my neighbours probably more. Especially the old couple the floor above me; one's mobility-impaired and four flights of stairs aren't really an option for an octogenarian with a walker. I've been helping out dropping groceries off and taking their trash out when garbage day comes around but even I can tell they're getting stir-crazy. Cabin fever. Wish I could relate; most days I barely explore beyond my mattress, let alone walk out my front door. Today's been the most eventful afternoon I've had in months.

I reach my floor and my neighbour - Janek - is sitting in his usual spot: a cheap patio chair positioned outside his apartment, smoking a cigarette. He taps the end off as I come up the stairs, sweating again, and the embers drift down to a small grey-speckled patch of floor below.
"C'mon, man, I asked you not to ash in the hall. I don't want to track your shit into my apartment."
Janek shrugs, taking another drag. "Wipe shoes." He suggests, chewing his words through a thick Slavic accent. We frown at each other.
"Just inconsiderate, man." I finally say, and step over the discarded embers in an emphatic sort of way before fishing my keys from my pocket and unlocking my door. "Have you seen a parcel arrive for me?" I ask before heading in. Janek just shrugs again.
"I don't see anything. Not your postman."
"Whatever, Janek. So much for being neighbourly."
He regards me with such an utterly discompassionate expression that I may as well be talking to a brick wall. I let myself in, and behind the closed door, flip him off, looking through my peephole. He flips me off too, and despite myself I do find that quite funny.

I turn around and step into my apartment proper and stop immediately because there's a long wooden crate sitting on my kitchen counter. It's just...there. I look at my door; it looks fine. I even check my window, but it's locked just like how I left it. Only the super has spare keys to the apartments in this building but if he'd been, I'd have heard about it, and he's avoiding us anyway because he doesn't want to be pinned down and made to deal with the elevator. And he wouldn't have given a fuck about bringing in a box for me anyway. He'd have been more likely to have taken it for himself. So...how did this get in here? There's no manifesto, no shipping receipt, not even a postal label. It's just a blank crate on my counter. Hmm.

I take a look at opening it but it's nailed shut pretty tight and there aren't any locks or hinges or latches or really anything to crack the lid, puzzling me further. I go back to my front door and lean out into the stairwell. Janek's still on his chair, still smoking, and he makes a point of not looking at me.
"Janek, do you have a crowbar? Or a hammer? I need to crack something open."
Janek scoffs. "Janek, stop smoking. Janek, take post. Janek, give me your tools. No. Janek has strict 'no assholes' policy on his tools."
"How come you still use them, then?" I reply, and Janek actually smirks at this.
"Is fair point. Give me moment." He says, standing up and pushing his way back into his apartment. He reappears a few seconds later holding a claw hammer. "Here. Give back quickly. I don't want to be nagging you like you nag me, understand?"
I roll my eyes, but thank Janek and disappear back inside. The claw slips neatly into the seam beneath the lid of the crate and with some effort I pull down on the hammer until the wood splinters and nails rip out and the crate pops open. I put the hammer aside and pull the lid the rest of the way off before laying eyes on what's inside.

Resting gently in straw and packing peanuts is a sword, sheathed in a scabbard. The guard and pommel of the hilt are a dull gold, but the grip itself is tightly bound in a deep crimson leather strip that winds around the metal between. The scabbard itself is plain, dark-stained leather, with only a crest I don't recognise carved into it near the top. I run my hand lightly across the scabbard, feeling the leather grain beneath my fingers and tracing the lines of the carving. Carefully, I snake my palms beneath it and lift it out of the box. It's heavier than I expected, but there's something comfortable about the weight. Is this really the artefact my grandfather described as the 'key' to his inheritance?

I set it back down in the crate and pick up the hammer instead, returning to the stairwell to hand it back to Janek, who's waiting for me.
"What you get?" He asks, thanking me as I pass him the hammer.
"A delivery from my grandfather." I answer, wondering if I should elaborate. I decide to. "A, uh...a sword."
Janek's eyebrows shoot up. "Sword! Maybe I start smoking outside after all, eh?" He says, chuckling and prodding an elbow into my ribs. I chuckle back half-heartedly, and Janek ducks back into his apartment and leaves me in the stairwell puzzling over the crate and its contents in my head. After a few minutes, I return to my grandfather's gift.

It's shockingly unassuming for being a sword, particularly one of such apparently importance. I look over the crest engraved into the scabbard again; it's about the only identifying feature the relic has. I fish my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of it, then quickly run it through Google Lens, hoping that the wonders of modern technology will handily unlock this puzzle within a few nanoseconds and save me the trouble; but no such luck. The search doesn't turn up anything specific, mostly just returning papers and sites explaining crests and the various meanings of the symbols involved; I take a cursory look, but it's nothing illuminating. The only interesting titbit is a footnote on one website mentioning that many historical artefacts, particularly weaponry, can be dated and even identified by nicks and imperfections on the blades - microscopic debris left in chips can tell the right expert with the right equipment where it was used and roughly which era, which can then be used as context clues to deduce the wielder, and some weapons were even inscribed with unique artistry and runes for power in battle or luck against death, the methods and patterns themselves identifiable to certain periods and smiths. I look at the blade. The scabbard is in very good condition, and the leather looks contemporary, and I get the sense it's probably not the original but one freshly-made to help preserve the sword. I pick the sword up by the scabbard again and wrap my other hand around the grip to pull it free and inspect the bla-

I have the distinct sensation of walking into a room within which a loud and lively conversation is taking place between a large crowd of people all speaking at once, and upon my entry, every mouth closes and all talking ceases and in the deathly and conspicuous silence, a hundred and more pairs of eyes turn and settle their gaze upon me. And then they all start talking again.

Beneath the rabble is a voice that is not a voice, but a dark urge, a malodorous insistence upon evil deeds and the worst impulses, and despite the cacophony of speech all directed at me in a single surge, it is the clearest, the loudest, the most seductive. The other voices seem to notice my daze, because all at once they harmonize and, in a shattering chorus, deny the tempting tongue. The refusal is so loud and powerful that I drop the sword in shock, and as the grip leaves my fingers all voices cease entirely.

I take a few minutes to catch my breath and collect my thoughts while staring at the sword laying in the box. I try to convince myself it was just a brief bout of hallucinatory madness but I'm also reluctant to label myself 'bat-shit crazy' quite so quickly. Talking swords? I live in New York, I've glimpsed the Spider - and I've seen the news coverage of Hawkman in Chicago; the world is weird, but I never thought that weird would come home to me, and 'talking sword' still feels so separate and alien to me from the publicly-acknowledged weird out there in the city. Very heavily against my better judgement, I reach out and grasp the sword again.

It's less of a rush, this time; it's like the voices know they scared me off, and they're more subdued now, the roaring conversation reduced to a low background murmur that blends together into a kind of white noise layered over the darker sound. Above them, one singular voice speaks to me directly, in a tone vaguely familiar in an ephemeral way.
"Dane? Is that you?"
The question lingers a while; I hear it, but I also know I don't hear it - it's like my own internal monologue got a new set of vocal cords and a mind of its own. I'm not sure how to respond.
"Yes? Hello?" I say out loud, my voice echoing slightly off the kitchen cabinets. Still I hear the background murmur, and again the single voice cuts through above the din.
"I know you must be confused. Maybe frightened. We all understand; we were all the same."
My forehead creases as I furrow my brow.
"Sorry, 'we'?"
"Every Knight who's ever wielded this blade; generations of our family dating back centuries."
My mind boggles. "Our family...?" I trail off, and then the nascent familiarity with the voice's tone clicks, and I come to a sudden realization. He sounds like Dad.
"...are you my grandfather?"
There's a pause.
"Yes. Nathan Garrett, your grandfather. You are my heir, Dane; this blade is your oath-sworn birthright."
"I haven't sworn a damn thing."
"Neither did any of us, with one exception; yet we carried the blade all the same, and so here we are. It's just how it is."

I start putting the pieces together; my grandfather, his will, my inheritance, the sword. I get angry; indignant.
"What exactly have you opted me in for?" I demand, my voice hard and demanding. The reply is solemn and unwavering.
"Duty. You will understand, in time."
Nathan Garrett is a stranger; no father to his son, and no grandfather to me. Years of disconnection from any kind of family rush to the forefront of my mind; and now, only after losing Dad, the seeming intention of his first and only contact with me is to trap me in some unwitting obligation under false pretences of promised fortunes.
"The fuck I will, asshole." I say, and drop the sword back in the box, leaving it there as I grab my jacket and head back out for the second time today - a new record - and head for the nearest hole-in-the-wall for a beer.

[Ezekiel]

Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A
Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A

^{"Strange Southern Happenings"}

|| Nowhere Important — Rural Louisiana

"What about Dennis? He is nice."

"Dennis is also a creature of a Nightmare realm with twelve eyes."

"So judgemental, how is that being his fault?"

"I'd like to keep us to options that are generally humanoid, if you wouldn't mind."

"That is your problem, you would really be having less of an issue if you would just —"

"LADIES." Khalid's cry of alarm and frustration, turned both metallic and several tones deeper by the helm across his features, cut through the bickering conversation between Zatanna and Ilyana. Both women were standing atop the relatively ramshackle roof of what had once been a gas station. Rural Louisiana, even no great distance from the sprawl of the city, was dotted with the detritus of abandoned human habitation. Feelings of loss and shattered dreams were often a draw to some of the more nefarious magical denizens the Academy deemed itself the authority on, and so they often found themselves out these sort of ways.

Ilyana was a more recent addition to the team of mature students the Academy often wielded as enforcement and retrieval team, although despite her bellicose nature when it came to most of the Academy and other students, she got on well with Zatanna. Probably a little too well in this situation.

"Are you having trouble, Domehead?" The blonde woman called down from her perch. She was leant forwards on the crossguard of her oversized weapon. Her soulsword was a physical manifestation of her abilities, a mighty and feared tool of destruction — it was currently relegated to a prop of convenience.

"I can manage, but this would be done a lot faster if you two would actually help." Khalid was on ground level and was rather far from bickering about the rest of the student body. He weaved to and fro as haunted spirits began to leech out of the physical surroundings and sped towards him. It was certainly not one of their most exciting deployments, but it was also meant to be more than a one man job.

Ilyana let out a sharp, dry bark of a laugh, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "He is practising his 'measured response.' Strange would be so proud. He's becoming a very shiny, very obedient battery." Despite her continued efforts to aggravate the man actually doing the work, Magik vaulted over the side of the rooftop, soulsword in hand. "Come along, Thighs." She called back over her shoulder.

"Wha — Hey!" Zatanna took but a moment to catch the term, her own descent to the ground a little more elegant as she muttered "Rehtaf e sa thgil." While Magik landed in a heavy crunch of force which went some way to dissipate a materialising spirit, Zatanna touched down with barely a noise.

"It is a compliment, how much are you training?" Ilyana smirked as the soulsword lashed out, banishing what remained of the spirit she had partially landed on. Traditional violence wasn't usually an effective approach with incorporeal magical threats, but the Academy's more recent hire had an almost unique ability to do so thanks to the gifts of both her upbringing and her mutation.

"She doesn't, it's carbs and genes to survive a Medici siege." Unfortunately for Zatanna it seemed her companions, previously diametrically opposed foes, had unified over ribbing her.

She definitely didn't want to be in the room where this happened.

"Ah, like that meme. Everything you see, I am owing to Spaghetti."

"Near enough."

"Can we focus?" Zatanna couldn't quite keep the huff out of her voice as she intoned her next enchantment. "Sreyarp dna sthguoht." A burst of soothing magic erupted from the casting focus in her hand, the energy engulfing one of the spirits in a wave that, while pleasant for most, was the bane of Spirits of Loss, banishing its hold on the mortal realm.

"My point exactly, before you started bullying poor Dennis." Khalid continued, even as with a flash of golden energy he collapsed the form of another spirit. On deployments like this it seemed like more and more of the vibrant person she had grown up with returned. It was one of her main reasons for always volunteering for such duties.

"Have you both stopped to consider that, to him, I also have the incorrect number of eyes!?" While she continued to take the bait, Zatanna couldn't quite hide the good humour from her tone. Even if she was the required focus, it was a good feeling that her two best friends were actually getting along. Secondly, the good mood helped with dissipating the haunting.

"Psht, like he is looking at your ey —" Magik was truly interrupted this time, a burst of negative energy rocking her backwards as the spirits finally responded in appropriate vigour to the assault of three powerful wielders of magic.

They began to coalesce together, a mass of grey flickering static that looked less like ghosts and more like a wound in the world. The true source of the magical disturbance they had detected, and thus their target.

"Khalid, now." Zatanna instructed with the easy authority she wielded among her fellow students. Khalid and his helm began to emit a golden light so total in its brilliance it seemed to leech colour from its surroundings, the uncompromising splendour of its power making short work of any limitations on its radiance. The effect on the swirling mass of negative energy, no matter its threat to the stability of magic and the mortal world, was immediate — temporarily holding it in place.

Magik's blade arced outwards, not at the target but behind it, the soulsword splitting reality itself. The wound it left was a clean thing, easy to seal, but that didn't entirely hide the horror from beyond the skein of the world. Where these things had come from, the foulness of it. The power of Khalid's binding was not just to keep the disturbance in place, but also to prevent yet more horror following through. As her allies did their job, Zatanna prepared her own.

She gathered both her power and her wits, long years of magical study and the great gifts her parents had bestowed on her pulling together into a spell that would rectify the situation. In the end, it was simple enough.

"Rednes ot nrutes!"

For a moment there was no response, then her power unleashed in a gale. A torrent of airborne current that seemed to ignore the three magic users entirely, focused wholly on the ghostly mass they fought against. It struggled to anchor itself in the mortal plane, but in the next moment was cast back into the Nightmare. With another flick of Magik's wrist, the way was sealed once more.

Silence held for a few moments before Ilyana spoke up.

"Hooray, another victory. The rodents of this abandoned town will be troubled by nefarious spirits no longer." Her cheer, obviously sardonic, was matched by a slight woo from Zatanna.

"You know that these things build up, and can threaten reality itself." Khalid mused with little of the good humour he had shown a moment prior.

"Do I know this? Or have I been told it?"

"We are dealing with more and more of these disturbances, getting closer and closer to the academy, and you don't think that's cause for concern?."

"Enough, you two. There's a good crawfish place a little way over, let's stop by before we need to return home."

"Ok there, Honky Tonk." That was enough to have both of them laughing at her once again.

"I regret ever knowing the both of you."

[Natty]

|| Bellwood, Earth

Ben had imagined stakeouts would feel cool. Maybe perched on a rooftop. Maybe night vision goggles. Maybe something dramatic. Instead, he was sitting behind a guardrail on a service road, staring at an empty industrial lot while the Rustbucket idled quietly behind them. They had been here for hours. Long enough that most of the snacks were gone and the boredom had settled into his bones.

He sat in relative silence next to Grandpa Max and Gwen. Gwen had given him a list of albums and playlists to listen to in order to “catch him up”, so he had some sort of excuse to be sitting in silence. Truth be told he was still annoyed about the gas station. Being benched like that had been driving him crazy.

Max adjusted the bulky listening rig on his lap that he can be adjusting for the last few hours. The thing looked like it belonged in a museum, with huge snaking cables that made their way into the Rustbucket’s open door behind them.

A sputtering crackle came from the speaker.

“Are you sure that thing even works?” Ben asked, removing his headphones.

“This used to pick up Plumber chatter from three systems away,” Max said, giving the device a large slam with his hand. Something inside clumsily rattled in response. “Now it can barely hear a microwave.”

“Maybe because it’s from before microwaves existed.” Gwen smirking, looking up from her tablet.

Ben glanced back over the guardrail and down into the empty lot below.

“Your source was sure the Forever Knights were moving something through here tonight?”

“He was,” Max said. “Not Intergang. Different group they think. Local. He didn’t know what they were selling, just that the Knights were buying.”

“Probably weapons.” Ben chimed, trying not to sound hopeful.

“Could be,” Max replied. “Could be tech. Could be anything.”

As if to answer Ben’s prayers, headlights swept across the cracked pavement below as the low sound of an engine crept closer.

Ben straightened.

“Finally.”

A battered white transit van rolled into the lot and parked. A moment later, two black SUVs came in from a different entrance on the far side, engines low and controlled as they pulled up opposite the van.

The sellers climbed out of the van first. As his grandpa had detailed, they looked like a small‑time gang: mismatched jackets, bulletproof vests, cheap tactical gloves. By the way they seems to be moving, it was clear they weren’t professionals. Not soldiers. Just people who had decided to make money doing something ugly.

Then the Forever Knights stepped out of the SUVs.

Their armor caught the flickering street light, illuminating them in a dim yellow light. They wore heavy medieval plate with broad pauldrons and layered chest segments, a crude emblem displayed proudly on their tabards. Each one wore a chain‑mail hood that draped over their shoulders, the metal links shifting as they moved. Under each hood sat a sculpted mask; a smooth, expressionless metal face with narrow eye slits. The same eerie metal faces that gave Ben nightmares five years ago. A few carried swords sheathed at their sides, the hilts jutting from worn leather scabbards, while two held compact rifles. They moved to quickly form a perimeter around the van with the same unnerving rigidness Ben remembered from childhood.

“That’s definitely them.” Ben confirmed aloud, his pulse picking up.

Max lifted his binoculars to his eyes.

“Alright. Stay low. Once we know what the deal is, I’ll call it in to S.W.O.R.D.”

“And remember, S.W.O.R.D. said no intervention. Gwen chimed in, tapping something on her tablet. ”We observe only.”

Ben knew that last comment was directed at him but he didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the van. The deal was beginning.

The sellers slid open the side door. Annoyingly, from his current angle, Ben couldn’t see inside. He leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse.

The listening rig crackled again. A burst of static. A few muffled voices. Nothing clear.

“Come on. Give me something.” Max begged, giving it another quick hit on the side.

The sellers began unloading the cargo. They placed down a few crates and boxes.

And then the first figure stumbled into view. Blue skin. Tall. Hands bound. Bruised.

“That’s a Kree,” Ben whispered. “I think.”

Another alien followed. A Tetramand, but smaller than any Ben had seen. Scrawny and short, Ben was sure it was a kid. Its extra arms were strapped tight against its torso. It winced with every step.

“They’re not selling weapons.” Gwen’s voice was barely audible.

More movement. A squat, clay‑colored alien shuffled forward, head down, flinching at every sound.

Ben’s stomach twisted.

“They’re refugees.”

The sellers reached back into the van and lifted out a small containment unit. Frost clung to the edges. Inside, something tiny curled in on itself. Pale. Thin. Trembling.

Ben didn’t know what it was. But he knew it was alive. And terrified.

One of the sellers jabbed a cattle rod into the Tetramand’s ribs. The alien spat weakly in response, and the seller struck it again, harder.

Ben’s jaw clenched.

Max placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Ben. We wait. I need to call this in.”

“They’re treating them like cattle,” Ben said quietly. “They’re treating people like cattle.”

“I know,” Max said. “But we can’t move until—”

Another seller kicked the Kree hard enough to send him sprawling.

Ben stood.

Gwen grabbed his sleeve.

“Ben, don’t. S.W.O.R.D. said no intervention.”

“I’m not watching this happen,” Ben said. “Not again.”