One Universe: Independents Edition Season 1 IC Thread

[Carnage27]

Welcome to "One Universe: Independents Edition"
Season I
​

This RPG is similar to almost all others on Superhero Hype boards, except in this continuity, the Independent comic Universes have been merged as "One Universe".

Gamemasters: Wiegeabo, Byrd Man, Carnage27


RULES

• [FONT=&quot]You may play as up to two characters not applicable in any DC, Marvel, or Star Wars oriented RPG's. HOWEVER there are certain rules that apply:[/FONT]
  • [FONT=&quot]Your character may not come from a book series that has a premise alien to the norm of a comic book world, or a book that has a defined end(i.e. no Watchmen, V for Vendetta, etc) However, if your can make your character fit into the predetermined world, you will be considered for approval.
    [/FONT]
  • [FONT=&quot]Your character may not come from the future. Meaning no Star Trek or Firefly. However, time traveling characters such as The Doctor are allowed. Basically, if your character can fit in the modern world, it’s a go. Also, keep in mind this applies to stories as well.[/FONT]
  • [FONT=&quot]No manga characters. They just don’t fit in with the world.[/FONT]
  • [FONT=&quot]Keep in mind, the general public of this world is not aware of the odd things happening in the universe. They know there was vigilantes before, but at this point that was over half a century ago. Your first story should be an origin story. [/FONT]
  • [FONT=&quot]Also, do to trying to keep heroes/villains/storylines with a low profile at the beginning of the game, we’re going to have a ban on Transformers characters. At least for a while.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]Modern versions of the classic age heroes/pulp heroes listed in the “Story so Far” above are allowed. However, you must keep with the feel of the originals. Meaning no making a modern Rocketeer that’s basically Iron Man. This is a game to play new characters you’ve never tried before.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]Applications must be approved by a game staffer before being considered accepted. Unless a staffer has a problem with it, then the app requires 2 approvals. If you post in the IC thread beforehand, your post is subject to deletion. Game staffers reserve the right to deny applications for any given reason.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]You must post once every two weeks, or your character is up for grabs to anyone else. If you know that you cannot post for two weeks or more, please specify in this thread ahead of time.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]You are your character, so act like it. Remain consistent with their powers and personalities, unless otherwise stated. Freedom in writing is a key, but so is honoring the character you've chosen. Become your character.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]You can travel anywhere on Earth, or off-planet, provided it's within your character's means. [/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]No random killing. All characters being played, non-playable characters being used, or major characters in general requires special permission to be killed from their players. Failure to comply with this will result in immediate termination of your character rights.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]Be serious. No slander, or impractical actions, such as never falling during battle, or enslaving the Earth. If confused, look to your fellow players for guidance on how to practically play the game.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]All regular Hype rules apply, needless to be said.[/FONT]
• [FONT=&quot]And most important of all, have fun with it.[/FONT]

_______________
​

To apply for a character, please fill out the application below:

[FONT=&quot]One Universe: Independents Edition[/FONT][FONT=&quot] RPG APPLICATION[/FONT][FONT=&quot]

Screen Name:

Character you'd like to portray:

Superhuman powers, traits, other attributes of interest:

Originally appearing from (which comic, and company?):

Fictional history of the character:

Hero, Villain, or Walking the line?:

List a few reasons why you chose this character:

Write two complete sentences explaining what you can bring to this RPG:

How many days a week you intend on posting in the RPG:

Please provide a small sample post as your character, at least three paragraphs and one line of dialogue in length:

Do you know how to post pictures on the Hype boards?:[/FONT]

A full roster can be seen in the OOC Thread

​

New to RPGing?

• RPG 101

• RPG 101 Review

• RPG Terms and Player Etiquette

 

[Carnage27]

​

My eyes spring open as the 12 P.M. subway train blows by my room. Well, it blows by the four feet of concrete separating us, but it wakes me up none the less. It’s been the alarm clock I’ve used since before I can remember. Stretching out my sore muscles, I stand and head out to the main living area, the first one awake in the den as usual.

I head over to the kitchen and take some rice and sushi out from last night’s dinner and sit at the table. I begin eating alone, thinking about the state of events the past month since my brothers and I have taken to the surface, since we’ve left our home in the subterranean New York.

We’ve taken to the streets in order to clean up the scum of the city as we’ve been trained. Us four turtles have become the new protectors of New York, and we’ve made our presence felt in a big way. Even though we’ve been given our own surprising lessons.

Picking up a notepad, I begin to sketch the tattoo we’ve found on a multitude of thugs in the past few weeks. The same exact tattoo in the same exact area on almost everyone we’ve come across in the past month. It means there’s a powerful gang in town that none of our intel has said a word about. And it means our job is a whole lot tougher than we thought.

**********

​

“Chief you gotta let me take this story!” the peppy, red-headed reporter says as she chases her boss through the bullpen of the Channel Six News Station. “People are talking about this left and right. We need to jump on this before the other stations!”

April O’Neil had joined this station three months ago straight out of college as a junior reporter. The network said the station lacked youth, so here she is. But the months have been frustrating. Story after story were buried to the late night news or not even shown. And on top of that, half of them have been fluff pieces no one is interested in anyway.

But this story is different. There’s something going on in the city. Someone or something has been taking criminals off the street, and April is going to find out who. She’s a damn good reporter, she knows that. And this is her chance to show it.

“I’m in the news business, April,” the man sighs. “I’m not here to report on urban legends and superstitious mumbo jumbo.”

“What are you talking about?” the plucky reporter responds annoyed. “What, did all those thugs end up tied up magically?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s just a guy,” the chief responds trying to shrug her off.

“Even if it’s just a guy it’s still a story,” she crosses her arms and stares a hole into him. “You want Channel Three t jump this story on you, or are you going to go let me do my job?”

The chief sighs, “Fine. If it’ll get you off my back, go do your damn boogeyman story.”

**********

​

After another hour, my brothers exit their rooms.

Raphael is first. He doesn’t say anything as he heads straight for the dojo to begin his morning training. Our relationship has never been overly friendly. We love each other as brothers, but we’re not friends. He’s never been happy with Splinter giving me the leadership position, even if it was the right move. Raphael is the biggest of us, and the strongest. But he’s also the most impatient and hot headed, not to mention violent. Still, if we’re in a jam, Raph is the one that can cover us while we get out of one.

“Leo you didn’t eat my pizza, did you?” Michelangelo says as he skids out of his door. “Because I totally put my name on the box.”

My youngest brother is next to exit his room. I love Mikey, and he can always be counted on to keep the mood light, but he’s also flighty and tends to get sloppy in combat. “No Mikey. You’re pizza is still in there. You know I don’t eat the stuff.”

“Phew,” he smiles as he heads to our refrigerator and pulls out the brown box and goes to town on the leftover slices.

Next, Donatello emerges from his room, his face buried in the circuitry of a digital camera he’s been working on for weeks. Donny is a certified genius. He’s a wiz with electronics, and he’s the reason all the salvaged electronics in our home work, and the main reason this place actually looks like a home. Because of him we have clean running water, a stove, microwave, and even TVs and computers. But his intelligence sometimes holds him back in some situations where reaction time and instincts take precedent.

But even with our faults we’re better fighters than anyone in this city by ourselves. And together, we’re unstoppable.

Donatello sits down next to me, and I ask about the camera, “Do you have it working?”

“Yea,” he nods. “Just fine tuning some stuff right now. But it should be fine. Why?”

“Just wondering,” I smile. “You’ve been working on it for a while. Raph! Get in here please!”

“What’s up?” Raph grunts as he takes the fourth seat.

“Just want to go over the patrol routes for tonight,” I respond. “Same ones as last night. We seemed to get quite a bit of action last night, so I want to stay in the routes.”

“Sounds like fun,” Raphael smiles. “I love cracking me some junkie skulls.”

“Don’t hurt them too bad unless they’re dangerous,” I warn him. “We don’t need unnecessary kills this early in our careers. We need the people to trust us. And Donny? Take the camera with you tonight. If you get a Purple Dragon, take a picture for evidence. And then I need you to analyze it. See if it matches any known gangs. We need to find out what we're up against.”

 

[Carnage27]

Indiana Jones
Director of the B.P.R.D.

[FONT=&quot]It's been over one hundred years. Over one hundred years since I first breathed the air of this world. And that's just too long for me to look this good. I put the razor down and wash the shaving cream off my face. I only look like I should be in my mid fifties, not over a century old.
[/FONT][FONT=&quot]
It's been too long since I've been on a true archeology dig. But then again, archeology as I knew it is dead. It's not the same. Nor is the world for that matter. Half the things I see on a daily basis here I would have called superstitious crap in my youth. Amazing the way things change over the years.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
I once said it's the mileage that wears on a person, not the years. But for the past two or three decades the years have definitely been wearing on me. I've watched all my friends pass away. Marion, Sallah, Dad, Marcus. Hell, I even went to Short Round's funeral. Seems like yesterday he was racing Willie Scott and I through the streets of Shanghai.

It's not right that they've all left and I'm stuck rolling this rock up the hill. I've lived too long with the kind of life I've led.

And I've lived too long to deal with everything I've had to deal with in the past few years. The Bureau is busier than ever, and I've started a recruiting drive to deal with it. At least I've planned a way to recruit new agents, but I haven't gotten the approval from my liaison to the president.

"You ready boss," Hellboy asks as he pokes his head into my room. "Manning is in the conference room."

"Yea, let's do this," I sigh. The two of us head down the hallway to the conference room, where Tom Manning, the Bureau's liaison to the President, is sitting along with his assistant. I shake his hand, "Manning."

"Jones," he replies in his normal, uninterested tone. "I hear you have some new plan for me."

"Yea, have a seat," I reply. "As you know, we've been more busy than ever the past few years. But recently, our activity has spiked even more. In the past four months the instances of gen-active humans-"

"Gen-active?" Manning asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes. That's the people with the super powers. They started showing up here and there two years ago. But the past few months have seen a dramatic spike in their appearance," I continue. "And usually, the change happens in the late teens to mid twenties, though there are cases that are older."

Manning nods and I begin my next point, "Then in the past month, we've seen an even more dramatic spike in paranormal activity. We've dealt with ten vampires, three werewolves, and a few poltergeists. More than any other one month period in history. Significantly more. If the trends stay like that...well it means something is on the way. Something big."

"And what do you want me to do, Dr. Jones?" Manning sighs.

"I need more men. We've lost four men this month. There were years I didn't lose that many," I respond. "I need more men. And men that can handle this job."

"You know I can't approve that," the man shakes his head. "And you know the President won't either. We can't give you a massive influx without arousing suspicion."

I smile, as I expected the answer from him. I respond to the confused look he gives me, "I know. Which is why I'm going recruiting."

"Who the hell can you recruit for this?"

"Gen-actives," Hellboy says with a smile. "They've got the abilities to keep up with other gens, and the paranormal. Plus their durable enough to survive a fight. We'll train them here, and each one will go on every dangerous mission. It'll save lives."

"Not to mention we'll give gen-actives someplace where they can belong. Somewhere they can learn to control their powers," I add. "It'll also save us from accidents from dangerous gens."

Manning sits there and ponders our plan. I can tell he's pissed that we were ready for his obvious rebuttal, but he also knows we're right. Ever since we started the BPRD all those years ago, the President's main concern has always been to keep the odd things secret from the general public.

"Fine," he mutters after a while. "But keep it quiet. We don't need someone blabbing. If they refuse, wipe their memories."

"Yes, sir," I smile as Manning leaves without another word.
[/FONT]​

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

221B Baker Street


A case.

I need a case. I can feel the dullness in the air, the bland taste of my meals. There is nothing so boring as when everything is right with everything is right in the world.

"AHHHHHH!"

Well, this might be interesting.

"Mister Holmes!"

I spring up from my seat and job through the apartment towards the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson is standing at the icebox, holding a bowl in her hands.

"Why are there eyeballs in this fridge?!"

"Where do you expect I put them? The microwave?"

"Anywhere but here, Mister Holmes!"

"Just calm down, I'll move them. Just make sure you don't place them near the grapes."

"What's going on?" Watson, the latest addition to our wonderful home, asks as he walks in.

"Mrs. Hudson has taken it upon herself to look after my affairs. While I need a landlady, I certainly do not require a nanny."

"God bless you, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson says with a sigh. "You're going to need any help you can get when you live with him."
Mrs. Hudson storms out of the kitchen. I turn around and begin searching through the fridge, placing my bowl of eyes in the back.

"So, Doctor," I say after shutting the fridge. "Have you gotten settled? Found everything to your liking?"

"So far I have."

"Excellent."

My pocket vibrates and a feeling of hope flutters in my chest as I pull my phone out and read the text message.

"Marvelous..."

I place the phone back in my pocket and turn to Watson. "May I ask what is on your agenda for today?"

"Nothing, really. I was going to stay in and study. I'm going for my medical license here in the UK."

"Well, books can wait. They are books, after all. I wonder how your penmanship and note taking is?"

"Fair. I learned short hand in university."

"In that case, I would like you to accompany me on an errand."

Watson blinks and looks at me skeptically. "You making a run to the shop?"

I smirk and nod. "Yes, something like that."



Soho


The cab comes to a stop just up the block from our destination. I turn to Watson and smile. "Well, pay the man," and jump out of the cab. Watson catches up with me a few seconds later as the apartment building's front entrance comes into view.

"Wait," Watson says as he sees the crime scene tape. "What exactly are we doing, Mister Holmes?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you. I'm a special consultant with Scotland Yard, assisting them with unusual cases."

Watson scowls in confusion. We walk past the few onlookers to the tape, where a police sergeant is standing guard.

"Hello, Mister Holmes."

"Sergeant Clarke. This is my associate, Doctor John Watson. He's with me."

"The scene is on the second floor."
Clarke steps aside as Watson and I duck under the tape and walk into the apartment building. I do a quick scan of the lobby, and it tells me pretty much all I need to know about the building. The peeling paint, damp interior and wooden stairs all but scream out that this is a flop house, a place for people down on their luck, or someone hiding.

"So...what do we do?"

"We go to the scene, I observe and tell you what I observe while you take notes."

I take the rickety stairs two at a time and head up to the second level with Watson close behind. A gray haired man in a suit is waiting for us at the end of the corridor.

"Holmes."

"Lestrade, always a pleasure to see you so humbled."

"Right. And who is your friend?"

"He's my associate, assistant if you will. Inspector G. Lestrade, Doctor John Watson."

The two men exchange handshakes and pleasantries before Lestrade gets to it.

"Come on inside," he says as he opens the door to the apartment on his left. The small, one room apartment is cluttered and in disarray. The bed is flipped and what little furniture there is is on its side.

The body is laying almost in the center of the room, a man appearing to be in his late 40's stretched out on his side. By his head is some sort of writing.

"Forensics did a sweep of the room, and they found signs of a struggle."

"Ah, they happen to do that by opening their eyes?"

"Cause of death is still not know yet, but the laceration marks on the neck seem to indicate strangling."

I walk across the room and lean down over the body, looking it over carefully.

"You're wrong."

"What's that?"

"You're wrong, Lestrade. The strangling was post-mortem. The bruising is the wrong color, so his heart was not pumping blood at the time of the strangling. There are also no hemorrhaging in the eyes, that's always a tell tell sign of strangulation."

"I'll let the coroner set the record straight, if you don't mind."

I dismiss Lestrade and begin rummaging through the dead man's pockets, coming up with only two items. A golden engagement ring and a bottle of aspirin, empty save one small pill.

"So what makes this case so unusual?"

"Well, the man was locked here from the inside. Only pair of keys we found in the place were laying by the nightstand. The landlord called during the middle of the night when he heard sounds of a struggle. They got here and had to kick the door open. Then they found that writing on the floor."

I look up from the body and and finally take in what I saw when I first walked over. By the dead man's head is "Rache" written in coagulated blood.

"We've got some PCs doing a canvass of the area, so far we haven't come across anyone named Rachel."

"Rachel? You think that someone was trying to write a name?"

"What else would it be?"

I stand up and take in the rest of the room.

"I believe the man we're looking for is approximately two meters in height, two stone and twelve pounds. He walks with a limp and will almost certainly want that ring."

Lestrade and Watson look at me, slightly stunned. I shrug and begin walking towards the door. I walk out the door before popping my head back in.

"Also, Lestrade? 'Rache' isn't a woman's name. It's the German word for revenge."

I wink at the aggravated inspector and disappear through the door.
​

 

[Carnage27]

​

Three men walk along the darkened New York Streets, clinging tightly to their coats. They're not cold, but the automatic weapons they carry beneath them need to stay hidden. The stories that have been going around the past few weeks have frightened them, and they have no desire to run into me tonight. No desire at all. But they have to go on this heist. Their boss has felt the squeeze, and their organization is getting desperate. At least we hope he is.

As they walk to their destination, they pass an electronics store with the late night news playing on the TVs in the display. On the screen, a pretty reporter comments on the recent wave of unexplained happenings.

"You've all heard the stories circulating the past few weeks. That an unnamed, unidentified person or creature has been beating the city's thugs to a pulp at crime scenes and leaving them for the police force to pick up. I'm here tonight to bring you a special investigative report to start to shed light on these interesting rumors."

The men go next door to a jewelry store where the proprietors live up stairs. Before breaking down the alley door into the establishment, one of them finds a circuit breaker and cuts the automatic alarm. While he does so, I silently crawl up a fire escape to the second floor of the building and wait in the shadows.

Once the job is done, the large one of the group slams his heavy shoulder into the door, and the old wooden frame gives in. Instantly, the two other smaller men rush upstairs, and bring the family that owns the store back downstairs at gun point.

With the children crying, the men force the father to unlock the store's cases so they can take their haul. The entire time, they can still hear the muffled news report coming through the wall next door, "I first started by interviewing one of the men that claims to be beaten by this secret hero."

"I don't know, man," the interviewee's voice is heard. "One minute I'm taking in my haul, the next minute all the lights go out. And then I catch a little bit of movement out the corner of my eye. This thing, it ain't a man, this thing was like part of the darkness. It moved like it was a shadow."

Almost like clockwork, the jewelry store is plunged into darkness as I toss a shuriken into the electrical transformer on the street. The big thug, obviously the leader, snaps at the man who shut off the alarm, "You idiot! You screwed up the lights."

The other one replies, "No man...it's the thing! It's here!"

I smile at the fear in his voice.

A thud can be heard upstairs and the final robber replies in a hushed voice, "You hear that?"

"Yea," the big guy says before turning to the electrical expert, "go upstairs and check it out."

The electrician accepts his role, and shaking, walks up stairs. He's instantly drawn to a room in the front of the house whose window lies open. A window he remembers being closed the last time he was up here. A window I’ve opened and entered through.

Entering the room, he scans the room, but sees nothing. But he didn't look hard enough. As he turns to leave, another shuriken clips his hand holding his gun, causing him to drop it. It makes an insignificant, soft thump on the carpeted floor. Like a flash, my palm strikes him in the throat, muffling any scream he may have made, before my hands slam against the side of his head, knocking him out cold.

All the while, the sound of the news report floats up through the open window, "I even spoke with the chief of police, who has taken a personal interest in this case. He did not want to be interviewed on camera, but he did share some interesting tales, such as perpetrators claiming that this one creature has taken out up to six of them at a time in rapid succession. And the chief also reports that different prisoners have claimed to have been stopped by this hero at different places across the city at the same time at up to four different places at once."

Next, the big man sends up his other accomplice to check on the electrician. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he sees his friend laid out cold in the doorway to the room, and runs up to check on him. But he makes a big mistake not calling out for help.

I drop from the ceiling behind him, kicking his gun out of his hand from behind and placing him in a choke hold. The man's face goes purple, and he passes out in his attackers arms, and is then placed on top of the other burglar.

Downstairs, the big man becomes impatient, "Damn it. No one can do anything right but me."

He leaves the family downstairs and heads up to find his partners. But all he finds is a pile of unconscious bodies in the hallway, and my hulking figure standing over them. He attempts to raise his gun, but it's knocked out of his hand by another thrown projectile. Not being one to run from a fight, the big man puts brass knuckles over his hand and rushes the figure, driving the fist into my sternum.

But the blow has the opposite effect than expected. It gives off a loud crack as the metal meets an armor like substance mixed with the large man's hand breaking. He shouts in pain, "What the hell are you!?"

Before delivering a headbutt, I reply, "Your worst nightmare." I go to leave, but before I do I rip the one man’s shirt, revealing a tattoo of a purple dragon emblazoned across his chest and mutter to myself, “Another one.”

"Whatever this hero is, whether some experiment gone wrong or some brave soul willing to risk his life for the good of the city, I know I feel safer having him around. And whoever he, or they are, I'd just like to say thank you. Reporting for Channel Five News, this has been April O'Neil, signing off."

By the time the police arrive, they find the robbers tied to each other, unconscious. But there is no sign of me. Because I’m a ninja. I strike hard, and fade back into the night.

 

[Rain Dog]

I down the last of my brew, slam the mug down on the counter and slide it aside.

“Can I get another one, Norton?”

“Sure, thing, Goon.”

All the usual losers were here at Norton’s Pub. Merle, Jimmy Turtle, Spider, Charlie Noodles—Charlie Noodles I don’t mind so much. Charlie Noodles is good people. And, of course, Franky, who was tryin’ to get into some dame’s pants.

“So, babe, how’s about we head back to my place and Rochambeau?”

SMACK!

“**** off, Franky,” she says before stormin’ off.

“Rochambeau?”

“It’s French, ain’t it? Don’t the dames like French crap?”

“Maybe. They don’t like jerks though.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?!”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Hey, Goon!”

I turn around to see an ugly mug with eight glossy black eyes, a pair of hairy fangs, and a bowler hat starin’ me in the face.

“Heya, Spider.”

“Tony No-Nose just stopped by. Wanted me to tell ya something.”

“Smitty got his tonsils back from that shaman?”

“Nah, he saw this ugly geezer and two freaks with masks digging up bodies in the graveyard.”

“Aw, geez,” I says as I lift myself up from the barstool.

“Grave and his monkey kids?"

“Dunno who else it could be. Norton, cancel that drink order! I gotta go pound some freaks’ faces in.”

Just when I thought I’d have a decent night…

 

[Carnage27]

Indiana Jones
Director of the B.P.R.D.
​

Darkness. It's all I see. Darkness in every direction. Where I am I have no idea. I closed my eyes and the next thing I know I'm standing in the darkest place I've ever been, and an ominous feeling hangs over me. The feeling you get when you're in war and you look over a battlefield filled with bodies. The feeling that death is walking alongside you.

"Hello!?"

I search for a light, any source of light at all. But I can't find any. I walk for what seems like forever without seeing a speck of light. But besides that, I notice my footsteps aren't making a sound, nor do I feel an impact as I step. It's almost as if I'm walking on thin air.

"HELLO!?"

And then I hear it, a low rumble that seems to be coming towards me. At first it seems like a train, or a jet approaching quickly, but as it nears I realize it's a growl, a growl of a very big creature. But as the sound seems to reach me, it turns into a laugh. A laugh that seems to be incredibly familiar yet foreign to me.

"Dr. Jones!" a voice calls and my eyes spring open. It was a dream. Just a dream. I smile as my assistant nods to me, "We're at the...house, sir."

We've come to the outskirts of Kansas City in order to recruit the final member of my new team. I sent feelers our to six different potential recruits, of which five came back with positive answers. But this one...well...she wasn't so sure. She said she wanted to meet with me. Make sure I knew what I was doing.

I step out of the car and look at the mental hospital in front of me. It's a repurposed mansion and houses low security patients. How the person I'm here to see can be considered low security is beyond me, but the head of the hospital assured me that they had ample accommodations for her.

As I walk up the stairs in front of the grand mansion, the lead doctor meets me at the door, "Dr. Jones, I'm glad to see you. You say you're with the government and are interested in Miss Sherman's...gifts."

"Yea, something like that," I nod as we walk inside. "I was wondering if I could speak with her."

"Of course," the doctor smiles and ushers me towards the basement. "I'll show you to her room." After walking down some stairs, I find myself in a beautiful and large room. Lined with what seems to be lead. But it's not dreary. Far from it, it's probably a nicer setup than I have. The doctor calls out, "Liz? The man from the government is here."

From another room in the apartment steps beautiful young woman with raven black hair. She smiles meekly and nods to the doctor, who excuses himself.

Her file was a sad one. I remember reading it a few short weeks ago. Her powers began to manifest at the age of ten. Four fires at her house drew the attention of the authorities, but nothing ever came of it. Her parents loved her too much and defended her, even though it ended up costing them their lives.

At the age of eleven, Liz had a super powerful pyrokinetic episode that engulfed her entire block in flames, incinerating everyone in the vicinity. It was blamed on a gas leak, but with our recent findings, we've discovered she can actually create and control fire.

I offer her my hand, "Miss Sherman, I'm Dr. Henry Jones. You can call me Indiana. Or Indy."

"Okay Dr. Indy," she jokes. "You can call me Liz. I know why you're here. But I don't think I'm the best person for you. I'd love to help you understand what's going on. But I can't control my power almost at all. I'd just end up hurting someone again. Something I swore I'd never do again."

Right, I almost forgot what lie I had sent to these kids. I told them I was a biologist and I knew what was happening to them and I was interested in studying them for a time. The lies people believe. It's kind of amazing.

"I know," I nod. "You had expressed those concerns, which is why I came. I need to express how seriously we're taking this. I'll tell you what I told the others. We have every precaution, every fail safe, every possible plan in place for anything that can possibly happen. All we want is to understand you, and to help control your ability."

"Others?" she perks up at the mention that there may be others like her.

"Yes," I smile. "Five others have agreed to join us. They'll be at our facility on Friday."

We sit in silence for the next few moments as she ponders this new information. I don't think she ever dreamed that there were more people with amazing abilities. It was my ace in the hole and I figured it would get her to join.

"I'll think about it. I know where to go. If I decide to come, you'll see me on Friday."

I smile at her and nod. We say our goodbyes and I head back to my car.

"Well?" my assistant asks as we head back towards the airport.

"We'll see," I respond dismissively as my thoughts drift back to the dream I had a little over an hour ago.

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

I look over the notes on the ride to Scotland Yard, Watson and I sit in silence in the backseat of the cab.

"How did you do that?" He asks to break the silence. I look up from the notebook.

"How did I do what?"

"All that stuff with the victim and killer."

"Oh....it's just basic science. Power of observation, Doctor. You can find out a great deal about anything if you observe correctly."

"Really? What can you tell about me?"

"Do we really have to do this? I'd like to look over these notes before we get to the Yard."

"Fine," Watson says curtly. "If you can't do it, then just say so."

I sigh and lean back in the seat.

"You are in your early to mid-thirties, grew up in Kent based on your accent. Your grades in school were admirable, but not spectacular so you went into the military in order to pay for university. You became a combat medic and eventually an army field doctor with the airborne. You saw time in Afghanistan or Iraq, and ended up being injured in the line of duty. You've mostly healed, but you still limp when you try to jog or run. You're a bit of a gambler, and ended up losing money on yesterday's match between Liverpool and Arsenal."

I turn to Watson, who appears to be a bit slack-jawed.

"Oh, yes, and you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Did I get close?"

He snaps out of his trance and turns towards the front of the cab.

"Just look over those notes."



Scotland Yard


Lestrade is waiting for us in the lobby as soon as we walk in.

"Holmes, Mister Watson. The doctor is done with the autopsy and is preparing the results."

"Excellent. Anyone care to wager that the cause of death is poisoning? Anyone? Doctor Watson? Care to place a bet?"

Watson rolls his eyes and we follow Lestrade into the lower levels of Scotland Yard. The medical examiner is in the process of sewing the murder victim's chest while we watch from an adjacent room.

"We managed to get an identification from the apartment's landlord. The man's Enoch Drebber. He was from Edinburgh, and had just recently moved to London.."

"Poor soul."

"Barely in the big city and it ends up chewing him up. It is tragic."

"No. I was talking about his name. Who would name their child Enoch?"

"Says the man named Sherlock."

"Shut up."

The medical examiner comes out of the autopsy room, his bloody apron and latex gloves removed. "He was poisoned."

"With Potassium cyanide, of course."

"Correct. I'll have a more thorough report in a few hours, but I just wanted to get the cause of death out of the way."

The doctor leaves and I lean against the wall, smiling.

"You really get on my nerves sometimes, Holmes, you know that?"

"But yet you still keep coming back, Lestrade."

"How did you know it was cyanide?"

"The bottle of Aspirin I found on the body. It smelled faintly of almond."

"Oh God," Lestrade says with a sigh. "It was bloody tampering. Now we've got to deal with the public going into a panic over a nutter."

"I saw an unopened bottle of Aspirin in the apartment. So I'm fairly certain the bottle belonged to our murderer."

"Alright. Well, I used your description to get a sketch done. I've got PCs all over the neighborhood canvassing. I Sergeant Gregson is on the horn with Edinburgh, trying to find out what he can about Drebber."

"Good...I wonder, where is that ring that was on the body?"

"Forensics processed it. No useable prints, so it's in evidence control."

"Give it to me."

"Pardon me?"

"The killer wanted that ring. You said that the police were called there after hearing a fight. The killer ran out as soon as he could, but tried to find that ring."

"And what exactly are you going to do with the ring?"

"Put it in the paper. If we can't get to the killer, I'll make him come to me."
​

 

[wiegeabo]

22 years ago, Lawrence Kansas...


The baby monitor crackles with static and baby noises. Enough to wake Mary Winchester from her sleep. She groggily opens one eye and glances at the lights on the monitor.

"It's your turn," she mumbles, reaching behind her for her husband, but feeling nothing but empty bed.

Slowly sitting up, she stretches her neck, and stands. She walks outside the master bedroom and down the hall to the baby's room. Inside she sees a man's back as he stands overs the crib. Their baby makes happy gurgling noises.

"Is he ok?" Mary asks.

"Shhhhhh..."

She smiles and walks back into the hallway. At the other end, she notices the hall wall light flickering. She walks over to it and taps it a few times until it stops. That's when she sees the faint blue light from the first floor. Confused, she starts down the stairs, turning on the landing, and sees the tv is still on, an old black and white war movie playing. Shaking her head, she steps on the floor...and sees someone sleeping in the chair-

Mary runs back up the steps as fast as she can. "Sammy. Sammy!"

John Winchester snaps awake instantly at the sound of the scream.

"M-Mary?!"

The movie he had been watching forgotten, he tears off for the stairs at the sound of his wife's scream.

"Mary!"

He runs up the stairs in a second, and notices the door to Sammy's room is open. He runs inside-

"Mary?"

-only to find Sammy happily cooing in his crib.

John lets out a relieved sigh and tries to catch his breath as he goes over to check on his little boy. "Hey Sammy, did mom wake you?"

He gently strokes his finger across Sammy's cheek. Then he notices a small red blob near his head on the blanket. John dips his finger in it, rubbing the wetness between his thumb and finger. Then he looks up-

Spoiler

"NO! MARY! NO!"

The flames light the room on fire. More on instinct than thought, John tears himself away from the sight of his wife and grabs little Sammy in his arms. He runs outside the room.

"Daddy!"

A scared 4-year stands with wide eyes in the hallway.

"Dean! Take your brother and get out of the house. Don't look back. Now Dean! Go!"

Like the good boy he is, Dean dutifully takes his brother in his small arms, and makes his way down the stairs towards the front door. John rushes back into Sammy room where the flames fully engulf Mary's body.

"Mary! No!..."

The flames grow hotter and everything in the room burns. And then a huge fireball erupts at John-

Once in the front yard, Dean can't help but look up at the window to Sammy's room, lit from behind by the flames.

Suddenly a pair of arms grab Dean.

"Don't look back!" John shouts as he runs with his children as if they didn't weigh anything. He gets them away from the house just as Sammy's rooms explodes fire and debris all over the front yard.

***

Half an hour later, the fire department has battled most of the fire down, but flames still lick away from inside Sammy's room, fighting the spray of water as if it refused to die.

Police force neighbors to back away, and EMT's open their ambulance, prepping their equipment to look over the Winchesters.

And sitting on the hood of his '67 Impala, holding his two boys, John Winchester just stares at the perfect life he had and vows revenge...

 

[Carnage27]

A fly walks along the wall to my right. I can hear every single strike as its six legs crawl across the surface. As it flies and hops to another area of wall, the buzzing of its wings is like a 747 taking off right next to me. It takes off and flies right in front of my face.

In a meditative trance like I'm in now, I've honed myself to be able to raise all my senses to levels any other being could even dream of. I hear everything, smell everything, feel everything. Master Splinter has told me that this is only one step on the path I'm taking, and that one day I'll be able to do even more.

Like a flash of light, I catch the fly perfectly between my finger and thumb. I can feel every hair on it, and I can feel as it tries to wiggle itself out of my grasp. It's feeble mind knows only one state at this point: survival. The need for survival in lower creatures is astounding. It's all they know. The sleep to survive, they eat to survive, and they breed to survive.

It's odd to think that I would have been a creature like this had I not been transformed into what I am today. I've thought long and hard on why my brothers and I were made into what we are today. Whether it was divine intervention, some sort of cosmic joke, or just an accident.

But in reality, it doesn't matter. It's what we do with these special lives that matters. And we're going to protect the people of New York, no matter what the cost.

I rise and leave my chamber, entering out into our common area, where Donatello sits in front of the computer, still analyzing the picture he got of the purple dragon tattoo. He must not have slept, as I see a mostly finished pot of coffee on the kitchen counter.

Descending the stairs, I pull up a seat next to Donnie, "Find anything?"

"Yea, but it's not what I expected," he responds, the exhaustion showing in his voice. "The tattoo has shown up the past five years, including in police reports. All the same crimes we've been stopping them for. But the arrests led to no other leads. No raids on hideouts, no accomplices, nothing. And whenever two groups of them were put into court, they testified they acted as if they didn't know each other. Whatever this operation is, they're well organized."

Terrific. No more leads than when we started. We have no idea where to go next.

"Good work, Donnie," I sigh. "Go get some rest. We'll worry about the dragons later."
​

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

221 B Baker Street


I stand at the window and watch the traffic on the street below. I look back at Watson and scowl.

"Check it again."

He sighs and looks up from the television. "I checked it ten minutes ago."

"You checked it twelve minutes and twenty seconds ago."

"Well, around ten minutes ago."

"Check it again."

Watson rolls his eyes and gets up from the sofa, walking towards his laptop. He taps a few buttons and looks at the internet classified ad.

Found:

One engagement ring around SoHo area
Fair condition
Call number below
Describe ring to claim it


07425-882077

"I don't understand why I had to give my number out."

"Because my number might have been recognized. It's on my site."

"Site? What site?"

"My website. Has anyone responded?"

"No not yet. No calls or texts on my phone either."

"Well..."

I turn to look back out the window and try to plan out my next move.

"Grab your coat. We'll go at this another way."

"What are you thinking?"

I turn around and begin to head downstairs with Watson behind me.

"We're going to find Drebber's flatmate."

"I thought the landlord said Drebber lived alone."

"He did...at first. There was a mobile bill in the apartment for a mister Joseph Strangerson, and it was dated a week ago. Strangerson couldn't have been living with Drebber long enough for the landlord to notice.."

"Joseph Strangerson? Where do they get these names from? If you knew Drebber had a flatmate, why didn't you tell the police?"

"Because Strangerson isn't our killer."

"Two flatmates having a row, why not? I'm slowly starting to see how much a flatmate can wear on your nerves."

Watson and I step out onto the sidewalk and walk towards the street.

"Strangerson wears size nine shoes, our killer wears size elevens. But Strangerson almost certainly knows who the killer is."
"What makes you say that?"

I hail a cab and give the cabbie a SoHo address. Once the car gets going down the road, I turn to Watson.

"Strangerson knows who the killer is because he grew up with him in Edinburgh. Him and Drebber....and Rachel, of course."

"Rachel? So you were wrong about the clue at the flat."

"No, I was right. It just had a double meaning. Rache is revenge. Revenge for Rachel."

"And who is she?"

"The root cause if it all. As much as I hate to admit it...this case is beginning to take a turn for the mundane."

I sigh and look out the window.

"This whole thing is about a woman."
​

 

[Carnage27]

Indiana Jones
Director of the B.P.R.D.

B.P.R.D Headquarters
Rocky Mountains, Colorado

​

It's been a few days since my meeting with Elizabeth Sherman, and it's the day of truth. Today will be the day when I find out what this new set of recruits is made of, and whether or not they'll stick around after I reveal to them that they aren't here for a simple round of biological tests and demonstrations of their abilities.

I change into my old adventuring clothes. The jacket may hang a little looser over my form at this point, but I don't let it affect me. I have to change physically at some points through this hellish long life. And I guess there's worse changes than losing a little bit of muscle here and there.

Stepping out of the door of the compound, I look behind me and smile. These kids really don't know what they have ahead of me. The secrets that are in there have been kept from the general populace, and are things most people will never know exist. And now it's all going to be revealed to what are now untrained, uncertified kids.

Next to me is one of my most senior human agents, Kate Corrigan. Kate knows about anything there is to know about the legends and myths about what we're fighting against.

At 1 P.M. on the dot, the first car approaches, and out steps a sweet, yet nervous looking young woman with a streak of pink running through her hair. I recognize her from the stock photo provided with her file. This is Roxanne Spaulding.

After "Roxy" as she calls herself, comes over and introduces herself, I note that she's a shy girl. That will need to change if she's going to survive here.

Next, a car pulls up and out steps one of the biggest men I've ever seen. His long, brown hair hangs out from underneath a wool-knit cap down to his massive shoulders, and iPod head phones are burried in his ears. In his massive hand he holds a skateboard that looks like it would barely hold his immense figure. This is Percival Chang, a former football player from Seattle, who by all accounts is an extreme slacker.

We'll work him through that.

The third car drops of a young woman that I wouldn't have been able to stay away from if it was a day long gone. Tall, redheaded, and beautiful, she strides confidently towards me and introduces herself to me. Caitlin Fairchild, the prized recruit I targeted from the beginning. Graduated from Stanford at eighteen, modeled, and was a track star. I still can't believe she's shown up.

Next, a motorcycle pulls up, and off steps the one recruit who has had formal government training. Cole Cash was in training for the Marines before he dropped out for unknown reasons. Before he left, however, he showed proficient skills with firearms and hand to hand combat.

I wait around a little for the other two recruits to show up, but after a while Kate urges me to begin. But as I'm about to start, a fifth car shows up, and out steps Liz Sherman. She smiles and joins the group.

"Ah, well, I guess we can start," I smile at the assembled youth. "As you already know, my name is Dr. Henry Jones, and I've brought you here because all of you have special abilities. Abilities you haven't even begun to understand. Why you have them, we do not know yet, but we intend to figure that out."

I take a deep breath before continuing, "But the reason we brought you here was not merely study. Nor was it purely scientific. In fact, it wasn't even mostly scientific." I can see the shock on their faces, but I continue, "Your powers are but a drop of rain in the middle of a hurricane of paranormal forces that occur everyday on this planet. And as the paranormal evolves, so must we. The main reason we brought you here was to ask you to become the first in a new breed of agents that will protect the United States of America from all paranormal, extraterrestrial, and metahuman threats that may occur."

"What're you talkin' about man?" Cash asks. "You really expect us to believe that aliens, and vampires, and stuff like that exist?"

"Yes, Mr. Cash," I respond. "That's exactly what I'm saying. If you want to leave, your cars and your bike is right there. But if you want to take your first step into a bigger world, follow me through these doors."

I turn and walk through the doors into BPRD, and turn to find the rest of them hot on my heels. I walk down to the library, where a large tank of water forms one of the walls. I stop in front of it, and turn to the new recruits, "Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce you to your first paranormal entities, as well as your first lesson. Not every paranormal is your enemy. And you will need to differentiate those that will do us harm, and those that can help."

"Abe, Red, get in here," I say into my commlink. Instantly, Hellboy enters the room, and Abe Sapien, the aquatic humanoid, floats up to the glass.

Hellboy smiles at the new recruits, "How's it going, maggots? Who's ready for training?"

 

[wiegeabo]

Today, Palo Alto California

CREEEEK

His eyes snap open at the sound, and all his old instincts kick online. Glancing behind him, he's careful to get up and not disturb the woman sharing his bed.

Just like he trained for so many years, he stalks his way silently and slowly through the apartment, his senses straining for the slightest noises and evidence of movement in the darkness. His eyes already adjusted to the dark, and long since having memorized the layout of his apartment, he knows exactly how to avoid every obstacle.

His eyes lock on a sudden flash of movement. Shadow against the blackness. But he knows what he saw, and his heart races with the realization that the is someone here.

He flexes his fingers into fists as he slides up against the wall. He can sense the stranger approaching, and when the time is right, he spins around the corner and strikes.

He lands a punch across his opponent's face, and follows it up with a kick. But his opponent blocks the leg, and lands a punch on his chest. Realizing he has a reach advantage on his smaller opponent, he tries to maintain distance and takes a swing, but his opponents must have realized the same thing and comes in close. The opponent lands a punch on his chest, then grabs his neck in a grapple and plows his knee into his side.

Years of hard training help him absorb the knee as he spins his opponent around, breaking the grapple. A flury of punches and kicks from both sides are deflected with skill. His opponent tries to sneak inside his reach again, but anticipating this, he plants his leg and trips his opponent. But his opponent holds his grip this time and pulls him down on the floor as well.

They roll over a few times, trying to gain dominance. He suddenly finds himself on the bottom, and hand pressing down against his chest. The light from the window finally illuminating them enough for him to see his opponent's smile.

Spoiler

"Whoa, easy there Sammy."

"...Dean?!"

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

SoHo

The taxi skitters to a stop and I jump out, Watson right behind me.

"Why are we back at the crime scene?"

"Shut up. I need to think."

I pace on the sidewalk in front of the flat where Drebbber was murdered.

"Lestrade texted me six hours ago. Drebber couldn't have been dead for more than three hours before we arrived at the crime scene. Nine hours."

I pull out my phone and begin searching through the weather and traffic reports from the morning.

"Congested traffic and mild drizzle....but that didn't matter to him, did it? He was running for his life."

"I'm sorry, but you think the killer is still in the neighborhood?"

"The killer? No, but his second victim is."

I begin walking down the street, Watson behind me.

"The message was incomplete. That's because Strangerson walked in on the murderer before he was finished. That's where the signs of a struggle came from. Strangerson and the killer were fighting. That's why the door was locked from the inside, because Strangerson's flat key fell out on the floor after the fight. The killer locked the door with Drebber's body and gave chase after Strangerson."

I jog down the block, trying to find a building that would work.

"There," I finally say after traveling two blocks over.
I walk across the street towards a dim and abandoned building. I job up the steps to the entrance, looking over the rusty lock before turning to Watson.

"The back door. They used the backdoor."

I go back down the steps and walk around. The back entrance into the building. The door is shut with the lock discarded to the side. I gingerly test the door and open it. I head into the damp building with Watson following behind. We stop short when we see the body laying on the floor.

"And that is Joseph Strangerson."

I walk towards the body and give it a scan.

"He was killed the same way. Poisoned."

I reach into my pocket, pulling out a pen. I use the pen tip to lift up the almost empty Aspirin bottle. Only one pill inside of it.

"I think I know what's going on."

I put the pill bottle back down and walk outside, pulling my phone back out and typing up a text.

To: G. Lestrade
Re: Drebber Case

Another body.
Up the road from
original crime scene
Motive and means figured
Need opportunity
Address below
Come quickly

SH
​

I send the text and put the phone back in my pocket. Watson comes outside, pulling his coat tight.

"Dead about nine hours, from the look of him. Two times someone being poisoned with medicine. Do you think the killer is tampering?"

"Then why is he here, half a block away from his flat? No, the killer led him here. Either with a gun or knife. I'm not sure how, yet."

I pull my phone back out, searching through the daily news and police incident reports. Other than the Drebber's body, there have been no police reports in this area of SoHo all day.

"There's no way Strangerson went willingly with the killer. They knew each other from the past, he would have fought and struggled. He was duped some kind of way. He was fooled into going with the killer."

I close my eyes and assemble the data.

Drebber was killed after coming home from the pub. The killer got into his apartment some kind of way. He killed Drebber, and was writing his note when Strangerson walked in. They fought and he ran.

Strangerson, running through the rain manages to get caught by the killer and led here. Nobody noticed it....how?

"The killer hides in plain sight. Someone who everyone sees, but nobody notices."

The pieces seem to click into place almost at once.

"He's a cabbie."

"Right you are," a Scottish accented voice says from behind. He matches my earlier estimate of what the killer's height and weight would be. In his hand is a pistol.

"You're so smart, Mister Holmes. Smart indeed. I've read about you, read your website. I had a feeling they might send you after me."

"So, what are you going to do, then?"

"Leave your friend here...we're going for a ride."
​

 

[Rain Dog]

I down the last of my brew, slam the mug down on the counter and slide it aside.

“Can I get another one, Norton?”

“Sure, thing, Goon.”

All the usual losers were here at Norton’s Pub. Merle, Jimmy Turtle, Spider, Charlie Noodles—Charlie Noodles I don’t mind so much. Charlie Noodles is good people. And, of course, Franky, who was tryin’ to get into some dame’s pants.

“So, babe, how’s about we head back to my place and Rochambeau?”

SMACK!

“**** off, Franky,” she says before stormin’ off.

“Rochambeau?”

“It’s French, ain’t it? Don’t the dames like French crap?”

“Maybe. They don’t like jerks though.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?!”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Hey, Goon!”

I turn around to see an ugly mug with eight glossy black eyes, a pair of hairy fangs, and a bowler hat starin’ me in the face.

“Heya, Spider.”

“Tony No-Nose just stopped by. Wanted me to tell ya something.”

“Smitty got his tonsils back from that shaman?”

“Nah, he saw this ugly geezer and two freaks with masks digging up bodies in the graveyard.”

“Aw, geez,” I says as I lift myself up from the barstool.

“Grave and his monkey kids?"

“Dunno who else it could be. Norton, cancel that drink order! I gotta go pound some freaks’ faces in.”

Just when I thought I’d have a decent night…

[BLACKOUT]
Now, the story of the Grave family was a tragic one. Years ago, Houstus Grave had himself a wife, Mary, expectin’ a pair of twins. The problem with Houstus was that he, like his father before him, was a penniless farmer. And with barely any money to his name, how could a poor old farmer hope to properly feed and raise an entire family?

One day, on his way home from the market after sellin’ his old, crippled, milkin’ cow for a mere ten dollars, Houstus met an odd, strange man. This small man claimed to be a preacher and seemed to know of the troubles that plagued poor old Houstus and his family. The preacher man offered Houstus good pay and steady work. And that work? Diggin’ up dead bodies.

Houstus came home and told his wife all about his new job offer. Mary protested, callin’ that line of work blasphemous and wicked. But Houstus, bent on not slavin’ his life away to die penniless like his father, ignored her and did that preacher man’s work. Turns out, that preacher man was none other than that Nameless Man—that Zombie Priest—and that those dead bodies that Houstus hauled out of the soil would all join the ranks of his undead army.

Soon, the consequences of the Zombie Priest’s work began to show. A mysterious kind of leprosy fell upon Houstus. He lost his hair, grew ugly, and deformed. Mary grew very ill, her pregnancy gone bad. She cursed Houstus and passed on but not before giving birth to a pair of deformed monstrosities.

To this day, Houstus and his wretched offspring still stalk the boneyards at night, diggin’ up corpses to add to the Zombie Priest’s hordes…
[/BLACKOUT]
Our cherry red Coup De Ville pulled up and the ol’ boneyard and I could already see three ugly silhouettes loadin’ up dead folk into the bed of a pickup. Franky and I climbed outta the car and I cracked my knuckles to get ready for the hurtin’ I was about to put on these hicks.

“Ruin my decent night, will ya?” I muttered.

“I’ll learn ya!”

 

[Carnage27]

Indiana Jones
Director of the B.P.R.D.

Washington D.C.
​

Leon Carver sits alone at a table in a cafe staring at the letter he had received a few weeks earlier. He still can't believe that the government found out about his powers, but even now, he's excited to know there are people that can help. But still, he has reservations. He doesn't know if this is completely trustworthy.

Besides, what has the government ever done to him besides put him in jail?

And almost like through an act of some divine agent, a suave looking man takes a seat across from him, "Hello, Leon."

Leon looks up from his letter, and looks into the man's deep, black eyes. They're almost like black holes, and now that the young man has looked into them, he can't look away. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know a lot about you Leon," he smiles, curling the beard that covers his face. "I know you were raised by a mother who had to sell herself to put food on your table. I know you were first arrested at the age of twelve for trying to put a little bit of food in your stomach. I know you've been in and out of the prison system for the last eight years. And most importantly, I know what you're capable of."

Leon begins to panic, "You know about my powers? Are with the government?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Carver," he smiles his sadistic smile again. "Quite the opposite, actually. I know they've contacted you. But I'm here to offer you a different life. I would never hold you back. I'd never force you to use your powers for the good of the people. No, I would have you use your powers as you would like to. And all I ask is for a little help bringing about a better world. What do you say, Leon?"

Leon feels deep inside that he should say no to this man. He seems dangerous, manipulative, and a tad bit crazy. But he can't. The gaze of the man is like a vice grip, and all Leon can manage to say is, "I'm in."

Two weeks later
BPRD Headquarters

"So how are the kids coming along?" I ask Kate as she enters my office. They've been training basically nonstop for the past few weeks, and I haven't checked up on them much. They've been kept separate so far aside from classes while they acclimate themselves to their new home.

I feel semi-guilty about that, but I've had my mind on other things. I've been having more dreams like the one when I went to meet Liz Sherman. Each time they get more disturbing. The laugh now has a body attached to it, a shadow with bright red, glowing eyes. The growl also seems to be emanating from an incredibly large creature. And at the end, a flash of what seems to be an island. An island I've been to before.

"They're coming along," she sighs as she takes a seat opposite from me. Kate's our mythology expert, and has been putting them through a harrowing class. "Sherman and Spaulding seem to be taking to my class fairly well. They guys not so much, but they aren't doing badly. Red says they're all doing fairly well in combat. But they're not ready for the field yet."

"They may need to be sooner then later," I respond without thinking, allowing my trepidations to show.

She then notices the maps I have strewn across my desk, "What is this?"

"We need to talk..."
​

Meanwhile, five levels lower in the BPRD headquarters

For the first time since they've moved in, the new agents of the BPRD are allowed to socialize with each other outside of class. They're all fairly young, ranging from twenty years old to twenty-five. The five of them sit in the common room attached to their new rooms in silence, staring at the TV.

"So what can you guys do?" Percival Chang, the man who prefers to be called Grunge asks, breaking the ice.

"What do you mean?" Caitlin Fairchild asks, perplexed.

"You know...your powers," he smiles. All he gets are tentative stares. "Alright, fine. I'll go first," he says as he stands and heads over to the concrete wall. Placing his hand on the smooth surface, he closes his eyes and instantly, his entire body turns into the same gray substance. He transforms back, "I can turn into any substance I touch."

"Niiiice," Cole responds with a smile. "Man, now mine is gonna look lame." He waves his hand, and the table in the middle of the room begins to levitate and the others applaud, "I raised a car once too. Biggest thing I've done yet. I can read minds too, but that takes a crazy amount of concentration on my part."

"Me next!" Roxy smiles and hops up. But she doesn't stop at standing. She begins levitating of the ground and floating around the room. As she lands, she shrugs, "From what I get so far, I'm pretty sure I can manipulate gravity. I can slow things down and make other things float as well."

"What about you, sweet thing?" Grunge asks Fairchild. He's been shameless in his flirting with her so far during class, and she's been getting sick of it.

Caitlin stands and picks up the couch that Cole and Grunge are sitting on, lifting it over her head with one hand. She shakes Grunge off the couch, and he hits the floor with a thud. "Not bad for a sweet thing, huh?"

Then all eyes turn to Liz, who shifts uneasily in her seat. She obviously has the least control over her powers as the others. And there are all the incidents from her past. All the times she hurt people by accident. She couldn't hurt these people, not when they were the only ones like her.

"Listen guys...I can't. When I use my powers...people get hurt."

Without another word, she runs off into her room.

BPRD Library

I walk in and tap the glass on Abe's tank. He floats up to me and irritably says, "Didn't they ever tell you not to tap on the glass at aquariums?"

"Yea. But I never really pay attention to signs," I respond.

"Obviously," he nods. "What do you need Dr. Jones?"

"Get ready, we're going on a trip."

 

[Batman]

"Well, I certainly hope you're proud of yourself."

MI-6 headquarters, based in central London. Partly compromised of the training facility to some of the world's top intelligence agents, the majority devoted entirely to the collection and jurisdiction of Britain's covert affairs. Answering for the entire bureau is a series of designated superiors known only for their codenames that are identified with a single letter. The A, the B, and so forth. But none in MI-6 speak quite as loudly as the woman staring down her top agent in the confines of her high-security office. She is M, the lead commander of the field agents ranging from Scout to 00 - and the only person that gets to ask questions with the expectation that there will be answers to follow them.

"Another fine mess to be made, and we've spent the last few hours preparing in advance for the coming weeks of it. I have already heard the many suggestions to drag you to parliament for this, and yet I have ignored them."

She leans over the desk, staring her agent cold in the eyes. And he stares back without so much as a flinch. "My question to you is, why should I have done so?"

The man pauses in thought, and amazingly, he attempts to answer.

"There could be many reasons. Perhaps it's my charm."

He adjusts the cufflinks of his shirt as he speaks, idly prepping them as if he hasn't a care in the world. Because he knows that no matter what he's liable to say in his own defense, M isn't about to treat the situation with the slightest touch of subjectivity. It wasn't in her nature. And as a result, he wasn't prepared to hide the fact that it wasn't in his, either.

"Or perhaps it's because you'd miss my good looks."

M doesn't smile. He's tried many times to get a rise out of the old woman, but the truth is that she's incapable. Especially in his presence.

"You can quit while you're ahead, Bond. The ****es on 53rd street may find your witticisms somehow void of all stupidity, but I only find them to be a nuisance. Though not nearly as much as your actions."

Bond only smirks, but nods, understanding.

"Thought I'd try and lighten the mood. Though god knows this isn't a social call, is it?"

Producing the files in hand, M threw them in Bond's lap particularly hard, breaking the expression of delight on his face. Bond takes the files and quickly skims through them, taking a subjective look at his handiwork.

"You murdered seven of a prominent Russian arms smuggling ring. Seven men who could have provided us vital information in the capture of their leader, a wanted terrorist. You disregarded your orders to interrogate and came wallowing back with nothing to show for it other than a few bruises."

Bond narrows his eyes, holding up the file.

"And I suppose the life of the Prime Minister was overlooked in this report."

M snatches it from his grasp.

"That wasn't your call, you reckless oaf. Your mission was to extract information once your team subdued the suspects. According to Agent Bronson, you hadn't even bothered to alert them by the time that the gunfire scared off the crowd."

Bond is momentarily silent, allowing M quit to pacing and return to her desk.

"There wasn't a chance, so I made a judgement call. And might I add, since you mentioned Bronson, that he and the others were highly preoccupied with the Prime Minister's daughter at the time of the attempt."

"So you went off half-cocked and decided to apprehend them yourself? And miserably so, given that we have no detainees currently in lockdown."

"It was unavoidable."

M raised her eyebrow.

"Oh? Then enlighten me, Bond. What exactly happened to make you pull such a ridiculous stunt in the first place?"

Bond clasped his hands together and smiled.

"With pleasure."

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

Previously

Spoiler

SoHo


The taxi skitters to a stop and I jump out, Watson right behind me.

"Why are we back at the crime scene?"

"Shut up. I need to think."

I pace on the sidewalk in front of the flat where Drebbber was murdered.

"Lestrade texted me six hours ago. Drebber couldn't have been dead for more than three hours before we arrived at the crime scene. Nine hours."

I pull out my phone and begin searching through the weather and traffic reports from the morning.

"Congested traffic and mild drizzle....but that didn't matter to him, did it? He was running for his life."

"I'm sorry, but you think the killer is still in the neighborhood?"

"The killer? No, but his second victim is."

I begin walking down the street, Watson behind me.

"The message was incomplete. That's because Strangerson walked in on the murderer before he was finished. That's where the signs of a struggle came from. Strangerson and the killer were fighting. That's why the door was locked from the inside, because Strangerson's flat key fell out on the floor after the fight. The killer locked the door with Drebber's body and gave chase after Strangerson."

I jog down the block, trying to find a building that would work.

"There," I finally say after traveling two blocks over.
I walk across the street towards a dim and abandoned building. I job up the steps to the entrance, looking over the rusty lock before turning to Watson.

"The back door. They used the backdoor."

I go back down the steps and walk around. The back entrance into the building. The door is shut with the lock discarded to the side. I gingerly test the door and open it. I head into the damp building with Watson following behind. We stop short when we see the body laying on the floor.

"And that is Joseph Strangerson."

I walk towards the body and give it a scan.

"He was killed the same way. Poisoned."

I reach into my pocket, pulling out a pen. I use the pen tip to lift up the almost empty Aspirin bottle. Only one pill inside of it.

"I think I know what's going on."

I put the pill bottle back down and walk outside, pulling my phone back out and typing up a text.

To: G. Lestrade
Re: Drebber Case

Another body.
Up the road from
original crime scene
Motive and means figured
Need opportunity
Address below
Come quickly

SH
​

I send the text and put the phone back in my pocket. Watson comes outside, pulling his coat tight.

"Dead about nine hours, from the look of him. Two times someone being poisoned with medicine. Do you think the killer is tampering?"

"Then why is he here, half a block away from his flat? No, the killer led him here. Either with a gun or knife. I'm not sure how, yet."

I pull my phone back out, searching through the daily news and police incident reports. Other than the Drebber's body, there have been no police reports in this area of SoHo all day.

"There's no way Strangerson went willingly with the killer. They knew each other from the past, he would have fought and struggled. He was duped some kind of way. He was fooled into going with the killer."

I close my eyes and assemble the data.

Drebber was killed after coming home from the pub. The killer got into his apartment some kind of way. He killed Drebber, and was writing his note when Strangerson walked in. They fought and he ran.

Strangerson, running through the rain manages to get caught by the killer and led here. Nobody noticed it....how?

"The killer hides in plain sight. Someone who everyone sees, but nobody notices."

The pieces seem to click into place almost at once.

"He's a cabbie."

"Right you are," a Scottish accented voice says from behind. He matches my earlier estimate of what the killer's height and weight would be. In his hand is a pistol.

"You're so smart, Mister Holmes. Smart indeed. I've read about you, read your website. I had a feeling they might send you after me."

"So, what are you going to do, then?"

"Leave your friend here...we're going for a ride."
​

The cabbie motions for me to follow him with his gun. I turn to Watson and shrug.

"Suppose I should do what he says."

"You can't do that, Sherlock. You know what he has in store for you."

"Well, I can only hope you and Lestrade find me before it's too late...well, I guess I can hold out hope that you find me."

"Enough talking, Mister Holmes. It's time to go."

"Very well."

I turn to Watson and pat my pocket, winking while I do it.

"Irene, John. Irene."

Watson gives me a confused look and I smile in return as I follow the cabbie around the front of the building to his cab. He keeps the gun trained on me as he starts the engine up and pulls off down the road.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"A quiet spot just up the road. I've been working as a cabbie here in London for nearly six months, and in that time I've managed to pick out a half dozen places to kill people. Surprised there aren't more cab driver serial killers."

"Oh, you mean apart from you?"

"I'm offended, Mister Holmes. Serial killers are nutters, people who can't help themselves. No. I killed Drebber and Strangerson for another reason."

"Revenge. Revenge for Rachel, right?"

"Yeah. My sweet Rachel...her only crime was loving me. But that's a long story."

"I'm all ears."

*****

IC: John Watson

The police and Holmes' Inspector friend arrive on the scene with

"Where's Holmes?" Lestrade asks as he steps out of the car.

"He went with the killer."

"He did what?!"

"The killer came up. He's a cabbie, and he showed up and took Holmes away at gunpoint."

"Bollox! Did you get a license number?"

"Yes, I caught it as they were pulling away. Holmes also said something to me as he left. 'Irene'...can't figure that one out."

"Irene? The bloody hell does that mean?"

"No idea. He just touched his pocket and said...."

I trail off as it clicks in my mind.

"Inspector, do you have a laptop?"

*****
​

"Rachel was beautiful. We were young and in love."

I nod and look out at the surrounding area as we begin to venture farther away from central London.

"This was in Edinburgh?"

"A long time ago, almost a lifetime ago. Rachel and I were in love. There was only one problem."

"Daddy didn't approve."

"Didn't think I was good enough for his girl. Her father was one of the community's most influential men. He had visions of two other men marrying his daughter."

"Enter Enoch Drebber and Joseph Strangerson."

"Rachel hated both of them. They were rich boys, cruel bullies who just wanted her because of her father's connections."

"Well, this isn't the 1800's, it's not like her father could have made her marry one of them. If anything, you two could have eloped and her father couldn't have done a thing about it."

"We did elope," the cabbie says with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "We weren't thinking clearly, both of us were sixteen when we did it."

"I think I know how the rest of this goes. You were both too young to be legally married and as soon as her father found out you eloped, he had you arrested."

"Kidnapping," he snarls. "I spent ten years in prison because of the old wanker."

"And who did Rachel marry?"

"Drebber. He was cruel and a bully and Rachel was brokenhearted. She would always find ways to write me.....when the letters stopped coming.....that's when I knew."

The cabbie takes a long breath, nearly on the verge of tears.

"I didn't know for sure until I got out of prison. She took her life. Pill overdose."

"And when you got out...Drebber and Strangerson were nowhere to be found."

"They cleared out of Scotland before I was released. Rachel's father died two years earlier, so they were the only two. They had to pay, both of them."

"How exactly did you find out they were in London?"

"Sorry, that part of the story will have to remain a mystery."

The cab pulls up to a dark and empty building.

"We're here."

*****
​

I place Lestrade's laptop on the hood of the police car and boot it up while he looks over my shoudler.

"Sherlock has an email address, yes?"

"Yeah. [email protected]."

I bring up the internet and navigate to the mephone site.

"Holmes has a smart phone with GPS tracking. I had to use it a few months ago when I had my phone nicked from me. If I put in Holmes' email address and use Irene as a password."

I smile and turn the computer to Lestrade, showing him the map of London and the blinking icon.

"I believe we have our location."

*****

The killer leads me through the dark and empty hallways of the school at gunpoint.

"Is this how you killed Strangerson and Drebber? Forced them to take poison by gunpoint?"

"No, that's the best part of it. They did it themselves. In the end, their selfishness led to their deaths. I'll explain once we find a good spot."

He leads me into an empty classroom and sits down at a desk, pointing me to sit on the other side. I sit and watch as he pulls out an aspirin bottle.

"In this bottle are two pills."

"And one is poison," I say with a smirk, the puzzle pieces coming into place.

"I did it with Drebber and Strangerson. They had to choose their own fate. Now it's your turn....but there's more."

He pops open the top and pours out both pills, placing them on the table in front of me.

"Whichever one you don't choose, I'll take the other one. One way or another, it ends tonight."

"Interesting," I say with a raised eyebrow.

"Care to play the game, Mister Holmes?"

"But is it really a game? It's really just a 50/50 chance."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I know which one is which. You seem to enjoy proving how clever you are. Do it now. Show me how much smarter you are then me."

I look down at the pills, my hand moving towards the one on my right.

"Oooh...interesting choice."

I pull back and look at the killer.

"What if I don't choose?"

He shakes the gun in his hand and nods towards it.

"I blow your brains out then I do the same to myself. But it won't come to that. You want to prove you can outwit me. That's your weakness. Drebber and Strangerson played right into my hands with their desire to live. With you, it's the thrill of this, isn't it? You're a junkie, and this is your drug."

I look at the pills again and scoop up the one on my left. The killer takes the right one and holds it in his hands.

"What do you say, Mister Holmes? Time to take our medicine?"

I take a deep breath and move the hand towards my mouth when the door comes crashing open.

"POLICE!" Lestrade roars as he comes racing in with Watson on his heels. The killer quickly swallows his pill and suddenly collapses to the floor. I jump across the desk and grab the killer's shoulders.

"How did you know where to find Strangerson and Drebber?"

"G-....got in touch with a man," he croaks, foam beginning to form at the edges of his mouth. "Named M-M-M-Moriarty."

The foam pours out of his mouth and he begins to convulse. I should do CPR, but it's useless now. He'll be dead in ten seconds.

*****

I'm sitting on the back of an ambulance when Watson walks over

"I see you managed to pick up on my clue."

"You mean Irene? Yes, yes I did. Who is Irene, by the way?"

"A friend...more of an antagonist, really. Only person to outsmart me."

"Sounds like a lovely lady."

"May your paths never cross."

I pick myself up from the back of the ambulance and walk with Watson towards the edge of the crime scene.

"Wait," Lestrade says as he spots me leaving.

"You have my statement, Lestrade, what else do you need?"

"Alright. Just keep your mobile on in case of any follow up questions."
I nod at Lestrade and keep walking with John. We walk in silence for several seconds before I break it.

"Thank you, John. I mean it. I managed to guess correctly, but there's going to be a time when even I'll be wrong. Good to know you had my back."

"So....this is what you do, is it? Normal day for you?"

"What can I say," I say with a shrug. "Pays the rent."

"How often do you do this?"

"Varies from month to month. I work at least once a month. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I helped out on this one. I'm looking for work, this may help pass the time."

We come to a stop at the main road and I hold my hand out, trying to hail a cab.

"But you're a doctor."

"An Army doctor....and a good one."

"So you've seen a lot of violent injuries and deaths."

"Yes."

"And your share of trouble as well."

"Too much...enough for a lifetime, really."

A cab pulls to the side of the road and I open the back door.

"Care to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes."

I smile and climb into the back of the cab with Watson. The driver takes off into the London night.​

 

[Carnage27]

"Enter...my son," a raspy voice calls from the other side of the door I've just knocked on. I push the heavy wooden barrier open, and find my father and teacher seated in a meditative position in the middle of the room. Master Splinter was a common pet rat before he waded into the same ooze that transformed my brothers. "You are troubled Leonardo. What is bothering you?"

​

"This gang we've been running into," I sigh. "Donny found some history about them, but nothing substantial. We have nothing to go on, father. We have absolutely nothing to work with. And these men seem to have their hands in all the crime in the city, and I don't know how to bring them down."

Splinter closes his eyes and breathes deeply, concentrating on the problem I've presented him. He's always helped me when I've struggled with my leadership duties. I've always been able to rely on him, and his guidance is a driving force in my life.

After a few moments of silence, Splinter responds, "My son, you need to work through this problem with your brothers and without my help. Throughout your years, I have groomed you to lead your brothers in the field. You have the battle prowess, temperament, and honor to be a natural leader. But in order to be a leader, you must be ready to stand alone and make the decisions that will impact your team. And a time will come when I will not be with you. And this challenge will prepare you for that time."

With that, he closes his eyes yet again, and I know he's going into a deep meditation, and that's my cue to leave. I stand and leave, closing the door behind me, not sure if I'm ready to do what is needed of me.

**********

"I don't know, April," Steve, April O'Neil's camera man says as he rubs the back of his neck nervously. "It's risky. And if we don't find this guy, we're gonna run into a lot of trouble. We could end up dead."

"We didn't get into this business to cover cat fashion shows and squirrels water skiing," the reporter replies angrily. "We're here to dig up the truth and tell it to the people. And I'm not going to sit around and wait for someone else to get footage of this guy."

Ever since her first story, well first real story, was broadcast, April hasn't let the idea of finding this hero leave her head. She's ready to do whatever it takes to get footage or an interview. And the newest plan she's hatched could be the most dangerous one of all.

"We're going undercover."

**********

"And what do we know about him or them?" the man says as he stares out the window of the New York highrise, peering over the city. He crosses his muscular arms over his bare chest, the purple dragon tattoo emblazoned on his arms and chest rippling.

"Almost nothing," a subordinate says nervously. "Other than the fact that the men say he's armored, super strong, super fast-"

"Enough," the large man says sternly. The fact that he has no need to raise his voice to get commands across shows the respect, or fear, he inspires in his underlings. "I have no desire to deal in hearsay and rumor. If this person is real, he can be killed. We just need to find out how to do that."

The man turns from the window and faces the other, smaller man. The ferocity and intensity shines brightly in his dark eyes, "Work on finding that out. Or I'll find someone who can."
​

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes

221 B Baker Street


Moriarty.

Moriarty.

Moriarty.

"Moriarty...."

I keep mumbling the name under my breath as I pace the floor. I see Watson walking up out the corner of my eye.

"Sherlock, I'm about to pop out to the shop. Do you want anything?"

"Moriarty."

"....I'm sorry, what? Did you say Moriarty? Is that some brand of ice cream?"

"No. It's a name. The killer in our last case, he said that a man tracked down the whereabouts of Strangerson and Drebber. A man named Moriarty."

"Who is he?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be mumbling his name while I paced the floor. I searched the UK's criminal database for anyone with that last name."

"How did you do that? Don't you have to be with Scotland Yard to do that?"

"You do...but Lestrade's security passwords are way too easy to hack into."
"Ah, of course. Because asking him for help is too hard to do."

"It'd be like the blind leading the perfectly able to see. Anyway, of all the names that showed up on the computer screen, only a half dozen have operated in and around Edinburgh."

"So what do you do?"

"Leave it alone," I say as I pull out my vibrating phone and read the text message on my screen. "It can wait for another day. For now, we're needed elsewhere."

I stuff the phone in my pocket and go to get my coat.

"Just do me a favor this time, John, when you write about this in your blog, be sure to keep your observations about me to yourself."

"Are you still upset over that remark about the PM?"

"Who cares who the Prime Minister is? I couldn't give a sod unless they end up murdered."

I slip my coat on and toss Watson his.

"Other than that, you thought it was good?"

"A Study in Scarlet? Well, the title has a ring to it. I'll give you that. Now, come on, let's go. The game is on."

Battersea


Watson and I step under the crime scene tape and walk down the docks towards the crime scene.

"They sent you, huh?" A man in a dark suit says as we approach the covered body.

"Yes," I say as I pull out a pair of latex gloves and pop them on. "I guess your boss doesn't trust you, Jones."

"Who's this?" Jones asks, nodding towards Watson.

"This is my friend and associate, Doctor John Watson."

"Friend? Since when do you have friends?...Oh, God...Holmes, is this your idea of a date?"

"What? No! You think we're....no...I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that."

I shake my head and push past Jones, walking towards the tarp covered body. I touch the tarp and gently pull it back, revealing the body.

A man, late middle aged, clothed in a white shirt and grey trousers. I touch his face gingerly, looking closely at the red cheeks and nose. I take a mental snapshot of the bruises around the neck before moving down to the shirt and where the action is.

The biggest distraction on the body is the note pinned to the chest. It's a plain piece of white paper with a clothes pin holding the handwritten note in place.

​

4
​

I take note of the gut and look at the belt and pants. The pants are i apparently in good shape, a spot of fresh mud on the right kneecap. I touch it and rub the mud between my latex covered fingers. Rolling up the pants leg, I look at the veins of his legs before going up to the hands and observing the man's scarred knuckles.

I stand up just as Watson and Jones come up.

"Are you ready to take notes, John?"

"Go for it."

"The victim is approximately fifty-five years old, the cut of his clothing indicates he's wearing a uniform from work. He has varicose veins, which means he did a lot of standing. He's more than likely currently employed as a security guard, but he's only been doing it a few years. No security guard has scarred knuckles like that. His age, coupled with the bloated and red face implies he's a heavy drinker. Only one job I can think of where one can be a functioning alcoholic and still be paid."

"Consulting detective?" Jones quips.

"Police. Our man was a former copper. Cause of death is strangulation. Someone at least 6'4 had to get behind with him with a cord to make those exact marks. The mud on his pants isn't consistent with what you find around here. The mud looks more like the mud you find on the Thames bank near Westminster. He probably worked for a business in that area."

"And the note? What's that mean?"

"...Seriously? I have to explain that to you? My God, Jones....I thought Scotland Yard made sure all their detectives had a functioning brain."

"Enough with the jokes, smart guy."

"Well...let me say this much...the sooner you find out who and this man worked with as a copper, the sooner you can find the next victims."

"The next victims?"

"Yes, the note is a warning. The countdown has started. Three more murders will follow if we don't hurry up. This is the first sign, the sign of the four."
​

 

[wiegeabo]

Today, Palo Alto California

CREEEEK

His eyes snap open at the sound, and all his old instincts kick online. Glancing behind him, he's careful to get up and not disturb the woman sharing his bed.

Just like he trained for so many years, he stalks his way silently and slowly through the apartment, his senses straining for the slightest noises and evidence of movement in the darkness. His eyes already adjusted to the dark, and long since having memorized the layout of his apartment, he knows exactly how to avoid every obstacle.

His eyes lock on a sudden flash of movement. Shadow against the blackness. But he knows what he saw, and his heart races with the realization that the is someone here.

He flexes his fingers into fists as he slides up against the wall. He can sense the stranger approaching, and when the time is right, he spins around the corner and strikes.

He lands a punch across his opponent's face, and follows it up with a kick. But his opponent blocks the leg, and lands a punch on his chest. Realizing he has a reach advantage on his smaller opponent, he tries to maintain distance and takes a swing, but his opponents must have realized the same thing and comes in close. The opponent lands a punch on his chest, then grabs his neck in a grapple and plows his knee into his side.

Years of hard training help him absorb the knee as he spins his opponent around, breaking the grapple. A flury of punches and kicks from both sides are deflected with skill. His opponent tries to sneak inside his reach again, but anticipating this, he plants his leg and trips his opponent. But his opponent holds his grip this time and pulls him down on the floor as well.

They roll over a few times, trying to gain dominance. He suddenly finds himself on the bottom, and hand pressing down against his chest. The light from the window finally illuminating them enough for him to see his opponent's smile.

Spoiler

"Whoa, easy there Sammy."

"...Dean?!"

"hehehehe"

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"That's cause you're outta practice," I say. Suddenly Sammy kicks his leg around my head, slaps my arm from his throat, and spins us over, pinning me down.

"Heh. Or not. Now get off me."

Sam gets off and grabs my hand to pull me up. "What are you doing here?"

I slap Sammy on the arms, sizing him up. He's grown. "I was looking for a beer."

"What. The. Hell. Are you doing here?"

"Ok, we need to talk."

"Uh...the phone?"

"If I had called, would you have picked up?"

Suddenly, the lights flip on.

"Sam?"

Well helloooo nurse.

"Uh, Jess. Hey. Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica."

"Wait, you mean your brother Dean?"

"I love the smurfs." She looks down at her shirt, then gives me a mildly amused look, and I can sense without even glancing at him that Sammy's ready to knock me down again. "I've gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother's league."

"Just let me put something on."

"No, no, no. I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously." Jess looks at Sammy who just rolls his eyes. "Anyway, I need to borrow your boyfriend here. We've got some family business, but...nice meeting you."

"No."

No?

Sammy walks over and stand next to Jessica. "No, whatever you've gotta say, you can say it in front of her."

So he's finally started to wear the big boy pants, eh? "Ok. Um...dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Sammy harrumphs. "So he's working overtime on a Miller time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."

I look down with a shake of my head, then look up and make sure he knows I'm serious. "Dad's been on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

And now Sammy finally gets it. "Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."

 

[Carnage27]

Indiana Jones
Director of the B.P.R.D.
​

The drone of the plane engines rings in my ear as I look absentmindedly over the Atlantic Ocean. I'm so lost in my thoughts I barely here Kate's question, "Indy!"

I jump a little in my seat and look up, "Yea? What's up?"

"I asked how you know it's him. Why you think this is where we really need to be going all the way to Britain," she asks, obviously annoyed. "I mean we've been so busy back in the states. There's probably something more important we could be doing."

"I just know Kate," I respond wearily. I realize it's a terrible "reason", but it's all I really have right now. The dreams are real enough. And the island I'm seeing is unmistakeable. "The island is where Ragna Rok was, Kate. It's where Broom and I found Hellboy. If he's really coming back, there's gotta be some sort of clue there. And maybe we've been so busy because he's coming back. Maybe he has something to do with it. In which case, we stop him and then our load lightens."

She doesn't waste time coming back at me, "And what if someone else is behind it and they've just been feeding you dreams to get the leader of the BPRD out of the country while they reek havoc?"

I hadn't thought about that. She brings up a valid point. There are plenty of ways that someone could manipulate dreams. But they feel too genuine for that to be the case.

"I don't know. I guess we'll see soon."

 

[Byrd Man]

Sherlock Holmes
​

Previously

Spoiler

221 B Baker Street


Moriarty.

Moriarty.

Moriarty.

"Moriarty...."

I keep mumbling the name under my breath as I pace the floor. I see Watson walking up out the corner of my eye.

"Sherlock, I'm about to pop out to the shop. Do you want anything?"

"Moriarty."

"....I'm sorry, what? Did you say Moriarty? Is that some brand of ice cream?"

"No. It's a name. The killer in our last case, he said that a man tracked down the whereabouts of Strangerson and Drebber. A man named Moriarty."

"Who is he?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be mumbling his name while I paced the floor. I searched the UK's criminal database for anyone with that last name."

"How did you do that? Don't you have to be with Scotland Yard to do that?"

"You do...but Lestrade's security passwords are way too easy to hack into."
"Ah, of course. Because asking him for help is too hard to do."

"It'd be like the blind leading the perfectly able to see. Anyway, of all the names that showed up on the computer screen, only a half dozen have operated in and around Edinburgh."

"So what do you do?"

"Leave it alone," I say as I pull out my vibrating phone and read the text message on my screen. "It can wait for another day. For now, we're needed elsewhere."

I stuff the phone in my pocket and go to get my coat.

"Just do me a favor this time, John, when you write about this in your blog, be sure to keep your observations about me to yourself."

"Are you still upset over that remark about the PM?"

"Who cares who the Prime Minister is? I couldn't give a sod unless they end up murdered."

I slip my coat on and toss Watson his.

"Other than that, you thought it was good?"

"A Study in Scarlet? Well, the title has a ring to it. I'll give you that. Now, come on, let's go. The game is on."

Battersea


Watson and I step under the crime scene tape and walk down the docks towards the crime scene.

"They sent you, huh?" A man in a dark suit says as we approach the covered body.

"Yes," I say as I pull out a pair of latex gloves and pop them on. "I guess your boss doesn't trust you, Jones."

"Who's this?" Jones asks, nodding towards Watson.

"This is my friend and associate, Doctor John Watson."

"Friend? Since when do you have friends?...Oh, God...Holmes, is this your idea of a date?"

"What? No! You think we're....no...I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that."

I shake my head and push past Jones, walking towards the tarp covered body. I touch the tarp and gently pull it back, revealing the body.

A man, late middle aged, clothed in a white shirt and grey trousers. I touch his face gingerly, looking closely at the red cheeks and nose. I take a mental snapshot of the bruises around the neck before moving down to the shirt and where the action is.

The biggest distraction on the body is the note pinned to the chest. It's a plain piece of white paper with a clothes pin holding the handwritten note in place.

​

4
​

I take note of the gut and look at the belt and pants. The pants are i apparently in good shape, a spot of fresh mud on the right kneecap. I touch it and rub the mud between my latex covered fingers. Rolling up the pants leg, I look at the veins of his legs before going up to the hands and observing the man's scarred knuckles.

I stand up just as Watson and Jones come up.

"Are you ready to take notes, John?"

"Go for it."

"The victim is approximately fifty-five years old, the cut of his clothing indicates he's wearing a uniform from work. He has varicose veins, which means he did a lot of standing. He's more than likely currently employed as a security guard, but he's only been doing it a few years. No security guard has scarred knuckles like that. His age, coupled with the bloated and red face implies he's a heavy drinker. Only one job I can think of where one can be a functioning alcoholic and still be paid."

"Consulting detective?" Jones quips.

"Police. Our man was a former copper. Cause of death is strangulation. Someone at least 6'4 had to get behind with him with a cord to make those exact marks. The mud on his pants isn't consistent with what you find around here. The mud looks more like the mud you find on the Thames bank near Westminster. He probably worked for a business in that area."

"And the note? What's that mean?"

"...Seriously? I have to explain that to you? My God, Jones....I thought Scotland Yard made sure all their detectives had a functioning brain."

"Enough with the jokes, smart guy."

"Well...let me say this much...the sooner you find out who and this man worked with as a copper, the sooner you can find the next victims."

"The next victims?"

"Yes, the note is a warning. The countdown has started. Three more murders will follow if we don't hurry up. This is the first sign, the sign of the four."
​

St. Bartholomew's Hospital


The elevator dings open and John and I walk into the basement morgue.

"Ahh, Barts. Seems to be ages ago that I was here as a bright, young thing. Of course you probably already know I studied here."

"Finished somewhere in the middle of your class. Tell me, am I hot or cold?"

Before John can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the text on my screen.

SH,

Do you get Spanish
TV in England?
Check your local listings
Yours truly is on the "telly"

SS

I sigh and start pounding out a response.

"News from Scotland Yard?"

"No, worse. An imitator.

SS,

Working a case that matters
Leave me alone or I email Lassie
Tell him the truth

​

P.S.
Look at television crew
Murderer is one of them

SH

I send the message and tuck the phone back into my coat pocket. John and I walk into the morgue where the body of the dead man is laid out. Sergeant Jones managed to find the man's identity out soon after we left Battersea.

Detective Sergeant James Morstan, a fifty-seven year old man, ten years retired from the force with a long and storied career with the Met.

"I might be awhile, looking over the body. Maybe you could find out more about Morstan? His family, partners on the force, who he worked for as a security guard, and especially who he put in jail. A man isn't a copper for twenty-seven years without making a few enemies."

John nods and turns to leave while I put on a pair of latex gloves and begin to examine the body again, this time using a syringe to pull out a blood sample to use for toxicology.

With his clothes off and underneath the harsh white light of the morgue, I see the full extent of Morstan's injuries. His body is bruised all over, lumps and welts forming from his thighs up to his shoulder blades. All of them appear to be premortem. I run my hands up Morstan's side and feel several broken and fractured ribs. He was beaten severely, but not in the face or head.

Why?

"They wanted you conscious, didn't they?" I say aloud to the body. "They either wanted you to feel it to the very end...or.....Yes.....that's it!"

I quickly pull my phone out and type frantically, navigating through the internet to the site I need. I memorize the information and call Sergeant Jones.

"Please tell me you have news."

"Find out about Marston's past with organized crime and gangs. Did he work in any special units or work any investigations."

"Why? What are you thinking?"

"He was beaten for information. Someone or something from his past came back to haunt him. These people had major pull, too. They brought in a specialist from Eastern Europe. The Golem."

"Are you talking about the bloody Lord of the Rings character?"

"What? No. The Golem. You're the police, look it up."

"And he tortured Marston for information about what?"

"That's what we need to find out. We'll find that out as soon as we can find Marston's partners. They're tied into this some kind of way."

I look over at the evidence bags on the adjacent table. Along with Marston's clothes, there's the note that was pinned to his body.

"We only have three more chances to catch our killer."
​

 

[Carnage27]

The hot, humid air clings to me tightly as I run over the rooftops, chasing a perpetrator running from a convenience store robbery. He seemed to know I was coming, since he took off the minute he exited the store. But there's no way that's possible. I'm too good for them to see or hear me.

After chasing him a few blocks, he heads into a large, darkened ally. I perch myself on the side of the roof, and look down to see a group of thugs twenty strong. Tied up and lying on the ground are two people, although I can't make out what they look like in this light.

"Who...the hell...are these two?" the guy I was chasing asked, obviously out of breath.

"Some reporter and her camera man who were dumb enough to be filming Tuff and me's robbery," he responds. "The cameraman tried to put up a fight, but Tuff shut him up pretty good. The girl's pretty. Might keep her around for a while. Any sign of him."

"None," the other replies, shaking his head.

I smile to myself at that.

"Musta taken the night off," who I guess is the lead goon chuckles. "Alright boys, we're done here. He's not comin'. Let's pack it up."

He turns to leave, and a shuriken embeds itself in his Achilles tendon. He lets out a cry of pain, and the thugs around him scramble in fear. The have no idea where the attack came from, and for a moment, neither do I. I look up frantically and see Raphael smiling at me from a building on the other side of the ally. I nod to him, and the two of us drop down into the mayhem.

As I fall, I drive my knee into the back of a criminal, sending him sprawling out onto the concrete. Another goes for his gun, but my foot moves like lightening to his temple, knocking him out. Two more charge at me with pipes, and I draw the swords from my back to fight them off. They're sloppy, and I give each a shallow cut along the back for their troubles.

Before I know it, they're jumping into cars, and trying to escape. The leader has a friend grab the young reporter and drag her to his car before taking off. I go over to check on the injured man, when Raph comes up behind me, "So...uhhh...you wanna go after the car or should I?"

"I'll go," I respond, taking off into a sprint from my crouched position. "Make sure he's okay!"

I bolt out onto the street and spring up to a streetlamp. I twist myself around it like a gymnast and fling myself to the next one. I do the same, except this time I jump on top of the criminal's car with a thud. The sound scares them, and they begin serpentining in the middle of the road. I manage to stay on.

Then, the sound of gun fire echoes in my ear and bullets erupt from the roof. All the shots miraculously miss, save one that merely grazes my shoulder. The sting of pain flows through my body, but this isn't the first time I've been grazed.

Realizing I need to end this now before someone gets seriously hurt, I take a sword and jam it through the hood of the car, grinding it into the engine.

The car jostles into another ally before hitting a brick wall fairly hard, sending me shell-first into a brick wall, "Uhhh...I love being a turtle."

I regain my footing quickly, but find that the denizens of the car have all been knocked out. The wail of sirens can be heard in the distance, and I react without thinking. I grab the reporter and head down into the sewers, fading back into the night.
​

 

[Rain Dog]

[BLACKOUT]
Now, the story of the Grave family was a tragic one. Years ago, Houstus Grave had himself a wife, Mary, expectin’ a pair of twins. The problem with Houstus was that he, like his father before him, was a penniless farmer. And with barely any money to his name, how could a poor old farmer hope to properly feed and raise an entire family?

One day, on his way home from the market after sellin’ his old, crippled, milkin’ cow for a mere ten dollars, Houstus met an odd, strange man. This small man claimed to be a preacher and seemed to know of the troubles that plagued poor old Houstus and his family. The preacher man offered Houstus good pay and steady work. And that work? Diggin’ up dead bodies.

Houstus came home and told his wife all about his new job offer. Mary protested, callin’ that line of work blasphemous and wicked. But Houstus, bent on not slavin’ his life away to die penniless like his father, ignored her and did that preacher man’s work. Turns out, that preacher man was none other than that Nameless Man—that Zombie Priest—and that those dead bodies that Houstus hauled out of the soil would all join the ranks of his undead army.

Soon, the consequences of the Zombie Priest’s work began to show. A mysterious kind of leprosy fell upon Houstus. He lost his hair, grew ugly, and deformed. Mary grew very ill, her pregnancy gone bad. She cursed Houstus and passed on but not before giving birth to a pair of deformed monstrosities.

To this day, Houstus and his wretched offspring still stalk the boneyards at night, diggin’ up corpses to add to the Zombie Priest’s hordes…
[/BLACKOUT]
Our cherry red Coup De Ville pulled up and the ol’ boneyard and I could already see three ugly silhouettes loadin’ up dead folk into the bed of a pickup. Franky and I climbed outta the car and I cracked my knuckles to get ready for the hurtin’ I was about to put on these hicks.

“Ruin my decent night, will ya?” I muttered.

“I’ll learn ya!”

Houstus turned his head around as he loaded up another rotting body onto the bed of his pickup.

“God damn it! It’s that blasted Goon!”

“And Franky!”

“Git ‘im, boys!” Houstus hollered.

His two scrawny sons dropped the corpses they carried and lunged at us, screechin’ like the stinkin’ monkeys they are. Franky whips out his revolver and fires at one of ‘em. It leaps up over the bullet and pounces on him. I rush over to help , but the other one hops onto my shoulders and starts clawin’ at my face.

“AAARGH!”

I rip the thing off me and hurl ‘em to the dirt. While he’s down, I try to plant a fist on ‘em, but he just rolls outta the way.

“GOOOON! HELP” Franky shouts as he swings at the freak what’s clawin’ at him. Again, I rush over to him. Thing number two jumps at me again, but I swat it outta the air with a backhand. I tear the other freak off Franky and lift him up by his collar. It kicks and claws at the air, tryin’ to get free, but then goes out cold after I clock ‘em in the face with my mitts.

chick-chick
BLAM!

The ground explodes around me. I drop the limp freak and shield myself as dirt flies up in my eyes.

“Git yer brother so we can get the hell outta here!” Houstus screams, shotgun in hand. The monkey boy lets out a squeal and scurries over to his unconscious brother. He lifts him over his should and run towards his Pa. I almost chase after ‘em, before remembering Houstus has got a shotgun pointed at me. The boys climb into the pickup bed as Houstus makes a break for the driver’s seat.

Franky scrambles for his gun and springs to his feet. He fires at the truck as it pulls off, destroying one of the windows and nearly blasting one of the goblin-kids in the brain. In retaliation, the ugly little mutant starts hurlin’ decayin’, severed limbs at us from outta the bed as the truck drives off into the night.

“Damn. That’s a fresh batch of zombies for that stinkin’ Priest.”

I sigh and head back towards the De Ville.

“C’mon, let’s head home. This day ain’t gettin’ any better.”