The Ultimate Marvel RPG Vol. 2: New World IC Thread

"You do know how to make a girl feel special, Nick." Wade grinned from ear to ear.

"Now, I wouldn't want to blow my load in one outing, so here's what you get for now;" Wade began to hum. Loudly.

For a few seconds, his humming only became louder and louder, as he stood in one place, turning in circle after circle. Finally, he snapped his fingers and smiled. "Huzzah! I got a good one. You brainiacs at SHIELD think Thor is the ace up your sleeve. But you're not the only one who's got a Nordic A-Bomb in the palm of their hand."

"Wilson! Who're you talkin' to?"

"Whoop! Gotta go. Tell Marge and the kids I'll be home for Christmas! Toodles!"

And with that, before Fury had a chance to even respond, Deadpool cut communications. A split second later, Bullseye turns the corner. The look on the assassin´s face was utterly priceless, as he saw Wade Wilson, one hand shoved down his pants. "What? You think just because I'm a killer I don't like sweet-talk? You don't know me at all, Bullsmeister." Wade blurted out, faking a deeply hurt tone of voice.

"Jesus, I...I'm not even going to...ugh. Osborn wants to see us."

"You think he'll finally let us run the train on that Norse bitty of his?" Deadpool asked gleefully, skipping alongside Bullseye as the two walked down the hall.

 

VENOM

"God, Eddie, you look awful," Doctor Conners notes as he slumps into a folding chair in the kitchen. His kitchen table is covered with old newspapers, scientific journals, and even some of his own writings. He offers me some scotch, but I shake my head. I've already tried it. Doesn't work. The Suit only absorbs that which strengthens it. I could drink an entire keg, and I wouldn't get the slightest buzz. "I haven't seen you since--"

"Yeah," I interject curtly. I'd rather not spend a lot of time dwelling on the incident. I know Doc's only a scientist, so questioning is natural for him, but I'm here for answers. And if I don't get them soon, I don't know what might happen.

Doc clears his throat and asks, "Well, how do you feel?"

"Honestly?" This is an interesting question to answer, so I try to answer it the only way I can. "Honestly, I don't feel anything - except hunger. And when I don't give in to the hunger, I feel pain. Otherwise, I feel nothing. I just feel..." I sigh. It's cliché, but I have no other way to say it than, "...empty."

Doc nods. I see that look in his eye. It confirms my belief that he'd know what's going on with me. Clearly, he's considered this possibility at some point. "Well, Eddie, you were Biochem, so you tell me: what happens when you transfuse a Type B heart into a Type A body?"

"The body rejects it," I answer unthinkingly. Anyone with any basic understanding of biology could answer that. So why is Doc quizzing me right now? It's the last thing I need. My head is throbbing from the headache I have, and this isn't helping.

"And the Suit was based on Richard Parker's DNA," Doc explains. He takes a swig of his scotch. "So it will reject any host other than Richard Parker. That's why you have little incidents like the one at Midtown High." Then, he continues more grimly, "But this is about more than just control, Eddie. With the level of assimilation you seem to be experiencing..."

He doesn't finish. I can tell by his hesitation that he doesn't want to. But I have to know. My suspicions have to be confirmed.

"What?"

"Look, your consciousness has been forever imprinted on the Suit, but as for your physical self?" Doc frowns. This truth is too horrible to face, but it's something I know we've both considered. "Well, in order to survive without Richard Parker as a host, the Suit needs to find alternative supplies of energy. This can be done by 'absorbing' the DNA of other hosts. But it's only a temporary fix."

The hunger.

"Without Richard, the Suit will need to consume DNA constantly. So even in the times when you didn't feel like the Suit needed to consume...it did." And this is what brings us to the horrific reality of the situation. "So if you weren't going to supply it, it was going to make due with what it had. Namely, you. The Suit slowly consumed you until there was nothing left. Physically."

The feeling in the pit of my stomach, for once, isn't hunger. It's dread. Dread of this horrible realization. For all intents and purposes, I'm dead. My conscious self lives on through the Suit, but what kind of life is that?

"Eddie, this is more serious than that," Doc continues. "You will continue to consume, and if you deny the impulse, you will lose control over the Suit. No one wants that. However, no one wants you running around, eating people either. You have to let me help you."

I shake my head. "You can't help me," I lament. "Like you said, I need Richard Parker. And he's dead." My only hope...lost. Then, something occurs to me. "Although, I did almost feel normal when I tried to absorb Peter!"

Doc rubs the stubble on his chin. "I suppose Peter's DNA would be close enough to appease the Suit, but I can't have you killing Peter, either. I know how deep your hatred for him runs, and I know you'd like nothing more. But I won't sit back and allow it."

"So you condemn countless others for him?!" I ask incredulously.

"The others I would save by unleashing you on Peter would ultimately be lost when Spider-Man's not around anymore," Doc answers. "Oh yes. I know about Peter's extracurricular activities as well."

I lean back in my chair. "What, then? It's not like you can remove the Suit from me. I am the Suit now!"

"The experiment which cost me my job, the one where I turned myself in to SHIELD, in it I used bits of Richard Parker's DNA. Theoretically, if you were to absorb that creature, you might find peace."

"Great. Where is it?"

Doc frowns. "Peter destroyed it." Before I can voice my outrage, he continues, "However, my old assistant, Ben Reilly, stole all my notes - and a second sample of that experiment."

I stand up with conviction. "Then I have to find Ben Reilly." Doc nods.
​

 

It's one thing to have to deal with clones. It's another to deal with one of them going to school with you. It's an entirely different thing for one of them to rise from the dead, and work for the one person you hate most in the world. Tarantula probably thinks he owes something to S.H.I.E.L.D., the people I assume brought him back to life, but, still... It's Nick Fury. The devil personified. I wouldn't be surprised if he popped out of closets... drowned kittens... stole people's marriages. Guy's a fiend, pure and simple.

"Look," I've never been fond of having clones, but since this one is here, presumably to stay, no point in making an enemy, "Take care of yourself... Uh."

Then, I pause, not even knowing so much as her name.
​

 

​

Stark pushed through the door to Fury's high-rise office. It was an impressive room, overlooking New York. Almost as nicely appointed as Stark's home. Then again, Fury only had a government's salary to work with. It was a cushy salary, sure. But, in the long run, government was government.

"Wheels up, General." Stark said, smiling as the General hung up from an, evidently, important phone call. "Time to introduce the media to the kid."

 

Fury stood up, keeping the frustration caused by Wilson off of his face.

"You ever heard of knocking Stark?" The General walked past the billionaire inventor and out through the door he came from. "Is Thor with the boy?" He called back as he strode down the corridor.

"Yeah, wait what's Thor got to do with this?"

Stark didn't get an answer.

***

As Fury arrived in a rather large, round conference room he spied Harry Osborn sitting in a chair on the far side, surrounded by the other Ultimates giving him greetings and joking playfully with him.

"Nice to have you with us." Fury said almost disinterested, the extent of his meet and greet. "I'll be with you in a second. Thor... You got a minute?"

 

Thor gave a tentative glance towards Fury, whom he had not seen since his release. "Alright." Thor said, hesitant, as he gave the young Osborn a friendly pat on the shoulder and left the room with Fury.

"I trust I'm not being thrown back in my cell?" he asked, half-serious.

 

Fury didn't smile as he spoke, he had no time for Thor's paranoia, even if it was in jest.

"I need you to run over some of the footage of the Thunderbolts we have. I heard through quite a reliable source that one of them is a buddy of yours."

Thor looked taken aback for a moment as he made sense of the information.

"They have a norse God too."

 

Thor's face contorted into a mask of confusion and anger. He did not wonder, even for a second, how that could be, or who it could be.

"Loki." he growled, static in the air around him.

"Bring me the tapes, Nick. With Loki's power, he could be anyone of them."

---

Thor stood beside Nick Fury, the pair watching a set of six, large screens. Each screen displayed two pictures of each member of the Thunderbolts; one publicity still, the other from the Middle East Massacre footage.

"Trickshot." Fury began. "MACH-I. Unidentified member with the power to create some sort of portals. Osborn himself, US Agent. Moonglow and Ronin." Thor picked up a particularly threatening tone from Fury at the mention of the last member.

The Thunder God stared intently at the screen displaying the as of yet unnamed member of the Thunderbolts. His eyes scanned the man's body, and he tried as hard as he could to see past the disguise. Teleportation was just one of the many profoundly awesome powers of his trickster half-brother. Joining the Thunderbolts just to wreak havoc and destroy his brother was something Thor did not put past Loki. But another screen, another face, called to Thor. Turning his head and looking at the next-to-last screen, Thor was lost for words.

"By Odin..." he muttered, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

"Amora." he finally muttered. "My sweet, sweet Amora."

 

"I take it you two have some history." Fury said slowly, studying the Thunder God's face. "Mind telling me what she's doing with Osborn?" Fury asked, nodding toward a large image of the Norse Goddess, he had to admit, she was beautiful. There was something hypnotic in her eyes that gave the General both a feeling of unease and total relaxation, it was a strange sensation.

 

"We were..." Thor said, still taken aback at this revelation, unsure of where to even start. "Lovers. In Asgard, we met and fell deeply in love. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before, when I was near her. I was somehow....relaxed. At ease. Lost in her face." he explained, a hint of sorrow in his voice, his eyes stuck on the picture of Moonglow. "I loved her deeply." he said, tilting his head downward, finally able to free his gaze from her visage.

"When she began studying the black arts, I warned her. I told her it was against Odin. Against Asgard. But she didn't listen. So I stood by and allowed it to happen. She delved deeper into that black pit, amassing knowledge and power forbidden by the Allfather. One day Odin found out." the sorrow in his voice was turning slowly into spite with each word. "My father banished her from Valhalla. From Asgard. He said that if she was so fascinated by the scourge, that she should live among them. So he sent her to Niflheim."

Thor suddenly looked up at Fury. "You must believe me, had I known another Asgardian walked Midgard...I don't know how this could happen."

 

Fury furrowed his brow and stared at the photograph.

"I believe you Thor." He said finally after much deliberation. "You say you were former lovers, maybe there's a way you can reach out to her, talk some sense into her?"

 

​

"My golly, Thor." Stark said with a smile upon his face, leaning against the metal door frame. Somehow, most likely from the conference room adjacent to Fury's office, he had produced an apple, and was biting into it loudly.

"Didn't know you Asgardians were capable of 'getting any.'" Stark spat, a mouth full of apple blocking his typical smarmy nature. His gaze shifted to the screen upon which the image of "I'm impressed; she's hot."

He brushed past the two men who had been deep in discussion previously and slumped down in Fury's expensive office chair.

"See, General?" Stark asked with a smirk, "I haven't heard of knocking. Quite a precarious position that puts me in presently, huh?"

Thor and General Fury stared at Stark, half in interest in what he was saying, half in shock at his gall. Despite what they liked to think, no meeting they, or anyone on the team for that matter, ever have would really be private. Sure, they could talk behind closed doors, have their secret meetings, of which General Fury was so fond, but Stark would eventually find out, through various methods of snooping. It wasn't that Stark was nosy. No, that would be one social faux pax from which someone could recover. Instead, Stark was afflicted by something far more pervasive, aggravating, and socially unacceptable: a sense of entitlement. The only reason Stark would find out the information he wanted to know was because he thought he deserved to.

"Enough with the alliteration." The eccentric scientist commanded himself. Then, noticing the dumbstricken faces of Thor and the General, he chortled, "Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that. You know I'd find out eventually. Hell, me and Thor are the closest thing to friends either of us are going to get."

As an afterthought, Stark noted, "Except for Rhodey. And Pepper. And Rudy."

Stark changed his tune, saying, "I'm the closest thing he's got to a friend on this team. Mainly because I'm the only one who doesn't believe he's totally bat-**** crazy."

"What's the deal?" Stark asked, ripping through another bite of his apple, "We find this Asgardian Vixen, Thor has his way with her with his... Hammer... and then, bada-bing, we kick Papa Osborn back to the hellhole from whence he came?"

 

"Stark." Fury began, unamused by the inventor's antics. "Shut the **** up." Tony seemed flabbergasted that he didn't get as much attention as he thought. "You want to help go flash your award winning smile at the press and introduce the Osborn kid." He growled as the General turned back to Thor, his voice turning back into the calm, almost soothing one he had spoke with before Stark had interrupted.

"You think maybe Loki was the one that brought her here? To... uh, Midgard, is it?"

 

"It's not that simple, Tony." Thor sighed, deciding it was better to just outright ignore the man's intrusion. He didn't mind Tony knowing about Amora, but Tony's lack of shame didn't help Thor.

Thor, pulling Mjolnir off his belt and letting it down on the floor with a heavy clank, walked over to the nearest wall and leaned up against it. It wasn't usual for Thor to feel weary, but...times were obviously changing. "My father banished Amora to Niflheim. I stood by and let that happen. I didn't even protest." the Thunder God hung his head in shame. "She has spent centuries in the deepest, blackest pits of death and despair. Because of me. I don't think an apology is going to cut it here, Tony."

"I don't know." Thor shook his head. "The kind of power it takes to escape from Niflheim....I don't believe Amora could have done it on her own."

"I want the rest of the team in on this. No secrets, not this time. I'm...we're going to do right this time."

 

"You needn't worry about that," Clint Barton announced from his position leant against the door, straightening the tie on his 'Public Relations' suit.

"You're not very subtle with your private conversations, you know?" he said, waving a hand.

"Oh, for the record; I don't think that you're entirely unhinged my Asgardian friend, and that Asgardian is a particular class of babe. I think you flash a bit of bicep, make the lovey dovey blondie eyes at the girl and she'll be putty in your masculine hands," the Ultimate said, grinning.

He received a series of interesting looks from the group.

"I'm straight!" he said urgently "Just ask Natasha,"

 

GREEN GOBLIN
Endgame

I lean over the boardroom table. It used to be occupied by piranhas and sharks, men trying to steal away control of my company from me. Now, it's occupied by an assembly far more ruthless. Two hired hands, a genetic accident whose power befuddles even me, a scorned Asgardian sorceress, and a mutant-hating sociopath. I couldn't be more proud.

"As you all have noticed," I begin solemnly, "the Ultimates have launched a media counterstrike on us. That was not unexpected. Unfortunately, it's working." I sneer. "Also, not unexpected. By attacking the Ultimates publicly, I walked a very sharp edge. But I did so knowing the dangers."

I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. I'm trying to prevent the growing headache.

"Most of these recent attacks - bringing in my son, buying out my company - have been a ruse to try and get a reaction out of me," I explain. I should be thanking Fury. Were it not for the time I spent in that cell, getting my thoughts together, I would never have had the patience to withstand these cruelties. "I won't make it that easy for them. Oh, no, I will get my revenge, but it will be on my terms."

I wave a dismissive hand. "But that's not important right now. What is important is that the time for talk is over." Deadpool pumps his fist approvingly. "I could continue that strategy, but Tony Stark would drag me - and us - right down with him. The reward does not outweigh the risk."

"So it is time," I announce confidently, "to show the world just why they should trust the Thunderbolts and not the Ultimates. And the only way to do that is to show the world that we are betting at saving it than Fury's gang is." Finally, the fun can begin. "We need a crisis - something we can control, something we can expect. That way, while the Ultimates are still getting their bearings, we can leap into action."

I take a few steps back from the table and announce, "And that is why I've brought in an...expert...to help us out."

The figure in the shadows - the one I'm sure none of the Thunderbolts saw until now - steps forward. He stands proudly at the head of the boardroom table and flashes a smile at the assembled group.

"Now, who wants to save the world?"
​

 

I smile. "Guess I couldn't convince you that it's 'Megan Fox?'" I ask rhetorically. "'Jessica' will do, then."

 

​

"Sorry, Nicky-Poo. But if we introduce Harry to the world, we'll need our esteemed leader to be there, too." He said with a grin, "Don't worry, my smile will still be there."

 

Fury muttered something about Stark being impossible to deal with and walked out of the room.

***

The press had gathered once again, the atmosphere was tense after the Barnes' nightmare, each and every member of the press looked around anxiously, most of them at the surrounding rooftops.

Fury knew that Osborn wouldn't even think about putting an attempt on his own son's life, he wasn't worried for the boy's safety in the slightest.

'Would I worry for the boy even if there was a danger?' He thought to himself, he knew a lot of people wouldn't like the answer. Harry Osborn was for all intents and purposes a walking weapon. The dagger that stabs Norman in the heart. Fury was just there to twist it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the press. We called this conference here today not with bad news or more media posturing but for a celebration. Today we unviel our newest member of the Ultimates. A controversial choice for sure, but a natural one. Without further ado I pass you onto Tony Stark and your newest super hero... Harry Osborn."

 

​

"Thanks, General." Stark nodded, gesturing for the audience to clap for the esteemed General. "Ladies and gentlemen: since the dawn of time, it has been in the nature of man to explore."

Stark was reading from a prepared speech, displayed, somehow, inside his contact lenses. The members of the audience nodded and smiled quietly as he delivered his address to them.

"When we began, our first great goal was the sea. As a race, we saw a large, blue, formation and didn't know how to use it, travel on it, or even drink it without making ourselves sick. So, what did we do? We experimented. Human begins have always relied on the great thinkers of their era to spearhead the daring movement towards understanding. Magellan circumnavigated the globe, Cortéz met the Incas, and Columbus visited the Americas. Granted, not many people knew what this meant, but as the waves crashed onto the decks of ships, and the clouds rolled over the starlit skies, humanity began to take shape."

Though night was still seven hours or so away, somehow the sky above the audience grew black, with a few mere dots of light to illuminate the synthetic sky. The sound of waves filled the air, and the scent of seawater filled the group.

"In truth, ladies and gentlemen, since man first set sail on the seven seas, we have grown more and more intellectual."

Like something at a theme park, the stars gently drifted down and hovered amidst the spectators, the sound of waves dissipated, and an ice cold chill filled the air simulating space.

In this moment of calm, Tony Stark continued.

"After the waters, we set our hopes of understanding to new heights - literally. We used telescopes, cartography, and our vast exploration to form the first maps and compasses. Humanity gazed upwards and though "why not?" The Wright brothers made their plane and Ford made his automobiles, proving once more, that innovation can lead to truly remarkable things."

He smiled warmly at the crowd of reporters before him.

"We have today another innovation. From those early days on the seas, to us taking to the skies, the one commonality has always been teamwork. Ships have crews, manned spaceflight has mission control, and, now, we move on to our next innovation: saving the world. Like every innovation that came before it, there is a team for this one too. That team is the Ultimates. For now, at last, we can say that the team is complete. The latest addition to the team is Mr. Harry Osborn."

The crowd erupted in approval. Harry Osborn was an Ultimate.

 

"Really? We're getting help from Gothy McGothGoth here? What're you gonna do, slick?" Deadpool rises from his seat, throwing his hands up in the air. "Tattoo skulls on our shoulders? Have group-cutting sessions? Show us how to write poems about how black and pointless everything is?" he shouts incredulously.

Everyone stares at Deadpool for a moment, no one saying anything.

"Because if so, finally." Wilson reaches under the table and presents a picture of a crudely drawn skull, a rusty razor blade and a black diary, no one being clear on where he got them all.

"I was thinking we could start with the poems, because I don't want to get blood on my angst." Wilson states as he reaches into his mask and pulls out a pencil no bigger than the tip of his pinky finger.

He dabs the tip of the pencil against his tongue and opens the diary. Looking over at the newcomer, he sighs. "Come on now, I don't have all day."

 

With a flick of his wrist, Loki makes Deadpool's mouth disappear. The extent of his power never ceases to amaze me. "I appreciate the enthusiasm - not so much the snarkiness." Deadpool struggles visibly to make a noise, but it simply isn't possible.

"Loki," Enchantress scoffs. "I should have hoped that I would not see you so soon after our last dealings."

Loki smiles gleefully. "My dear, dear Amora, why do you carry such disdain for the old Trickster?" he asks playfully. "With such ungratefulness, I have half a mind to send you back to Niflheim."

"What's going on here?" Bullseye asks confusedly.

I step forward. "For those of you who don't know, this is--"

With a bang, Loki appears standing at the center of the table. He throws up his arms to the ceiling in an act of sheer boastfulness. "I am Loki! God of Lies and Mischief! I understand you gentlemen - and fair lady - have something of a God-of-Thunder problem..."

Loki's face rearranges into that of his brother, Thor's.

"I'm here to help," Loki explains as his regular facial features return. "Oh, and did I mention the little part where I plan on throwing this whole world into chaos as a tribute to my father, the great Odin?"

"In this chaos," I step in, "We will seize power." I scan their faces. "I know that all of you must be just as tired as me of this sychophantic, do-gooder act. Well, it won't last for much longer.

"Once we've enacted this final plan, the Ultimates and SHIELD will crumble. With them out of the way, there will be no one to stop us. We will take what's rightfully ours."

"So what's the plan?" Spot asks interestedly.

"Oho! That, my friend, is the best part!" Loki announces excitedly as he reappears at my side. Deadpool takes in a gasp of air as his mouth magically returns.

 

The Colbert Report was already half-finished when Tony Stark burst in through the stage entrance. A few aids of the program came up next to him, each whispering angrily about why he was so late, how much of a pain in their collective behinds. He brushed them off. They were, at best, lackies to Colbert, who was known throughout the 18 - 29 demographic for his witty, pointed, and deliberately satirical portrayal of the Right, the media, and any down-home country boy. Stark watched, arms folded over his chest.


"Which brings me to tonight's Word." Colbert announced, pointing a finger at the camera.

"The Word" was a segment of Colbert's program dedicated to showing both sides of an issue. Colbert would spout a piece of Right-wing rhetoric and then, by way of an on-screen graphic, a counter argument or piece of commentary would be presented. Affectionately labeled "Bullet" by Colbert, The Word graphics had become something of a character in and of themselves and, judging by the uproarious applause from the studio audience, it was a fan-favorite. On the right side of the screen, tonight's "Word" was displayed.

• Thunderbolt
​

"Thunderbolt! We've had plenty of superhero teams come and go over the years, but the truly good ones have been around for years."

• Larry, Curly, and Moe
​

"But the question remains, who are we supposed to trust with the laws that will limit these superhumans?"

• Dick Cheney too busy planning attack against heroes to legislate.
​

"Are we supposed to simply trust the so-called "heroes" to do their job? How do we even know what their "job" is?"

• Superheroing for Dummies
​

"What happens when there's a problem they can't fix?"

• Figuring out how to program VCR strikes again.
​

"What happens when the superheroes pass away?"

• Iron Man Found Dead In Hooker
​

"How will the nation's morale suffer when we learn that our heroes and icons are not immortal? Just this week we've seen the toll such things can take on our society."

• Michael Jackson - Looks like his heart couldn't "Beat It."
​

"Plus, how are we supposed to know which teams we're even meant to trust? Should we air on the side of our Government, with The Ultimates? Or should we give Osborn his shot?"

• C) Stewart and Colbert

​

The crowd roared in applause, giving Colbert pause as he chuckled to himself.

"Heh. Ha. Uh. Thank you. Thanks. Please." He said, gradually calming the crowd, "Now, for those of you who don't know, Osborn's team is called "The Thunderbolts""

• Hopes to give America Shock Therapy.
​

"Of course, he has done his level-best to gain as much trust and public opinion as he can."

• Kissed Chitauri baby.
​

"Including delivering more speeches in a single month than most presidential candidates do in October before the election."

• Had more air time than Billy Mays.
​

"Now, he asks us to trust him without even knowing what training, expertise the members of his team have! He's asking us to blindly support him without any proof that he even intends to do the right thing."

• See also: Catholic Church
​

"Let's not forget that this is the man who, in his so-called madness, blew up part of the White House a few months ago. In fact, a stray fire-ball struck a portion of the building a mere 22 yards away from the then-president's bedroom!"

• Missed it by that much.
​

"You heard correctly, folks. Fireballs. It's like something out of a twisted horror movie."

• Darkness falls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand. Creatures crawl in search of blood, to terrorize y'alls neighborhood...
​

"That's not so out of the ordinary, though, especially for the group of folks we're talking about now. Keep in mind: Captain America was frozen solid for about 60 years."

• The original TV dinner.
​

"The Ultimate known as Thor thinks himself a Norse God, capable of controlling electricity."

• Zeus-polian Complex
​

"In fact, every member of both teams seems to have some sort of character flaw that proves just how human our heroes really are."

• Heroes are people, too.
​

"Hell, rumor has it that Osborn himself might be a tiny bit dyslexic."

• Heroes are teople poo.
​

"This whole superhero fad has happened in an explosion, and the legislators just can't keep up. Especially with all the things going on in Washington."

• Read: Sotomayor.
​

"Plus, it's a very localized area. The only real place you see much superhuman activity of any kind is in New York City."

• Caused by "a seething, bubbling, psychic cess. Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs. It's glowing and moving. It's -- it's a river of slime."
​

"Sure, Doctor Doom is over in Latveria."

• Public healthcare for dictators only.
​

"And the Fantastic Four are probably in another dimension."

• Latest discovery: realm populated entirely by ducks. Best pundit: Stephen Colbill.
​

"We can only hope that the battle between the Ultimates and Norman Osborn for the hearts and minds of New Yorkers dissipates quickly."

• Hungry, Hungry Heroes
​

"And, after that, we should hope it doesn't strike us again."

• Thunderbolt.
​

"And that's the word. We'll be right back."

The lights dimmed as Colbert took a sip from his water. Tony Stark was ushered forward, thrust into a wheeling office chair in the interview section of the studio and, as quickly as they had dissipated, the lights came back on. A cameraman raised his hand, signaling a mere 3 seconds until the camera started rolling again. A man in a headset made his way in front of the audience, pumping his hands up and down signaling for applause and cheers. The crowd was more than willing to oblige.

"My guest tonight," Colbert said, over the roar of the crowd, "is a skirt-chaser of the highest order. He has a new book coming out entitled Behind the Team which chronicles the creation of the Ultimates. Funny. I have a book that chronicles the creation of me. It's called the Bible. Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Stark!"

To Stark's surprise, as Colbert ran across the gap between the stage segments, the audience was cheering for him. A few people actually had posters for Captain America and the rest of the team. Evidently, the Ultimates were winning the battle in the press. The pair shook hands as Colbert took his seat.

"Welcome back to the show, Tony." He said, adjusting his tie, "Great to have you as always."

"Thanks, Stephen." Stark said with a smile, "It's great to be here as always."

"Now," Colbert began, "as the face of the Ultimates, you've been taking a lot of the heat regarding this Osborn thing."

"Well, yeah. That's right. I've had to do a lot of damage control, if I'm being honest."

"Well why's that?"

"It's no secret that Norman Osborn has launched an anti-S.H.I.E.L.D. campaign and, with it, an anti-Ultimates blitz. As someone who does most of the public relations work for the team, I've needed to come out and show the world just how warped he is."

"So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I don't think the incident at the White House will be the last we see of the Green Goblin."

"And what about this book, Behind the Team? What's that about?"

"It's something I've been working on for a while, as a matter of fact." Stark said with a smile, "It's a pen-to-paper-ing of my ideas, hopes, and journeys as a member of The Ultimates."

"No national security breaches, though, right?"
Tony chuckled, "I certainly hope not."

"Now, you are a supporter of detaining individuals without trial..."

"If they can destroy a multi-story building."

"And you're a proponent of locking these people up..."

"Right."

"So... Why do we not just kill them all?" Colbert asked in his direct, deadpan style.

"Well..." Stark said quietly, "Who would you have on your show, then?"

"A great point." Colbert said with a grin and a chuckle, "Tony. Great as always."

"Thanks again, Stephen."

"We'll be right back." the host said, addressing the camera.
​

 

​

How did the old song go?

Fate is kind.
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing.

Like a bolt out of the blue,
Fate steps in and sees you through!
When you wish upon a star,
Your dreams come true.

In the main theme from Pinocchio, what difference was their between a dream and a prayer, between God and "a star?" How many times had Matthew Murdock, before finding himself running a law practice with Franklin Nelson, before, even, law school, looked to the sky, searching for answers? How many times had he begged, pleaded with God to remember the sound of his father's voice? To feel the tussle of his father's hand through his hair after bringing home a good grade? How many times had those yearning pleas gone unanswered? The idle dreams of childhood, like makeshift comforts for the cold evenings when they feel so bitterly alone, had been abandoned by Matthew. And, yet, despite his contrived fear, brought about by life growing up in Clinton, and his disillusioned emotional stability, a construct no more real to him than Jiminy Cricket. The hard, fast, and harrowingly unavoidable truth was that Matthew Michael Murdock was alone in the world. He had Faith in God, but his desire to go to Sunday services came about only after the death of his father. Praying for some strange composite of salvation for his father, absolution for himself, and an emotional embrace from his Mother, Matthew saw the church as his only conduit to the arms of the woman who gave birth to him, who breathed life into his fragile figure for the first time. And, yet, she did nothing. Even after the death of his father, what was Matthew greeted with? In the place of pity, in the place of the love and devotion the Church so proudly claimed as its herald, Murdock was left alone. His friends were the few people younger than him in foster care; an institution in which he remained for six long years, until, finally, expelling himself from the system and earning a law degree from Columbia University's School of Law. It had been a hard road, and a long. In short, Matthew Murdock was due, and his devil of a personality would surely see that he was paid. For unlike the other children at school, Matthew was stricken blind. Not out of an act of malice, crime, or hate, but, rather out of an act of love, compassion, and humanity towards his fellow man. The day replayed itself over and over again in Matthew's head, in his dreams, and, most prevalently, in his nightmares.

The man could not have been much older than 60 on the day that Matthew saved his live. A pothole in the heart of Hell's Kitchen had grown loose, decayed, or, perhaps, just in the way. Young Matt was never given the chance to check. It was a sunny spring morning, that much Matthew could remember. The smell of almonds was in the air, as street-vendors had just started opening the vents on their carts. The pungent aroma of caramel, brown sugar, and syrup wafted its way along the sidewalk, stopping every so often to make way for the obtrusive scents of a woman's perfume, a gargling muffler of a taxicab, or a ventilation tower for the subway system. Persistent as ever, though, the smell of almonds was the crispest, most vivid recollection Matt had of that day. The man had been crossing the street, the plastic wheels of his walker squeaking wearily as he passed over the rough pavement. By the time Matt reached the corner of the street from which the man had disembarked, the time had come for people to stop crossing the street. So, Murdock acquiesced to the demand of the light that read "DONT WALK." Watching quietly as he scanned the covers of a few Timely Comics he had just purchased, Matt heard the honking of the truck before he heard the rattling of the chemical drums held in its storage compartment. He glanced up, only to see the man struggling with his walker, the wheel of which had been deeply locked into a crack in the manhole. Heaving this way and thrusting the other, the man was unable to wedge his walker free. He was clearly helpless without it, and, from what Matt could perceive, time was growing short. There was only one thing to do. Tossing the comic books into a nearby puddle, Matthew put his new Nike sneakers to the test as he threw himself into the street. Cries of annoyance and outrage erupted from cabs and the sidewalk alike, dimmed only by the brooding honking of the truck that was making a beeline for Matthew and the old man. Finding himself in the center of the road, Matthew threw his shoulder forward, hitting the man squarely in the stomach. The man staggered backwards, but was able to remain on his feet. Matthew, however, was not so lucky. He skidded to a halt on the pavement, for his troubles earning only a few scrapes, rough patches of skin, and ruined comic books. Hitting his head hard on the pavement, he was knocked unconscious, left alone to fend for himself against the oncoming truck. Seeing the young man in the direct path of his truck, the driver instinctively swerved to miss him. Rolling angrily past the boy who had thrust it off course, the truck tumbled over several potholes before mounting the now-empty curb. Upon the sudden shock of encountering the sidewalk, the front tire burst, sending the truck bed into a frenzy. A single barrel of chemicals leapt eagerly from the back of the vehicle, slamming into the ground. The chemicals within seeped out from beneath the lid, loosened by the accident and the ensuing fall from the truck. Pooling beneath Matthew's face and eyes, they saturated his tissue, causing a chemical reaction that proved painful enough to shake Matthew from his unconscious state, leaving him clawing with his fingernails in the middle of the street at his eyes.

It was to that pain that Matthew Murdock woke up each and every day. Along with the incessant yelling from his alarm clock, signaling it was time for the intrepid attorney to wake up. Finding himself slumped in his desk chair with a foot extended onto his desk, Murdock forced himself up tensely. It was an uncomfortable position to sleep, or, more likely, pass out, in, but Murdock hardly had much of a choice. Clinton was hardly a safe place to go at night. Three blocks east, at the coffee shop, a young woman had just rejected a man's offer to buy her coffee. Matt assumed it was the aftershave he had put on. Too strong. After all, she was wearing lavender, which indicated subtlety and a reserved nature. He had chosen the latest fragrance offered by Abercrombie and Fitch. Which, while being utterly disgusting in its nature, had also been applied far too thickly, thereby assaulting the woman's senses instead of embracing them. Murdock rubbed his scarred eyelids as he closed his eyes and tried to focus. He turned on the radio to his standard station, 1010 WINS, turning the volume up as loud as it could go. Once his ears had been assaulted by the commercials, news stories, and political babble that accompanied every one of 1010 WINS morning shows, New York City would seem practically quiet. As Murdock rose to his feet and approached the electric teapot, he listened as the broadcaster announce the time of 8:55. Smiling to himself as he put on a pot of water, Murdock mused how fortunate he was to be starting his first trial that day. For once, Matthew would be able to put the Columbia law degree that was hanging on the wall behind his desk to good work. He felt his face and assumed he had only about 18 hours of facial hair growth, which was fine for court. On the matter of his wardrobe, Matthew slowly came to the realization that his clothes were utterly damp. Of course, the hint of rain water that still lingered in the city explained that: he had spend a night on the roof. He pulled his damp suspenders and shirt off as the kettle began to whistle. Making his way to the pot of hot water, Murdock grabbed a coffee pot and a bag of coffee beans. From the bag, he pulled out 7 beans; any more and he'd have the scent of coffee in his nose all day. He took the beans, placed them on the wooden table under the mug, smashed them into a fine powder and swept the grinds into the mug before filling it with piping hot water.

Sipping the coffee, Murdock quickly made his way to the second story of the refurbished apartment complex that now served as his law offices. He entered the bathroom, had a brief shower, and began dressing. After putting on his best suit and pants, he took a deep breath, finished his coffee and glanced over his legal briefs a few more times. The courthouse was 12 blocks west and 2 blocks up; 15 minutes by cab if he got one at the right time. His heart was racing. Despite what he kept telling himself, Murdock knew that the trial was, indeed, a big deal, especially in the life of his client. No matter what, he could not fail her. He swallowed the final sip of his coffee deeply and rose to his feet. He pulled on his watch, barely able to hear the ticking of the second hand over the radio. His glasses came next, fitting snugly on the bridge of his nose. And, then, at last, came his tie. It was green, denoted by the "G" which had been pinned on the thinner portion of the fabric. Green was a defensive color. It was passive, calm, and relaxed; far different from the red which the prosecutor would most certainly be wearing. Murdock finished tying the knot and looked at himself in the mirror, snapping his fingers up and down his torso to fully "see" how he looked. The mirror was a futile addition to the proceeding, really. All he needed was a wall. He liked having the frame that a mirror provided, however.

Picking up the keys to his building and his wallet, Murdock flipped the sign in the window. "Gone Fishin'," it read. The door slammed shut behind him. Placing his briefcase on the ground next to him, Murdock turned, locked the door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, his walking stick tucked safely under his arm. In the brightness of the morning, and without Foggy, Matthew didn't much feel the need to maintain the ruse of being wholly blind. He lifted a hand, flicked out his wrist, and waved it a few times. In a matter of minutes, a cab arrived, eager to take Murdock to his destination. It was a brief cab ride, as Murdock had predicted. Yet, somehow, it gave him a good chance to collect his thoughts, much like a football player would in the locker room just before the championship game.

He paid his fair and eased the door open. The scent of almonds from street vendors was the first scent to reach his nose, and Matthew smiled slightly. It was a thin smile, one that never made past the side of one's mouth. But, nevertheless, it was, indeed, a smile.

He made his way up the massive steps of the courthouse, walking briskly through security, and to his assigned courtroom. The doors were massive, oak if he was right. The brass handles, crafted in the shape of scrolls, were cold to the touch as he raised his hand, and thrust them inwards. The doors creaked somberly, and Matt saw Franklin, and their client, poised at the defense table, as the prosecutor and his co-counsel muttered about something to each other. Drawing a deep breath, he sat down, waiting for the judge to enter. 10:00 came as quickly as it could, and the door to the bench opened. As if on cue, everyone rose to their feet. Ordering his court to be seated, the judge took his place, quietly holding his gavel. He made a single quick slam against his desk, and his clerk read the charge. Lake Richards, of Clinton, New York, was being charged with first degree robbery, along with all of the lesser included charges. No pre-trial matters, no introductions, no friendly handshakes or down-home hokum. The trial had begun. The prosecutor voiced his readiness upon being asked by the judge, who then turned to address Murdock.

"And is the defense ready to begin?" The judge asked, years of experience, judiciary knowledge, and patience behind his tone.

This was it. The moment of truth. Was Murdock to make something of himself as a trial attorney, or was he to forever remain within his dirge of an office, lamenting over his potential? Was he going to fail Ms. Richards, or was he going to be her champion? And what of Lady Justice? Was she to remain forever blind, sitting in a prison of darkness with her good-hearted, but feeble, cohort, Matthew Michael Murdock? The jury, the 16 people watching, waiting, for an answer as much as the judge himself was. It was Matthew's solemn duty not to fail them, his client, or, indeed, justice herself. Now was the time to become whom he was born to be; and Matt Murdock knew it.

"Yes, your honor." Matthew said, turning his head slightly to address the jury, more than the judge. The same slight smile sat upon his face as the one he had when he smelled the almonds on the sidewalk. Franklin was ready. Lake was ready. Matthew was ready. "The Defense is ready to proceed."

 

The Triskelion

While the Ultimates and the rest of the world go about their lives, I sit in my room at the Triskelion's living quarters.

"Bucky....Gail."

1941

Gail's high heels clack against the sidewalk as we walk through the cold New York winter.

"Steve...are you sure this is a good idea?"

"America was attacked, Gail. I tried signing up for every branch, only to be F-4 by all of them. This is the only way I can serve my country."

"By being a test subject for the military? What if something happens to you?"

"Then you go on with your life. They'll be other fellas for you, sweetie."

"But I won't want any other fella."

She stops and wraps her arms around me.

"I ship out tomorrow...got anything for me?"

She arches her eyebrow and smiles mischievously.

"Just a kiss, big man. You know I'm an old fashioned girl."

Our lips brush together gently and I smile as we pull away.

"I love you, Steve."

"I love you, too."

*********************

1942

The North African sun shines on to the desert as the plane bucks and rocks a thousand feet in the air.

"You okay, Bucky?!" I yell over the engine to my old friend.

"Sure thing, Cap. Just feel like I'm going to vomit."

I double check my pack and scan Bucky's over quickly.

"FIFTEEN SECONDS!" The jumpmaster screams.

Bucky and I stand up as the red light on the jump door goes green.

"See you on the ground, Buck. Make sure not to break that camera of yours."

I leap out the plane and plummet to the ground below.

***************

1945

The Herr Klieser's rocket explodes, sending me free falling into the icy water below. The last thing I think of as I fall is Gail and the letter she'll be receiving in a few days time.

My Dearest Gail,

If you are getting this letter, than I died in the service of my country. Please, don't cry. Don't think about me too much, either. Remember that conversation we had that cold night before I shipped out. I knew the risks when I signed up and if I died so that freedom can live on, it is a death I will endure a thousand times over. Remember what I said, move on with your life. Death is never truly the end, I am almost certain we will meet again.

All my love,

Captain Steven Rogers.

*****************

1944
​

Bucky and I stand on the balcony, overlooking the recently liberated Paris.

"You ever think about death, Cap?"

"Sometimes, Buck. Like Gail. I've told her that death is a part of this job, and that if anything ever happens to me she should move on."

"What about if something happened to her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just because there's a war on here in Europe, doesn't mean there isn't anything happening on the homefront. I mean, accidents happen all the time over there. Something could happen."

"I don't know what I'd do."

"You tell her to get on with her life...could you?"

I smile at Bucky.

"What's the matter, Buck? You been making eyes at my girl?"

"W-...well...she is a beautiful girl."

"I'm just messing with you....if something happened to her, I suppose I would try to move on with everything. I wouldn't really like it, but I guess that's life. We see enough death on a daily basis."

"Exactly, Cap. Now, let's go down to the bar. Paris is finally free, let's go get a drink."

***************

I roll over on my bed and look up at the ceiling. Norman Osborn did this, he forced Bucky and Gail out of their house. He had them killed.

My country needs me, but more importantly my friends need me.

I pull myself off the bed and grab my suit.

**************

The door to Fury's office slides open. I put my hands on his desk and look him square in the eye.

"Norman Osborn, how and when do we take it to him?"
​