Ultimate One Universe - Genesis

Discussion in 'RPG Archives' started by UltimateRPGs, Oct 1, 2014.

  1. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    S.H.I.E.L.D. Outpost
    Northern Greenland
    0700 Hours

    Roz Solomon blinked herself awake, taking in the surroundings of the cramped living space that had become her temporary home. The ceiling felt half a foot shorter than it should have been, which only amplified the sense of claustrophobia that the room often gave her. Not to mention that the walls and ceiling were all the same dull gray color, bleeding into one another and making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. The rest of the room was just as sterile and lifeless. The cot which had become Roz's bed wasn't terribly comfortable, nor was the mattress all that thick. The sheets were warm, at least, though they would have to be... what with the subzero temperatures at night. It wasn't as though Roz could really complain, though. She hadn't joined S.H.I.E.L.D. for the amenities.

    Roz slipped out from beneath her sheets, swinging her sock-covered feet over the edge of the mattress. As she sat up, she pinched her shoulder blades together, stretching out her chest. She gave a long yawn and rubbed the crust from the corner of her eyes. Hopping to her feet, Roz trudged over to the closet to find something warm to put on. Prior to being assigned out here, Roz had never experienced this level of cold. No matter what she wore, she could feel it seeping into her skin and cutting down to the bone. Layers had become her best friend, though even they could only do so much. It was enough to make Roz wonder how people could live out here. Settling on a set of thick thermals to wear, Roz also slipped on sweatpants and a sweater.

    Wandering out into the hallway, which was no more than two and a half feet wide, Roz lumbered down towards the common area. The sound of silverware clinking confirmed that her fellow task force members were already awake. Sure enough, as she passed through the doorway into the comparatively cavernous room, Roz spotted Agents Aaron and Ribic seated at the square dining table they all shared. Aaron was huddled over a bowl of steaming oatmeal, while Ribic cradled a cup of hot coffee. They both saw her enter and gave a silent nod of acknowledgment. Roz managed to mutter, "Morning," before shuffling over to the half-full coffee pot.

    Once she had filled a cup for herself, Roz turned around to lean against the kitchen counter. Like the bedrooms, the kitchen was economically spaced, with just the barest of appliances that the three agents might need. A tiny oven with two stove burners, a coffee maker, a toaster. In truth, the agents lived on little more than oatmeal and soup... anything hot to fill their chests and stomachs with a little warmth. Roz sipped her coffee in silence, thinking about the day ahead.

    Roz, Aaron, and Ribic together made up the burgeoning S.H.I.E.L.D. environmental task force. She was by far the youngest of the three, the other two veteran S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who volunteered to transfer to this new branch. Their grand mission was to investigate and prevent environmental disasters, especially those caused by the negligence - or, in rare cases, malevolence - of multinational corporations, like the kind that poisoned the drinking water of Broxton, Oklahoma, Roz's hometown. They had been sent to northern Greenland to investigate reports of a disturbance in the local oceanic ecosystem - possibly caused by offshore testing of an experimental hydroelectric generator created by Stagg Industries. A spokesperson for Stagg had initially challenged those claims, while assuring that Stagg would surely take the results of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s investigation to heart. Roz wasn't convinced.

    Once she had finished her coffee, Roz set the cup down by the sink and made her way towards the door where the snowsuits were hanging. Agent Aaron spoke up, "You're heading out there already?"

    Roz slipped one leg into her snow pants while looking up at Aaron. Nodding, she said, "We don't have much daylight out here. I want to scope out the site, get the lay of the land so that we can use that time efficiently." She slipped her other leg into the pants, pulling them up to her waist and tugging on the drawstring. She leaned against the wall for support as she put on her snow boots.

    "At least have something to eat first," Agent Ribic offered.

    Roz shook her head. "I'm alright. I won't be long." She was eager to make a good impression on the environmental task force's first major assignment. Besides, the sooner they finished, the sooner they could be reassigned somewhere else. Somewhere warm, perhaps. Roz pulled her jacket down from the hanger, slipping it over each arm and zipping it up tight. She produced her knit cap from one of the pockets and pulled it down over her messy, brown hair. "Save some coffee for me," Roz announced as she opened the door and braced herself against the blast of cold air.


    Grabbing a walking stick from beside the door to the outpost, Roz began marching through the thickly packed snow towards the site. From the outside, the outpost didn't look any roomier. It was just a small gray rectangle sticking out of the snow. It had been set up at the base of a small hill which overlooked the site. Roz began climbing the hill, all the while pulling her jacket tighter around herself and cursing the cold, gusty winds that followed her. When she reached the top of the hill, however, her thoughts trailed off. She held her breath for a moment as she looked out over the site.

    A whale graveyard. It made Roz's heart catch in her throat. Something had been causing these whales to beach themselves on the ice. There, they slowly died. Once they had decayed, their bones had joined with the rest, creating a grim sight. It made Roz sick to her stomach to think that a company could do something like this to living creatures, all in the name of profit. Still, her anger and disgust only served as fuel to fight harder to bring Stagg Industries to justice.

    Roz took a step forward, and her foot slipped out from underneath her. She stabbed futilely with her walking stick for balance, but it was already too late. Roz found herself falling forward down the hill. As she began to roll, Roz lost all sense of up or down. She just grabbed her arms tight around her body, bracing herself against any impact, and waited for her rolling to stop. Finally, mercifully, she reached the bottom of the hill, only a few feet from a giant whale rib bone. She was dizzy, but otherwise unharmed. Roz pulled herself to her feet, shaking the snow from her hair. As she looked around, she noticed large cracks in the ice. Following them carefully, Roz found a small recessed area within the ice.

    Dropping to her knees, Roz brushed away the powdery snow covering the ice surface. When she realized what she was seeing, her eyes went wide. Scrambling for the radio on her waist, Roz pressed the call button without taking her eyes off the ice. "Aaron? Ribic?" she said into the radio urgently. "Can you guys hear me? Pick up!"

    After a crackle, Agent Aaron's voice came through the radio. "Solomon? Are you alright?" The worry in his tone was evident.

    "I'm fine," Roz assured him breathlessly. "But you need to get in touch with Washington."

    This time, it was Ribic's voice that Roz heard. "Washington?" he repeated, confused. "Why? What's going on?"

    Roz's mouth hung agape for a moment as she thought of what to say. As the corners of her mouth curled into a disbelieving smile, Roz said, "I found something."

  2. Morden Man Civilian

    Aug 12, 2014
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    I’m alive. Drugged up beyond belief and in more pain than I ever thought imaginable but alive nonetheless. My vision is a little blurry and from the feel of things I’m short half a dozen teeth and God knows what else, but that’s better than being dead. Anything is better than that.

    Beside me fast asleep in a chair is Franklin Nelson. The pitiful amount of stubble on his cheeks tells me that I must have been out for some time. It takes Foggy the best part of two years to grow a beard, stubble doesn’t usually start appearing until the second or third month at least. So I must have been out for a while. From the looks of things though the zombie apocalypse hasn’t happened. At least there’s that.

    “Wake up.”

    Foggy stirs in his seat a little and groans.

    “I said wake up, idiot.”

    He groans again and shifts in his seat a little more. Suddenly I see a perplexed expression come across his sleeping face and his eyes open. They look at me and a broad smile appears on his face, I can see the gears crunching in his mind as he attempts to speak on several tries. Eventually he stands up and places his hand to his forehead, shaking with excitement.

    “You’re awake! You’re awake! Hey! He’s awake in here!”

    Foggy makes his way towards the door of the hospital room and I beckon him back to his seat. The last thing I want at the moment are a flood of doctors prodding and poking me.

    “I’ve been awake for half an hour.”

    “You’ve been in a coma for three months, you idiot. Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” He asks with a frown. “Why aren’t the doctors in here?”

    “You looked like you needed the sleep,” I smile for a moment, before a flood of pain hits me. “Why does everything hurt so much?”

    Foggy’s face drops.

    “Please tell me you don’t have amnesia.”

    I shake my head at the manifestly idiotic suggestion. For someone that graduated from Harvard, Foggy could be the stupidest person I’d ever met at times.

    “Of course I don’t have amnesia, moron, I just didn’t realise it would hurt this much. It shouldn’t ever hurt to breath.”

    “You shouldn’t even be sitting up,” he says as he tries to get me to sit back in my bed. “Let me get a doctor.”

    “That can wait,” I say with a grimace. “I want to go outside.”

    A look of incredulity comes across his face.

    “Did you mishear the part where I said you shouldn’t even be sitting up? What the hell do you want to go outside for?”

    I never thought I’d draw breath again, let alone feel fresh air on my face and the suns rays on my skin. My body feels weaker than it’s ever felt before, I’m not even sure whether I’d be able to stand without someone’s help, but I need to go outside. I need to see the clouds, hear the sound of the city around me, see people that aren’t in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks. I don’t know why but tears well up in my eyes at the thought of it.


    Foggy shakes his head with a pained sigh.


    Outside the hospital Foggy and I sit on a bench and watch as people walk through the streets. It’s everything I hoped it would be. It’s not an especially warm day out but the sunlight warms me and makes me feel as alive as I’ve felt since opening my eyes. Besides me Foggy takes a glance at his watch and at the entrance to the hospital with a sheepish grin.

    “This is insane. If Angela finds out about this, I’m going to be in so much trouble. More trouble than any human being has ever been in before in their lives.”

    “I promise not to tell her if you don’t.”

    I smile and elbow him in the side.

    “I’ve done enough lying on your behalf for one lifetime over the past three months, Murdock.”

    Foggy explains the trouble my actions had caused both he and Ted. They’d spent the past three months trying to keep Angela in the dark about what had happened. It was much easier for Ted than it had been for him. Ted came from a generation of men that had secrets, that knew how to keep their mouths shut, but Foggy was more sympathetic to Angela’s pleas. That didn’t mean that he’d caved, Foggy explained, only that Angela had resented him more for keeping the truth from her than she had Ted.

    The police had come by several times. Neither Ted nor any of the boys at the gym had spoken a word about what had happened. The “Mr. Slaughter” that Turk Barrett had spoken of at the gym happened to be one of the most renowned crime bosses in New York. Cooperating with the police wasn’t an option if you didn’t want to turn up dead. There’d been no word from Turk, Grotto, or Austin Cao’s father since that night at the gym either.

    I’d survived. If I could keep my head down and forget about what happened I might be able to get on with my life undisturbed. It was an appealing prospect.

    Eventually Foggy stands up from his seat and reaches for the handles of the wheelchair I’m sat in.

    “What are you doing?”

    “I need to use the restroom,” Foggy muttered. “And it’s about time we went back in.”

    “A few more minutes,” I plead. “I’ll still be here when you get back, we’ll go in then.”

    Foggy shakes his head.

    “I don’t want to leave you on your own.”

    I gesture at the wheelchair.

    “Does it look like I’m going anywhere soon? I’ll still be here.”

    “You promise?”

    As with Angela, Foggy seemed to think a promise was an unbreakable commitment.

    “What is it with you people and your promises?”

    He looks at me earnestly and places a hand on my shoulder.

    “Just promise me you won’t go anywhere, Matt.”

    “Fine, fine, I promise.”

    Foggy nods and makes his way back into the hospital. I take a deep breath and lean back in my wheelchair a little further than before. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was still amongst the living. I had no right to be, given the severity of the beating I’d taken and the stupidity that had lead to it, I ought to be in a shallow grave somewhere. But I’m not, I’m here, I’d been given a second chance.

    From the corner of my eye I see an elderly man with a cane shuffling across the road at a snail’s pace. The lights have changed and though the road is empty he seems completely oblivious to that fact. Off in the distance a truck appears and begins moving in the old man’s direction. If he doesn’t get a move on there’s going to be an accident. I try to shout over to him to get his attention.

    “Hey! Old man! You might want to hurry it up there.”

    There’s no response. The truck is closer now and the old man is still a long way from having crossed the road. I look up and down the empty street to find someone to help him but there’s no one. If someone doesn’t do something that man is going to be knocked down. What do I do? I try to lift myself from my chair and stand and as I do so my body shakes uncontrollably. As I reach the crossing the truck comes to a halt as the light changes and the man makes it across the road. I sigh loudly, half out of relief and half out of exasperation.

    “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you blind or something?”

    The old man turns around, having finally figured out where the shouting was coming from, and pulls the sunglasses over his eyes down. His eyeballs are completely white. He lifts a skeletal middle finger in my direction, before clamping the sunglasses back over his eyes and continuing off down the street.

  3. Misfit Disciple of The Dork Arts

    Jan 20, 2014
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    The Worst Headache Ever II

    Physics Class
    New York City

    "Hello, students. Your teacher was unable to make it today. So instead, I'll be taking the initiative. If you just listen to the sound of my voice and don't try anything stupid, the remainder of your lives will be a lot easier. Just close your eyes."

    Holding back the urge to vomit, Ronnie pulled his head off of his desk. It felt like his neck was held down by a bungee cord. With watering eyes, he looked straight down, surrendering the idea of getting up. The grain of his desk was warping, waxing, and waning, spinning like a slow pinwheel. He gave in, his will falling like an anvil. The impact made a deep sounding THUNK. He clenched his fists in anger, a sullen fury at the indignation of having his own free will wither, like a flower soaked in bleach.

    "I'm here for one reason and one reason alone."

    Ugh. Shoot me. I'd rather do anything than listen to her talk me to death.


    Ronnie sneared silently. Feeling intense waves of nausea, he decided not to speak in protest. He was too dizzy to even form a coherent thought, more so than usual.

    "There are a lot of people in this world. A lot of boooring people. Then you have a handful of interesting and spunky people, like yours truly," she said, giving a curtsy. "How many of you like games?"

    The room was silent.

    "Well, that's okay. By the time our session is over, you'll all love playing with me. If you survive at all. It's simple, all of you are going into a small little realm tucked inside my head I like to call Wonderland. If any of you survive, you'll be awarded a much more interesting life as my assistant, helping me lock down the next batch of little trolls to liven up. By the way, the name's Mind Boggler."

    As that sentence ended, Ronnie, and everyone else, threw up. Vomiting on their desks, they squealed and choked as a storm of nausea and disorientation overtook them

    "Here.. we.. Go!"
    Wonderland, Mind Boggler's Imagination
    Physics Class, New York City

    "I am so never showing up to class on time again! This blows," Ronnie shouted as the sickness finally left him.

    The landscape was was a gigantic forest. When his mind settled, Ronnie was leaning against a tree with blue leaves and a murky purple bark. He was beside a sandy colored dirt road that seemed to go down an endless forest. Above him, was a blanket of leaves that blocked the sun anywhere but the beaten path. In relatively close proximity, Ronnie spotted several of his classmates, none of his 'friends', but classmates nonetheless. So, it's me, a couple ******s who couldn't survive the first level of Super Mario Bros, and a Forest of Doom, plus some weird chick who invaded our classroom and my mind. I wonder what she's doing next--

    "Well this one's quite interesting, isn't he?" a voice seized Ronnie's attention. "Why yes, he's quite marvelous. What of that fellow who entered with him, the elder bloke? Simply fantastic I think. We've never had two visitors enter from the same husk before."

    Looking straight above his head, he saw a glowing set of eyes, one purple and the other orange, seemingly holding a conversation with itself. Well, what do you know? If it isn't a schizophrenic Cheshire Cat. What kind of drugs does this chick do?

    "ALL OF THEM!" the voice screamed hysterically before disappearing with a frightening CRACK!
    #53 Misfit, Nov 10, 2014
    Last edited: Nov 10, 2014
  4. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
    Likes Received:

    April 1945

    Beneath the rhythmic hum of the Douglas C-47's propellers, Steven Rogers - better known to the world as Captain America - sits in concentrated silence. Rogers holds his helmet in his hands, staring down at the chipped paint on the letter "A" before closing his eyes and lowering his head. Strapped into his seat in the back of the plane, Rogers taps his heel anxiously, thinking of the task ahead of him. Some minor turbulence causes the plane to dip, jolting Rogers back to the present and making him raise his head. He turns in his seat, peering out the window at the darkened world below. Somewhere, beneath the clouds out there, his final test awaits him.

    The radio in the cockpit crackles. "--Steve? Steve, do you read me?" Rogers recognizes the voice right away - his good friend, Jay Garrick, also known as the Flash.

    Rogers undoes his harness and sets his helmet down on the seat he previously occupied. Holding a hand against the ceiling of the plane for support, Rogers walks slowly towards the cockpit. The pilot offers him the radio. As Rogers takes it in his hand, he guides himself into the unoccupied co-pilot's seat. "Jay, it's Steve. I can hear you," Rogers says into the radio.

    "You sure you want to do this?" Jay asks, his voice barely audible above the static. "Just give us a few hours to wrap up here." "Us," in this case, referring to the Invaders, Captain America's costumed allies in the fight against the Axis powers. "I can be there in a flash."

    Rogers smirks. Jay knows how much Steve hates that damn joke. Still, it's good that he's kept his spirit up. And why shouldn't he? In a few short hours, the Invaders - sans Captain America - were going to fall on Berlin from the west while the Soviet forces collapsed on it from the east. They were going to capture the Reichstag building and take Adolf Hitler alive, if they could. It would be the decisive victory to end the War, and the Invaders would share no small part of the credit. Yet Captain America would not be amongst them. "I'm fine, Jay. Really," Rogers insists, appreciating his friend's concern. Smiling, he says, "You go win this war."

    For some, the bitter taste of defeat would be harder to swallow than for others. Shortly before the Allied forces encircled Berlin, Hitler's right-hand man, Johann Schmidt - alias the Red Skull - had fled the city. Allied intelligence indicated that he had retreated to a stronghold in German-occupied Norway. Rogers had volunteered to go after him, to capture the Red Skull while the Invaders captured Hitler, ensuring the complete and total downfall of the Third Reich. In truth, Rogers didn't know what he was walking into, but his rivalry with Schmidt was personal. He was happy to let the Invaders soak up glory in Berlin if it meant he got the pleasure of capturing Schmidt.

    "There," the pilot announces suddenly, taking a hand off the wheel to point at a spot in the distance. Sure enough, Rogers could see glowing points of light. It must be the Skull's stronghold.

    Rogers stands up from the co-pilot's seat, clapping a hand on the pilot's shoulder. "Get me as close as you can, and then get out of there," he instructs the man. The pilot nods understandingly. Ducking through the cockpit door, Rogers feels his way back to his seat, picking up his helmet and setting it down in his lap. He straps himself in not a moment too soon as the C-47 is jostled by incoming anti-aircraft fire. The pilot banks sharply, and Rogers grabs onto the handholds above his head for balance. He picks up his helmet and throws it onto his head, fastening the leather chinstrap tightly.

    The night sky around the plane is filled with bursts of exploding light as anti-aircraft shells explode all around it. Rogers makes the sign of the Cross, saying a silent prayer that the plane finds its way through safely. The pilot banks this way and that, occasionally increasing or decreasing altitude to avoid flying directly into a shot. After a few more minutes of jostling, the pilot leans his head back and shouts, "This is as good as it's gonna get, Cap!"

    Rogers nods and unfastens his harness. He braces himself as the C-47 rattles once more on what seems to be the closest shot yet. Crossing to the front of the plane, Rogers picks up a parachute sack and slips it over his shoulders. He also picks up his shield, a two-and-a-half foot wide disc made of a rare Vibranium alloy that allows impossible strength with minimal weight. Rogers slides his left arm through the straps on the back of the shield and starts marching towards the back of the plane. He slides open the rear door, feeling the rush of wind against his face.

    Then, Captain America jumps.

    The display of exploding artillery shells is even more impressive as Cap begins his descent. It's as though he's watching a Fourth of July fireworks show from above. Cap holds his breath, angling his shield arm in front of his face to protect against any stray shots that may come too close. When he's closed more than half the distance between the C-47 and the ground, Cap pulls the tab on his pack, deploying the parachute. He grabs onto the steering lines and guides himself to a safe landing amidst gunfire. Upon hitting the ground immediately inside the stronghold's walls, Cap rolls and detaches his chute. He pops up, shield ready, to deflect incoming machine gun fire from Nazi soldiers in the courtyard.

    Captain America sprints through the courtyard, knowing that he can't afford to waste a single movement when outnumbered so severely. Passing a few soldiers on his path, Cap swings his shield arm to knock them aside. As the gunners up on the walls break to reload, Cap slides the shield off his arm and angles a throw at a far tower. The shield bounces perfectly off the stone face, cutting down the gunners at the legs as it flies in a straight path back to its owner. As he hears the click of a reloaded weapon behind him, Cap somersaults over a pile of large crates. Bullets ricochet all around him, most embedding themselves in the wood. Frantically, Cap looks around for an escape route, spotting an iron bar sticking out of the wall below a second story window. He makes a running leap, twirling around the bar once, before launching himself through the window and into the stronghold.

    Captain America dashes through the stone hallways of the Red Skull's stronghold, his footsteps echoing loudly around him. The hallway is so narrow that Cap is easily able to cover himself with his shield as he encounters more Nazi soldiers. He continues running full speed, barreling through the soldiers as though they were little more than roadblocks. He descends a set of spiraling stairs which open onto a massive space resembling a throne room. There, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the room, is Captain America's nemesis, the infamous Red Skull.

    "Give it up, Skull," the Captain barks, coming to a halt in the center of the room. He holds his shield halfway at his side, ready to raise it at a moment's notice should he need to. "It's over. In a few short hours, the Allies will take Berlin and Hitler along with it." Cap narrows his eyes. "Stand down and face justice for your crimes."

    The man once known as Johann Schmidt turns, revealing the ghastly countenance that earned him his moniker. Arms folded behind his back, he sneers at the Sentinel of Liberty. "Over?" he growls. "Not while I still draw breath." He motions with one hand at his surroundings. "Do you think I came here to cower behind these walls like a spineless child, Captain?" The Red Skull scoffs. "Even now, I plan an offensive that will strike at the heart of the Allies, crippling them at the very moment of their perceived glory!"

    Beneath his helmet, Captain America furrows his brow. By now, he had become quite used to the Skull's grand speeches and endless self-assurance. Still, the man was not to be taken lightly. Had it not been for the intervention of Captain America and the Invaders, the Red Skull might've devastated the Allied forces and single-handedly won the War for the Nazis. So this mention of a new offensive strike could prove to be quite a serious threat, even as the Third Reich fell hours away in Berlin.

    Suddenly, the stone walls of the stronghold begin rumbling. The very floor beneath Captain America's feet begins to vibrate. The Red Skull smiles. Clearly, this is all part of his plan. "Unfortunately, Captain, I do not have time to stay here and debate the matter further with you." Moving with surprising quickness, the Skull pulls his other hand out from behind his back, producing a Luger pistol. He fires off three quick shots, forcing Captain America to raise his shield to defend himself. "So long, Captain America!" the Skull calls out as he races off into the shadows.

    Cap races across the vast throne room as dust and small rocks crumble down from the shaking ceiling. Behind the enormous throne, Cap spots a crevice in the wall - some sort of a secret passageway. Despite the lack of light, Captain America bounds down the steps, knowing that he doesn't have a moment to lose. Whatever's causing the stronghold to rumble is getting louder every second. At the base of the stairs, Cap finds himself standing in a hangar bay, faced with an enormous bomber plane.

    Before Cap has time to process what he's seeing, a bullet ricochets off the wall behind him. Cap turns his attention quickly, seeing the Red Skull climbing a ladder up to the cockpit. The Nazi villain has his pistol drawn on the Captain, firing off a few more errant shots to force Cap to find cover. The massive propellers on the bomber start to pick up speed as the Skull prepares to takeoff. Captain America throws caution to the wind and launches himself full sprint at the plane. If the Red Skull successfully takes off, there's no telling what kind of damage he could do with a plane of this size.

    The plane begins to turn away from Captain America, aligning itself with the runway that goes the length of the hangar. At the far end, there's a natural opening in the rock face of the cliffs beneath the stronghold's foundations. Cap lowers his head, ignoring the stress in his leg muscles as he struggles to increase his speed further. He knows that once the plane gets up to speed, it'll be impossible for him to catch it. The bomber gets into the proper alignment and starts inching forward. Cap's window of opportunity is closing. With a pained grimace on his face, Cap pushes himself and launches head-first at the landing gear, successfully grabbing a hold just above the wheel.

    Once the landing gear retracts, Captain America finds himself in the belly of the massive bomber plane. He leaps over a railing and starts walking along a metal walkway that runs the length of the cargo bay. All manner of explosive ordnance are stockpiled in the bomber's hold, enough ammunition to allow the Red Skull to blow away the Western Hemisphere and then some. Cap shudders at the thought of what the Skull plans to do with all these bombs. Washington and London must surely be among the Skull's targets, along with God knows where else.

    Captain America navigates his way from the bottom deck up to the cockpit, a relatively small room in comparison to the rest of the enormous plane. The door to the cockpit is sealed, however, and Cap is unable to make it budge. Raising his shield, Cap brings the thin edge crashing down upon the handle of the door, snapping it clean off. He pries his fingers into the door frame and throws it open. Once he sees inside the cockpit, he mutters breathlessly, "No..."

    The Red Skull is nowhere to be seen. The pilot's seat itself is missing, evidently ejected judging by the open window overhead. The rushing air whistles through the empty cockpit as Captain America realizes that the Skull had escaped. Worse, it looks like his nemesis has left something of a parting gift. The Skull had set the bomber to auto-pilot and destroyed most of the main console before he jettisoned himself, leaving Cap with no way to pilot the plane. Cap squeezes his fists and grits his teeth.

    Finding the radio mostly intact, Captain America turns the knob to the Invaders' frequency. "Invaders, this is Captain America," he announces over the howl of wind coming through the cockpit. "I don't know if this signal is coming through or not, but... I found the Red Skull." Cap hangs his head, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "He launched some kind of experimental bomber plane. I tried to stop him, but... he's stranded me here." Cap closes his eyes, pausing. "I don't know what's going to happen to me, but I need to stop this plane. If I don't make it..."

    The words catch in Captain America's throat.

    "It's been an honor serving with you all."

    Cap turns his head and looks at the open window above him. If he can't stop the plane with the controls, then he would need to disable the engines somehow. Tightening his grip on the shield handles, Captain America grabs onto the ledge and pulls himself onto the roof of the plane. He remains flat against the surface, resisting the push of wind resistance as he pulls himself towards one of the wings. Once he's close enough, Cap extends the edge of his shield towards the propellers. The blades, strong as they may be, are no match for the Vibranium disc, and they snap off like dead twigs. The plane begins to list to that side, and Captain America grabs onto the edge of the wing tightly.

    Raising his shield arm once more, Captain America brings the edge of the shield crashing down against the metal plating that surrounds the turbines within the wing. The plating crumples like old newspaper, and Cap is able to get his fingers beneath the surface. He rips off the mangled sheet of metal, which catches in the wind and goes spiraling off into the clouds. The turbines are exposed. Captain America closes his eyes and slams the edge of the shield against them. There's a loud bang, and Cap feels a forceful shockwave throw him from the wing.

    Barely conscious, the last thing Captain America remembers is the sensation of free fall before his back slaps against something hard, cold, and wet...
  5. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
    Likes Received:

    The Narrows

    "Another one?" Bullock snorted as he came into the room where Detective Kane was examining the body. It was a mid-level pusher in the Falcone Family working the Narrows. He wasn't someone who'd be missed, and clearly wasn't done to send a message. At least not a message to the Falcones.​

    "Another one," Kane confirmed. The body had been killed in the same manner as three others they had seen in the past three months. All of them had been drug dealers, and all for different families. All three of them had their necks snapped by what the detectives had figured was some sort of mechanical vice before being dumped in their own apartments. Forensics had been nothing but ineffective in finding the means of murder, as well. The fact that they were are criminals meant the public wouldn't panic, but the last thing they needed was another push for a mob war.​

    "What the hell does this sicko want?" Bullock mused as he looked through the victims stuff. "He leaves the drugs, the money, the weapons. Everything."

    Kane shifted where she stood before opening up another line of thought on the situation, "What about the Mutants?"

    "Christ, Kane," Bullock scoffed. "The Mutants? I know you're all buddy-buddy with the Batman, but the Mutants? They're an urban legend."

    Kane didn't believe that of course. The whispers of a secret society in the Narrows had been going on for years. The cops ignored it like they ignored nearly everything in the Narrows, but the people here knew. They wouldn't talk, but they knew the strangeness that had taken hold here. The Mutants were supposedly a society of the poor and wretched of Gotham who wanted to fight back against their oppressors. Their leader was said to be hideously deformed. Most would have brushed the talk off as urban legend, but Katherine Kane was far too much of a believer for that.​

    "Whatever you say, Bullock," she gave in after a long stare down.​


    Wayne Tower

    "You wanted to meet with me, Mr. Fox?" Bruce asked as he took a seat in front of his business partner. He wasn't used to being summoned by Fox, usually Bruce was the one asking to meet with Lucius for some odd reason or another. "Can't say I'm used to being on this side of the desk."

    Lucius chuckled amicably, "Think of how I feel! I didn't know how to even ask for this meeting. But seriously, there've been some...whispers in the Gotham corporate world."

    Bruce looked surprised. Business intrigued hadn't been on Lucius and his dockett since Wayne got out from under the threat of a takeover by Oscorp and Sionis Pharma, "Not usually what we talk about either. Does this have to do with the company...or my hobbies."

    "I'm leaning towards the latter," Lucius admitted. "Though having someone performing corporate espionage in Gotham isn't good for the former either. Sounds like there was a break in at Sionis the other night. I don't know what the intruder came away with, but word is Roman is incredibly worried."

    Wayne's mind immediately goes to the cure Morbius had been working on. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the gala and robbery happened within a week of each other. Morbius' cure was the one thing that had the power to break Sionis out of the tailspin it had been in for months. It was also a project that any number of competitors would want for themselves.

    "And even more interesting," Lucius lowered his voice, even though he knew no one was listening, "is that the Catwoman is believed to be the one who stole it."

    "That doesn't add up," Bruce shook his head. "All our intel says she's a jewel thief. She doesn't have the means to steal something like that from a database." The lightbulb then goes off in Bruce's head, "Which means she's working with someone who could."

    "Exactly my thought as well," Lucius agreed with a nod. "Just thought I'd bring it to your attention."

    "I appreciate it, Mr. Fox," Bruce smiled as he left the office.


    Rooftops of Gotham
    Three Days Later

    Batman waited patiently for his prey in the shadows of Gotham. Most believed the Catwoman was too good to be caught, or even seen, in her act, but no one had ever met the Batman before. Bruce was careful with the planning of this one, incorporating his wealth to help him catch the cat. Two days ago Brue Wayne announced he would be displaying some of the Wayne Family's personal collection at the Gotham Museum for a limited time.​

    Bruce knew the pull would be too strong for the Catwoman to resist, it fit her MO far too perfectly. She liked stelaing from the incredibly rich and fencing the goods to an unknown black market contact. It didn't get much richer than Bruce Wayne in Gotham, so she'd definitely pounce on the opportunity.​

    A flurry of movement from the museum's roof draws his attention, and the slinking figure of Catwoman confirms Bruce's ploy worked. He ran along the rooftops with her, studying how she moved. She was fluid, that much was for sure. She was nearly as adept as he was traversing the urban jungle and truly seemed to earn her name and reputation. One thing was for sure, she had extensive training. No one could move the way she did on skill alone.​

    When he had studied her enough, Bruce sped up to put some distance between the two before firing a grapnel and swinging over to her side of the street. He landed on her, but made sure not to hit her too hard. She may have been a thief, but she wasn't dangerous and didn't deserve a beating.​

    The two of them rolled to a stop, and Batman had her shoulders pinned under his knees, the Catwoman smiled and cooed, "Oh I knew you'd be the type for rough stuff. Come on, Bats. Make it hurt so good."

    Bruce worked hard to not let the surprise show on his face. It was Selina Kyle. The most prolifict theif in the world was Selina Kyle. It made sense, of course. It was the reason she seemed to be so wealthy, and it matched up with some of the things she said at the gala. But the shock still got to him.​

    And Selina took advantage of that. She slipped from his hold during his momentary lapse in concentration and quickly rose to her feet before delivering a stiff kick to the back of his head.​

    Dazed, Bruce heard her take off away from him. He fired his grapnel, still primed and in his hand, and managed to tie her feet up. Batman stood and regained his senses as he walked towards her. Bruce bent down to pick up his jewels she had stolen.​

    "Aw, you're no fun," Catwoman pouted. "I was hoping you'd chase me back to my place so you could tie me up there."

    "Cut the act," Bruce made his best effort to disguise his voice. He hoped Selina wasn't as adept at picking up his familiar tones as he was, or he'd be in a lot of trouble. "Someone hired you to steal something from Sionis Pharmaceuticals. I need to know who that was."

    "Ugh," she groaned. "You do-gooder types. Always with the boring questions. I was hoping you'd be much more interesting than that. All the cops fall for the seductress crap."

    "Tell me who hired you," Batman threatened, "and I won't be delivering you to the GCPD tonight."

    Selina smiled mischeviously, as she slinked towards him on all fours, "I don't think you'd have it in you to turn me in either way, tall, dark, and brooding."

    "Then you don't know me very-OOF!" Bruce was cut off by another swift kick delivered by Catwoman, this time to his chest. He managed to keep hold of the stolen jewels, but the surprise and sudden power of the kick sent him tumbling over the roof's side. He engaged his cape's gliding capabilities and landed safely below, but cursed himself for allowing Selina to catch him off guard. When he returned to the roof, she was long gone.


    Sionis Pharmaceuticals Laboratory

    It had been a week since the formula had been stolen from Sionis' computer. One long, grueling week for Michael Morbius. He had barely slept as he worked around the clock to perfect the formula before someone else did. Unfortunately, the lack of rest and his condition had taken a tole on the doctor. Here he was, one of the most brilliant men on the planet, reduced to a broken mess because of some petty thief.

    But it wasn't just the thief. His cancer was taking an even bigger toll on him than ever, and he felt sure that his time was nearing an end. If that time came without completing this formula, Mrobius would leave no legacy. All he would be remember for was being another failure who did not deliver what he had promised.

    The desperation had forced him to try something with the formula he had been putting off. Days earlier, he had created a version that included the mutant X-gene and injected it into lab rats. He always knew it would eventually get to this point, but he held off due to the ridiculous taboo about mutants in the public. But Morbius believed it was the only way to successfuly mutant the blood cells as he needed.

    So far the rats had survived with no side effects. In his delirium, Morbius had filled a human sized syringe and had been staring at it for the past three hours. In the right state of mind, Morbius would have known not to use it. But the lack of sleep and desperation had eaten away at his mind. Morbius now thought it was his only choice. He plunged the needle into his neck as one of his assistants, the only one there that night, came to check on him.

    "Dr. Morbius! No!" the man cried as Morbius began to convulse and foam at the mouth. The doctor fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

    In a moment of clarity, Michael Morbius realized what he had done. The pain cleared away the delirious thoughts and desperate feelings, and the scientist lamented to the man who rused to his aid, "What have I done?"

    Then, the pain intensified, and the scientist pushed his aide away with great strength. Something was changing inside him. The formula took hold in his blood, and his body began to change. His face exploded with pain as his features morphed and his teeth shifted in his mouth. His muscles toned instantly, and his sickly body was transformed with animalisitc power. Morbius felt the new ridges of his face, his deformed nose, and the fangs that now lined his mouth.

    But most of all he felt the demonic hunger screaming in his head.

    "Doctor Morbius?" the assistant asked tentatively. "Are you okay?"

    "F-fine," Morbius responded. "I could just use a bite."

    With terrible speed, Michael Morbius pounced onto the lab assistant and dug his fangs into his neck. The man's scream came out as a gargle as blood flooded his throat. Blood that would help sustain and feed Morbius' new form and new life.
  6. Misfit Disciple of The Dork Arts

    Jan 20, 2014
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    The Worst Headache Ever III

    Wonderland, Mind Boggler's Imagination
    Physics Class, New York City

    "Whattaya know, I haven't been here five minutes and I'm already out of my comfort zone." Ronnie complained, directed at himself.

    He'd gone out of his way to avoid his classmates altogether. He was nearly at the edge of a mass of his classmates who'd gathered to a short section of the lit path. Some of them were, justifiably, panicking, others were laughing it off like it was a prank, and one of them was standing all alone against a tree, listening to his iPod. Casey was standing along the other edge, looking for someone, Ronnie assumed it was himself. Exhaling deeply, he shoved his hands in his jacket's pockets, the standard for the school's football team, and he went walking, bumping shoulders against a couple angsty acquaintances and completely ignoring them and their insults. Losers.

    In the back of his mind, he was wondering about what the purple and orange cat was talking about. Two visitors from one husk? Weird? Who else could be in my body? he wondered. Then, a chilling sensation wiped his spine down. Could it be Doctor Banker? he wondered, thinking back to the incident at Star Labs. That's far out enough to be the truth? By now, he was stroking his chin. He was leaving the line of sight of his classmates, who were huddled together for protection. In the distance, he saw a bright yellow stream dropping from a cliff, beside the path. He took a hard whiff, contorting his face when he got closer.

    "Is that... yeah. Yep. That's a waterfall of pee." He cringed, turning his neck to look back where he'd come from. "Well, she said it wasn't like we were going to survive, and it's not like anyone can see. May as well..." he snapped his right fist into his left palm in front of his chest, pushing hard and building internal pressure. "I don't know who this chick is, but she'd better get ready... for the fury.. of.. FIRESTORM!!!" Ronnie released his arms, swinging them out and growling as he uncapped his internal energy.

    "Hmm.." a low key voice mused.

    Ronnie jumped and tripped backward, falling onto the shrubbery just outside the path. "You! ...y-y-you're that t-talking cat!" He pointed his finger at a low hanging branch above his head.

    "An astute observation for the simple minded. Were I you, I would get out of that shrubbery before the ants get you. You do realize that that's never going to work, don't you? Maybe it would've five years ago, but now you simply must have your partner. "Trust me, you should stop lollygagging and go find that sciency friend of yours. Or you'll simply never get out alive."


    "Doctor Bruce Banner. Find him, you simpleton. TTFN. Ta ta for now."
  7. Morden Man Civilian

    Aug 12, 2014
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    I’ve been home for two weeks. Angela has insisted upon doing everything for me, even the little things I can do on my own. I tried to convince her that there was nothing wrong with me but it didn’t make a difference. Two weeks stuck in the house, only leaving on the odd occasion I have to go to the hospital to get checked up, needless to say it’s been frustrating. That’s why Miles turning up outside the apartment on a school day was a welcome surprise. As far as he was concerned I was his coach first and friend second, so I’d need to keep up appearances. Especially after what had happened.

    “What are you doing here?”

    From the street below Miles shakes his head at me.

    “Well, that’s not exactly the welcome I had in mind.”

    “You know what I mean,” I say with a smile. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

    “If you think I came halfway across Hell’s Kitchen on a pushbike for you to send me away you’ve got another thing coming, Mr. M,” Miles says with a determined look. “Buzz me up.”

    I grin.

    “Five minutes.”

    Two hours later and half a dozen games of NBA 2K15 later Miles makes his way home. According to Miles, things had been pretty subdued at the gym ever since that Friday night and a couple of the kids had been scared away for good. I couldn’t say that I blamed them, I can’t imagine having to see something like that at that age. Wildcat’s was meant to be somewhere they could come to be safe and my actions had sullied that. I should have gone when I had the chance.

    But I have a second chance now and I intend to do things right. As I lay there on that cold ground I promised I’d be better and I meant it. Maybe I’ll go back to school, try to get my high school diploma, become a big shot lawyer like Foggy Nelson. Who knows?


    The door to the apartment opens and through it steps Angela Del Toro. She places her coat over a chair by the door, flings her bag down, and kicks off her shoes with a loud sigh. She’s as beautiful as the day I met her, if not more, despite the fact she’s seemed like she’s been running on empty for the past few weeks.

    “Sorry I’m late.”

    She kisses me on the forehead.

    “What kept you? They’re working you pretty hard over there at The Bugle.”

    “I took a lot of time off whilst you were in the hospital to visit you,” Angela says curtly. “There’s a lot to catch up on.”

    I stand up from the couch and hug her from behind and she bristles slightly at my touch. It’s not much, but I’ve known her for long enough that I can tell when something is wrong. She’s been asking about that Friday at Wildcat’s since I woke up and, like Foggy and Ted, I’d let her know very little. It had caused some distance between us over the past fortnight. That didn’t stop her coddling me usually though, tonight seemed different.

    “Are you okay? Something seems wrong?”

    She smiles.

    “I’m fine, honestly. It’s been a long day and all I want to do is shower and go to bed,” Angela says as she kisses me on the cheek softly. “I’ve already eaten, so order yourself some pizza or something.”

    She must be more tired than I thought.

    I watch as she makes her way to the bathroom and shrug, before I head to the kitchen and remove one of the many pizza delivery leaflets stuck onto to the fridge with magnets. I flick through it for a couple of seconds as I try to make my mind up what pizza I want. Maybe I’d get the “Foggy Special” and order every topping known to man, with two portions of garlic bread and onion rings.

    Suddenly the writing on the leaflet in my hands becomes blurred and I feel a pain in my head. I shake my head slightly in the hopes it’ll somehow clear my vision but it does nothing. I frown and reach for a glass to pour myself some water but as I do my hand slips entirely and I knock several glasses from the ledge. They fall to the ground with a crash and I drop the floor after them.

    “Matt?” Angela calls from the bathroom. “Are you okay in there?”

    I fumble around and try to push myself to my feet with my hands, cutting them on the shards of glass around me. It takes me a few seconds to realise what’s wrong. There’s darkness. Complete darkness. I can’t see anything. I’m blind. What’s happening to me?
  8. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    Daily Planet
    Metropolis, DE

    Lois Lane sat at her desk typing away at some meaningless story for the Planet, but she couldn't keep her mind off of Superman. Not the most professional outlook on her current assignment, but Lois was a creature of passion, even she had to admit that. Superman was the most fascinating story on the planet. That much was obvious to anyone and everyone who had seen what he can do. She just couldn't bring herself to care about the other run of the mill stories editor Perry White had been giving her.

    "You look like you're having a ton of fun, Double L," Jimmy Olsen slid his chair up to her. Jimmy was nice, if not a bit obnoxious. She wasn't sure if he was overly nice or constantly hitting on her. But he was one hell of a photographer, and was invaluable to the Superman investigation. "You keep slacking off and Perry's gonna have you for it."

    "Perry can have my job if he wants to keep sending me to AlexisCorp events," Lois grumbled. She had been sent to the multinational corporation to cover work they were doing on alternative energy. It was fairly interesting, and important, but Lois didn't care at all. One of the tech guys should have covered it. "I want on this mysterious building moving man."

    "Yea, well Perry said no go on that until we know anything," Jimmy shrugged. "We could go on a Superman hunt, though."

    "A Superman hunt?" Lois's eyebrows raised.

    "Yea, sometimes I just drive around looking for a chance to get some pictures of him," Jimmy shrugged.

    "You know that's kind of creepy, right?" Lois asked.

    "Yea, but it gives me something to do," Jimmy admitted.

    "Yea, let's go," Lois agreed as she sent the finished AlexisCorp story to Perry.


    It started with a slight rattle at Clark's window. It was an annoying, small sound in the back of his head, but it was there. It was one of those sounds he had long ago taught himself to block out from his superhuman hearing. But this one wouldn't go away, so Clark opened his senses up, and realized this was more than a small rattle. The sound started to intensify, and before long he realized the ground below his feet was rumbling as well. The building, and the rest of the buildings in the city shook around him before Metropolis quieted.

    The TV show he had been watching cut out and was replaced by a petrified anchor woman, "This is breaking news that just came across our desk. The tremors we all just felt were the work of someone calling himself Doctor Polaris. This new villain claims he will destroy our city if Superman does not come out and face him."

    In a flash, Clark was flying across the city, searching for Doctor Polaris.
  9. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    Captain Steven Rogers inhales sharply, his senses becoming suddenly alert as though every synapse in his body was crackling with electricity. His eyes spring open, and his powerful hands clutch at the soft sheets beneath his body. As Rogers' vision adjusts to the bright, sterile lighting, he finds himself staring straight up at an off-white ceiling. Confused, Rogers looks down. He's dressed in a white gown, the lower half of his body tucked beneath blueish white sheets. All around him, the room is filled with strange, incomprehensible machines. What is this? Rogers asks himself silently, One of Zola's facilities?

    Rogers sits up on his elbows, continuing to scan the unfamiliar room. Outside in the hallway, there are muffled voices and shuffling footsteps. But inside the room, the only sounds besides Rogers' breathing are the periodic beeps coming from the machines surrounding Rogers' bed. Rogers feels a tug at his arm and looks down to see a tube going into the crook of his elbow. With a grimace, Rogers pulls the tube from his arm, tossing it aside carelessly. There are also numerous small pads attached to areas of his skin, from which multicolored wires seem to sprout. Rogers pulls these off as well. Kicking off the sheets, Rogers swings his legs around the edge of the bed and touches his feet to the cold tile floor.

    As Rogers stands, he finds himself uncharacteristically unsteady. Stumbling forward a step, he catches himself against the edge of a table for support. His legs feel weak, the muscles atrophied. Rogers glances over his shoulder at the tubes he removed from his arm. What were they putting inside my body? the Super-Soldier wonders. As he continues to look around, searching for any clue as to his current location, Rogers spots a familiar looking object on the corner of the ceiling. A camera. Watching me, huh?

    Rogers feels his fingers brush against something cold and metallic. Some kind of medical instrument. Without so much as a wasted movement, he takes the instrument between his thumb and finger and gives a quick flick of his wrist. The small piece of metal spins through the air, piercing the glass face of the camera and sending out a small shower of sparks. Rogers can feel his strength returning and makes for the door. Once he gets near the window, he stops in his tracks, placing his back against the wall. There's an armed guard with his back to the door, blocking Rogers' exit. Cursing under his breath, Rogers looks around for an alternative.

    His eyes fall upon the window at the far side of the room. Checking once more that the guard hasn't moved, Rogers creeps across the tile floor as silently as possible. Reaching the window, Rogers curls his fingertips beneath the glass. The window sticks for a moment, yet ultimately budges when Rogers puts his shoulder into it. A slight breeze fills the room, flapping at the edges of Rogers' loosely-fitting gown. At the sound of approaching footsteps coming from beyond the door, Rogers ducks beneath the window and clings to the ledge on the side of the building.

    Calm and collected, Rogers tiptoes along the ledge, some ten stories or more above the ground. He doesn't dare look down, however, for fear of losing his focus and letting the height get to him. Instead, he keeps his mind on the mission - namely, finding an escape route to safety. And an option presents itself in the form of a window washer's scaffold positioned one story above Rogers' window. Knowing he has only one chance at making the jump, Rogers pushes off of the ledge with every ounce of his considerable strength. He clears the distance between himself and the scaffold, a little less than ten feet both horizontally and vertically, and catches the bottom edge. The scaffold shakes slightly, but Rogers is able to swing himself up and around onto the platform.

    Rogers slips in through the half-cleaned window, finding himself in an empty, darkened room. He crouches low and tiptoes to the door, peering through the window into the hallway. A squad of four armed men jogs out of sight. Rogers opens the door slowly and darts across the hall, putting his back against the corner. The armed squad disappears through an open doorway, presumably a stairwell judging by the echoing sound of their footsteps. A pair of nurses begins walking towards Rogers, and he tucks himself further back into the corner. They fail to notice him as they pass.

    Once he's sure the hallway is clear, Rogers emerges from his corner and slinks barefoot towards an unoccupied desk marked as a nurses station. Vaulting over the desktop, Rogers begins shuffling through various papers and folders. He furrows his brow. English? he notes to himself, finding that strange for a Nazi facility. Still, if he wasn't in the clutches of Zola or Strucker, where could he be? As Rogers pushes aside a sheet of paper, he sees a folder marked, "Capt. Steven G. Rogers." Eyes widening, Rogers picks up the folder and tucks it under his arm. The nurses would be returning soon, and it would not do well to be caught in the open like this.

    Clutching his folder, Rogers darts down the hallways of the sleek facility, eventually finding a hallway that dead-ends at the doors to an elevator. Pressing the downward call button, Rogers checks over his shoulder to make sure that no one is approaching. A moment later, the elevator gives a soft "ding," and Rogers' attention is drawn back to the doors. When they open, he finds himself face-to-face with a squad of six armed men. The man at the head, presumably their leader, holds up a hand. "Captain Rogers," he begins, "we need you--"

    The Captain doesn't let him finish. Gripping the thick folder tightly, Rogers flicks his wrist and sends it flying at the man's throat. The spinning folder connects with his windpipe, cutting him off mid-sentence and causing him to clutch at his throat. Papers scatter through the air like confetti. The Captain quickly takes advantage of the ensuing chaos, throwing himself headlong at the soldier to the leader's immediate left. Rogers throws a sharp right cross at the man's exposed jawline, knocking him completely off-balance. The man drops his gun, and Captain Rogers kicks it across the floor towards one of the approaching soldiers, who promptly trips over it and falls flat on his face.

    One of the three remaining soldiers gets Rogers in a headlock from behind. As Rogers clutches at the arm around his throat, yet another soldier approaches tentatively. The man holds his gun out to the side, holding up his free hand in an attempt to calm the Captain down. Rogers leaps off his feet, planting both heels in the man's chest and knocking him down forcefully. As Rogers lands, he bends at the waist, flinging the soldier off his back and freeing himself from the headlock. The man flies upside-down through the air, colliding with the last standing soldier and sending them both sprawling against the elevator doors. Captain Rogers stands at the center of the defeated group, fists clenched.

    Just then, he hears the telltale sound of boots marching in formation. Rogers turns and sees another group of armed men, this time some ten or twelve men strong, turning the corner and pinning Rogers between themselves and the elevator. As the Captain braces himself for another fight, the men at the back of the squad step aside, and a figure begins to push through the crowd into the cramped hallway. "Captain Rogers," a half-remembered voice calls out. "Good to see that you haven't lost a step."

    As the man pushes through the front line of soldiers and becomes visible, Rogers lowers his guard. "Sergeant Fury?" he says, confused.

    Rogers' colleague stands in front of the armed men, dressed in a long black trenchcoat. He smirks a bit at that. "It's Colonel now, actually," Fury corrects the Captain. He takes another step forward, casually stepping over the groaning body of one of his defeated subordinates. "And besides, I think we've known each other long enough for you to call me 'Nick.'"

    Captain Rogers still looks ill at ease. "What's going on, Nick?" he asks.

    Fury nods. "Walk with me, Steve. There's a lot we have to talk about."
  10. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    A growl of struggled from Ben roused Sue from a dream-filled slumber. As her eyes drooped closed, strange visions came to her of a man in a chair and rips in space. Each image that flashed before her eyes was stranger than the last, and it ended with a gloved hand crushing the Milky Way. But the scene that she awoke too was even more terrifying. Ben was grappling with what looked to be a gargantuan, muddy-brown crab. It had eight legs, the front two of which held pincers, one of which was three times the size of the other. Purple muck from the swamps fell off its body, leading Sue to theorize it had followed them from there. It towered over Ben's impressive, altered fram, and the super strong man struggled to keep its large pincer at bay.

    "Reed! Johnny! Wake up!" she yelled at the other two who were just beginning to toss. Each woke with a startle and jumped into battle with the beast. Her brother began firing jets of fire at the creature to attempt to free Ben from its grasp, and Reed slammed on its hard carapace with an enlarged fist to try and crack its armor.

    Sue, meanwhile, felt worthless as she stood there helplessly. She cursed herself over the fact she had yet to display powers as the others had. Sure, they thought they were freaks, but at a time like this they needed everything they could use to survive.

    Of course, that was the time the monster decided to go after her. It tossed Ben into Johnny before catching Reed and slamming him into the ground. It reared up in front of Sue, ready to strike with its claw before stopping in mid lunge. Confused, Sue relaxed from her recoiled pose to look around in confusion.

    From a few yards away, Johnny groaned, "Where'd Sue go!?"

    "What do you mean where did I go!? I'm right here!" she called back before realizing what a bad idea that was. The crab creature lunged at her again, but slammed into something solid as she threw her hands up in a defensive manner. The impact seemed to reverberate through her head, though, and the wall she had seemingly just materialized out of thing air crumbled. But it had given her teammates enough time to recover and resume their attack against the brute. With their combined strength, the three of them managed to drive the creature back into the swamp from which it came.

    "Sue?" Johnny called out as he turned his flames off. "You still there?"

    "Of course I'm still here," she said from right in front of him, causing her brother to jump back in surprise. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

    "Uh, Suzie," Ben chuckled deeply. "You're invisible."

    Sue looked down confused, but found herself to be visible. Sensing the confusion in the air, Reed theorized, "Sue, I believe you're able to manipulate the light around you. You've instinctively made it so you're invisible, and you created a hard light construct that stopped the creature we just faced."

    Sue concentrated hard, breathed deeply, and calmed her heart rate. As she did, she saw the faces of her teammates brighten, and she realized she was once again visible, "Well, at least we know I can do something, right?"

    "Something? That might be the coolest thing yet!" Johnny exclaimed.

    "I hate to break up the geekfest," Ben interupted, "but we gotta find a new place to camp. Clearly this isn't gonna do us any good."

    Before any of them could suggest a course of action, a screaming Groot burst from the treeline with a screaming Rocket on his back, "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

    "You guys!?" Johnny seethed. "What the hell is your problem!?"

    "We're bein' chased by a group a' giant brown bugs!" Rocket growled. "If we all don't move, we're gonna be dead!"

    "No we're not, everyone, get close," Sue commanded as the thundering footsteps of more creatures approached. She focused and bent the light around the group, rendering them all invisible. The crustacean creatures emerged into the clearing before rushing past them and into the next group of trees.

    "Lady," Rocket said as he watched them go, "you were right. We should stick together."
  11. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    "Mr. Allen. How nice of you to join us this morning."

    As soon as I hear the voice behind me, I close my eyes and purse my lips. Here I thought that I might actually get away with walking into the Crime Lab a few minutes late today. Unfortunately, nothing seems to slip past the watchful eye of my boss, Director David Singh - particularly when it comes to me. To put it lightly, Singh has never quite warmed to me. I think it all started because Singh felt slighted that Captain Darryl Frye went over his head in hiring me. Captain Frye was a good friend of my father back when he was still on the force, and I think Singh has always suspected that I earned my job more on the basis of nepotism than actual merit.

    Meekly, I spin around in my chair to face Singh, who's standing with his arms folded. "I'm sorry, Director Singh," I begin, "My phone didn't charge last night, and I---"

    "Save it," Singh interrupts, unfolding his arms enough to hold up a dismissive hand and wave it in my direction. "I don't have time for another one of your excuses. A call just came in from STAR Labs fifteen minutes ago. Patty's already on the scene. If you value your job, I suggest you hurry down there." And without another word, Singh merely grimaces in my direction and marches off.

    I suppose I can't get too upset at how Director Singh treats me. After all, I do have a somewhat nasty habit of showing up to work late. But I always try to make up for it by staying later than anybody else. Not that I have much competition in that regard. James Forrest, our DNA specialist, spends most of his time at work leaning back in his chair, cup of coffee in hand, as he stares at the picture of his sailboat on his desk. And Patty Spivot, our blood spatter analyst, well... truth be told, I don't actually know much about Patty. She seems like a nice enough girl, yet... off - in exactly the kind of way someone who studies blood for a living would be.

    Nonetheless, even being berated by Director Singh can't diminish my excitement about getting a chance to see STAR Labs up close and personal. I may not follow the science world as closely now as I did when I was at Central City University, but STAR - aka Science & Technology Advanced Research - is still at the pinnacle of modern scientific developments, and STAR Labs is like the scientist equivalent of Graceland. I've admired the building from afar before, but it'll be amazing to get inside and see it with my own two eyes. It's just a shame it'll be happening under the current circumstances.

    One taxi ride later, and I find myself staring up at the sleek, reflective glass front of the Central City STAR Labs facility. The company logo - a four-pointed star encircled by a crescent-shaped halo - is emblazoned proudly in the center of the building's face, shimmering gold and catching the light. At the very top of the building, a silver spire stretches out towards the sky. I remember reading about that online a few weeks ago. Apparently, it's part of some experiment to monitor storm cells as they pass over Central City. From the looks of the sky in the distance, they'll have some luck with that soon enough.

    If STAR Labs' reputation wasn't enough to convince a person of their cutting edge status, then their ultramodern lobby might be able to do the trick. Square pillars extend down from the vaulted ceiling, a classic look in futuristic white and chrome. Behind the large semicircle reception desk, the STAR name and logo is superimposed on a waterfall. Here and there, uniformed CCPD officers buzz about, interviewing the displaced scientists who all look equally confused and curious as to all the ruckus. Among the crowd, I recognize one face in particular: Darwin Elias, a prominent independent researcher and STAR Labs' newest big-name hire. Though I want nothing more than to stop and introduce myself, I continue on, remembering that I'm here for work and not sightseeing.

    A uniformed officer leads me to the scene of the crime, one of the larger laboratory spaces at the heart of the facility. Inside, the center of the room is dominated by a large metal oval nearly fifteen feet tall. As I walk around the room, I realize that the oval is actually a massive ring. "Apparently, it's a 'particle accelerator,'" a voice off to my right says. I turn to see Detective Denny Colt, dressed in a blue trenchcoat and holding a small notepad. He meets my gaze. "That mean anything to you?" he asks.

    I nod, finally understanding what I'm supposed to be looking at. "It's a machine for studying subatomic particles," I explain.

    Detective Colt shrugs. "If you say so, kid." He motions for me to follow as he makes his way across the room. Near some kind of work station at the far end of the room, a body lays on the floor, covered with a sheet. Patty Spivot kneels by the body, taking pictures of the surrounding area. "The victim is one Dr. Robert Frank. Some kind of physicist. Dr. Stanley Stewart, one of his collaborators on this 'particle accelerator' project, found him this morning."

    Upon seeing me approach, Patty's face lights up. I've suspected for a while now that Patty is interested in me, which is impressive considering how oblivious about these things I usually am. "Hey, Barry!" Patty says enthusiastically as she stands, smoothing out her skirt. "I wasn't sure if I'd see you here. Good thing there's blood to analyze, I guess!" Upon realizing how that sounded, Patty's face flushes. "I mean, not that... This is awful, of course, but..." She closes her mouth before her foot threatens to get any further inside it.

    I kneel down by the body, removing the sheet. Dr. Frank was no spring chicken, that's for sure. His face - particularly brow and cheeks - bore long, deep wrinkles. What little hair he had left had receded to either side of his temples. Yet it wasn't old age which did the old physicist in. His pale dome was marred by a blood-stained spot just above the left eye socket. Producing a pen from my jacket pocket, I poke at the area to confirm my suspicions.


    "Blunt force trauma to the skull," I report. "Something small, round, and hard. About the size of an orange, give or take." I look around for clues. The contents of Dr. Frank's desk are scattered about, moreso than simple messiness could explain. As I look down, I see various papers that have fallen to the floor. "Maybe a paperweight?" I suggest.

    "That'd be consistent with my analysis," Patty chimes in. She steps over to the desk. "The perpetrator stood facing this way." She points towards the desk. "If we assume he was right-handed, then he could've leaned past the victim--" Patty leans forward to illustrate, barely stepping around Dr. Frank's body. "--picked up the paperweight--" She palms an invisible ball. "--and smashed it against the victim's head once, twice, three times... until the victim collapsed, hitting his head on the corner of the desk as he fell." Patty points to a patch of blood on the desk's corner.

    I nod in agreement. "She's right. The victim has a wound on the back of his head, but it wouldn't have been what killed him." I glance up at Patty, who's beaming proudly at me.

    Detective Colt marks all this down on his notepad. "Alright, so we're looking for a missing paperweight. Perp probably took it, but be sure to look for prints on and around the desktop."

    As Detective Colt walks away, Patty gives me a thumbs up.
  12. Morden Man Civilian

    Aug 12, 2014
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    I’m the hospital again. After three months laid in a hospital bed I could only manage two weeks out before finding myself back there again. This time I’m conscious, this time I can feel the pain from the glass cuts in my hand, but this time I can’t see a thing. I’m blind. At least I think I’m blind. I still don’t quite remember how I got from Angela’s to the hospital and the first couple of hours after arriving are still a blur.

    What I do know is that from the sound of things, I’ll never be able to see again. A Dr. Charles McNider has spent the past hour or so trying to explain what “retinal detachment” is to me and how it probably happened. It wasn’t the fall in the kitchen that had made me blind, it was the beating I’d taken at Turk, Grotto, and Cao’s hands the night that had landed me in the hospital to begin with.

    I thought I was going to lose my life that night. Turns out all I lost was my vision. If you’d told me that whilst Grotto had been pummeling me I would have been over the moon. Having it snatched away from me after having been awake for a fortnight hurts even more than waking up without it. I can’t imagine a life without it. But from the sound of things I’m going to have to.

    I sit in silence and try to mull over what my future will look like.

    “There must be something you can do to fix this.”

    Ted had been peppering Dr. McNider with questions since he’d arrived.

    “I wish I could say that there was,” Dr. McNider said with a heavy sigh. “If we’d found out earlier about the damage to Matthew’s retinas then we could have performed emergency surgery to try to salvage what little we could of his eyesight. This late in the game there’s nothing that can be done.”

    “How could he lie there for three months without someone noticing? Surely someone should have checked for… reti… for that whilst he was in here? It doesn’t make any sense.”

    I’ve not heard Ted this angry in a long time. I wish I could say that I shared his anger and passion in this moment but it would be a lie. I’m not angry at anyone. Not Turk, not Grotto, not Cao, and least of all the hospital. It would be so much easier, so much more straightforward, if that was the way I felt. All I feel is a sense of loss.

    “You mentioned earlier that a close family friend was an attorney?”

    “Yeah,” Ted mutters. “Franklin.”

    “Well,” McNider began. “If I were you I’d think about contacting him.”

    “You think we could sue this place?”

    “Sue?” The Doctor said with an impish tone to his voice. “No one mentioned anything about legal action. But since you happened to bring it up entirely independent of our discussion, hypothetically I imagine that one might have a strong case against any hospital that could miss such a thing.”

    Money? Money meant nothing to me. I could feel the sadness building up in me as I thought of all the things I’d never lay my eye on again. I’d never see another sunrise, or lightning tearing through the skies, I’d never have the joy of seeing my child’s face for the first time. Even the little things, all the things I’d see on a daily basis and take for granted, they were gone. And they were talking about suing the hospital as if it would make amends for this.

    “Will that bring my vision back?” I ask pointedly. “Will that make me see again?”

    There’s an awkward silence.

    “The man’s just trying to help, Matt.”

    I hear McNider clear his throat.

    “I’ll leave you alone for a while.”

    I feel Ted’s hand on top of mine and he holds it tightly for a few moments. Though I can’t see him I can feel the sadness in his every touch. He’d wanted me to own the gym after him, keep his legacy alive, and now I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do anything. For a moment it feels like he’s going to say something and I hear him catch himself as he tries to speak. Whatever he had to say obviously wasn’t that important.

    I hear Angela re-enter the room.

    “Where have you been?”

    “I made a few calls,” Angela said, sounding oddly optimistic. “Someone I know through work is friend’s with a surgeon by the name of Dr. Peter Cross. He said he could put us in touch with him. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

    I want to smile at the news but I know that unless this guy happens to be Jesus Christ himself there’s no way I’m getting my sight back. For Angela’s sake I let out an unconvincing grin. Try as she might there was no fixing this. I’d never see her face again.


    Peter Cross was an impressive individual. Even without my eyes I could tell that he was the type of man that lit up every room he went into. Everything about him screamed charisma and success. His voice was silky smooth and had a rhythmic tone to it that made every sentence Peter spoke sound like he’d said it a thousand times before, like he’d stood in front of a mirror and practiced it endlessly. Usually I’d resent that in a person, but something about him put me at ease, he wasn’t obnoxious or self-referential in the slightest and genuinely seemed like his heart was in the right place.

    I still wasn’t quite sure how Angela had managed to land Peter but I was glad that she had. Someone that Angela knew through work happened to be a personal friend of his and after hearing about what had happened had passed his number onto Angela. It was like something out of a movie, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

    We’d met several times now since moving to Cross Labs and this would be the last time we would before I underwent the procedure Peter was offering. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I’d been skeptical at first but Cross seemed to know what he was talking about and Foggy, Ted, and Angela seemed convince I’d have my vision back this time next week. Either that or they were putting on a pretty convincing front.

    “I can’t promise you your vision back. As I said earlier and will continue to say until you’re sick of hearing it, the procedure is highly experimental. Human trials have only just begun and as of yet have been wholly unsuccessful despite the success the formula had during animal testing. So please adjust your expectations accordingly and be prepared for anything.”

    “I get it,” I say with a sigh. “Don’t get my hopes up too much. Let’s be honest though: what’s the worst that could happen? Worst case scenario I wake up after taking this thing and I still can’t see.”

    I can hear Peter scurrying around and the sound of what I think is him flicking through a chart or a book or something. It’s been less than a week since I’d lost my vision and I was still no better at discerning the most basic of sounds.

    “That’s not technically true. If something goes wrong the procedure may cause bleeding from the mouth, the anus, the eyes, not to mention hair loss and, last but certainty not least, organ failure,” Cross says matter-of-factly. “You could not wake up at all for all we know, that’s why we made you sign all of those waivers.”

    I sit in silence for a moment, slightly overawed.

    “I wasn’t actually asking.”

    “Oh,” Peter laughs. “Well pretend you didn’t hear that then.”

    “It’s quite hard to unhear that I might wake up tomorrow bleeding from the anus, Dr. Cross.”

    “If it’s any comfort the bleeding would be rather faint to begin with.”

    I laugh for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. Not even Foggy had managed to make me crack a smile, so that was really saying something. Even before I’d lost my vision it had felt like people had been walking around on eggshells around me, so it was nice to be treated like a competent adult for once. Even if I did wake up without my vision tomorrow I’d be thankful that somehow took the time to talk to me like a normal person. It’s funny the things that start to mean more to you in moments like this.

    “That’s no way to talk to a condemned man.”

    I hear Peter do a double take at my comment. Usually he would have fired back a retort that was funnier and cleverer than anything I’d have come up with if you’d given me fifty years to think of one.

    “Listen to me, Matthew, even if the procedure doesn’t work there’s no reason you can’t have a long and successful life. Blindness is not the barrier to success that it once was. You can still go on to do great things.”

    It was all well and good to say that when you had two working eyes. I was an ex-con without a high school diploma that had next to no savings to his name. What good could I possibly be to anyone?

    “How would you know? Last time I checked you could see.”

    “My father was blind. He came to this country without a penny to his name and yet he found work, he made a life here, and earned enough to put clothes on his son’s back and to send him to bed every night with food in his stomach. If he could do that with English as his second language I don’t see that you have much excuse not to make something of yourself, Mr. Murdock.”

    Peter falls silent and pats me on the hand. The last thing I hear is his footsteps echoing out of my room.
  13. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    Sionis Pharmaceuticals

    Blood was everywhere. That's the only thing Detective Renee Montoya could think about as she tried her best to stay out of the evidece as she traversed the crime scene. She had never seen so much of it in her life. The poor lab assistant had been torn open like he was mauled by a tiger, and his entrails were strewn about the lab. The fact that a man dying of cancer supposedly did this was the most unbelievably thing. The owner of the company claimed Michael Morbius was under a severe amount of strees, but even the largest adrenaline surge Montoya had ever seen hadn't produced results like this.

    "Christ!" the CSI guy who had been called in jumped back from the body in surprise. The man turned from the scene and gagged before saying, "He ripped his throat out. With is teeth."

    Crispus Allen came up from behind him and attempted to clarify what the investigator just sai, "You're saying he did this with his teeth?"

    "No, not all of it," the man shook his head, "but the throat was definitely ripped open using teeth. And, if I didn't know any better, I'd say it was done with extremely long and sharp human canines."

    "Like vampire fangs?" Montoya looked at the man skeptically.

    He shrugged, "Yea. Sure. Something like that. The rest seems to have been from raw strength alone."

    None of it made much sense to Renee.

    "Do we have any footage of the attack?" Allen asked as he surveyed the room.

    "Negative," Montoya sighed. "Sionis said Morbius liked to work in private. He had all the cameras in the lab deactivated."

    "Terrific," Allen said. "So we get the word out about this guy and hope someone calls him in. This is gonna be fun."


    Outside Renee Montoya's Apartment

    As Renee approached the front door to her apartment building, she stopped, sensing that someone was watching her. She drew her weapon, spun around, and came face-to-face with the Batman, "What the hell is your problem?"​

    "The lab," Batman ignored her question, "were there cameras inside the lab?"

    "Yea," she nodded and holstered her weapon. "But Sionis said they were turned off."

    "Sionis was lying," Batman said with confidence. "He's got his interests to protect."

    Montoya went up to her door to unlock it, "Yea but how are you going to prove..."

    When she turned, she found the Batman was gone, and she was talking to herself.​


    Roman Sionis' Penthouse

    Roman watched the tape once, and that was enough. This was the end of his business, he knew that. He had resigned himself to that. When the Catwoman stole those plans, she put a hole in Sionis' ship that would sink it eventually. Now that the lunatic doctor had changed himself into a freak, the hole had become a gaping wound. ​

    Thankfully, Roman had long planned for this occassion. His side business had been profitable, and now was the time to jump feet first into that realm of his life.​

    He picked up his phone and put in a call. When the person on the other line picked up, Roman merely said, "It's time. Put our plans into motion."

    Roman Sionis hung up, put the phone down, and walked over to the window with a drink in his hand. He looked over Gotham and smiled. If the business world could not be his, the Underworld certainly would be.​

    He turned his head to the mas that hung behind his desk and picked it up. It had been in his family for longer than anyone could remember. It had been used as the family's representation at balls during the Renaissance. It was a symbol of the Sionis family's power and a representation of the fear that their power once struck in the heart of others. That was before his ancestors were stripped of their lands. Before his grandfather fled to this country.

    But it would strike fear into the hearts of men yet again.

    The black onyx glistened with the flickering flames coming from his fire place. Roman placed it over his head, and the skull's grim smile matched his own. Roman Sionis may have been a failure. No one would remember his name save for the fact he ran a once profitable company into the ground. No one would remember Roman Sionis.

    But everyone would remember Black Mask and the False Face Society.

    The Batcave

    Bruce sat dejectedly in the chair infront of the main screen of his crime fighting computer as footage from Sionis Pharmaceuticals' security cameras showed him the birth of a monster. He watched as one of the world's most brilliant geneticists injected himself with an untested serum before tearing another living being into pieces. It seemed that an animalistic hunger had taken over Morbius. It drove him to tear into the man's throat and body. The Batman had long learned to control his fear, but seeing the attack even gave him a twinge of dread. Bruce had no idea what made the doctor into the creature, but he knew he needed to find this man before Morbius hurt anyone else. If Bruce found him, he might be able to help him.​

    Sionis had, of course, lied to the detectives of the MCU when he told them the cameras in the lab had been off. He shut them down and attempted to hide these files on the company's servers, but Bruce found them easily enough. He didn't like having to stoop to these kinds of levels, but the people's safety was his primary concern. Sionis's intense secrecy was a worry for Batman, though. This man was clearly more focused on profits than he was on science.​

    But he had no idea where to look for the former Michael Morbius. The police had already been to Morbius's house and it was clear he hadn't returned home after the attack. More likely than not he had taken to the streets, which meant if he got hungry again he'd probably dig into another innocent person.​

    Time was of the essance. That much was certain.​

    "Ghastly work," Alfred said from behind him. "Be careful with this one, Bruce."

    He nodded to his mentor. Bruce knew this was unlike any person he had ever faced before. Morbius clearly had some for of super strength and speed, but he was still human, albeit with animal urges. It made him think back to his time in Wakanda and learning to hunt with T'challa, the Black Panther. Whatever he's become, Morbius will need food and shelter. The question becomes where he could go to get that without being found.​

    "Morbius is a confused, wounded animal right now, Alfred," Bruce explained. "He's dangerous, but also scared. He'll look for somewhere he can hide and feed easily. All I have to do is figure out where that is. Once I do, I'll be able to find him, help him, and get him away from innocent people."

    "Somethings are beyond our help, Bruce," Alfred warned. "Don't go getting yourself killed for this man."

    "I'm not doing this for the man, Alfred," Bruce assured him. "I'm doing this to protect the people of this city."

    "Which is well and good," Alfred warned, "but you started this to rid the city of crime and corruption. You can't do that if you're dead."

    Bruce felt the anger rise in him before he gained control of his emotions, "I also started this to inspire the people of Gotham to rise up and start fighting back against the evil that controls this city. What kind of inspiration would I be if I sat back while a monster teared through them? Who would follow my lead then?"

    "You need to know your limits, Bruce," Alfred shot back. "There are going to be things you can't stop."

    "I fought lions in Africa, Alfred," Bruce assured him. "And bears in the Himalayas. I can handle myself."

    "Maybe this time you can," he conceded. "But what happens when someone like Superman shows up in Gotham? How would you stop that?"

    "Don't know," Bruce admitted as he headed back to the manor proper. "But I'd find a way."
  14. MST3K 4ever BRING IT BACK!

    Jun 17, 2004
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    For some time the city had been enraptured with Superman. He was the talk of the town and while Alexis publicly gave an opinion on him quietly Alexis was seething.

    For as long as she could remember she was the Queen of Metropolis. From the first time she unveiled the Luthortron 2000 home computer to the latest L-Phone she was the one everyone in Metropolis talked about, but now along came a man who could fly and wore blue tights with a red cape. Grudgingly Alexis had to admit the costume color scheme was impressive. Other than that she was going to know everything possible about this usurper to her throne, so that she could crush him publicly and leave no doubt who the true ruler of this city was.

    All this was going through her mind as she was preparing to host her annual AlexisCorp charity auction for the Fallen Officers fund. This was actually one of the few charity functions that Alexis didn't privately role her eyes at when it was mentioned. One because being the wealthiest person in Metropolis she viewed at as a public shopping, and secondly she actually did care about the Police force in Metropolis. They always made sure that she got "special" treatment, and while she did things that might be termed "criminal" Alexis respected the work that they did.

    As Alexis finished brushing back her fiery-red hair and slipping into her black dress Alexis felt a slight tremor in her penthouse.

    Alexis paused for a moment and asked, "Alexander what was that?"

    Alexander replied, "Miss Luthor there appeared to a tremor in the city."

    Alexis as she put in her earrings in said rolling her eyes, "Brilliant deduction. One more obvious statement like that and your CPU will be shattered and used in the L-Box video gaming system."

    Alexander said, "Oh no Miss Luthor this tremor was man-made though"

    Alexis paused for a moment and said, "You have my attention. Sorry about the L-Box remark."

    Alexander replied, " Quite all-right Miss Luthor. According to a news report a certain Doctor Polaris is threatening to destroy the city if Superman doesn't come to face him."

    For weeks Alexis had been trying to get solid information about Superman. Especially Superman in action. He never stood still long enough though. This was the Golden Opportunity for Alexis.

    Alexis said, "The following is to be carried out Alexander. Direct Lex-Com satellites 1 thru 10 over the city I want full spectrum analysis of Superman. I want you looking at every traffic cam and camera phone following Superman. If it is looking at Superman I want to see it. Secondly get Hal Wright at LNN on the phone were doing wall to coverage of this. Third after that I want Chief Winslow of the MPD on the line. I think it wise we cancel the events of the evening."

    Within a matter of seconds the satellites were in place, three LNN choppers were airborne, and Chief Winslow and Alexis agreed that in-light of the potential events postponing the auction was the wise choice. However Alexis did cut a check for half-a million dollars for the charity fund and had it expressed over to the MPD.

    Once that was all done Alexis slipped out of her evening dress and into a pair of purple sweats, drinking white zin, eating popcorn, and curled up on her couch watching several monitors from a floating plasma screen.

    She said before taking another drink, "Alexander I do believe this calls for some music."

    Just then the sound of Michael Buffer yelling, "Let's get ready to rumble" filled the penthouse. Once that sound died out Elton John's "Saturday night's all-right" began playing.

    Alexis looked up for a moment and said with a smile, "Nice touch Alexander." As she began to enjoy a handful of popcorn.
    #64 MST3K 4ever, Nov 21, 2014
    Last edited: Nov 21, 2014
  15. MST3K 4ever BRING IT BACK!

    Jun 17, 2004
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    The Joker and his crew arrived at an alley just behind the Warner Theater. He looked at his men and said, "Boys I don't mind telling you this it's been a pleasure, but you should know chances are likely not everyone maybe coming back from this. If that should happen I'll be sure to tell your loved ones that your last words were something profound, and not something like 'ugh I'm dying' or 'ahhhh' I promise."

    The Joker nodded and said, "Okay boys get to work, and Moe be careful with that bag it's got our insurance that there will be no interference. Move it on time is wasting."

    The henchmen headed off to the front of the theater while The Joker pounded on the back door loudly yelling, "Penny" each time he pounded. Finally someone answered who appeared to be the stage manager.

    He said looking at The Joker, "Sorry pal we're all booked up. Try again next year."

    Without a wasted motion The Joker reached up and snapped the man's neck.

    The Joker said, "Sorry I just gotta perform this year. Showbiz is in my blood you know."

    The Joker made his way through the back stage area, and looked out to the crowd. He saw the doors leading into the lobby get bolted as his crew moved in place. While Moe pulled out an electronic device that he cut on immediately. Larry and Curly began to fire their guns in the air in a short burst.

    The Joker said, "That's my cue!"

    The shooting startled the juggler with chainsaws on stage. The Joker grabbed one out of the air and said, "Think fast" hurling it at the performer who narrowly escaped the machine as he ran off stage.

    The Joker said, "With that kind of thinking I'm sure you will have a great career in Showbiz, or Pizza delivery."

    The Joker looked out at the crowd and said, "Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. A new program is about to get underway. It's called 'Gotham's next great psycho.' Hosted by me The Joker!"

    A few people started to get up but the henchmen began to open fire just over the heads of the crowd.

    The Joker said, "That was the only warning you're gonna get. Now some ground rules. If you notice that electronic device over by Moe, wave hi Moe."

    Moe waved and The Joker said, "Smart kid and a helluva bridge player. Anyway that device jams all cell phones meaning no calls in or out. Secondly anyone attempts to leave or disrupt the act..." The Joker opened his jacket revealing several grenades and said, "I toss one of these in your section and the section nearest you. I may not get you but I'll get some of you. Lastly please feel free to applaud or laugh when you feel the need, or I prompt you. At the end of the night you all will vote for who think the real psycho is."

    The Joker took a deep breath and said, "Okay let's get things started. Shall we."

    The Joker hopped off the stage and began to walk among the terrified patrons as he said, "Our first contestant is..." he spun back and grabbed a young man from his seat and said, "You sir what's your name?"

    The visibly frightened man replied, "Walter."

    The Joker replied, "Walter. Okay Walt old boy it's okay to be slightly nervous, but that's okay I like you so I'll help you along the way."

    The Joker pulled out a 44 Magnum and gave it to Walt and said, "Walt you got 15 seconds to impress me. Call as many people as you can. If I like you then you live. I don't like you let's just say you won't be back next year."

    The Joker took a step back and said, "Get to it Walter!"
  16. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    "Attention all units: we have a robbery in progress at Kirby Jewelers on the corner of 51st and Madison. Please respond."

    Officer Sam Bullit leans forward in the driver's seat, taking one hand off the wheel to pick up the radio. Keeping his eyes on the road, Bullit says, "Dispatch, this is Car 63, responding to the two-eleven in progress." He returns the radio to its place on the center console and flips a switch on the dashboard, activating the squad car's lights and sirens. Glancing at his new partner out of the corner of his eye, Bullit clears his throat, "So, Mattie, huh? That's short for... ?"

    the short-haired rookie responds. Officer Mattie Franklin turns to look at her fellow officer, a square-jawed veteran with the face of a politician. Mattie couldn't help but notice the sheer enormity of Officer Bullit's forehead, a feature not helped by the man's receding hairline. Though, the hair he had left had yet to be touched by gray. Mattie bites her bottom lip and turns her attention forward before she gets caught staring.

    "Martha?" Bullit repeats. He gives a deep grunt approximating a chuckle. "Yeah, 'Mattie's probably better." Bullit shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the concept of small talk. In his time with the New York Police Department, he had never been accused of being exceedingly social. Bullit was a man of few words, and he still wasn't quite sure why he had been selected to mentor the rookie. Bullit clears his throat again and turns down Madison Avenue.

    As the squad car streaks towards its destination, Mattie feels the tension of the growing silence overwhelming her. Rubbing the back of her neck, she asks, "So, have you heard about this 'Batman' in Gotham?" Her voice gets a little more animated as she says the name. Mattie had been following the news coming out of nearby Gotham quasi-religiously. The reports had been mixed and contradictory, but the results spoke for themselves: whoever - or whatever - the Batman was, he was making a difference for his city. Mattie respected that.

    Bullit gives a derisive snort. "Batman," he scoffs, rolling his eyes at the sheer absurdity of it. "Let me give you a little advice, rook. Don't believe everything you read. Particularly when it comes to Gotham." Shaking his head, Bullit continues, "Folks down there have had it so rough, they're willing to believe in anything that might turn things around."

    Mattie raises an eyebrow at her colleague's skepticism. "You don't believe in the Batman?"

    "A monster prowling the rooftops at night in search of righteous vengeance?" Bullit responds with a raised eyebrow of his own. "Even if the Batman exists, you want to know the simple truth? He's just some adrenaline junkie who gets off on putting on a mask and beating on junkies and lowlifes. At best, he's a dangerous vigilante. At worst..."

    As the squad car rolls to a stop at the corner indicated by dispatch, Bullit allows his thought to trail off. His eyes remain transfixed on a spot just above the street in front of the burglarized jewelry store. Mattie gives her partner a confused look, then follows his line of sight. When her eyes fall upon the same spot, she feels her mouth drop open. Bullit absently reaches for a switch and silences the squad car's sirens. Never moving his eyes, he reaches for the door handle.

    The two officers step out of the car looking flabbergasted. Beneath the streetlamp in front of the jewelry store, a figure wriggles violently. Muffled shouts for help come from his covered mouth, and his eyes are wide with fear. The man's arms are pinned to his sides by a shimmering, silvery twine, and he's suspended from the streetlamp by a strand of the same substance. On his chest, a paper note has been affixed. Officer Franklin steps forward and retrieves the note, reading it aloud slowly.

    "Heard the sirens and thought I'd swing by. Don't worry about the web: it'll dissolve in about an hour." Mattie glances up from the note at Officer Bullit. After giving him a strange look, she turns her attention back to the piece of paper. "Courtesy, Your Friendly Neighborhood..."


    Perspective's a funny thing. The island of Manhattan is a little over thirteen miles long with a population of some one and a half million people or more. The county it occupies, New York County, is literally the most densely populated county in the United States. Yet from eighty stories up, Manhattan looks like the world's largest and most intricate ant farm. All those people and their cars bustle about here and there, making it seem like the entire ground is moving. And when you're looking down at all those ants, you realize that each and every one of them has a story to tell.

    This is mine.

    Let it be known before we begin that I make no claims that my story will be particularly life-changing or enlightening. Hell, until a few months ago, my story wouldn't have even qualified as interesting. But that's the other funny thing about perspective: it can change in an instant. For me, that instant involves a live demonstration at STAR Labs in downtown Manhattan. It also involves a common house spider - nothing interesting or noteworthy about it, much like myself really. One bite. That's all it took. One bite, and my entire life was flipped on its head.


    Well, once I realized the opportunity I had been given, it didn't take me long to figure out how to exploit it. I made something of a name for myself in the New York amateur wrestling circuit. You might've seen the video: "Amazing 'Spider-Man' embarrasses Crusher Hogan." Not a terribly creative name, but it caught on quickly. It only took a few days to hit a million views. I was signed to a professional contract almost as quickly. I became something of a sensation until one of my challengers pulled a knife on me mid-fight. An actual knife! Just like that, my contract was terminated - all because the promoter hadn't heard of a "background check." As a masked man, I didn't have much of a leg to stand on, legally speaking. Not unless I wanted to out myself, anyway.

    By now I'm sure you're wondering why I'm telling you this. Well, as you might've guessed, it all comes back to perspective. See, I was angry after feeling like I had been cheated. So angry, in fact, that I ignored a chance to stop a robbery in progress. From my perspective, it wasn't my responsibility. Of course, I couldn't have known that the very same robber would gun down my Uncle Ben in cold blood later that night. Didn't make me feel any less guilty, though. I had been narrow-minded, selfish. I only looked at things from my perspective. I missed the big picture.

    With great power comes great responsibility. That's my new perspective. It means no more "Not my problem." It means no more "What's in it for me?" Each and every one of those little ants down there has a story to tell. They have friends, they have families. They all share this giant ant farm that we call home. And if I can use my gifts to make that ant farm a safer, happier place for all of us? Well, then I think I would make Uncle Ben very proud.

    Somewhere in the distance, a church bell begins to toll. It signals that I need to get a move on if I want to stand any chance of making it to homeroom on time. I stand from my perch, stretching the muscles in my legs as I pull my mask back down over my face. I reach my hands up over my head and feel my shoulder blades shifting. Closing my eyes, I turn on my heel and fall over backwards, arms extended at my sides. My Spider-Sense begins to tingle as I fall, increasing in magnitude as the wind rushes past my face. Finally, I open my eyes, and it's as though time has slowed to a crawl.

    I turn my head to the right, spotting a gargoyle protruding from a nearby ledge. I raise my hand in its direction and bring my middle two fingers to my palm, double-tapping the electrodes beneath the gloves. With a pressurized "thwip," a thin strand of silver-white webbing fires from the nozzle just beneath my wrist. It soars through the air in a straight line until it catches on the gargoyle's chin. I feel the line go taut, and I release the firing buttons. Taking the line in my hand, I let my momentum carry me through an arced swing upwards. Beneath me, the island of Manhattan passes in a blur of colors and sounds.

    Perspective. There's nothing quite like it.

  17. Morden Man Civilian

    Aug 12, 2014
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    The procedure is done. Eighteen hours of surgery whilst siphoning a fluorescent looking yellow liquid through my veins through a drip followed by twelve hours of sleep. Cross had explained time and time again the science behind the procedure, but for the life of me I couldn’t make sense of it. For all I knew the formula could have been made using extracts of human excrement for all I knew. All that mattered to me was that it might work. This was the one option I could choose that might result in my sight coming back to me as opposed to a life of what I saw as managed decline. I hoped for myself but I also hoped for Angela and Ted as much if not more.

    That’s why when I awoke to a pounding headache and complete blackness I knew something was wrong. Whatever the procedure was meant to do, it had failed. I couldn’t see a thing.

    “Tell me what you see,” I hear Peter’s voice come booming through the darkness. “What are you seeing?”

    His voice is so loud that I fall back down in my bed against the pillow and cover my ears. Even with my hands over them I can still hear the sound of Peter’s voice echoing around my head. What’s happening?

    “What’s wrong?”

    Again his voice is so loud that I can barely hear me own thoughts. It feels like someone running a cheese grater across my exposed brain. He places a hand against me and it’s hot to the touch, searing hot in fact, to the point I recoil from him and groan loudly.

    “It hurts so much,” I mutter under my breath. “Please make it stop.”

    Even the sound of his breathing is like nails on a chalkboard. Slowly sounds from outside the room begin to bombard me too. In the observation room I can hear the nervous chatter going on between Ted and Angela as they try to figure out what’s happening. They must be a good ten feet away behind a closed door and a pane of glass several inches thick and yet it sounds like they’re screaming in my ears. Something’s wrong. This isn’t meant to be happening.

    “What’s happening to him?”

    Angela’s voice is even worse.

    “ARGH,” I cry out in pain. “Stop! Make the noise stop!”

    The sound of it causes stabbing pain in my head and it throbs wildly whilst I writhe in pain in bed trying to stop it from hurting. I feel Peter’s hands on me as an icy cold piece of metal tears through the arm on my skin. It’s a needle. The smell of whatever sedative is inside is so powerful that it makes me want to throw up, but thankfully it begins to kick in before I can. Slowly the pain begins to fade away and his hands on me feel cooler than they once did.

    “Stay calm, Matthew.”

    His voice begins to fade away and I’m left only with the smell of Angela to comfort me as I slip out of consciousness. She smells like apricots. But there’s something else, something underneath that, a musk I’m unfamiliar with. It’s musky and thick, a combination of things that makes it unlike any smell I’ve smelt on her before, but before I have a chance to ponder it any further I feel my mind slip away from me. I’m asleep.


    I can hear everything. Literally everything. I don’t know what that procedure did, I don’t know why, but it feels like my brain is exploding. I can hear the heartbeats of every living thing in this lab hammering away through the night, one of the researchers down the hallway whispering into her phone about her hookup last weekend, and the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk outside. I sit awake in bed with my eyes closed and try my best to shut out all the noise and sleep but every time I do all I can think of is that night. The night my father died.

    I remember it like was yesterday. The arena packed to the rafters, full of smoke and nervous onlookers. “Battlin’” Jack Murdock versus Ted “Wildcat” Grant, some people were calling it the bout of the century. For me it was equal parts exciting and nerve-racking. My father and “Uncle Teddy” as I knew him then had been childhood friends growing up in Hell’s Kitchen with one another. They’d lost touch over the years and the trajectory of their boxing careers had taken almost opposite paths. Uncle Teddy fought on the big stage, in arenas full of movie stars and athletes, whilst my father was struggling to pull in a crowd in sticky-floored venues across the tri-state area. Eventually dad decided to give up on boxing altogether and started working in construction, until the drink got the better of him. That’s when Ted stepped in and changed his life.

    Dad travelled the country with Ted as his sparring partner and helped him prepare for bouts. Eventually Ted earned a title shot and from there on out both he and dad never looked back. I’d travel across the country with them from fight to fight watching “Wildcat” Grant take inferior boxers apart night after night. It was exhilarating. But there was always something missing.

    Jack Murdock’s return to the ring was met with derisory laughter from most people. Not Ted. Dad had been taking lessons all those years travelling across the country with him, learning from him, and he was a better boxer now than he’d ever been. Carl “Crusher” Creel, the man they said couldn’t be beaten and so many tipped to knock Ted off his perch, found that out the hard way. Dad took Creel’s best shot over and over again and kept coming. When he knocked Creel to the ground in the twelfth round everyone was shocked, everyone but Ted Grant. He was there, cheering louder than anyone else, despite knowing what it meant for both men.

    So I found myself at ringside. Watching the two men that I loved more than anyone in the world preparing to take one another apart. I’d seen them fight before, countless times, but that was different – it was sparring. This time it was for real and neither man would be holding back. I can still feel the knot in my stomach I had that day as they walked out to greet each other in the middle of the ring.

    The two men tapped gloves and exchanged their pleasantries, before walking off back into their corners with cordial smiles. As my dad waked back to his corner, I remember him looking over his shoulder and shouting across to Ted.

    “What say we head to Josie’s after the fight?”

    Ted laughed heartily.

    “Why the hell not? Winner picks up the tab?”

    “Guess I’d better not forget my wallet then.”

    It brought a nervous smile to my face. At least I knew that once that bell rung at the end of the bout they would still be friends afterwards. I shoveled down handfuls of popcorn to try to steady my stomach. It was salted, I hated salted popcorn then and still do now, but I needed to hold something, to be doing anything, to calm my nerves. The bell rang and the two men began to walk towards one another, all the laughter and smiles disappeared in a second, and I knew in that instance one of them wouldn’t walk out of that ring.

    I don’t remember much else before the last round. From what little I can remember, dad was more than holding his own up until that point but seemed like he had started to flag. It was bound to happen – he was several years older than Ted, had spent nearly four years out of boxing, and his game was predicated on power over finesse. One more round, I thought, all he had to do was hold out for one more round.

    And that was when I heard it. The murderous crunch that followed one of Ted’s punches. Dad staggered backwards several steps, leant against the ropes, and Ted was on him. After a flurry of punches he was attempting to lift himself up off on the ground, trying desperately to regain his balance, but something wasn’t right. He fell to the ground again, but this time he was motionless, and something wasn’t right. The bell rang but Ted stood there, his face turned pallid as it fixed on Jack Murdock lying there lifelessly on the ground, before silently turning to me. I knew something wasn’t right but it was that look that had sealed it – my father wasn’t getting up, “Battlin’” Jack Murdock was dead.

    I open my eyes and though I can’t see or feel anything, I can smell the salt in my tears before they’ve even started to collect in my eyes. With a brush of my arm I wipe them away and clear my throat. Dad wouldn’t want for me to be sat here feeling sorry for myself.

    In the distance, amongst all the whirling smells, a familiar one catches my attention. It’s Angela. The thought of her brings a smile to my face as I wonder what she’s doing. Then another smell hits me, that same unfamiliar one that I could smell from her yesterday, except now I’m finally able to place it. Cigarettes, whiskey, and ink. I squint as I try to block out the sounds of the city and isolate her amongst them all, try to find her amidst the gloom, and work out what’s happening.


    She’s moaning, as is someone else. A man’s voice, husky and parched, but exhilarated. I know what’s happening. I raise my hands to my face and pray to every God that’s ever existed for the world to swallow me up, as I did as my father lay lifeless on the canvas that night. It doesn’t.
  18. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    In the first part of his famous Divine Comedy, the Italian poet Dante describes the nine circles of Hell in great detail. Without trying to sound like I'm challenging a literary legend, I would nevertheless like to contend that Dante's vision of Hell is wholly incomplete. I speak from experience when I say that there is, in fact, a tenth circle of Hell, and it exists right here on this very Earth. The New York department of education calls it "PS 108." It's more commonly known by its other name: Midtown High School. And believe me when I tell you that a week spent here puts all of Dante's descriptions of eternal suffering to shame.

    Of course, some weeks are worse than most.

    "Oh, man. It can't be that time again already, can it?"

    "That's what the sign says."

    I look over my shoulder to see my two friends, Miguel Barragan and Anya Corazon, standing behind me with their arms folded. Miguel and Anya are practically inseparable, due in no small part to their shared Latin American heritage. When they're not physically together, they're glued to their phones, texting and Snapchatting each other about the latest gossip. Like me, they occupy the lower rungs of Midtown's social ladder, making the three of us like the school's "Island of Misfit Toys," if you will.

    I turn my attention back to the colorful piece of paper taped to the wall and sigh. "Yep, it's that time," I confirm gloomily as my eyes trace over the announcement once more. No matter how many times I read it, the message doesn't want to change. "HOMECOMING 2014!" it proclaims proudly, accented by little stars. "THIS FRIDAY NIGHT!" We all knew this night was coming, of course. But that doesn't make its arrival any less unpleasant. Homecoming is a chance for Midtown's social elite to rub elbows and pat themselves on the back. Hardly how we'd choose to spend our night.

    "Well, it's not like we have to go, right?" Miguel offers hopefully, scanning between myself and Anya for support.

    When he looks at me, I can only lower my eyes. "If only it was that simple." I step to my side to allow Miguel and Anya a clearer look at the sign. Hands buried in my pockets, I nod my head towards the smaller text at the bottom of the poster. "With live performance by THE HYPNO-HUSTLERS!" the paper taunts us. You see, the Hypno-Hustlers are a local funk rock band whose frontman is another fellow Misfit toy, our friend Hobie Brown. Which means that we're obligated by our friendship to go and support him, if nothing else.

    Miguel frowns and bites his bottom lip. "Damn."

    Anya gives a half-smile to try and appear cheerful. "Well, maybe it won't be that bad," she says, but it's clear that she doesn't even believe it herself. "Dances are fun, right?" She looks to me to back her up.

    "Dances mean dates," Miguel points out before I can respond. He averts his eyes.

    Anya pats him on the shoulder. "Aw, it's alright. I'll be your date."

    Just then, a high-pitched scoff grabs all our attention. The three of us turn to see Sally Avril, one of Midtown's cheerleaders and the poster child for the "in" crowd - for better or worse. She eyes Miguel and Anya condescendingly, a smirk on her lips. "You two are going to Homecoming together?" she says, brushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes. "Oh, that's rich. So... which one of you gets to wear the dress?"

    I look to Miguel for his reaction, but it's actually Anya who moves first. Fists clenched and fire in her eyes, she steps up to the much taller Sally and gets in the girl's face. "Excuse me, puta?" Anya spits, her tone laced with venom. "You want to run that by me again?" Sally's grin merely grows, clearly amused at how easily she's gotten under Anya's skin.

    Miguel puts a hand on Anya's shoulder and pulls her back. "Leave it alone, Anya. It's not worth it," he urges, though I can see the hurt in his eyes. Miguel's tough, and he's worked hard to build up walls around himself, but constant abuse isn't something you just get used to. Still, to his credit, you almost never see him flinch.

    "Yeah, listen to your boyfriend," Sally taunts.

    At this point, I can endure no more. I step between Anya and Sally, restraining my anger as best I can. "Alright, Sally, that's enough," I announce as sternly as I can. It's funny... Spider-Man gets to laugh in the face of dangerous criminals, yet Peter Parker almost never stands up for himself. Well, I suppose there's no time to start like the present. "You've had your fun. Now go slither off somewhere else."

    Sally's smirk falters for a moment. I'm sure she never imagined "Puny Parker" would talk that way to her. Though she scrambles to regain her composure, it's clear that I've flustered her. "Or what," she begins, her tone less maliciously playful and more confrontational, "You'll put me in a cast, too?" She's referring to my fight with Flash Thompson a month or so ago, back when I was still getting used to my new strength and twisted his wrist so badly that I broke a bone. That downgraded me from human punching bag to complete social pariah. Honestly, I do feel bad for doing that to him.

    Before I can come up with a response to Sally's barb, the bell rings, signaling that it's time for us to start making our way to homeroom. Sally glares at me for a moment longer before stomping off, evidently annoyed that I interrupted her fun. When I turn back around, Anya's still steaming. She softens a bit as she looks at me. "You should've let me have her," she says, curling the corner of her mouth into a wry smile.

    "Oh, I know. But how would we plan our revenge if you were stuck in detention all week?" I wink. I nudge her with my elbow before turning my attention to Miguel. "You alright, man?" He nods, but it's clear that he's a little deflated. Not that I can blame him. We're all counting down the days until we can leave these hallways - and the awful people who prowl them - behind. "Catch you guys at lunch," I say as I shoulder my backpack and head for homeroom.

    Later in the afternoon, all throughout science class, I'm not thinking about the laws of thermodynamics or even the incident with Sally in the hallway this morning. No, like usual, my thoughts and daydreams are centered entirely on my new extracurricular activities. I've been doing this Spider-Man thing for nearly a month now, but it feels like I could be doing more. Sure, I've helped a lot of people and put some criminals away, but I think it's time I start thinking about the bigger picture. Stopping the occasional mugger, robber, and carjacker is great and all, but the police can do that. As Spider-Man, I have the opportunity to make a larger impact.

    Flipping to a blank page in my notebook, I decide to jot down everything I know about organized crime in New York City. All the names and facts I've learned, both from the news and from snippets of overheard conversations between baddies before I bust them. Yet even after I'm done searching my head for every little morsel I can remember, my bullet-pointed list doesn't even reach past a third of the page. I lean my head against my hand and tap the pen against the notebook. Alright, Parker, it's time to up your game, I think to myself.

    At the end of the class period, Mr. Warren rattles off the problem numbers from the chapter to have done by tomorrow. Yet it's an entirely different kind of homework that I have in mind...
  19. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    Sionis Pharmaceuticals

    Bruce sat in the darkness of Roman Sionis' office as the CEO of the company entered and mulled about the space as he would normally do. Bruce could hear Roman muttering to himself, but about what he couldn't tell. But what the Batman did know was that Sionis was distressed. Bruce had seen what had happened in this building, and Roman had as well, no doubt. The CEO most likely knew his company's days were numbered, and was desperately trying to find a way to deflect blame from himself. Wayne had seen how shifty most CEOs were in his time running Wayne Enterprises. It made him sick, to be honest. Unrepentant greed wasn't a crime, but it was something Bruce did his best to combat with his own funds.

    As Sionis neared his desk, Batman stepped out from the dark corner, illuminating himself with the light filtering in from the moon through the windows. The two men stared at one another, and Bruce was impressed that Sionis showed no sign of fear. Up until this point, everyone that he had come up against cowered at his sight, but not this man.

    "So, are you here to threaten me, Batman?" Sionis asked in a mocking tone.

    "No, I'm here to give you a chance," Batman growled back. "I've seen the video, Sionis. I know what happened here. Give the authorities what they need or more people are going to die."

    Bruce was being honest with the man. If he continued to hide evidence, he'd go to jail, rather than just getting a slap on the wrist most people got. While he had tried to ravage the Wayne family legacy, Bruce held Sionis no ill will.

    Sionis walked over to a cabinet and poured himself a drink before turning back to the Bat, "I know what I'm doing Batman. I've got a public apoilogy lined up and ready. The police will get what they need, I'll save face, and I'll slip happily into retirement as Wayne or Osborn or Stark make off with the bones of my company. Morbius was a fool to do what he did. I hold no responsibility for what happens next."

    Bruce was taken aback. Sionis didn't care. If anything, he was cavalier about the entire situation, leading Wayne to suspect he had pressured Morbius into taking the concoction himself. Sionis wasn't merely a cold-hearted businessman, he was a sociopath.

    "Science makes mistakes, Batman," Roman continued as he sat down at his desk. "Michael Morbius will be another in the long line of these accidents, and life will go on."

    The Batman's fists clenched at Sionis's words. With the flick of his wrist, he pulled a batarang from his belt and imbedded it in the businessman's desk, "And people will die because of it. Innocent people. I will make sure you pay for that."

    "I'd like to see you try, Batman," Sionis grinned as Batman leapt out the window and into the night.


    "Bruce," Alfred's voice came over the Batmobile's speakers, which surprised Bruce, "there's been another killing such as the one from the night Dr. Morbius changed. It just came over the police scanners and ORACLE alerted me. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

    "Not like you to be up this late, Alfred," Bruce responded.

    "Well, when your charge is fighting a superhuman monster one day, you'll understand," was the old man's answer. Bruce was touched, but he still believed Alfred was worrying an unnecessary amount.

    Batman threw the vehicle into the next gear and screamed down the Gotham streets towards the coordinates Alfred sent to the computer. It wasn't far, and was located in one of the few middle class neighborhoods left in Gotham proper. The area wasn't conducive to what Bruce thought Morbius would pick for his hunting ground. Maybe his hypothesis was wrong.

    When he got to the location, he saw the street crawling with police. Batman turned the Batmobile into a darkened alley, scaled the side of the buildings towards the victim's apartment. There, he found detectives Allen and Montoya inspecting the crime scene. It looked very much like the one from the video. The sickly sweet smell of blood permeated the air, and the crimson liquid was spattered about like a Jackson Pollock painting. From the window, he said to the detectives, "Who was the victim?"

    Allen went for his gun, but Montoya stopped him from raising it. The two shared annoyed looks with one another before Renee answered, "Jeff Neil. He was a security guard at Sionis."

    Bruce cursed himself. This was outside of where Morbius' likely nest was because he wasn't hunting random prey. Morbius had kept enough of his humanity that he still desired revenge on those that drove him to this course of action. He wasn't just a hunting machine, he was a hunting machine with a personal grudge to settle.

    After pressing a few buttons on his belt, the Batmobile raced to the street under Bruce, who jumped easily into the cockpit before the car rocketed off towards Wayne Manor.


    The Batcave

    ORACLE compiled a list of everyone that could have been working the night the formula was stolen while Bruce pushed his cowl off and let it drop to the floor. The sound of the falling armor clanged through the caverns of the cave and echoed through them.

    "You look like hell," Alfred commented on Bruce's appearance.

    "I was wrong about Morbius. He's not just hunting, he's hunting people he thinks are responsible for the robbery," Bruce shook his head. "I can't protect everyone on this list but the least I can do is setup surveillance or get Gordon's men to keep an eye on them."

    Alfred cleared his throat, "Bruce."

    "What, Alfred?" Bruce asked while he continued to look over the list of names.

    "Ms. Kyle was directly involved with the theft of the formula," Alfred cautioned.

    That stopped Bruce in his tracks. It was something he had completely neglected to consider. Selina was the one that stole the formula. She was the one that set all these events in motion. He knew she'd be hard to find, but Morbius was full of animalistic rage. He'd track her down sooner rather than later no matter what he had to do to get to her.

    Bruce scooped up his cowl as he headed back towards the Batmobile, "I'll be back."
  20. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    Having traded his hospital gown for a pair of neatly pressed khakis and a plain white t-shirt, Steven Rogers makes his way to the nurses' break room where his old friend awaits him. Nick Fury stands by the large window at the far end of the room, overlooking the Washington Monument - Steve's first clue to his whereabouts. Upon hearing Steve enter, Fury turns, the hem of his trenchcoat flapping slightly as he extends a styrofoam cup containing steaming coffee. The Captain accepts it graciously while eyeing up the man he once knew.

    In World War II, Nicholas J. Fury had been a fresh-faced, clean-shaven soldier - fit of form and bearing a full head of thick, jet black hair. While his powerful frame hadn't faltered, Fury's hair was somewhat thinned and streaked with silver, particularly at the temples. His face and chin sported dark patches of stubble, as though he hadn't shaved yet this week. Over his right eye, Fury still wore that same black eyepatch from where he had taken a Nazi bayonet, the jagged scar extending a little above and below the black patch.

    If Captain America had been Nazi public enemy number one, then surely Sergeant Nick Fury made a compelling case for number two. During the War, Fury led a ragged bunch of fighters known as the Howling Commandos. While Captain America and the Invaders soaked up the newsreels and public attention, the Howling Commandos carried out the missions that were too covert - or too unsavory - for their colorful counterparts. Steve had fought alongside the Commandos once or twice. Fearless and ruthlessly efficient, the squad drew its strength from their leader, Sergeant Fury.

    Steve stares down at the steaming black liquid in his cup. Without looking up, he says plainly, "This isn't 1945." He doesn't need to hear or see Fury's confirmation. The evidence is everywhere - Fury's aged appearance, the unidentifiable equipment in every room, the strange outfits worn by those in the hospital. Of course, admitting the fact to himself was one thing. Actually coming to terms with the reality of it? Steve knew that was another thing entirely.

    "We looked for you after the Invaders got your transmission," Fury says. "Subs combed that ocean top to bottom. We even found the wreckage field left by Schmidt's plane. But you..." He pauses. "You were gone."

    Steve nods, the words simply washing over him as though Fury was talking about someone else entirely. He asks the next obvious question, "How'd I survive?"

    "Abraham Erskine," Fury answers. As Steve looks up, Fury continues, "The Super-Soldier serum in your blood. It kept your body alive long after your heart had stopped. And the freezing waters preserved your tissue. When we found you, you were in a vegetative state. The doctors weren't sure if we could resuscitate you. Until one of 'em got the bright idea to try a blood transfusion. But not just anyone's blood."

    Fury rolls up his sleeve to reveal a cotton ball taped to the inside of his elbow.

    "The Infinity Formula I got might not be the same as Erskine's serum, but it was enough to... jump-start you, so to speak," Fury explains. He rolls down his sleeve, covering his elbow once more. Then, he simply stands there, as though anticipating what must come next.

    "How long was I out?" Steve asks when he finds the strength.

    Fury takes a deep breath. "Before I answer, you need to know---"

    "How long, Nick?" Steve interjects a bit more forcefully.

    Fury meets his gaze. "Just shy of seventy years."

    Despite how prepared Steve thought he was for the truth, the answer still hits him like a ton of bricks. Seventy years? That was, quite literally, a lifetime. Steve feels all the strength go out of his legs. He wants to stumble backward, to fall to his knees, but he feels frozen in place. Periodically, he opens his mouth to say something, but words fail him. He simply clutches the styrofoam cup more tightly, allowing the warmth of the coffee to keep him grounded in the present.

    "It's a lot to process, I know," Fury states simply. "If you need me to step out?"

    Steve finds a way to shake his head. Somehow, the prospect of being alone didn't appeal to him. Instead, he moves somewhat shakily to a chair, setting the cup of coffee down on the circular table. At some point, Fury sits opposite him, though Steve couldn't quite say when. After a while, Steve finds his voice. "The War?"

    "The Invaders took Berlin, as planned. We weren't able to capture Hitler alive. He went and offed himself in his bunker when it became clear that Schmidt had failed. Germany surrendered after that. Japan held out... a little longer. But even they didn't make it through the year." There's something unspoken there, but Steve decides not to press it. Not yet, anyway.

    "What about the Skull?" Steve continues.

    Fury hangs his head a bit. "We never saw him after that night," he answers disappointedly. "For a little while after the War had ended, we'd hear murmurs of plans for a triumphant return or a retaliation strike. But the simple truth is that when the Nazi regime fell, Schmidt lost the greater part of his support system." Fury leans back in his chair. "Reality is that he probably died alone in some hole somewhere."

    That did bring Steve some comfort to hear - although he wished the Allies had been able to take him alive. While thinking of the Allies, Steve asks, "And the Invaders? What happened to them after this was all done?"

    Fury smiles a bit. "Your friend Jay Garrick came home and married his sweetheart, Joan. They're living in St. Louis."

    Steve perks up. "Jay's still alive?" The news was a pleasant surprise. The Invaders hadn't been spring chickens back in 1945, and Steve hadn't held out much hope that many of them would still be alive after seventy long years. "What about the others?"

    "Well, Namor returned to the ocean. We never really heard from him after that," Fury explains. "Falsworth returned to his family's estate in England, though a car accident in the 50's put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He passed away about fifteen years ago. He was survived by his son, Brian, and his daughter, Jacqueline."

    Steve frowns. Though sad to hear of James' passing, he takes some solace in knowing that his old friend got to live a life. James always used to talk about Brian, who was only a newborn when the War broke out. Strange to think that the new Lord Falsworth must now be older than Steve himself.

    "Hawkman came home and fought the good fight for a few years alongside your friend, Garrick. They formed a peacetime coalition of heroes called the Justice Society of America. They operated for about a decade until Congress pressed for crimefighters to unmask. Hall hung up the helmet and wings after that - though he's still involved in mentoring newer generations, depending on who you ask."

    The Justice Society of America? It sounded like the kind of name that only Jay could come up with. It wasn't surprising to hear that Jay kept crimefighting after the business in Europe was done. Nor did it surprise Steve to hear that Carter was still active in some fashion, government approval be damned. He always was thickheaded, with or without that beaked helmet of his.

    "Dr. Fate was part of the Justice Society as well," Fury continues. "Although he lost his helmet at some point and retired to a life of obscurity as Kent Nelson, an aging physician."

    Steve smirks. "And what about you, Nick? What's with the getup? And how do you know all this, anyway?"

    "Oh, everybody knows the stories about the Justice Society," Fury says unconvincingly. With a twinkle in his eye, he returns his friend's smirk. "Alright, you got me, Steve. Knowing things is my business. See, I thought Garrick was onto something with the Justice Society. Just because the War was over didn't mean that the world didn't need heroes. However, there are some jobs that men in colorful tights can't handle. That's what the Commandos taught me."

    "And these are your new Commandos?"

    "In a manner of speaking," Fury answers. "We call ourselves the Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Directorate. SHIELD, for short. We watch over the world, protecting it from threats that other government agencies aren't equipped to handle." Fury leans forward, folding his hands and putting his elbows up on the table. "The world's full of Johann Schmidts today, Steve. It feels like there's a new power-hungry madman cropping up every second, and it's our job to cut 'em down to size before they get what they want."

    Steve leans back in his chair, arching an eyebrow. "This sounds an awful lot like a pitch, Nick."

    "I won't lie to you, Steve. We could use a man with your skills," Fury admits. "But I'm not asking you to say yes. Captain America served his country faithfully. He saved the world time and time again, and he died with honor and dignity. In this business? That's about as clean an ending as it gets. No one here could begrudge you for taking it."

    Steve nods, considering the offer beneath Fury's words. Strap up and join the fight again, or let Captain America die back there in that ocean. "I need time," Steve announces, remembering that he's still thrust into a world that's seventy years ahead of him.

    Fury smiles at that. "If you didn't, I'd wonder what that ice did to your head." He reaches into his trenchcoat, pulling out a small, yellow envelope. He slides it across the table towards Steve. "Think of it as a starter fund. Enough cash to get you settled and on your feet. We also rounded up some clothes that might fit you. They're back in your hospital room. It's not much - and much less than you deserve - but..."

    Steve picks up the envelope. "Thank you, Nick." He tucks the envelope into his pocket and stands.

    Remaining seated, Fury looks up at the Captain and asks, "Where will you go?"

    Steve considers the question.

  21. Morden Man Civilian

    Aug 12, 2014
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    It’s the morning and Ted, Foggy, and Angela have stopped by the lab to visit me. I can tell it’s them before they walk in by the way they smell and the respective rhythm of their heartbeats. Though the procedure hadn’t restored my vision it had amplified my other senses and I was only beginning to understand it. Ted’s heartbeat was powerful, especially for a man of his age, though given his onetime profession it doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Underneath the rather overpowering deodorant he was wearing was the faint smell of fresh sweat. Foggy’s heartbeat was less healthy and the smell of the Subway he’d eaten on the way here on his breath was hard to miss. Meatball marina.

    Angela smelled like him: whoever she had been with last night whilst I was sat in a hospital bed. It broke my heart to hear her walk into the room, her usual scent of apricots overpowered by the smell of sweat and shame on her skin. Her heart was racing as she got closer to me, not out of love or affection but out of guilt. It took everything I could not to break down as the three of them made their way into the room.

    “You'll have to excuse my appearance," I say with a forced smile as I gesture to the bandages around my eyes. "It's been a bit of a rough morning."

    Ted laughs half-heartedly and places a welcoming hand on my shoulder.

    “It’s good to see you, kid.”

    He’s as torn up inside as I am. I can smell it on him. Whatever that procedure did to me has turned me into a human lie detector, which really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The problem with knowing whenever the people that love you are lying to you is it turns out they do it pretty often.

    “I wish I could say the same. What can you do though, eh? Sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to.”

    I’m making them uncomfortable. They want me to cry and scream and plead to the heavens for my vision back. If I thought it would bring it back I would do exactly that. You couldn’t shut Pandora’s Box once you’d opened it though and, with so much to cry about, I had no intention of starting anytime soon. This is how I chose to deal with it and they’d have to like it or lump it.

    “You don’t have to pretend. It’s okay to be upset about this, Matt, we’re all upset. If you can’t open up with us then who can you be honest with? We all love you, okay? And we’re going to support you. We’re going to help you get through this.”

    The woman I love, the woman I thought I’d marry and have children with one day, is lecturing me about honesty hours after… after… I can’t even bring myself to say the words, even in my head. I’m not sure whether to be angry at her or to break down in tears. I choose to go with neither and put a brave face on things. Life has taken my vision from me, I wasn’t about to let it take my pride.

    “Honestly,” Foggy said, the meatball marina wafting over as he spoke. “Anything you need, any assistance, all you have to do is ask. You know that.”

    Good old Franklin. He means it too. His heartbeat is steady and even, his palms are dry, and there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice. He’d spend the next two decades nursing me if I asked him to.

    “We all knew there was a good chance the procedure would be unsuccessful. After what happened I’m thankful to be alive, even if it does come at the cost of my sight, so could we all stop moping around? It’s not the end of the world, I’m still alive!”

    They all smile and agree to cheer up and treat me like a normal human being. Only Foggy does so with any conviction. Ted wears his grief at my loss of sight as openly as you’d expect of a man as expressive as he is. From Angela I can feel only guilt, only shame and self-loathing oozing out of her every pore, but something resembling love too. Or at least, I thought it was love to begin with. The more time I spend with her the more I’m convinced it’s anything but. It’s pity.


    “The formula we used during the procedure was designed for restorative purposes. I won’t waste my time trying to explain it to you long-form again, but in short all it really does is trick your body into repairing itself in a way it never naturally could. What you’re suggesting isn’t even possible.”

    For the first time since I’d met him Dr. Peter Cross was confused. I’d spent the best part of an hour and a half trying to explain to him the changes my body had undergone. With every passing hour I felt in more control of my other senses, able to control them better, to use them to my advantage. Most peculiarly of all was that the darkness I’d once been constantly enveloped in had been replaced by a dark red hue. Nothing seemed to make any sense any more.

    “Then how do you explain what’s happened to me? Somehow falling over in the kitchen has given me super powers? Is that what you’re saying here?”

    “It’s not that,” Cross begins. “With every other human test subject we administered the formula to there were side effects, often violent in nature, but not only are you fine but rather than repair your vision the procedure seems to have amplified your other senses. How does that happen? What’s so special about you, Mr. Murdock?”

    I shrug my shoulders.

    “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say with a smile. “Eh, given that you have PhD’s falling out of your ears I’ll admit your guess might be worth slightly more than mine. Only slightly though.”

    “We’ll need to test these new abilities of yours.”

    Peter races to the other side of his laboratory and begins picking up random pieces of equipment and balance them in his hands, as if weighing them. His heart is pounding so loudly in his chest that, despite being as scientifically ignorant as any human being could ever possibly be, I knew that this represented a potentially career-making moment for Cross. Eventually the doctor seemed to settle upon one item and I could hear it bouncing between his hands as he threw it back and forth.

    It was an apple. And before I knew it the apple was hurtling towards me. I could hear the air moving around it and for an instance the red abyss that was my vision became active with movement and sound. The apple appeared in front of me, almost as if I was able to see it, and at the last second I was able to pluck it from the air.

    “What the hell are you doing?”

    Peter’s already racing heart began to beat even quicker.


    “You can’t go around throwing apples at blind people! That is not o…”

    Suddenly it sank in. I’d caught the apple. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d managed to do it but I’d been able to catch it at without using my eyes. I glanced down at my hand and squeezed tightly between my fingers I could almost “see” the outline of the apple. Though Cross’ procedure hadn’t given me my vision back it had given me something else and I was beginning to wonder whether it might be an improvement.
  22. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    Clark soared over Metropolis as he searched for this so-called Doctor Polaris. He remembered vaguely what the man looked like from their quick run in at the apartment complex incident, but the armor or device he was wearing would stick out like a sore thumb. Clark was sure that was the source of his abilities, but the technology seemed unattainable from an earthly prospective. That was the most worrying thing to Clark. If some madman had gotten a hold of some sort of alien technology, maybe it meant there had been other visitors to this planet other than him. He figured the likely hood was high, but leaving behind such a weapon meant people could die. Not to mention the thought that there were even more powerful weapons hiding out there.

    By the direction which the tremor had hit the city, Superman knew the villain was located somewhere near the city center, and as he flew that way he noticed something he had never seen before. Black helicopters circled the city, each one emblazoned with a symbol of an eagle and a star with S.H.I.E.L.D. spelled out in big, white letters. Clark had no idea what the heck SHIELD was, but it couldn't bode well if some shadowy government agency was on the scene.

    In the park next to the Daily Planet, Clark finds his target. The man stands in the middle of the grassy area, and looks to be almost lounging about. He doesn't seem to be preparing for anything. He just seems to be waiting without a real care in the world. Police cruisers are stationed around the park, but no officer has made a move in, no doubt spooked by the show of power from the moments before.

    On a rooftop nearby, one of the SHIELD helicopters has landed, and what looks to be a command post has been set up. Clark swooped down and landed next to the group assembled there, "You folks looking for directions?"

    One of the agents stepped forward and looked the Man of Steel over. The agent himself was as nondescript as they come. Average height and weight, thinning hair on top of his head, and the suit and sunglasses Clark had seen every FBI guy wear in every movie ever. After a brief moment of silence the agent extended his hand, "Superman, pleasure to meet you. Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD."

    Superman shook his hand, "Never heard of SHIELD."

    "Never will," Coulson shrugged. "But we're here to help. We deal with this kind of stuff all the time. The guy down there is Johnny Nichol, a midlevel enforcer for the Intergang. Dull as dirt. He's been arrested multiple times. You should be able to take care of him."

    "So he's definitely not the one who created this suit or whatever?" Clark confirmed.

    "Oh god no," Coulson laughed. "Guy didn't even graduate high school. Now could you clean this mess up? I've got someone back at base I need to meet."

    The agent's flippant remarks about the current situation struck Clark as odd. He claimed to have dealt with things like this before, yet here he was waiting for Superman to clean up this mess.

    Whatever the case was, Superman knew he was the one that had to take care of Nichol, one way or another. He kicked off the roof and rocketed down into the park, landing hard thirty yards from the self-proclaimed Doctor Polaris. Clark was taken aback by his normalcy now that he had a good look at Nichol. He look to be slightly overweight and aging, clearly a mob man past his prime. The exoskeleton he wore crackled with energy, however. In a stern voice, he called out, "Stand down, Mr. Nichol. I know who you are. You're a petty criminal. You're not a mass murderer."

    "Ain't I?" he shot back. "Last time I checked I tried to drop a building full of people on you."

    "On whose orders?" Superman asked. "The same person who gave you that device?"

    "The boss said you had to go," Nichol threatened. "And that when it happened we'd be paid."

    So this was over nothing but a payday. The thought made Clark sick. It meant there was someone out there that was willing to sacrifice the people of Metropolis just to get to him. Why, he had no idea. He'd yet to come up against anyone this powerful.

    "I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Nichol," Clark started to float off the ground threateningly, "but if you don't stand down I will put you-"

    "Enough talk!" Polaris yelled as two police cruisers flew from the edge of the park towards Superman. He managed to get out of the way of one, but the other slammed into Clark's face. He felt the metal bend around his skull as he and the object tumbled through the air. As they hit the ground, the engine block bounced off Superman's forehead, sending stars through his vision.

    Clark stood and attempted to regain his composure, but was immediately slammed again from above with another cruiser. Nichol was slamming them into Superman like they were pillows at a sleepover. Clark could feel each one as it slammed into the pile, but he also was regaining his senses. Polaris thought he was continually hurting Superman, but in reality, he had formed a protective barrier of metal around Clark.

    When the crashing stopped, Superman figured his opponent had believed himself victorious. With a mighty push, Superman exploded from the junk pile and rocketed towards the criminal. Polaris attempted to save himself with a clumsy swipe of a hand, pulling some girders out of surrounding buildings. Superman was too fast for him. Clark was on him in the blink of an eye, and he tore the magnetic exoskeleton from Nichol, which promptly deactivated.

    Nichol yelled and threw a clumsy punch to Clark's jaw, resulting in a broken hand. Superman dropped the criminal and surveyed the area. At least a dozen cars had been destroyed, not to mention the property damage in the buildings surrounding the park.

    "Good job," Agent Coulson's voice approached. "I mean, minus the part with getting swatted by the cars. But mostly a good job. We'll take Nichol and the device from here."

    Clark eyed the agent suspiciously. This was a powerful weapon, and he had no idea what SHIELD's true goals were. For all he knew they'd use this weapon for worse reasons.

    "We're the good guys, Superman," Coulson urged. "Trust us."

    That, of course, was when Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen came running across the park towards Superman. He knew Olsen would recognize him if he stayed, so he handed the device to Coulson before taking off, "Don't make me regret this, Agent Coulson."

    "I won't," Coulson's promise was audible only to Clark as he sped off.


    Bruno Mannheim's massive fist slammed onto the table in front of him, splitting it in half. He grabbed the nearest man and flung him across the room, "What does it take to put this bastard down!?"

    In all reality, Mannheim hadn't expected Nichol to take out Superman. This was just an opening salvo in a war that would stretch on. But he had expected more than what he got out of the man. Superman came out of the encounter without a scratch, and the Intergang had lost the device that gave Nichol his powers. Their benefactor was not going to like that one bit.

    "I think it's time to take this to the next level," Manehim growled. "I'm gonna go have a talk with the boss."


    "Another day, another act of super powered atrocity, my fair Metropolis," Gordon Godfrey said sadly to his viewers. "Earlier today, Superman and a man named John Nichol who called himself 'Doctor Polaris'. These men tore up one of Metropolis's most beautiful parks, destroyed multiple police vehicles, and caused unknown amounts of property damage. And for what? Because Nichol wanted to test Superman. He wanted to see what the man really could do. Now the generous Alexis Luthor has already began the cleanup and repair of our fair city, but I have to ask how much more we'll put up with this. G. Gordon Godfrey, signing off."
  23. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    Wayne Manor

    The sun crept up over Gotham as Batman pulled the Batmobile back into the Batcave. He was tired, more tired than he had been in a while. It wasn't an easy life he lived, even if it was his choice. He had spent the night staking out Selina's place to ensure Morbius didn't visit in the night. It was far too sentimental of a move, Bruce knew that. He could have been out casing the locations of the other guards or employees of Sionis. Instead he made sure she was safe. But he had lost so many friends through his time and crusade that he wouldn't lose any more. Of course, he wasn't sure he could consider Selina really a friend anymore. Either way, she didn't deserve to be ripped apart by that madman no matter what she did. Bruce wouldn't let that happen. He'd never let that happen.

    "Welcome home, Batman," ORACLE came over the Batcave speakers.

    "Nightly report," he commanded the computer.

    "Other than the crimes you are already aware of," the program began running through everything of note that happened in Gotham City, "there were fire breaking and entering recorded, seventeen muggings, four retail robberies, and an unidentified crime at a local comedy club."

    "Keep me posted," was all Bruce said as he took his Batman armor off. The night had been an abject failure. He knew that. He had no idea where Morbius was, or even where to begin looking. On top of that, the business with the monster was distracting him from figuring out who had really hired the Firebug.

    The situation he was in reminded him of The Riddler's words from weeks before. A fire was coming to Gotham. That's what this felt like. It was the first embers of a catching fire that would engulf the city if he wasn't careful enough. His only question was whether or not he had enough water to snuff it out.

    "I take it Gotham's resident vampire didn't make another appearance?" Alfred asked as Bruce emerged into the manor.

    "He's not a vampire, Alfred. Don't be ridiculous," Bruce shook his head. "And no. The rest of the night was quiet on that front. I have to assume he only needs to feed periodically."

    "Well, that's comforting," Alfred said sarcastically. "Perhaps if we set up a blood drive-thru we'd have an easier time finding him."

    "Funny, Alfred," Bruce sighed as he headed towards his bedroom to get some rest.

    "Don't forget you have a meeting with Mr. Dent this afternoon," Alfred reminded him.

    "I won't."


    Gotham District Attorney's Office

    "Sorry I don't have a lot of time today, Bruce,"
    Harvey said as he took a seat across from Bruce. "Things have not been quiet in our city. I'm sure you heard about what happened at Sionis?"

    Sionis had stayed true to his word and came clean that morning. The transformation of Michael Morbius was now public knowledge, and the protestors that had formed outside Sionis were chanting the company's death knells. It wasn't the justice Roman Sionis clearly deserved, but it was the best that would most likely happen.

    Bruce nodded with faux compassion, "Terrible tragedy. Such a smart man wasted."

    "Yea, well, now he's wasting innocent blood in my city," Dent grumbled. "And I've got citizens terrified there's a monster stalking the street. Not to mention other...problems."

    Bruce figured Dent was talking about whatever happened at that club, but Wayne didn't want to press the issue.

    "Two monsters now. Batman has to weigh on you mind too," Bruce seemed to probe innocently. He had wanted to know what Dent's real thoughts on Batman were, and this was an opportunity.

    "I actually think that one's helping, to be honest," Dent responded off hand. "At least he's not killing people."

    It wasn't the glowing endorsement Bruce was looking for, but it was a start. Dent was at the very least near the belief Batman was good for the city. There was little else he could hope for.

    "How about we get to business?" Wayne moved the conversation on. "You called about our conversation the other day?"

    After a long pause Dent nodded and said, "I'm in. I'm not sure how we make our move, but I'm in. Cobblepot handed this city over to criminals wholesale. I don't know if I'm ready, but it looks like my only chance to really change this city."

    A big smile came across Bruce's face. Harvey Dent was "I'm glad to hear it, Harvey. As for our move, let me handle that. You just get a speech ready."


    Selina Kyle's Apartment

    Batman knew, deep down, that this was probably a bad idea. But he couldn't shake the idea that he needed to warn Selina about Morbius. She could handle herself, and if she was prepared maybe she could fend him off. He slipped through a window while she was washing dishes and turned on his localized electronics scrambler, turning off the lights in the building.

    Selina spun around to find his silhouette cast by the light of the moon through the window, "Didn't know you made house calls, tall, dark, and stalky."

    "This isn't something I'd normally do," Batman admitted. "But Morbius is looking for you. And he will find you."

    "Well if he does I hope he's more fun than you are," Kyle rolled her eyes. "Did you tell anyone about my identity? That'd be bad for business."

    "No, Ms. Kyle," Bruce was getting annoyed at how cavalier she was being about this. "But this is serious. Morbius is an animal set out for revenge."

    "It's sweet you care so much, Batman," she smiled half-heartedly. "But I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

    "I don't care," Batman lied. "But I need to know who your employer was. I can't do that if you're dead."

    That's when the window behind Batman exploded into a thousand shards as Morbius burst through them. The powerful creature landed on Bruce's shoulder and went to bite him, but received a kick in the head from Selina instead, "You're paying for that, creep."

    "Miss Kyle," Morbius growled, "you destroyed my life, and forced me into this new one. And your life will sustain it."

    "Oh cry me a river, ugly," Selina snarled. "A job's a job."

    "And a meal's a meal," Morbius responded as he reared up to pounce on her.

    As he soared through the air Bruce got in front of him and dug two batarangs Batman placed in his fist into Morbius' shoulder. The creature howled in pain, and Bruce got his first, good look at what had become of Michael Morbius. His face look like that of a bat, wrinkled and pig-nosed. But his mouth was a completely different horror. Rows of sharp, pointed teeth had replaced the ones which were once human. His skin was a sickly white, even worse than when he was dying from cancer. Other than his teeth, the man's eyes were his most striking feature. They had turned completely to blood red. Bruce also had to note that he reeked of gas, why he didn't know.

    While he and Batman struggled, Selina came from the side and embedded a kitchen knife into his back. The creature howled and knocked her across the room before delivering a headbutt that made Bruce see stars.

    "There's only room for one creature of the night, Batman," Morbius laughed as he walked towards Selina. "After I'm done with this beauty, I'll take care of you as well."

    "I don't think so," Bruce growled as he tossed a device from his belt at Morbius' feet. It exploded into a blinding ball of light, and the creature's cry filled their ears as he fled from the apartment.

    As Selina and Bruce's eyes adjusted back, she asked him, "What the hell was that?"

    "And ultra-violet light flashbang," Bruce answered calmly as he put the batarangs he had used back into his belt. "I'm sorry about your apartment."

    "Don't be," Selina shrugged as she went into the bedroom and returned with a pack, "it's not mine. People who live here have been on vacation for a month."

    Batman shook his head at the situation. He hadn't bothered looking at the lease. ORACLE had gotten the address from street cameras.

    "Is there anywhere you can lay low?" he asked.

    "Sure," she shrugged. "My friend Holly's place."

    Bruce pressed a few buttons on his gauntlet and the Batmobile pulled up below, "Come on, I'll drive."

    Once the two were seated in the vehicle's cockpit, Bruce punched it towards their destination. Selina sat in awe of the Batmobile, "Well, if you were trying to impress me with the car, it's working."

    "Here," Batman handed her two more of the flashbangs, "if he finds you there, use these. Press the button down and throw it. It seemed to work well."

    She stuffed them in the bag and pondered, "Any idea why?"

    "No, but I'll figure it out," Batman promised.
  24. Carnage27 No one's puppet

    Dec 5, 2007
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    "So what's the plan?" Rocket asked the assembled group as they settled down after the attacking creatures had been gone for a few moments.

    "You know the Einstein-Rosen bridge that Mongul used in order to put us here?" Sue started to explain the plan they had roughly formulated. "We figured there has to be some sort of controller for it on the planet's surface. We're going to find it and use it to teleport us somewhere else."

    "Not a bad idea...Not a bad idea at all," Rocket stroked his chin. "If we can find it, I can hotwire the thing to get us off this rock."

    "I am Groot," the tree nodded his large head.

    "I thought you said your 'gods' were the only ones who could use the technology," Ben shot back at the rodent.

    "No, you misunderstood me," Rocket stood indignant. "First, they're not 'my' gods. They're the gods. You wouldn't understand. Second, yes, they're the only ones who perfected the technology, but they're not the only ones who can use it. Mongul ain't one of the gods. We find a control for the bridge, we can get out of here."

    "One problem," Johnny pointed out, "we have absolutely no idea where we can find the controls."

    Reed spoke up at this, in the tone he often got when he believed what he was about to say was brilliant, "I have actually thought about that. What we're in currently is entertainment for Mongul and his people, correct? Well, that means there must be a network of cameras and transceivers. If we find and isolate one of them, we can find the location of the main control node on the planet."

    "Makes sense to me," Sue had to admit.

    "Not bad, Stretch," Ben agreed.

    "Well, let's get moving," Rocket said as he patted Groot on the head. "We don't want to stay in one place for too long. Draaga's too much of a hunter to let that stand."

    "You're right, insect," a voice growled from the treeline before the hulking form of Draaga emerged into the light of the fire. "Now, who's first to die?"
  25. Eddie Brock Golden Domer

    Jul 24, 2006
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    Believe it or not, organized crime is still a thing in modern New York City. I mean, sure, I knew that certain neighborhoods had gangs - united by geographical proximity and a shared affinity for certain colors - but I certainly never entertained the idea of Italian-Americans in expensive suits, plotting together in smoky backrooms all across the city. Yet just a few short weeks into my amateur crimefighting "career," I've learned that - at least on some level - there are powerful men who call the shots from the shadows, determining which crooks can break which laws in which places. And the dolts I've busted all take this arrangement very seriously, despite how utterly silly the idea seems to me. Criminals taking orders? Kinda defeats the purpose, doesn't it?

    At this point, it should be abundantly clear that I'm completely unqualified to tackle this whole organized crime situation. I'm just a seventeen year old who grew up in a middle class neighborhood in Queens. I wouldn't know the first thing about these so-called crime lords or how to stop them. And if I hadn't been bitten by a radioactive spider, maybe I could just leave it at that and let New York's Finest deal with it. However, the exact jurisdiction of my "great responsibility" is fuzzy at best, and I feel a certain obligation to do something to upset this corrupt balance of power in my city. Before I can do that, though, I need a clearer picture of what I'm dealing with. Sun Tzu preaches to "know your enemy," and that's exactly what I plan to do.

    (Full disclosure: I've never read the Art of War.)

    Last year in biology class, we watched a video about this American zoologist who went and lived among gorillas for eighteen years. I remember the day quite vividly because I made the regrettable decision to point out the parallels between the gorillas and Flash Thompson and his cronies. That little stunt earned me a vicious swirly and reminded me to keep my clever comments to myself - if I wanted to survive Midtown, that is. Anyway, the point is that this researcher realized that if you really want to understand the social behavior of a foreign species, it's necessary to immerse yourself in their natural environment. If you're studying gorillas, that means going to the Congo. However, if you're interested in the common New York crook, you need not look any further than the Angry Kangaroo.

    The Angry Kangaroo is not a literal kangaroo. It's actually a pub. Its proprietor, Frank Oliver, is an Australian expatriate - hence the kitschy name. I did a little research on Oliver when I found out about this place. Turns out that he was once an up-and-coming rugby star in his home country. Then he suffered a career-ending injury, and his life has been all downhill since then. He took some low-level jobs as muscle and enforcer for a nasty crew down under. When the organization started taking heat from the local police, Oliver bailed, emptying his savings to make the trip to America and set up this pub. His record's clean since coming to the States, though the Kangaroo has developed a reputation for being the go-to meeting place for lowlifes.

    Which is why I find myself here, on a school night, hiding among the rafters as I eavesdrop on the conversations going on below me.

    "What's the word on the newcomer?" a gruff-voiced man directly beneath me asks. He's seated at a booth across from a man with a very bushy beard.

    Bushy shakes his head. "No one knows," he says. They're talking about some mysterious new player in the New York underworld. From what I've been able to gather from their conversation, they know about as much about this guy as I do. Whoever he is, though, he's been seriously ruffling some feathers, upsetting the established order in his quest for power. "All I know is that trouble's brewing," Bushy continues. "Silvermane's at the end of his rope. If the new guy doesn't back off soon, there's gonna be blood spilling in the streets."

    I frown at that. An impending gang war? Sounds like exactly the kind of thing I'd like to avoid. I'm not sure who this "Silvermane" character is, but from the sounds of it--

    "--She blinded me with science! And hit me with technology!--"

    The entirety of the Angry Kangaroo goes dead silent. I curse silently to myself as I retrieve my ringing phone from the hidden pocket on my suit, quickly mashing the screen to ignore the call. However, the damage has been done. Even as I move to put my phone back away, I feel the weight of every eye in the Kangaroo staring up at me. Sure enough, I look down to see the confused and angry looks on all the patrons' faces. I close my eyes and exhale. Dammit, Pete, I reprimand myself, you always put your phone on vibrate on a stakeout.

    All hope of discretion gone, I drop down from the rafters, landing with a little flourish before standing up straight. "Hey, fellas," I say as casually as I can muster. They respond with continued silence. Beneath my mask, I frown. "What's wrong?" I pull on the skintight fabric of my suit. "Am I overdressed?"

    The occupants of the Kangaroo begin muttering amongst themselves - many of them with the same question on their lips: "Who is that?" Man, internet fame really doesn't last long, does it? And here I thought a month of hard work on the streets would've earned me a rep. Maybe I should hire a publicist? The gruff-voiced man from the table steps forward, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. "I know who that is!" he declares loudly. "It's Spider-Man!"

    I press a hand to my heart. A fan. How touching. The room grows louder as confused murmurs turn to angry roars. Guess I have earned a reputation after all! I raise my arms in an attempt to quit down the crowd. "Yes, yes! It's true. The amazing Spider-Man in the flesh! Anyone wanting an autograph can form an orderly line to my--" Spider-Sense! I drop my left shoulder back as I dodge a thrown bottle. It erupts on impact with the mirror behind the bar, creating small chips in the glass. I spin my head back around to find the thrower.

    "You sent my cousin to Ryker's!" shouts the offender, a burly man with a handlebar mustache. He waves a threatening fist in my direction for emphasis.

    "And if he had your taste in facial hair, I can see why!" I fire back.

    The man charges me, but I hold my ground. At the last possible second before impact, I hop in the air, easily clearing over the man's head. His momentum carries him into the bar, hitting it with a dull thud. He falls to the floor and knocks over a stool. I turn around and wag my finger at him. That only enrages him further. Scampering to his feet, the mustached man takes another run at me. This time, he holds out his arm and attempts a wild haymaker. I bend effortlessly at the waist, watching his fist sail over my head.

    "Jeez, guy," I begin as I drive my elbow into the small of his back, "When I saw your throw, I was about to suggest that you try out for the Yankees." I grab him by the back of his collar, throwing him back across the room. "But with a swing like that, maybe you'd be better off on the Mets!" I point both webshooters at him and secure him to the side of the bar. No sooner have I done that than the whole place erupts.

    The crowd closes in around me, bloodthirsty and blinded with rage. The mustached man set off the powder keg when he showed that he wasn't afraid of me. Now, everyone wants a piece of my skin. Angry patrons take turns charging at me. I dispatch them easily - hopping over some, sliding under others. I sweep my leg around to trip one attacker, subsequently webbing him to the floor. Still, they just keep coming. Rather than trying to take me one at a time, some ambitious souls come up with the brilliant idea of charging me in groups. I aim a webline above my head and pull myself up onto the rafters.


    "Some hosts you guys are!" I shout down at the angry mob. "Keep treating me like this, and I'm liable to feel that I'm not wanted here."

    Spider-Sense starts buzzing again. If I were to use an analogy to describe the sensation of my sixth sense, it's kinda like having a beehive full of angry yellowjackets duct-taped to the base of my skull. The level of intensity usually tells me a little something about the severity of the threat. A telegraphed punch, for instance, gives a gentle yet persistent vibration - like using one of those electric back massagers. Other threats provoke different responses. Right now, it's like standing next to amp at a hard rock concert, which can only mean...


    My eyes find it not a second too late. One of the thugs below has produced a handgun from inside his jacket. It's not the first time I've stared down the barrel of a gun, but it's also not one of those things that you just get used to with practice. The autonomic nervous system is funny that way. The gunman takes his aim, and I throw out a hand to stop him. "Uh uh! Not inside the house, mister!" I switch the webshooter nozzle with a simple tap of my palm and fire a glob of sticky webbing at him, completely coating the weapon and rendering it unusable. "You'll shoot your eye out. Or worse, mine!"

    "What's going on here?!" an accented voice shouts, drawing everyone's attention to the bar. There stands the proprietor and sometimes bartender of the Angry Kangaroo, one Frank Oliver. He sports an unkempt mop of sandy brown hair, and a tuft of the same color protrudes from the opening atop the button-down shirt he wears. Scowling, his eyes scan across the room before finally looking up at me. Oliver narrows his eyes. "Oi! You in the tights!"

    I hold up my arms innocently. "Don't look at me! They started it," I insist as I point down at the crowd gathered beneath me.

    "You got 'til the count of three to get the Hell out," Oliver growls. He bends down behind the bar and retrieves something. "One." Standing up straight, Oliver displays a double-barreled shotgun for me to see. "Two." He pumps the shotgun, and I hear the telltale sound of the cartridges being chambered. Oliver opens his mouth.

    "You know what, you're probably right," I interject. "It is getting late, after all. Tell you what, you can go ahead and keep my tab open. I'll just swing by later, yeah?"

    "Three!" Oliver swivels quickly and fires off his first shot. I drop down from my perch as the ceiling above me explodes in a shower of wood chips. Grabbing onto the beam like a gymnast, I spin myself around and launch across the air above everyone's heads. I fire a thick ball of webbing at Oliver, but he ducks underneath the bar to avoid it. As I land on another beam, Oliver pops back up and fires his second shot. I dodge that as well, yanking on a webline to propel myself towards the door.

    "Tell your bosses that I have a message for them," I shout to the crowd of goons, thugs, and lowlifes assembled in the bar. I stick to the wall between the door and a large plate glass window overlooking the street. "Tell them that Spider-Man is coming for them, and if they have any sense they'll--"

    With a loud bang, the window to my left shatters. Everyone hits the deck. I look to see Oliver standing behind the bar, smoke rising from his shotgun. Evidently, he's reloaded. He leans into the shoulder stock and takes aim once more.

    "Well, you get the idea!"

    Reaching across my body, I fire a webline through the open window frame and out into the night. It anchors somewhere across the street, and I give a good tug. As I slip out of the Angry Kangaroo, I check over my shoulder to see Oliver lowering his shotgun. Not the friendliest fellow, that one. Still, the night wasn't completely unsuccessful. I know more now about the "who's who" of the underworld than I did a few hours ago, and that's something. Of course, knowing about them and knowing what to do about them are two different things, but still... it's a start.

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