In Seattle, Washington, Mark Kippenburger--Kipp to his friends--looks at the metal aerosol canister in his hand and marvels at the death that resides within. He believes he is doing the right thing, but as Abraham surely felt as he led his son to the mount, the right thing is an increasingly hard thing for this old man to do.

Outside the car, the Hammering Man stands proudly in front of the Seattle Arts Museum and diligently does as his name suggests. Black and steel. Soon, the sculpture will be surrounded by the panicked survivors of what Kipp is going to unleash in his building.

He is doing the right thing, he knows this. Sometimes it takes a kick in the ass to wake people up. And the contents of this can--well, this is going to be more like waking somebody up by chopping their arms off.

He checks his watch. Not long now. And somehow, he doubts he'll get the same stay of execution Abraham did.

When Clint Barton was a boy, long before he'd picked up a bow, he had wiled away perhaps hundreds of nighttime hours in the orphanage, under his blanket, a flashlight wedged under his chin, and the aging, battered, pulp western adventures of Matt Hawk, the Two-Gun Kid, open in his lap.

Two-Gun hadn't just been a made-up character like all the rest in those trashy novels, either. Young frontier lawyer Matt Hawk had actually rode the range in the mid- to late-nineteenth century, becoming one of many flamboyantly dressed precursors to the modern superhero. One of the greatest moments of Clint's adult life had been getting to meet Two-Gun, along with a handful of other western mystery men, through the machinations of the time-traveling warlord Kang.

That had been years ago. So what was The Two-Gun Kid doing here now, showing up in the middle of a battle, facing down a couple hundred angry Sons of the Serpent and four gigantic suits of battle armor with only a lopsided grin and his namesake pair of weapons?

Clint Barton had no idea.

"What'sa matter, Hawkeye? You look like a rattler bit you in the privates." Standing just inside the hole Iron Man had ripped in the wall, Two-Gun tipped his hat up and regarded the Sons of the Serpent--all of them either too amused or too shocked to move. "Which I suppose ain't too much of a stretch, considerin' the company yer keepin'."

"You just walked into the wrong town, Wild Bill," one of the Sons said, lifting his own gun.

Before it could come all the way up, there were two loud reports. The racist dropped his gun and fell to his knees, a geyser of blood erupting from his shoulder and bicep. Two-Gun's pistols were up, but nobody had actually seen the bastard move for them. One moment they were in their holsters, the next they were in his fists, with smoke curling out of the barrels.

"Wild Bill is a peacock, boy. You're messin' with a cobra. Now," he said, "anybody else wanna duel?"

Nearly a hundred plasma rifles came up in response.

"The problem with the twenty-first century," the Hate Monger said, as Iron Man writhed at his feet, "is that it's too civilized. Too many people too well-educated, with their baser urges held down too firmly by law and order. It's hard to hate a coon just for being a coon when science tells you that, on a genetic level, there's no difference between you and him. Sure, there's all sorts of people hating other people out there, but these days, more and more often, people need a reason to hate."

Inside the Iron Man armor, Tony Stark imagined he probably should have been listening to the maniac's ranting, trying to figure out who and what he was, but the pain was so intense, Tony couldn't cut his attention in too many pieces at once. And right now there was something else that more immediately demanded his eye.

His armor hadn't been able to identify or block this energy the man in the trenchcoat was bombarding him with. Probably magic--or something so close to it that there was no practical difference--but if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that everything was quantifiable, if you just knew what to measure it with. And everything could be pared down to a vibrational frequency.

All he had to do was find this guy's frequency. Preferably before he passed out.

The Hate Monger was still talking. Iron Man shut him out concentrated on the numbers streaming past on the armor's HUD.

The man known as Seth pushed himself up from the floor of the hangar. The act cost a lot of time and a lot of pain--he was sure he'd broken a couple of ribs when Iron Man dropped him here, and now his elbow was beginning to swell too.

That was okay, though. He'd known there would be pain.

Nearby, the albino man in the trenchcoat who'd talked to Seth while he was trapped near the hangar's ceiling, the one who'd helped him see that it was time to lay all his cards on the table, was doing something to Iron Man. Seth wasn't sure who the pale trenchcoat man was, and he didn't exactly care. As long as he kept hurting that bastard, he could be Satan Incarnate, and Seth would still gladly shake his hand.

But not until later. Not until he was safe in his bolthole. Once Copperhead struck, he would need a safe place to begin his war on the lower races. Then all this would be worth it -- kidnapping Pennyworth, holding him hostage, forcing him to make that tape they'd sent to CNN, and finally killing him. That had been easy compared to procuring the missile he'd just shot at LA and organizing the simultaneous, countrywide release of the virus. It was unfortunate that he would have to abandon these followers to the authorities, but he could always release them after the plague had--

"Where do you think you're going?"

A black line with a familiar claw on the end of it looped around Seth's waist and yanked him backward. He hit the floor hard on his tailbone, and rolled over groaning, his eyes immediately finding Darkhawk's black-clad feet.

"The right answer is, 'To jail, Mr. Darkhawk'. That is what you were going to say, isn't it?"

INTERLUDE - Carriers

In Orlando, Florida, Frank Conway waits impatiently for the line into one of the DisneyWorld parking lots to move, and tries not to think about the aerosol canister in the leather hip pouch he's wearing.

In Chicago, Illinois, William Feldman stands on a platform, waiting for the El and fingers the canister in his pocket and wonders what the world will be like once the revolution begins. He hopes he's stockpiled enough ammunition to get him through the first days.

In Baltimore, Maryland, Hollis Banks checks the watch on his thin, heavily-tattooed forearm and suppresses a titter. He is sitting on a bench near the city's Inner Harbor, and he can't wait to pop the top on that canister.

In Phoenix, Arizona, Steven Gilbert rises from his seat at Phoenix Municipal Stadium, tells his family he'll be right back, and begins the long march up the steps to the concession area. He hopes his wife and son both survive the plague, but he will settle for just one of them.

And on it goes.

As full of piss and vinegar as the Two-Gun Kid was--if that really is Matt Hawk under that mask, Hawkeye silently added--he was no match for all the guns pointed at him. In Clint's experience, the man wasn't stupid. He should have been seeking cover, but as the wall of high-tech guns rose and centered on his head and chest, he just grinned and pulled the hammers back on his six-shooters.

Fortunately, it was at that exact moment that all hell broke loose.

The ground shook. Men were shouting from somewhere deep in the Sons' ranks, and all but a few eyes turned to see what was going on.

One of the twenty-foot tall battlesuits the Sons had unleashed was running amuck, kicking its legs out and sending Sons flying by the dozen. The three remaining suits turned laboriously to meet this new threat, and one of them immediately had its arms sheared off by the rogue suit's cannons.

Utter bedlam ensued. The other rigs seemed hesitant to open up with full firepower on one of their own pieces of equipment, which allowed the rogue to take another one out with its long, gangly arms. Sporadic fire began punching into the rogue from the infantry, but the suit simply swept them all aside and kept moving for the last remaining rig.

Mounted in the rogue's open chest cavity, Vagabond paused just long enough to tip her team leader a wink.

Hawkeye let out a war-whoop and threw his head back. The nose of the man holding him collapsed under the blow and he staggered backward, releasing his grip just enough for Hawkeye to slip free. Whipping the man around, Hawkeye slung him into a line of Sons who'd been about to fire, then leapt towards Two-Gun. The Kid got out a, "Well damn, I'm happy to see you too, pal!" before the two of them fell outside, disappearing behind the wall.

"Get them!" somebody called, and the Sons charged forward, only to be driven back as an arrow sliced through their ranks, emitting an unbearably high-pitched squeal. Once it had passed, those who weren't concerned with their bleeding noses and their ringing ears saw Hawkeye step back into view, an arrow nocked into the string of his spare, collapsible bow, and the Two-Gun Kid at his side.

"I call that one my fat lady arrow, boys," he said. "She's singin' for you. Now let's finish this up, shall we?"

"I knew your fa--"

"Yeah, I know." The man clad in stars took Carol Danvers' hand. It wasn't a friendly gesture, more like a parent seizing a child after losing them in a crowded department store. "You're going to have to hold on tight, Warbird. We've only got a few minutes."

"A few minutes for wwwhhhaaaaa--!"

Captain Marvel rocketed straight upward into the California sky, dragging Warbird behind him as Los Angeles and its surrounding landscape diminished below. In moments, they had punched a hole through the stable, horizontal winds of the stratosphere, arrowed past fragile noctilucent ice clouds in the upper mesosphere, and emerged into the lower reaches of the thermosphere, far out on the bleeding edge of the void. Warbird's pilot's mind gauged their altitude at nearly fifty miles; she could see most of the North American continent from here.

And then, quite naturally, she realized that she couldn't breathe.

Captain Marvel had released her so he could toss the chunk of ballistic missile he was carrying out into the immense vacuum separating Earth from its moon. She fell back from him, clutching at her throat. Why would he do this? Why would he drag her into an environment she couldn't possibly survive in? She rolled over, looking at the planet far below, and knew there was no way she could descend to a suitably dense atmosphere in time, not under her own power. She'd suffocate before she cut half the distance between her and the planet.

And then, miraculously, she could breathe again.

"Sorry about that," Captain Marvel said, his voice transmitted into the sparkling, air-filled photon bubble he'd created around her. But he didn't sound particularly sorry at all, to Carol's ear. If anything, he sounded exasperated with her. "I forget sometimes that not everybody can survive near-vacuum."

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded. "I'm needed down there!"

"You're far more needed up here," Marvel assured her, moving closer. His hands passed through the photonic skin of the bubble and reached for her face. She flinched back.

"What are you doing?"

Genis sighed, and now he really was exasperated. "That missile was the least of our worries, Warbird. Right now, right this second, a couple hundred people spread all over the United States are getting ready to release the Copperhead Strain. My cosmic awareness tells me where and who they are, but I need your help if we're going to stop them in time." He put his hands out again. "Now are you going to trust me, or are we going to wait up here until the world war starts?"

Stunned, Carol nodded. "How--how can I help?"

Genis put his hands to her temples, the rest of him still hovering outside the photonic bubble. "Just hold still. This is probably going to sting."

"Look at you go!" the Hate Monger crowed, crouching next to Iron Man as the armored Avenger quaked under the continuing onslaught. "Inside that bright, hard armor, you're gumbo. All sorts of negative feelings mixed up together. Fear, lust, anger. Tell me Tony, how long have you hated wom--eh?"

The corona of black surrounding Iron Man suddenly shuddered, pulled inward. The Hate Monger frowned, concentrated, and the field sprang to life again, though noticeably dimmed this time. He smiled anyway, so pleased with his power--if not necessarily the expenditure of it--that he didn't notice Iron Man's head coming around and facing him.

"Got you," Tony Stark said.

Twin beams of dim purple slammed the Hate Monger back and up, over the heads of the gawking Sons of the Serpent, until he crashed to the concrete floor a dozen yards away.

Iron Man stood up and began marching toward him, The Sons parting in front of him without complaint. The corona of black energy was gone, but his fists and the projector in his chestplate were crackling with a purple radiance that looked oddly like the Hate Monger's power had.

As the pale man propped himself up on shaky arms, he was laughing.

"That... was unexpected," he chuckled, and wiped his forearm across his nose, which was bleeding some kind of black ichor. His eyes swiveled up and met Iron Man's.

"The suit runs on solar power," Iron Man explained, raising his repulsors, "but in a pinch it can absorb just about any kind of energy. All I had to do was find your vibrational frequency. Demodulate it before feeding it back out through the repulsors, and I've got an anti-Hate Monger gun."

"Clever. You realize, of course, that stomping me doesn't accomplish anything."

"I'm betting you can tell me how to stop the plague carriers."

"You'd lose that bet, Avenger. I'm not the mastermind here, only a visitor to the feast." He got to his feet, Iron Man tracking him. "Though, to tell you the truth, I might have been messing around in the kitchen a little more than was proper. I like to experiment with recipes, you see. Like... what would happen if you took a whole lot of hate, and subtracted the fear that accompanies it?"

"I have no idea what you're tal--"

They fell on him before he had a chance to ward them off. Dozens of the Sons of the Serpent who'd been watching the duel. They clawed at his armor, kicked at him; one of them even fired his weapon, only succeeding in killing two of his compatriots with the ricochet. They weren't going to harm the armor or Tony in the slightest, but as Iron Man pushed through the horde, trying to move them aside without hurting them too badly, he understood the one thing they most definitely could do.

The Hate Monger was gone. Whether through teleportation or his own swift feet, he'd used the distraction to make his break. And Iron Man still had no idea what his stake in all this had been.

The Sons weren't attacking quite so violently anymore. Some of them seemed confused, shaking their heads as they backed away from the Avenger. Others continued their assault, though their hearts didn't seem to be in it anymore.

Grunting with displeasure, Iron Man brushed them off and fired himself into the air.

Years ago, NASA Security Director Carol Danvers was caught--along with her lover, the Kree hero named Mar-Vell, more widely known as the first Captain Marvel--in the blast of a Kree device called a Psyche-Magnetron. The blast somehow imbued Carol with Mar-Vell's powers and knowledge, and a second incident involving another Psyche-Magnetron gave her abilities beyond Mar-Vell's.

None but the highest Kree scientists know exactly what the Psyche-Magnetron is and what it is capable of, and even they would be hard pressed to explain just what happened to Carol that day. But they would know that, aside from being a weapon of untold destruction, the device was also used for instantaneous, interstellar communication. It is linked into a web of energy--what Earth physicist Stephen Hawking calls "quantum strings"--that unites every time, place, and possibility in the multiverse.

Carol Danvers was given a piece of that link--it was the source of her "seventh sense", back when she had such a thing--and there has always been a shadow of a possibility of an unlikelihood that it would ever be something more than just latent potential buried deep in the genetic stew of her Kree/Terran DNA.

But Genis-Vell, the latest to bear the title of Captain Marvel, is Cosmically Aware, and as his fingers make contact with Carol Danvers' forehead, he understands how to ignite that potential, however temporarily.

He learned long ago that knowing everything that's happening in the universe doesn't mean much when he can't also be everywhere at once. But now--for once in his life--he actually can be.

He reaches out with quantum fingers toward the plague carriers.

DENOUEMENT - Carriers

In Seattle, Mark Kippenburger steels himself before pressing the plunger on the aerosol can. He isn't sure what he expected, but the thick stream of white foam--a lot like shaving cream--that sizzles from the nozzle and onto the tile floor of the Museum isn't it. He squints at it in silence for a moment, his head cocked to the side and his finger still depressing the plunger, and then he realizes that no one is coughing. No one is dying.

At his feet, a melting pile of the foam bubbles harmlessly into equal parts liquid and gas. Utterly harmless. Utterly inert.

Kipp hears footsteps and he's just alert enough to push past his confusion and the adrenal rush and look up. A large black man, a security guard, is moving quickly toward him. If Kipp was younger, surely the black man would be stomping and yelling and getting ready to throw him out for vandalism. As it is, he probably just thinks Kipp is senile.

Tucking the can into his jacket, Kipp turns and, setting his cane firmly in front of him, hurries toward the door, leaving the guard to scratch his head in puzzlement over the pile of dissolving foam. He's not going to waste energy chasing down and further embarrassing a crazy old man.

What went wrong? Kipp doesn't know. But as he steps out into the air, his eyes falling once again on the sturdy black silhouette of the Hammering Man, he understands exactly how Abraham felt when God told him he didn't have to sacrifice his son after all.

* * *

All over the US--in Orlando, Chicago, Baltimore, Phoenix, and more than a hundred other cities--similar men are met with similar effects. A burst of photon energy, and the unstable, deadly spray becomes harmless foam, leaving the men confused and maybe a little frightened.

But all of them will remain free. Genis knows this as he pulls his consciousness back along the universal web and back into his own body, for what proof could he or the others bring to bear against these men? And in the grand scheme of things, compared to what his Cosmic Awareness tells him is coming, they are tiny things, easily dealt with.

He leaves them to their small-mindedness and self-destruction. There are more important matters to attend to.

Between the three of them--Hawkeye, Two-Gun, and Vagabond in the battlesuit--they already had the Sons on the run. When Iron Man roared overhead, strafing the lines of masked racists with his repulsors, it just made the clean-up go faster. They could all hear sirens approaching outside--a whole bunch of them--and the Sons were quickly coming to realize that the jig was up. They continued fighting, but not with as much gusto as they had before.

Iron Man circled around and dropped down next to Hawkeye.

"You called the cops, I take it?" falling behind Iron Man a bit so the much more durable Avenger could cover him while they talked.

Iron Man nodded. "Look, this isn't important anymore. I don't know how much time we have, but it can't be much."

"Time for what?"

"To stop them releasing the plague. They have agents set to let it go all over the US, according to the man in charge. Might be a bluff, but we can't afford to--"

"It wasn't a bluff," a new voice said from overhead, "but it's been taken care of."

The two Avengers looked up. Captain Marvel was hovering overhead, and dangling limply from his arms was Warbird. Iron Man crouched, ready to fire himself up at the man, but Hawkeye stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

"That's our teammate you got there, Marv."

"She's alright," he assured them, dropping down and handing her over to Iron Man. "The strain of helping me dissolve all those plague agents was a little much. She's just in a very deep sleep cycle right now."

"Huh," Hawkeye said, rubbing the back of his head. "I miss all the good parts."

"Hey, Hawkeye!" Two-Gun called from nearby, while clubbing an unwary Son over the head with the butt of his six-shooter. "These wranglers are just 'bout wrapped up! Where's the local pokey?"

"Where," Iron Man said, seeing the walking, talking anachronism for the first time, "did he come from?"

"Search me. I just lead this crazy bunch. Speaking of..." Hawkeye looked around at Captain Marvel. "You interested in getting your ID card back?"

"That's what I'm here for."

Hawkeye grinned. "Well alright then. And to think...I was worried about how short on power this team was. We'll get you squared away as soon as we get this bunch of bozos taken care of."

There were so few Sons of the Serpent left standing who still wanted to fight, that Vagabond was having no trouble holding them off with the battlesuit. Captain Marvel hooked a thumb at the lot of them. "Those bozos?"

"They're the ones."

He nodded and turned, rocketing into the air and toward the fray.

The fight--if it could even be called such--was over soon after.

The Sons had been rounded up while the local police tried to figure out whether to call in Homeland Security, the FBI, or SHIELD. A matter involving three hundred racially-motivated terrorists was going to be a nightmare of legalities and red tape. Vagabond had slipped out of the battlesuit's harness and was now sitting on top of it, her chin in one hand as she watched the show. She was very, very glad that her part of this had just involved getting shot at and hitting people. The real work was going to take months. Maybe years.

She saw Darkhawk move past the foot of the suit without glancing her way. She saw who he was moving toward and had to force herself not to watch. That was none of her business.

"Iron Man."

The armored Avenger turned from his conversation with one of the La Jolla detectives and looked Darkhawk up and down. "What is it?"

"I just..." he began. He wanted to say, I'm sorry for attacking you back there, for the things I said, but looking at his teammate now, interpreting the look in his eyes as naked disapproval, he couldn't do it.

"I turned Seth over to the police. They unmasked him."

"Anybody we know?"

"No. He was just--just some guy. White. Maybe around forty."

Iron Man sighed. His eyes softened. "It's easier when it turns out to be the Mad Thinker, isn't it?"

"I guess so. Yeah."

"Well..." For a moment, he didn't seem to know what to say. Finally, he just muttered, "Good job catching him," and turned back to the detective, leaving Darkhawk looking at his back and wondering if he'd made a mistake leaving San Francisco for this crap.

He looked around. Hawkeye was talking earnestly with the guy in the cowboy outfit. Darkhawk still didn't know who he was supposed to be. Nearby, Warbird was speaking in low, angry tones with Captain Marvel. Marvel looked unimpressed. Wasn't even paying the lady much attention. Chris didn't see how any red-blooded male could help but pay attention to the woman, especially in that costume, but maybe that was just him.

"Excuse me."

He turned. Speaking of paying attention... a stunning redhead in a knee-length skirt was jabbing a microphone in his face while, behind her, the fishbowl lens of a video camera stared blankly at him from its bearer's shoulder.

"This is Kathleen Kent with CBS Daily News. We're here live with Nightwing--"

"Darkhawk," Chris corrected.

"--Darkhawk of the..." She gave him a smile that could melt iron bars. "What is your team called, Darkhawk?"

He resisted the urge to tell her they were Darkhawk and His Amazing Friends, but the thought still brought a smile to his face beneath the helmet.

"Don't you recognize us?" he asked, waving an arm at his teammates.

"Lady, we're the Avengers."

EPILOGUE - Carriers.

Mark Kippenburger climbs the three stories to the ratty apartment he's been living his twilight years in. He passes a couple very nearly having sex on the second floor landing, brushes by them without a word, and has to endure the low, sharp laughing of the negress, laughter that is surely aimed at him. Because he is old. And because he is obviously embarrassed by their shamelessness. And because he is white in this building filled with blacks.

His apartment is no refuge. He has done his best to reclaim some civilization and atmosphere from these cracked walls, but the sounds of them invade his room at night. He's been robbed twice in the last six months. There was a shooting on the first floor last year. He hates this place. But most of all, he hates</i> them, <i>hates that they have, in his eyes, stolen his twilight years from him.

He doesn't know what happened today with Copperhead, but he has a feeling the whole thing has gone down in flames. Leaving him alone in this place. He had been relieved when it didn't work. But now, now...

He hears the couple downstairs, leans against the inside of his door and listens as the negress calls up to him, asking if he'd like to join them. He closes his eyes, grits his teeth.

The gun is in a box, hidden in a corner in his closet. He has a license for it, but there is no license for what he now considers doing with it. Out the door. Down the stairs. Three bullets apiece. He wouldn't be joining them until they all met in hell.

Behind him, standing unseen in the center of his livingroom, a pale man in a night black trenchcoat stands and smiles broadly into the old man's trembling back.

One scheme may have been down the toilet, but in this world, in this time, the Hate Monger was never, ever going to lack for something to eat.

And the train rolls on. Got another batch of letters/reviews for the last issue, so let's get right into them.

I think this first one's from Dino Pollard. No, really, I'm pretty sure. But, um, I'm not absolutely certain. You see, I forgot to write the poster's name down when I pulled it off the M2K message board, so... well, anyway, here's what Dino (or whoever he is) had to say.

I wasn't very happy when I found out that Chris Munn's Avengers series at Marvel Revolution wouldn't be continuing. I thought it was a fresh and innovative take on Earth's Mightiest Heroes. But then I found out Chris would be doing AWC at M2K with Russ, so that helps the situation.

I have no idea whether our current AWC run has any relation to Chris' proposed Avengers at MRev. I tend to doubt it though. Chris has so many different damn ideas it frightens me. Somebody needs to hit the kid over the head with a brick or something.

First off, I'm glad to see Hawkeye and Iron Man working on a team together again. They are, without a doubt, two of my favorite Avengers, so props to Chris and Russ right off the bat for using both of them.

Second, Darkhawk. I dunno why, but I've always had an affection for this character. And Warbird is another character I grew very fond of during Busiek's run (pre-Davis, that's when I could barely stand the book anymore).

I don't know anything about Vagabond, but if the track record of these two writers is any indication, chances are she'll become a favorite of mine.

Chris is entirely responsible for the makeup of the team. As for whether you end up enjoying them altogether, I'll be glad to share blame for that.

And keep an eye out for Chris' scripting run, which begins with issue #5. I know he's planning a solo Vagabond story to answer some of the questions readers unfamiliar with her might have.

Either way, a great start to what promises to be a great run.

Thanks for taking the time to write, Dino (or whoever you are).

Next up is another M2K-ite, Jason Eberly.

M2KAvengers West Coast #2--Primarily a battle issue (and a good one at that), this story is really, really good. It really "feels" like the Whackos (which I've been with #1 of the original Marvel limited series, through the end of Force Works) out there, even with the oddball lineup. You can really tell that this group of strangers and misfits don't know how to work together as a team yet, and hopefully they get the chance to before those slimy Sons of the Serpents put them away! As for the Two-Gun Kid? Yee-haw!

Chris and I are gonna have a lot of fun with Two-Gun. We start to delve into what he's doing back in our era next issue, in fact.

Thanks for writing, Jason.

Last, but certainly not least, AWC #2 garnered a much-coveted Editor's Choice Award from our esteemed EiC/guru David Wheatley.

Wednesday already? It seems five minutes since the releases... oh wait, it almost is. Bad delay this week people, I'm afraid and kind of typical when you have 11 new issues out, though about half were written by Brent Lambert who has way too much time on his hands. or figured he'd stack the deck for an EC.

Boy, did he choose a bad week...

This week saw the return of Iron Man (in not one but two titles!) and the Heroes imprint kick back at the doubters who don't think it's good enough to compete against the Knights and X-Men, and Alternate popped it's head up and looked about. So this week's Editor's Choice goes to

Avengers West Coast #2 By Russ Anderson and Chris Munn

Word. Heroes Branch, represent.

The fun thing about this book is while it's a typical Avengers line-up there's a certain amount of conflict there. It's not unlike the conflict in Excalibur when it first started, but they were forced in to it and these people were chosen to be Avengers. However what does show is that these guys, despite the differences are Avengers and they will do the job no matter what. Even against the Sons of the Serpent.

Lots of snake references at M2K of late... How odd.

You think so? Hmm, somebody oughtta write a story...

Anyway, the guys do a good job at showing the new team off and if there a downside, it's the fact they do get past the differences a little easily when it comes down to it. Be a bit more tense if they were at each other's throats all the time, but hey it's their book, not mine.

You think IM having to turn Darkhawk's lights out with a couple hundred Volts is getting past the differences a little easily? Somebody's gotta lose a limb to please you, don't they? Don't they?

Suffice it to say, there are still several character conflicts in this title, all of which will either come to light or be expanded on next issue.

So congrats, guys, you are this week's Editor's Choice!

Thanks, David. You're a prince.

- Russ Anderson
March 21, 2003

- This Hate-Monger first appeared in Marvel's Avengers vol. 1 #341

- The Two-Gun Kid was last seen in the present day in Marvel's Avengers #109.

Story © 2003, Russ Anderson and Chris Munn. Most characters presented are property of Marvel Entertainment Group.