Rome.

Kurt Darkholme listened to his footsteps echo off the stone in the hall. Not long ago, just over a week, he'd heard a similar sound as he carried his few bags alone to his new room.

Another week before that, he'd recieved a letter at his New Jersey church. It seemed that the Vatican -- The Vatican, he still repeated -- Wanted him. And for some reason beyond him, Kurt wanted very much to be there.

He wasn't sure if it was the spiritual call, or that the letter hinted at the notion that his position would be more "active" than others. Maybe he just wanted a change.

It wasn't that hard leaving Jersey. Quick goodbyes to the few people he'd honestly touched, half a flight and a teleport later, and he had come to Rome. Of the Roman Empire, of the Vatican...Of clear nights.

He shut his door and locked it from habit. It was a plain room: a bed, a Bible, and a window, essentially. The bed looked inviting; the day had been long, Kurt praying and eating alone, trying to fall into a schedule and follow it. He hoped -- And he knew, by God's great will -- That they would accept him eventually. Now, he was simply ready to pray and to sleep.

The stars shone brightly outside, he knew, for reasons probably explained in detail in a textbook. But there was one, as he looked out his window each night since coming, shining even stronger than all the others. And each time Kurt saw it, despite the day before, he would know that it was for the better.

When Kurt looked out the window that night, he frowned. He leaned out the window, his own dazzling yellow eyes twinkling in the dark. The star was gone. Not truly gone, he knew. But it felt that way. Something was wrong, and Kurt felt uneasy as he removed his clothes, his tail discarding them, and knelt at his bedside.

Nightcrawler prayed. He felt, more than usual, that it was needed. His sleep was restless and full of nonsensical dreams.

Greenwhich Village.

"Okay," Said the Hulk. His voice was gruff and stale bouncing off the old walls of Doctor Strange's sanctum. "All I want to know is -- What the Hell is going on, who's responsible, and where said party is."

"Bruce, c'mon man," Said Nighthawk, who was much more Kyle Richmond at the moment. It was morning, and he had left his name with the dark. "We've all had more that a bad day, but even Hawkeye and Iceman could get home on their own without complaining. If you keep cool--"

"Keep cool? I'm the Hulk. This is cool. For a guy who saw his wife dead..." His emerald eyes looked to the ground. "This is cucumber. Doc, explain where the smashing should commence."

All seeing eyes were on Doctor Strange. He looked tired, as they all did, and uncomfortable even in his own home. Puffy eyes surveyed the muggy room.

The Hulk, that large, green, good-to-have-in-a-fight friend he'd known for so long. He seemed to look away from everyone, his rage truly without direction for once. Kyle, surprisingly, looked bright. His mask was off to show his again human face, one Stephen was quite glad to see. He thought that perhaps his hair had gotten a bit longer, but otherwise Kyle was the same, and that was some comfort.

Daredevil and the Black Widow stood close and yet far apart. There was something wrong enough between them for Stephen to notice and not enough to worry about. Not when there was so much else...

And then there was Namor. Consistant, proud. The Sub-Mariner. He stood firmly with his arms crossed, looking much more vigilant and alive than any of them.

"I'm afraid, everyone..." Stephen said, sighed, and massages his temple. "I'm afraid I don't have the answers."

Hulk looked up, slowly at first, then all at once. "Excuse me...?"
"Bruce, don't..." Kyle said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen -- I'm not going to lose it, okay? I'm just trying to figure out why we left the one place we should have been to figure out a few things -- Man-Thing's swamp -- And why the Doc is holding out on us here!"

He pointed a bulky finger at the Doctor, having edged closer to him. Daredevil stood somewhere between them defiantly by now. "I don't like that heartbeat," He said to the Hulk.
"I don't like that we've got three friends and a kid still missing."
"Could you hold it down?" The Widow said hushedly. "Gina's trying to sleep."

"...I'm not holding out." Stephen barely said.
"What?" Asked Kyle, the others sharing the attention.
"I'm not 'holding out' on anyone. There's nothing for me to hold back. I don't have the answers, and we're going to be hard pressed to find them -- With this Alice business, I...We have no idea what has taken who and where."

The room was silent for a second, and he continued more fervantly. "I.....I'm not being selfish, but I am tired and discouraged. I could barely call this last mishap a victory and I'm sure it's taken it's toll on all of us."

"...What're you saying , Doc?" Kyle asked. Stephen shook his head slowly, looking at no one.

"I suppose..." He drew a heavy breath. "I suppose I'm saying -- That I can't handle this right now. I'm not sure if even all of us together can. I...

"I'm sorry."

And then it seemed none could speak. The air weighed them down, a pressure like the bottom of the ocean itself. They all looked down, or away, anywhere else...Except for one used to such pressure.

"...I am disgusted." The Atlantean prince didn't hold the words back, and no one tried to do it for him.

"A child and three of our friends -- Two of them women -- Are gone by some unknown force," Said Namor powerfully, "Almost assuredly something evil, with this group." He took little time between words.

"And yet we are here -- Simply talking about what could or should be done, or avoiding it all together!" He eyed Stephen briefly.
"Hey, man," Hulk sounded defensive, "I'm more than talk here."
"No. You are no more than vengeful. I haven't seen you so quick to anger since your earliest days."
"Well...Well what d'you expect, dammit?" The Hulk had stepped closer, and Namor was a distinct case where his own size didn't look diminished. "We've just gone through Hell--"

"Yes, we all did. Each one of us had a personal Hell thrust on us. But that does not mean we lose our heads -- Or deny its happening altogether." And then Namor was still and quiet again, looking more like a warrior than royalty to them.

He shifted about, looked up, and slowly began to rise into the air. Namor kept a very solemn face as he spoke. "I cannot stand to be here right now -- I am sorry."
"What -- Where are you going?" Kyle asked, just before the Sub-Mariner reached the skylight and opened it.
"I, for one, am going to do something. Anything."

When it seemed like he should leave, he hovered there, looking questioningly at Doctor Strange, who once again had his head in his hands. "...I expected the most from you, Stephen."

The skylight shut and the room became darker again.

Kyle turned to them all. "...Well, he's right. I mean -- It's Namor, but he's right." The Hulk had turned to a wall and looked like he might punch it, but the blow never came. Kyle continued. "Look, we've got the strongest man alive, the sorcerer supreme, the King of Atlantis -- Whenever he gets back -- A former Avenger and...And Daredevil. We can handle this."

"So I'm sticking around?" Daredevil asked.
"What? Oh," Kyle said. "I guess -- I guess that's up to you more than us. I just figured after what just happened--"
"Look -- I just happened to stumble into all this. And, no offense, but now that that's taken care of.....Actually, I don't know what I can do for you. I protect the street and that's about it..."

"I'm staying." The Black Widow had taken a chair not so far from Stephen, and even he looked up.

"Thank you, Widow," Kyle said, flashing a quick, relieved smile.
Daredevil lightly asked, "Natasha?"
"What? I'm not going to abandon this. It's not like I have other pressing matters or anything -- I'm a free agent now. So I'm going to stay, and I'm going to help. He might be old-fashioned, but Namor has the right idea." She crossed her arms against the tight leather of her chest and leaned back, looking directly at Daredevil. He could feel her eyes on him.

"So at least we've got her..." Kyle noted, when Daredevil spoke suddenly.
"...I'll stay."
"Really? Oh, man -- Okay. Alright. Great." And while Kyle went on, Daredevil continued to feel Natasha's eyes directly on him.
"So?" He said. "Where do we start? We don't have any...Well, clues."

Kyle suddenly had a glint in his otherwise dark eyes. It wasn't a good thing. "...Maybe we do."
"What d'you mean?" Hulk asked, crossing his arms. "Maybe you should start from the beginning -- Like why you were a...A whatever you were last night." Kyle sighed, then nodded.

"Alright. From the beginning..."

Mescalero Apache Reservation. Ruidoso, New Mexico.

There is a legend that the Elders do not believe. It is not their tale to tell. This is the Legend of the White Apache, a young legend that only the younger Mescaleros will tell around the fire, or for some, in the electric light of their homes.

An orange ball of cloth had appeared in the desert outside Ruidiso early that morning. Within the hour, it unfolded and suspended itself, and from inside came a man in tribal cloth. A white man.

He looked very tired. But he smiled as he began walking, stiffly, towards the nearest town. He remembered his name. He knew it was time. He would return to them and defend all land.

Eric Simon Payne. Devil-Slayer.

Greenwhich Village.

He would save them. With others, alone...It didn't matter to Namor. He knew that, if it were Susan, or "son" Maaken missing during these times he'd want someone out there looking for them, if the kind himself wasn't already doing so.

The only problem was that he didn't know where to star. There Namor flew, high above New York, without any true direction. A fire burned in him, one he had no outlet for. He looked to the sky, even higher and fillled with clouds above him, looking for some sort of inspiration. That's when he saw it.

Among the clouds, a speck. Just that. Namor wouldn't have kept watching it if it didn't begin to grow. He squinted into morning sun.

"...Val?"

The speck grew more and more as it descended, and by the time it was within range of the city, two bodies had materialized. Namor instantly recognized the torn cloth on one of them, more shapely. "Brunnhilde!" He cried out, flying down after them. Something on top was hiding her face, with a putrid color and texture that Namor almost recognized.

There was no sound from either dropping figure until they hit the pavement of Greenwhich Village, sending cracks from the street well past the sidewalk. The sound of impact was deafening.

When he first arrived at the scene, he could hear the sound of great lungs, heaving deeply. Namor landed gracefully and stepped, the only figure on the street as others fled, towards the orange, leathery thing huddled over the Valkyrie's body. "Away from her," The king exclaimed. "You would fight a woman. What of a king...?"

Namor stopped short and stood very still. ".....Isaac? Is that you?" The gargoyle turned its head, eyes dark crimson like unholy blood. It was -- And it wasn't.

"You remember me, Namor?" Said Gargoyle in a voice like gravel. His whole body turned, and Namor realized truly how monstrous he was, both in size and detail. He'd always been ugly, Namor knew, but never so massive, and never as simply demonic as this. "She did, too. See where it got her?"
Namor chose his words carefully, taking minute steps with much time between. "You...Are not yourself, Isaac."
"No. For the first time, I am myself. Now, I know you two always had a thing for each other, but she's mine."
"What? What do you..." His sight wandered back to the limp form of the Valkyrie, bruised and battered behind Isaac. Her clothes were in tatters, torn in all the wrong places for a lady. Then he noticed the dried blood on the inside of her thights, and felt his hands making tight fists. "You...You....."
A fanged grin appeared on the Gargoyle's face. "Me."

Isaac knew what was coming, and continued to smile. All at once, Namor exploded into rage, rushing the Gargoyle with an almost beastial growl. The body he hit was like a wall, which normall he could knock down, but this time only managed to annoy.

"I'm not anyone's push-over," Said Isaac as he swatted Namor to the ground like an insect. "I'm a god now. Soon your god." Namor grunted with both hits, but he was up and active again swiftly, lifting Gargoyle into the air with more force than he thought he'd need. Through clenched teeth, he shouted.
"--Imperius -- *ngghh* Rex!" But Namor ignored the unexpected weight and let loose a barrage of punches, holding Isaac as well he could with the other hand. Each blow was felt, both by the giver and reciever, but in one well-placed retaliation from a clawed hand, Namor let the winged creature go and plummetted halfway to the ground before catching himself.

"I -- I don't care if you were a friend, or what's happened since! You strike a Defender, and you strike us all!"
The Gargoyle was already swooping down on Namor, raking his chest coldly. "We were never friends." Namor felt the blood running down his own face and torso only for a second before Isaac struck him again, and again, with fists that felt heavier with each. "You don't mind fighting me. It doesn't pain you." The words ached of bitterness. "And it doesn't pain me either. I didn't like being the tragedy, the joke. I hate you, Namor. You're a handsome, vain, selfish man. I hate you." He pulled Namor's bruised face so close to his own that the king could smell the brimstone on his breath. "I hated you all."

Namor knew this was true when he heard it. The truth was in his voice, in his eyes, and in the way he threw Namor back to the ground, where the street was quickly becoming unstable. He scarcely had the energy left to look up from the yielding asphalt. When he did, he briefly looked at Valkyrie, dead to the world. She looked so much more helpless like that.

"When I'm king, you're all going to suffer." Isaac landed on Namor's back, his girth nearly snapping it. "Forever." The Gargoyle probably went on, Namor assumed, though he could barely hear over the sound of his own face slamming into the concrete over and over savagely. He felt consciousness almost slipping away...Dissolving into nothing......

But beautiful Brunnhilde was still there. And she needed help. They all did.

So he went. Mustered the final ember of his inner-fire, flew from under the Gargoyle, up and behind him, struck with all his remaining might into the winged back with total abandon, bellowed in pain and effort. "Ahck--!" The body fell, and Namor didn't care when and if it rose again. He went to Brunnhilde and took her in his tired arms and was off into the sky as Isaac rose his head. Namor had rarely flown faster.

The Gargoyle would've given chase once he stood. However, he heard something like a voice but more, and stood very still listening to what it would have said, something about not needing to follow, they've learned half the lesson, go to the Pit, the boy is already here. Isaac reluctantly nodded, and whatever communicated with him stopped.

As he readied his wings, Isaac looked around at the pink, fleshy faces of the bystanders, staring in awe. His eyes flared and his voice box rumbled.

"Grrrrr..."

The looks on their faces were enough for him as he jumped and descended, claws-first, into the earth below, no passage left behind.

Elsewhen.

Morning in the English countryside was different than elsewhere, even more so in a bed stuffed with real feathers, in a real castle, with a very real black sword an arm's length away.

Dane Whitman laid in the bed. He wished he could sleep -- He knew he would need it soon -- But he couldn't. That night, when the time was right, Merlin had said, they would return Dane to his home time a final time, wielding this Ebony Blade of the past.

With the blessing of King Arthur himself, he would fight the dark with dark. The said there would be a feast later, to see him off. Knowing this, the Black Knight finally drifted to sleep within the walls of Camelot.

He had a day to wait.

Greenwhich Village.

"...It wasn't an angel that gave me these eyes -- That was a trick. It was Mephisto. He made me kill -- murder Daredevil here with them. I saw evil before it occured, and I'd seen myself killing him.

"So we went to Hell, to save DD and my soul. In the end, everything worked out, pretty much...Except I still had these eyes. I could still see things before they happened. And I could see all the -- All the things on people. The demons, the monsters. Everywhere. That, plus my apparent death, made it hard to keep my business. I mean, how am I supposed to be in a room full of businessmen with eyes that see all the Devil's work? It was driving me crazy. The nights got bad, too.

"It was small at first. A little voice change, or some extra hair. Claws for nails. Fangs. Then...I -- I cried myself to sleep the first night I grew wings. It's so painful, each time.....

"So I just stayed home," Kyle continued, the others all sitting and listening intently. "I didn't really know what was going on or why -- Yeah, I know it has something to do with these eyes, but I can't fix it. And I couldn't really control myself at night..."

"You should have looked me up, talked to me about it," Daredevil said. "I don't know how I would've helped, but we did go through an ordeal together there."
"I didn't want to leave the apartment at all. That's where I've been: At home. Hiding from demons. And having dreams."
"What dreams?" Hulk asked less than forcibly. Kyle sighed.

"...They're like the visions I get, with these eyes. Things happen but they're all put together like cutscenes. It's chaotic. But I've seen -- I saw Patsy, and all of us. I saw Daimon. I saw Mephisto, and - and and bunch of other guys. And we're in New York, and there's fire, and there are these things with six wings and....."

Kyle stopped suddenly and looked past his captive audience. Silently, he stood up. The others all turned to see what he saw. Namor landed as lightly as he could through the same skylight he'd left through, very solemn. He carried the body of the Valkyrie with him.

"My God..." Kyle uttered. As Namor fell to his knees he continued holding her, and the Hulk jumped forward to help put her down.
"What happened, Subby?" He asked the emerald giant, moving Brunnhilde to a couch like a doll. Namor remained on his knees, and the Black Widow stood over him.
"Looks like he got the same as she did," She said. Namor finally spoked.
"No. She recieved...Much worse."
Hulk gripped the couch hasrhly. "Who was it? Who the Hell was it?" Namor remained silent, and the quiet was filled with a faint female voice.
"...Isaac....."
"Val? You're awake...Thank God..." Kyle kneeled at her level to look her in the eyes.
"I-Is...That you, Kyle? Hast thou returned...To us?"
"For now Val, yes. And I want to help. Who did this to you?"
"...Isaac."
"Waitaminute," Hulk grunted. "Gargoyle Isaac?"
"Yes. He is no longer our Isaac," Namor continued. He stood weakly on Natasha's shoulder.

"Isaac...?" Kyle drew a blank. "B-But -- I mean, he wouldn't do something like this..."
".....'Twas an animal. A -- A monster. But 'twas Isaac..." Brunnhilde admitted. "I was summoned by Odin...To see that Hel has no mistress..."
"What--?" Daredevil looked up quickly, only to have Doctor Strange slowly respond.
"The Asgardian Hel. With one 'L'."
"Oh."

Valkyrie continued. "Upon returning home, on the bridge Bifrost...He appeared from nothing and attacked with power I've yet seen...No reason or rhyme..."
"I saw them plummet into the city just now," Namor added, finally sitting. "I fought Isaac, and as you can see -- He has changed, both in strength and alleigance. He said he hates me -- Hates us all, and that we will all suffer. He truly was uncontrollable. He even...He--"
"...He took my maidenhead," Said Brunnhilde. A quiet invaded the room as Kyle covered he bloody lower body with a blanket. Black Widow's eyes were wide in disbelief.
"What?" She asked. Daredevil leaned over with his hand in front of his mouth.
"He took her virgi--"
"I know. I -- Know."

None of them could find a comfortable way to be there. Sitting, standing, laying, it was all a horrid feeling no matter what. And Stephen was just waiting for it to happen.

"So?" Namor looked the way of the Doctor with those commanding eyes of his. "You see your friends hurt when you've done nothing. You see the situation worsen. Will you still standy by?"

There was no answer. Stephen looked to the floor, so Namor stood rigidly, supporting himself on the table. He loomed over Namor like a shadow, covering him entirely. "You, a doctor? A healer? You can't stand this anymore than I can, Stephen. I'm looking at you and I can see it. You are not weak like this. Stephen Strange overcame a handicap to became a hero. Doctor Strange has braved treats against Eternity itself. He would not allow a joke like Alice to stop him from helping his friends."

The king stared at his friend. Stephen didn't return it -- He still stared at the floor. Namor winced, then turned from him in spite. "...Obviously, you are not Stephen Strange."

Doctor Strange didn't need to watch any of them. "...No." He rose from the chair just as Namor looked behind. "I am Doctor Stephen Strange. And I will not allow this. We won't allow this. We have someplace to begin now...So let's begin."

A hint of a smile almost curled around Namor's thin, regal lips. Just as the triumphant words left the Doctor's mouth, the king's face was bathed in a quick golden and red light, as were they all. No sound, no smell, just the light.

Behind the light, a young, female voice spoke. "Hi..." It was like magic.

Rome.

Kurt Wagner woke to a feverish knocking on his door. He slumped out of bed but found his usual agility by the time he reached the door. As he opened it, Kurt realized he had no idea what time it was. It was still dark.

A pale, thin face greeted him behind the doorway. A young man, probably in his thirties and dressed in the same garments as Kurt, looked up and down. Kurt was used to such stares.

"Can I help you?" He asked with honest politeness.
"I-I-I -- Yeah. You're -- You--"
"I won't bite, I swear," Said Kurt, and smiled, though the guest looked only more fearful at the sight of the sharpened teeth. "I'm Kurt Wagner, if that is who you're looking for."
"Yeah -- Yes." He produced a letter in an unsealed envelope very quickly, which Kurt took.
"And what would this be, brother?"
"They said there's been -- Uh, stuff in New York."
"Stuff?" Asked Kurt, opening the letter but not really reading it yet.
"You know." The messenger looked around, and gradually seemed much younger to Kurt. "The kind of stuff that you're supposed to deal with."

"Ah." Kurt scanned the letter. "...'Demon Siting in Greenwhich Village'...?"
"Listen, that's all I know. I just carry the stuff. I've gotta go..."
"Oh, of course. Thank you for the--"
"Uh, yeah -- Whatever..."

The messenger quickly exited into the shadows of the hall, and Kurt shut his door. He looked outside, then back at the letter, then at the red and black heap of clothing in the corner of the room.

Kurt smiled. "...Demons in Greenwhich..." His room was empty before dawn.

Hell.

There are so many stones in Hell, as many as are tortured souls there, that no wordly thing could count them. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that none of the Burning Lands' inhabitants failed to notice the tiny body of Mark Garney peaking out from a burning hot rock. He didn't notice the heat, just looked down at the hottest flames and rivers of blood and excrement below.

"Hello, little brother," Said the voice behind Mark. Despite its roughness and appearance from nowhere, Mark ignored it, continuing to look over the edge into the chasm. The Gargoyle sauntered to his side and looked also. "Enjoying the show?" Mark didn't answer. They both watched.

It looked like miles below and was probably more, if there were any measure of distance there. An infernal stage, its centerpiece the handsome, red-haired Daimon Hellstorm, sitting on his hideous throne. The Gargoyle eyed him most narrowly. Before the stage, sitting deathly still and silent, was a congregation of so many faces that Isaac could scarcely recognize some of them. But he knew why they were there, and he knew the essence of each one.

"They're all just shades of father," Said the Gargoyle, bitterly. Each was a lord of lordess of an underworld all their own. "If it wasn't Daimon doing it, I'd applaud this."

The captive audience had shrunk in size since they first gathered, and still they sat quiet, still, just as their host did onstage before them. There was a muffled voice from nearby, off the stage. When she appeared, Daimon stood to face her.

"Patsy, beloved," He said to the red-haired woman, walking unsurely across the stage in her feline costume. She eyed the crowd cautiously as the Son of Satan took her hand and kissed it. "Welcome. Welcome home." Patsy's eyes followed his as he raised his head again.
"Daimon, I--"
"Don't speak," He said, placing his long, sharp finger in front of her lips. When he gestured behind him, another grotesque throne joined his own. "You've had your time to think, Patsy. Look here -- I offer you a throne next to mine. And see here," He said, pointing out into the crowd, "They are gathered for you. For us. They are our fodder."

And without a flinch, his pointing nail extended further and further towards the bald head of the sitting god Pluto. It pierced his forehead's flesh easily and went deep into his eternal skull. Blackest blood dripped from the wound, and slowly, Pluto's head shrunk to the size of a charm, his body fading away.

Daimon recalled his bloody nail, the head in tow, and he plucked and ate it. "There power is ours, Patsy," He said. She could smell the death on his breath. It would have disgusted her...It should have. "All you have to do is give me your hand in marriage."

From the blackness at the back of the stage, there was a rustling, and slowly out of it came a shape just as black. Its hair was like a garden of spikes as it walked towards the red-haired couple, carrying something in its sharpened fingers. Without turning to the creature, Daimon reached behind and took the item from its palm. "Thank you, Blackheart," he said.
"Of course, brother."
"Blackheart will be my best man, you know," Daimon said, staring at Patsy and intoxicating himself in doing so. "He smithed this ring in the fires of Hell itself." He gradually made it to one knee, still looking in her eyes, and pulled her hand to him. The ring was made of a metal so dark that Patsy feared the reflection it would show her. She could feel its coldness at the tip of her finger.

"Well, beloved? Will you marry me?" The tension spread throughout all of Hell. Patsy closed her eyes.

".....Yes." And the ring slipped onto her finger.

Daimon rose, holding her hand. He kissed Patsy on her lips, allowing her to taste what she smelled earlier. It tasted good. "Then take your throne, my future queen, and wait. We will have a fine wedding, with this crowd as the guests -- The wedding gifts, as well. And then the reception -- Oh, the recption..."

They walked to their thrones and sat, overlooking their kingdom. "You will be so proud of your husband, Patsy," Said the lord of Hell to his fiancee. "We are going to succeed where my father failed so long ago."

"You think she's pretty?" Asked the Gargoyle. Mark nodded faintly. "We always fall for the red-headed ones..." His heavy hand took Mark by the shoulder and began to lead him into the outer darkness. "But that will be his downfall, not ours, little brother. Now come. We have other places we need to be before the wedding.

"Our father says the pieces are all in place," Said the Gargoyle as he and Mark melted into the darkness.

"Now he will play his game."