Washington DC

Manuel Diego Armand Vicente, or Danny Vincent to associates (friends weren’t worth the investment and liability), watched as one Simon Lyles and Katherine Banks let themselves into a cheesy, one level hourly motel, hand in hand as if they were two kids in High School.

“Finally,” he sighed aloud. Danny pulled out a digital camcorder, and snapped a few shots of the happy duo. Once he’d done that, he emailed the photos to a waiting account.
When that was completed, he flipped open a pre-payed phone and dialed, “Mrs. Lyles? This is Brent. Your ‘loving husband’ just checked into the hotel with someone who’s not you. Are you at the website? Good…good. You see that? When you transfer the two hundred k to my account, you’ll own not only the pictures but the camera it came with and the PI who took them. Yes, yes I know it’s expensive, but look at it as the only down payment you’ll ever have to make on your mansion. Thank you.”

Danny flipped the phone shut and got out of his car, “Rich people, they swear everyone’s out to rip them off.”

As he crossed the street, Danny looked down the block and signaled to a man he had waiting there.

Danny knocked on the door twice, “Mr. Lyles? I need to speak with you for a moment. It’s about your credit card.”

The Middle aged importer came to the door, his shirt disheveled and belt undone, “I didn’t pay by credit card!”

“Why, afraid the wife might find out?” asked Danny, knowing the answer full well.

The man paled, obviously aware of the implications, and Danny Vincent continued, “My name’s David Golightly. The wife hired me to find out if you were in fact cheating on her. The reason why I’m here sir, is that I’m a fair man. I’m offering you the opportunity to match the three hundred thousand dollars she’s already paid me. That money will not only buy you the evidence I’ve collected thus far, but an iron clad alibi and access to the computer worm that’s already on her personal computer.” Danny help up another pre-payed phone, “just dial 2. The speed dial’s just for you.”

In ordinary conditions, a seasoned businessman like Mr. Lyles would have told anyone else to go hell. But Danny Vincent projected an eerily, professional calm that seemed dangerous on not just a business level, but physical one as well. In less time than it took to tell, Mr. Lyles had transferred twice the requested amount of money.

“It’s done,” Lyles handed the phone back to Danny, “I hesitate to ask, but…you said you’d give me an alibi?”

“Right,” Danny turned his head and whistled, “Hey, Igor!”

Mr. Lyles nearly wet himself as a six foot seven Russian man walked up to the door. Almost mechanically, the man extended his hand. Lyles, shaking like a leaf, took the man’s hand but didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes.

“What…what is this?” The Importer demanded, his voice teetering between terrified and outraged.

“This is Igor. Igor works with Russian mob. He’s a Godless Russian with no fear of testifying under oath. You’ve been looking to break into new markets. He’s got muscle to help with the breaking,” Danny smiled like the cat that’d eaten the canary, “what is this? A match made in heaven, is what.”

“I can’t work with organized crime! I’m an honest business man!”

“Not according to Wilson Fisk. He says that you’ve done him a solid, here and there, under the table,” Danny countered smoothly, “as a matter of fact, I may be doing you a favor. See, people like Fisk? They don’t like guys like you, who’ve barely committed a serious crime, on their payroll. Any rookie DA can flip you like a hamburger to get to him. You’d look a lot better than some corner drug store dealer, testifying against the fatman. Honestly? If it wewren’t for me, you’d be in a gutter someone, a loose end tied up by some up and coming thug.”

“Oh God, oh God,” Mr. Lyles clutched his chest and wiped his brow, damp with sweat. His heart was pounding a mile a minute as he felt his life spiral out of control before his eyes.

“Hey, hey!” Danny snapped his fingers twice, “I just saved your life man, be more grateful!”

“I…I just looked the other way once or twice, and never for drugs!”

“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Now Igor and me are going to go finish up our business. Why don’t you impress upon the lovely Ms. Banks how upset her orthodox father would be to find she was carrying on an affair with a married man, okay?”

The Russian at Danny’s side chuckled as they walk away, “Good thing we in open air. Smell of bullshit, David. It might just kill me.”

“There are worse ways to die,” Danny shrugged, “but time is money. I assume you wired mine?”

“Of course. You are good American. Few people can make four hundred thousand with just a few weeks work.”

“What can I say? I’m a genius.”

Danny gave a polite goodbye, and strolled towards his car. He dialed one last number.

“Barry? Josh here. I’ve got a hot tip about the Russian mob. Interested…good, good. Get the money to my usual account and I’ll get that information to you. Good doing business with you again.”

---

Maryland

It wasn’t until he pulled into his into his garage and shut the door that Danny Vincent felt comfortable removing the blond haired face mask and tossing it aside in a waiting bucket with a dozen others.

Danny hummed a merry tune to himself as he let himself into his house, his castle, his sanctuary.

The tune died in his throat when he saw Joey Chapman lounging on his couch, casually reading a newspaper.

“What, you don’t knock in the U.K.?”

“I get the impression you might not answer, Danny.”

“Lets keep this professional. Call me Junta,” Danny went into his kitchen and grabbed a coke out of the fridge, “’course, the problem here is that you never called me, after I did you a solid. At great personal risk, I might add.”

“I haven’t forgotten how you infiltrated Yellow Claw’s base for us,” Chapman defended, “but that case went south for us. I could hardly justify bringing you on given the collateral of that mission.”

“Hey!” Danny snapped defensively, “That’s hardly my fault. If I had a team backing me, I might have been able to give you better intel, but don’t asked me to infiltrate another villain strong hold with the promise of more work! I did it and I got jack all to show for it. Now…unless you plan to make up for that…”

“Well, that depends on how you define making up for it…”

---

Jack Hudlin considered himself smarter than most people, even though he never graduated High School, flunking out in the eleventh grade and despite the fact that he would never qualified anything above a minimum wage job.

The reason he thought himself smarter than most people was because when luck finally came his way in the form of super powers (an industrial accident that he was actually responsible for), Jack neither rushed out to save the day or rob a bank. He never even bothered to think up a ‘code name’, like everyone else seemed to do.

Instead, he moved out into the middle of nowhere, and lived life as he pleased. When he went grocery shopping, he simply grabbed the stuff he wanted and left, without bothering to stop at the register. The landlord could never muster the courage to cut the utilities on a man who could (and would) tear his piece of crap car apart with his bare hands. And the local cops didn’t have the muscle to put him down and he really doubted any hero would leave New York, just to deal with him.

It was a simple life, true, but that was how Jack wanted it and no one could take that away from him. Jack didn’t even think twice when he heard a knock on his door, even though he hadn’t been expecting a soul.

So imagine his surprise when he opened the door to see a Native American man, wearing a leather jacket, weathered but not torn blue jeans and a helmet who’s glass faceplate was shaped like the beak of an eagle and armed with a mini cross bow strapped to his hip.

“Who the hell are you?” was the only thing Jack could thing to say.

The man’s hands shot out and grabbed Jack by his thick neck with strength the lazy superhuman never thought he’d feel, and with contemptuous ease, was tossed outside on his front lawn.

“The name’s American Eagle,” the man stated, “I guess as far as you’re concerned, I’m just a civil servant taking out the trash.”

“You ain’t so tough,” Jack sneered, “I ain’t never heard of you before and you sure don’t scare me now!”

Jack swung his oversized fist at American Eagle’s head, curious to see what damage he might do now that he could actually cut loose…only to watch in horror as his foe reached up and caught his fist in mid swing with dismissive effort.

“You’d be surprised how many things you never heard of can still kill you. Or, as I’m about to demonstrate, wipe the floor with you.”

---

An hour later, American Eagle finally managed to extract himself from the throngs of everyday people grateful that he had finally done what no one else could, remove a superhuman bully from their midst. Guardsmen had finally arrived to haul the man away to the Vault, and with that accomplished, Jason Strongbow felt no particular desire to remain. Basking in praise for longer than ten minutes just seemed selfish to him, and he had other assignments waiting, at least not today.

Strolling towards where he parked his motorcycle, American Eagle was thinking about where he would find a cheap local motel when he heard the gravel behind him crunching underfoot, just loud and long enough to indicate someone was declaring their presence.

In one fluid motion, American Eagle unhooked his crossbow, spun around and leveled it at the mystery person’s chest.

“Good reflexes,” Sabra complimented.

“Never a bad thing to have,” American Eagle holstered his crossbow, “you should be more careful. I use…”

“Vibranium arrows,” Sabra finished, “I know. So, have you given our invitation any thought?”

“I have, but I’d like to know why you’re interested in me.”

“Most heroes in America have an established territory that they keep to almost religiously,” Sabra explained, “it’s our understanding that you approached your government and offered to act as a trouble shooter. That takes initiative, something we would like in a member of Excalibur.”

“I did it because not every place has the heroes it needs,” explained Jason, “I can’t say me joining Excalibur would improve that.”

“There are places all over the world that lack for heroes,” Sabra countered, “and when there is an emergency, all they have is us. I think you could accomplish far more against the likes of Moses Magnum, Dr. Doom and others, than against…what was that man’s name?”

American Eagle chuckled slightly, “Good point. But there’s also the matter of my contract. I’m being paid to wrangle three other superhumans by the end of next week and two of them are on separate coasts. I don’t know if I can afford a detour to try out for a super team.”

“At present, four members of Excalibur will be inactive until we’ve chosen our final members,” Sabra stated, “if it’s alright with you, I can assign them to apprehend your targets.”

“Hard to turn down an offer like that,” American Eagle nodded, “Alright, I’ll play.”

---

Paris, France

Union Jack drummed his fingers on the leather chair with one hand while he flipped through a two month old magazine while the office secretary gave him quizzing looks in between doing…whatever she was supposed to be doing.

Union Jack supposed it should have been annoying, the way the woman was looking at him as if he was a madman, but figured it was only natural. He was in full costume and in the office of a well renowned and respected therapist. The math on that wasn’t especially hard.

Just as the time for his appointment had arrived, the twin oak doors to the private office swung open, and two people emerged.

One was a woman dressed in a dark, conservative business suit. The second person was a heavy set man, dressed in business casual with a white shirt and brown pants and smiling as if he’d just inherited half of England.

“…can’t thank you enough, Dr. Pear. I simply can’t believe that I never looked at it that way!” the man glanced towards Union Jack, and his eyes went wide.

“…I think he’ll need your help more than me,” the man said in accented English.

“More than you will ever know,” Dr. Pear smiled in good humor, “Janice, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? This may be a while. ‘Jack, would you join me in my office?”

“So, Persona Gratis is now a therapist for the insecure rich and powerful,” Union Jack glanced around the office, noting the expensive furniture, elegant rugs and first editions that lined the book cases. The far wall was lined with photos of politicians, captains of industry, models and a few unmistakably lower class men and women. It was, without a doubt, a truly menagerie of Paris, “among others. I have to say, this isn’t where I expected you to be, five years ago.”

“I like to think that I did. I’ve always liked to listen to people talk and I like to solve problems,” Dr. Pear took her seat, and with a curt smile, gestured to the couch, “shall we go through the motions?”

Union Jack laid down on the couch and steepled his hands together, “I don’t do this as often as I should. Do I start?”

“That would be ideal.”

“Alright…I come on behalf of Excalibur. We’re seeking highly skilled recruits who wouldn’t be terribly missed by their governments. What’s more, we’ve been under pressure from the French representative one the Security Council to add a French agent, while at the same time denying us access to their top agents.”

“Politicians are fond of their contradictions.”

“Very much so. However, that is where I would like you to come it. You have French citizenship…”

“Naturalized, of course…”

“…and you have a background in counter intelligence work. Your skills would be invaluable addition to our cause.”

“Team,” Persona Gratis corrected, “not cause. I know it sounds less romantic, but that doesn’t make you any less a hero. And you were dispatched here in the hopes that my gratitude for your services all those years ago will sway me into joining.”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t say I’m impressed by the complexity of your plan, Rock. Somehow, I doubt your team can match either my salary or job satisfaction.

“Actually, we can,” said Union Jack, “most of Excalibur is already paid handsomely by our own governments. That allows us to exceed by ten percent whatever it is you’re making already and stay within our yearly budget nicely.”

“A ten percent increase is hardly reason enough to risk my life. In the interests of time Rock, play your trump card please. Beating around the bush simply isn’t in your nature.”

“Well, I was just thinking,” Union Jack said casually, “how proud your father might be if you were an elite member of the United Nations security force, saving countless lives on every continent. I think he would look at you in a whole new way.”

“…”

Still staring at the ceiling, Union Jack smiled just a little bit underneath his mask and said, “I’ve been taking some lessons in fluent bastard since I last saw you.”

“What makes you think I care about that?”

“Because you write a letter to him every week,” Union Jack answered.

“I wasn’t aware that Shield felt the need to spy on my habits.”

“Now who said anything about anyone spying?” Union Jack smirked.

---

Saudi Arabia

Guy Smith, known in the local intelligence networks as The Orphan, a proud member of Magneto’s Fallen Angels, meditated and wondered if he was making a wise decision.

When the Director of Excalibur announced, via various diplomatic channels, that they were looking for recruits to replace Eshu and U.S. Agent, Magneto was intrigued. Discussing it with several of his advisors, they came to see it as an opportunity to raise Genosha’s international profile (and with any luck, at the cost of Americans on the United Nations team). After what seemed like countless hours of discussion, it was decided that Guy would be the best applicant. He was skilled, diplomatic and while not the most experienced, his enhanced senses would be advantageous in observing the other members of Excalibur and reporting back to his government, should he be selected for membership.

But now, sitting in the officer’s lounge of a Saudi military base waiting for pickup, Guy was beginning to realize the stiff competition that he was going to be face.

Two potential recruits were members of the Janissaries, a team that Guy had clashed with in the past. One was known as Firearm, reputed master of any weapon (and lord knew, she carried enough of them) and the second was the electronics master known as Malak. From what Orphan understood, the two of them had been trained since birth and though that hardly made them perfect warriors (experience can’t be taught) it still made them dangerous in their own right.

As if those two weren’t enough, the Saudis had insisted on including the latest Arabian Knight. The man wore a simple flak vest, black suit and army pants with a huge sword strapped to his side. The man was actually very pleasant, making light, sincere conversation with Guy before excusing himself to talk with the other gathered heroes.

Finally, there was Batal, the Syrian representative. Standing six feet tall with broad shoulders, with a black suit highlighted by bright red boots and pouches, an oversized gun strapped to his chest and the Syrian flag on his chest, Batal looked impressive. But his face held a constant sneer aimed at everyone in the room, which to Guy indicated ignorance, a weakness of the mind he was all too familiar with.

Guy could sense the power, the strength of each hero, and it made him question if he could in fact rise above them all.

“Everyone is here?” Sabra strolled into the room casually room. Almost instantly, Batal took his eyes away from the other heroes and almost growled at the new entry.

“Good. If you’d just follow me…”

“Do you really expect me to trust you after what you’ve done?” shouted Batal, “I learned my lesson about turning my back on you.”

Sabra allowed the accusation to wash off of her like water from a duck. She remembered the incident with Batal clearly. She’d been mind-controlled during a peace conference and the first thing she’d done was strike Batal down from behind. That alone had put the talks back months, as no one had really believed that Sabra was acting under outside influence, no matter how true it was.

“Batal, I don’t need your back turned to deal with you,” Sabra said blithely, “but if you want to stay here with your tail between your legs, that’s your choice. The rest of you who call yourselves heroes, please follow me.”

Guy smiled as he sensed Batal picking up the rear. He may have had his doubts about what was to come, but seeing a bigot get dressed down always raised his spirits.

---

Fort Bragg

Joseph Green tried to ignore the odd glances and incredulous looks he was receiving from his fellow soldiers as he made his way across the base. He couldn’t really blame his fellow soldiers for staring, he’d do the same in their place. After all, his right arm was encased in a giant alien weapon that resembled a creation of Japanese animation that looked big enough to arm wrestle the Hulk.

Code named ‘Gauntlet’ (the military had better things to spend it’s time on than creativity), Green was one of a handful of superhuman recruits in the United States military and considered by the top brass one of the most powerful in their arsenal, though his general lack of combat against superhumans worried them. Even the dumbest rookie knew that real men got stronger when facing equals or superiors and as proud as he was of his record, Gauntlet was honest enough to admit to himself that he hadn’t yet faced a threat equal to the power he had. That was why his superiors were open to the idea of him joining Excalibur for an extended tour.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Green? We need to have a word with you.”

Suits. This should be interesting, Gauntlet grumbled silently to himself. He’d been briefed already, so anything these two men would almost certainly be off the record and a complete pain in the rear.

The two men flashed their ID badges, indicating they worked for the Commission on Superhuman Activity. And just as expected, what they said next was both off the record and, in Gauntlet’s opinion, not only a pain in the ass but completely immoral.

---

Hangar

Joey Chapman paced back and forth in the hangar as his flight crew ran a routine check, waiting for the final arrive.

The first candidate, code named Commando, had arrived a few minutes early. Chapman had actually arranged it that way, in the hopes that the man would be…talkative, perhaps revealing something about himself to help the selection process along.

That wasn’t proving to be the case.

The man, code named Commando, looked every bit like the soldier described in his dossier. Six foot four, broad shoulders and muscles that would impress any bodybuilder. Unlike most National superheroes, Commando didn’t have a costume that doubled as a uniform.

Rather, his uniform doubled as his costume. He wore the same vest, helmet and bullet proof vest as any other enlisted man. Naturally though, the man’s equipment was anything but standard issue. The knife sheathed in Commando’s boot was clearly secondary adamantium, and the two silver plated Berettas 92Fs in his shoulder holsters were by no means standard issue. The M4 Carbine hanging over his shoulder was clearly a custom job, with a circular magazine like those on a Tommy gun, a barrel that was a half inch longer than regulation and an attached, modified M203 grenade launcher that barely looked like it’s parent weapon. His body armor wasn’t made up of ceramic plates and hidden under his uniform like most soldiers. Rather, Commando wore his armor on the outside, black as night and wrapped around his waist like a girdle. And Chapman didn’t want to think about the grenades.

As if the equipment wasn’t enough, the super human soldier differed from his fellow enlisted men in another way. Where they wore light green and brown camouflage, every inch of Commando that wasn’t covered in weapons or armor was covered in bright red. Others might have found that odd to borderline suicidal, Chapman wasn’t the least bit concerned or surprised, given the man’s father.

Joey Chapman, former Union Jack, knew instinctively the power of legacy.

At long last, the final recruit arrived, entering the room with no ceremony, simply quiet reflection. Chapman walked forward to greet the man.

“Code name Gauntlet reporting for duty, sir!”

“At ease,” Chapman nodded, “welcome aboard, Gauntlet. As you know, I’m the director of Excalibur, but I don’t much give a damn how you address me, so long as it’s with due respect. This here is Commando, and he’ll be your competition, among others.”

Commando glanced at Gauntlet, and smirked, “And here I thought it just caused blindness.”

Mentally, Chapman rolled his eyes. Commando’s comment was certainly revealing, but that hardly meant he liked what he saw.

---

China

Sabra stood silently as she watched the leader of the newly created Chinese superhuman response team, the Republican Guard, went through several katas. The man, code named Er Lang, was given the ability to create energy weapons that matched his sleeveless, electric blue uniform and he seemed to be fairly proficient with them, if his fighting style was any indication.

Sabra supposed this showcase of combat ability was supposed to influence her, but being honest with herself, Sabra couldn’t care less. Going through the motions of battle was one thing, the real thing was another creature entirely.

Involuntarily, Sabra found her attention drawn to the man sitting in the corner of the courtyard, as if he were meditating. The Israeli agent could tell that the man wasn’t actually meditating. His eyes were closed, but his eyes still followed his fellow soldier perfectly and his body was coiled, tense, ready for action at a moment’s notice.

Guishen was the operative’s name and unlike most of the candidates, Sabra knew very little about him. Virtually nothing was offered by the Chinese government even as they insisted that he be included in the try outs. They only listed his powers. Tactical telepathy, empathy and some combat ability.

The man’s uniform consisted of a sleeveless, black uniform that ran the length of his body. The skin that Sabra would see was pale, as if the man hadn’t seen the sun in years and his arms (even now, sitting in this open-aired courtyard) and his arms were thin, and didn’t look as if they belonged to a man who exercised with any regularity. He wore a belt with no latches, no way to easily open that Sabra could see and two Russian GSh-18 in twin holsters attached to his hip while strapped to his back were twin short swords.

As Sabra watched Er Lang finish his demonstration, she made sure to keep one eye on Guishen. He was a mystery to her, which made as both interesting and dangerous.

---

Tartarus

Chapman breathed in deep, enjoying the tingle of sea air on his lungs. He took a look around at the ocean that surrounded this metal fortress. Tartarus was just another prison in the tradition of Devil’s Island, Alcatraz and even Australia in its beginning, islands relying the sheer strength of the surrounding oceans to keep their prisoners inside the prison walls.

Some considered it inhumane to keep even criminals separated from the rest of society with an ocean. When it came to superhumans, Chapman thought of it as the bare minimum to keep them incarcerated.

“Director Chapman? I’m chief of security, Ganya Volker. Welcome to Tartarus, sir.”

The man was medium height, strong build with dark skin. According to his jacket, he run one of the most efficient prisons in South Africa, with one of the lowest corruption rate, guard deaths and prisoner complaints combined.

Secret internal documents expressed doubt at his ability to do the same here, but that wasn’t Chapman’s concern at the moment.

“Thank you for having me,” Chapman shook the man’s hand, and the two of them made their way inside the building, “I imagine you don’t get requests like this too often.”

“No sir. Most people sent to this hell hole, their countries don’t want back. I’m surprised anyone would want to take any of these scum bags off our hands, especially the two you’re interested in. They’re among the most dangerous people imprisoned here long term, top ten easily.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Chapman smiled, “Hell, I wouldn’t even consider using criminals unless they were good. Hard to argue with results.”

“That’s certainly a universal truth,” Ganya replied, “so which one would you like to meet first?”

“I think I’ll start with the bloke who came here willingly,” answered Chapman.

---

The cell was on one of the lower sub basements. Iron bars was all the kept the young man inside, which was itself unusual for superhumans.

“This is Kamau,” Ganya said as the two stood outside the cell, “that’s Kenyan for quiet warrior. He…”

“I’ve read his jacket,” Chapman interrupted, “given how powers, is it wise to keep him this deep?”

Volker shrugged with a guilty smile, “If you’ve read his jacket, then you know that we have no legal justification to lock him up. He’s only in jail because he wants to be. Snuck in about three months ago and insisted on staying.”

“I’m surprised you let him.”

“You read the same files as I did. He’s never been a problem, even saved a guard from another prisoners. Besides, someone like him…”

“Gets to stay wherever he wants,” Chapman finished, “alright, open the cell and give me a moment alone, please.”

The door swung open, and Chapman casually strolled inside. Sitting in the center of the room was a young African man, sitting lotus style with his eyes closed. He wore a simple pair of brown pants and no shirt, his powerfully built body. His head was shaved bald except a single spot at the back of his head which sported thinly braid pony tail. The young man’s face, though handsome, was fairly unremarkable except for four vertical scars on his mouth, which reminded Chapman eerily of a flesh stripped skull.

“Meditating, eh?”

Silence.

“You want to talk to me, son. Because I have authority over superhumans who can kick your arse out of here and drop you back in Africa without breaking a sweat. Authority I’m not afraid to use.”

“Yes, I am trying to meditate,” answered Kamau, “I’m not having a great deal of success.”

“I have that effect on people.”

“I didn’t say you were the cause.”

“Hard to forget their faces, isn’t he?” Chapman asked softly.

“What would you know of it?” Kamau snapped defensively.

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” Chapman confided, “I’m trying to make them right, with Excalibur. I think you could do the same, son.”

“I am paying my penance here, now,” Kamau growled, “I deserve to be in this cesspool.”

“This isn’t penance,” Chapman said, “if anything, this place is limbo for you. In between Heaven and Hell, the blood on your hands neither dragging you down nor washing off. You can leave at any time, you have room and board, more than a lot of people can say. You help nothing and no one. But you can change that.”

“I left violence behind for a reason.”

“I know Udo…can I call you Udo?”

“You can call me whatever you prefer. I have no interest in joining your team whatsoever.”

“I didn’t think so,” Chapman shook his head, “but lets see how much interest you really have in redemption. When I leave here today, I’m going to order my team to expel anyone that is illegally residing in this prison. It’s not a long list. No more free room and board. You’ll be sent home, free and I promise you you’ll remain that way for the rest of your life.

“Or, you can join me in one hour as I depart and try out for membership on my team. If you fail, I give you my word that I’ll make it so you can stay here forever. So starting now, you sixty minutes to decide just how far you’re willing to go to redeem yourself.”

---

In comparison to Kamau’s simple, iron cell, the one prison cell that Chapman stood in front of now looked more like the door of a bank vault than a prison cell. There were three separate locks and a thin glass panel allowing him to look inside.

As if that weren’t enough, security insisted that Chapman wear a bio-hazard suit before they even considered allowing him inside to see the prisoner.

“This all seems like a bit much,” Chapman remarked casually as the men zipped him up.

“With her powers, it’s just enough,” Volker replied, “the convict can turn herself into mustard gas if it suits her mood.”

“Wouldn’t be hard to kill someone with your bare hands in this spacesuit,” Chapman muttered. The suit was bulky, clumsy. Not the image that he wanted to present at all to the superhuman locked up side that cell.

“The suit doesn’t conduct electricity,” Ganya stated, “we’ll be watching the entire time along with sensors on automatic. If she tries anything, we’ll light her up.”

“Good to know,” Chapman commented as his helmet was secured. One of the technicians handed Chapman a silver cylinder that Chapman had asked him to hold. With a nod, one of the men keyed in the door’s code, and with a hiss of pressurized the first door swung open.

Chapman stepped through the door, and listened as it slammed shut behind him. In a way, this whole thing, the sealed suit and the sealed airlock reminded Chapman of a medical quarantine, where one person was completely isolated from the rest of the world in every sense for the safety of everyone. The person locked inside wasn’t sick in any physical way, but the principle remained.

The door at the far end opened, and Chapman waited a moment before stepping in. He wasn’t scared in the slightest, but he also didn’t want to appear eager to the person imprisoned inside.

When he stepped into the room, Chapman mentally noted the metal floor and sprinklers on the ceiling. In some regards, it was like many other prison cells. A bed attached to the wall, toilet in the corner and a small, empty desk.

Where it differed was the fact that the bed was covered in plastic, the walls were covered in a white, seamless bullet proof glass. The glass on the windows was an inch thick, barely allowing in any light. Anything and everything that might retain even the smallest amount of liquid was removed, with the exception of the prisoner’s orange jumpsuit.

As for the prisoner herself, Chapman guessed that she was a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Information on her true identity was hard to come by.He suspected that was because of whatever event that gave the woman her powers. Most people didn’t forget a woman with light blue skin, and white hair with streaks of red.

“So…what does the director of Excalibur want with a lowly criminal like myself?” Her English was perfect, with barely a hint of her Indian accent. She hadn’t bothered to stand up to meet Chapman, but instead chose to lie back on her bed apathetically

“That depends on you,” Chapman answered, “and what impression you make on me. To start, what do I call you?”

“Shiva will do,” answered the woman.

“Not an especially creative choice, that.”

“What makes you think I was trying to be creative?” She sat up and looked at Chapman, “my record speaks for itself. Don’t pretend that you will be leaving here without me. You wouldn’t have insisted on seeing me otherwise. Terms of my release is all we should bother with, not witty repartee.”

“Smart bird,” Chapman smiled, “lets talk about that record, shall we? You have a long, impressive list of kills. Including five separate superhumans that targeted you before your capture. Do you know why they came after you?”

“I likely killed the wrong person,” Shiva replied, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world, “and they were sent as retaliation. That is basic math.”

“Actually, that’s not the case,” Chapman corrected, “see, when you killed your first handler, turned on your employer…”

“He got what was coming to him!” Shiva snapped, “and there’s no way his people put out a contract on me! They are too scared of me to even think it!”

“Be that as it may, they weren’t the ones who called out a contract on you. In fact, no one did. The five assassins that came after you didn’t do it for a contract.”

Shiva looked at Chapman, examining him for anything that might hint at a deception, “Why else would they come after me, if not for profit?”

“Well, profit was involved ina round about way. You’ve been red listed,” Chapman answered.

“Red listed?”

“That’s an underground slang term, you might say,” Chapman stated, “understandable that someone from a high caste like yourself wouldn’t know that, I suppose.”

Chapman smiled inwardly as Shiva scowled the second she heard the term ‘caste’. He had no idea who she was, but he was forming an idea.

“At any rate, ‘Red Listed’ is when an assassin has demonstrated that they’re too uncontrollable or dangerous. Blokes Sabretooth, Deadpool and the like. Turns out, the other side of the street is as tired of them as law enforcement,” Chapman explained, “so a bunch of criminals put their heads together and came up with the ‘Red List’.”

“Anyone who takes someone down on the Red List gets an instant rep boost and some gratitude from local criminal heads. And anyone who survives being on it for longer than a year demonstrates how good they are. Provided, they have an employer willing to stick their neck out.”

“You’re lying,” Shiva snarled, “there are plenty of killers more dangerous than myself out there. Like you said, Sabretooth, Bullseye…”

“Are professionals,” Chapman retorted, “they know who to approach, are expert killers and can disappear at a moments notice. They’re wired and worth the risk. You? Three Shield agents followed you back to your loft and wired your bed with a neural charge. You can fight and your powers give you easy access to a target. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg to being a real professional, luv.”

“Noted,” Shiva scowled.

“But don’t worry, you were right. I am here to release you. I just want you to know how much you need me,” Chapman’s grin was entirely too cocky for Shiva, but she tolerated it without complaint, “you think of rabbiting, and I’ll be the least of your worries. To me, you’d just be am embarrassment. But to an up and coming mercenary, you’re a stepping stone to a bigger paycheck and without connections, you can’t go to ground.”

“And your solution is to work for you? I’m no fool, there is no way that could help my reputation.”

“You’d be surprised. A lot of professionals have done work for their governments. And it’s not as if you have any other way out of this cell.”

“That’s not…”

“Your ‘secret’ bank accounts were seized, you killed your last employer and this cell was created with you in mind. I doubt you can even see the guard shifts to time them. Now, I’m a busy man. You have the next ten seconds to accept my offer. I’m a busy man, and this suit chafes. One…two…ten.”

“I’m in,” Shiva said quietly, staring at the floor, “so where is my leash? I don’t expect you to trust me.”

“Right here,” Chapman tossed the silver cylinder he carried in. Shiva caught it in one hand.

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“It’s a container for nano-bots,” Chapman explained, “ones created with you in mind. In several seconds, I’ll be able to activate the pain receptors in your body at will if you step out of line.”

“You’re an idiot if you think I’d let you inject me with something like that!” spat Shiva, “I changed my mind, I want out!”

“Too late,” Shiva saw the cylinder break apart in her hand as if it were made of ash, “Nano-bots, remember? They entered in through your pores. I’ll have your uniform brought in. Hurry up and change, I have a schedule to keep.”

---

Half hour later

Chapman leaned back against the jail wall, waiting his for latest recruit to finish dressing.

Knew it was a mistake to tell her to hurry, he thought to himself. Chapman was seriously considering activating the nanites when he heard a knock on the door window. The guards accompanying him seemed to jump back in surprise, but Chapman was more relieved than anything else.

“Walk out, or there’ll be trouble,” Chapman warned as he signaled for a man to unlock the door.

The heavy door swung open, and Shiva stepped out gingerly. Like every hero or villain ever, Shiva wore a tight, form fitting uniform. She wore a red top, and red pants with dozens of pockets that to Chapman seemed ‘loud’ for her type of work. Bright colors were hardly conductive towards stealth, but he also knew that her skill and powers helped off set that.

“This is a nice change,” Shiva looked around, pleased with how the guards not only gave her a wide berth, but had their weapons leveled at her, “you boys better hope that Chapman here ca…argh!”

Shiva fell to one knee as pain unlike anything else she had felt before coursed through her body. It was only for a split second, but it was still worse than anything she had felt before.

“Save the childish threats for later. We still have to pick up your toys from storage,” Chapman said curtly.

---

Storage

Tartarus, like any other prison, was charged with holding the personal effects of all their prisoners. As a rule though, all weapons were held in a secret storage facility on the mainland. Chapman, however, didn’t feel like making an additional stop and so used his pull to have Shiva’s weapons delivered to the prison itself.

Chapman knew there were a lot, but even he was surprised by the number of crates hauled out and opened.

“My little darlings…”

Shiva felt positively her heart giddy as she saw her old arsenal of edged weapons that she used in her profession. Two hook swords, two specially designed katars eight inches long, two sais and a belt with upside down pouches, two wrist protectors with a space for three throwing blades underneath them and four different daggers for concealment within her boots.

“I missed you all,” Shiva cooed as she strapped her belt on. She flicked one pocket open, and four throwing stars fell into her waiting hand, “we have so much work ahead of us.”

Shiva activated the electro-magnet she wore underneath her top and slapped her hook swords on her back. It was the only way she could carry them, and she considered them her favorite weapons.

“We had them all cleaned before they were put in storage,” Chapman said, more than a little disturbed by the affection he saw being lavished upon the weapons.

“Easily fixed,” Shiva replied as she ran her finger over one of her blades, “is handsome there joining us?”

Chapman didn’t have to turn around.

“Decided to join us, Kamau?”

“Don’t pretend this is my choice,” The African warrior stepped past Chapman and towards guards, “may I have my personal effects?”

Kamau looked down at the box that contained the tools of his old life. He had surrendered them readily when he first insisted upon his imprisonment. And here he was now, reclaiming them with only moderate reluctance. He wondered, had he truly changed?

Shiva watched Kamau out of the corner of her eye as she went through the process of strapping on all her weapons. She could see what was inside, and wondered ideally which of his weapons he would reclaim first.

To her surprise, Kamau reached into the crate, and removed a silver necklace first. The necklace was, to the confusion of Chapman and Shiva both, adorned with a cross, Star of David, an ankh, Tao symbol and a few others neither recognized. Once that was secured, Kamau picked up two trench knives, the blades only seven inches long but made of pure diamond. He placed these weapons in their sheaths without ceremony. His last weapon was a sword that looked as if it were made of glass. The pummel of the sword was connected to a steel chain. Kamau wrapped the chain around his wrist, and Chapman watched in surprise as the steel sank into Kamau’s arm like a snake entering its burrow.

“I like a man who likes big long toys,” Shiva said with a crooked grin.

“I am ready.”

Joey Chapman stood before the two greatest superhuman killers of two continents with a confident, self assured grin, “Don’t say that before you see your competition.”

---

Hurry up and wait. In Gauntlet’s mind, that saying was the best way to describe the last two days. All the possible candidates for Excalibur membership came from different time zones. So they were all teleported to a United Nations compound on some island and told to take the next two days to adjust.

Given that everyone knew that they’d be competing against each other, everyone kept to themselves. Chapman predicted that, and graciously provided DVD players, books and Cable television from their home countries.

At the beginning of the third day, when everyone had adjusted, he summoned them together in a hangar and without warning, teleported them all to beach God only knew here.

“Everyone ready for Hell?” asked Chapman, “because that’s what I intend to put you through.”

---

Next issue: The gathered heroes ready themselves for the greatest challenge of their career as they fight it out for a place on Excalibur! And unfortunately for the gathered heroes, they didn’t leave behind the petty politics of their homeland…

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