“You will tell us what we want to know...we're going to hurt you regardless, but spilling everything might bring a touch of leniency.”

It felt like he was swimming in gasoline.

“Of course, I fully expect you to play the bad ass. You like that, don't you...being the man of mystery? Well, trust me, we may not know everything about you, but we fucking well know enough.”

He wanted a cigarette so badly he could taste it. Having been exiled for several years, he'd finally grown accustomed to smoking again, and watching the suit in front of him puff away was murder. How easy it should have been to reach out of his bonds, to step away from the chair that held him, and kill the smug bastard that dared think he was better than him.

“For instance, your little side-step through dimensions that you do...tricky little shit you got going there. We had to think for a while on how to get around that, but when I have a brain in a jar trying to crack a case...well, let's just say it gets cracked pretty fucking quickly. I know you've just been itching to try it since you woke up, so go on ahead. Phase out of that chair and hell, I'll let you kill me.”

As easily as flipping a light switch, he eased the tension in his body. It was like having a muscle flexed at all times, keeping himself stable in this reality, so much so that it had almost become an unconscious act for him. But when he let himself go, he knew what was happening. Normally, the move from one dimension to another was painless, though strenuous...this time, however, felt like he had just stepped into a blast furnace. He screamed, every muscle in his body contracting in a spasm that immediately snapped him back into his solid form.

“Doctors Sun and Morbius concocted something special for you, a going away present if you will. You see, every time you try to out-synch yourself with our dimension, the sensors in the walls of this cell detect it. Like cracking a whip, we throw up every kind of energy bombardment field we could conceive and wrap all of ‘em tight around your body. So, when you phase, it's like you're taking a shower with razor blades...part of your matrix dematerializes, but the other part stays locked in here.”

He wanted to wipe the drool from his mouth, but realized that even if he could move his hands, he wouldn't have had the energy to move.

“We want to know about Justin Hammer, smart boy. The moves he's making are causing a few of the wrong people to get nervous, and my superiors don't like being nervous. They've got enough on their hands as it is, keeping the super-freaks from tearing the country apart with their spandex fights and bids for world domination. You have to see our position, y'know...when an army of super-villains comes out with corporate backing and attempts to topple a foreign country, well...”

This shouldn't be happening to him. He wasn't a part of this reality, not anymore, and it was only through intense focus and strength of will that he was able to retain his presence as a physical being. How could they deny him what he was unable to deny to himself?

“Still playing Silent Sam? Fine, you go right ahead. In the meantime, I've got some good news for you. Apparently, after we ran every genetic test in the book on you while trying to figure out who the fuck you really are, we discovered a dirty little secret. That body you're walking around in, which had to have been manufactured in some kind of gene-lab, ain't gonna be much use to you in the immediate future. Your cellular structure's rotting by the day, and I'd be surprised if you hadn't noticed it yourself. Looks like Hammer – or whoever – wanted to keep you on a short leash, eh?”

Zemo! The man responsible for his freedom had lied to him...he had been promised a new host body, one that would be his without question, in return for his servitude. Oh, how it rankled him, to act as the servant when he was used to being the mastermind. But for a permanent home, without the fate of being out of touch with the world, his pride could be swallowed. But in the face of such absolute treachery, that the imperfect body created for him by Zemo until the host was prepared was now dying with every breath...how much loyalty did one deserve?

“Enough,” he weakly uttered, prompting a cocked eyebrow of interest from his interrogator. “What do you need to know?”

“Well, well, finally he comes around. Our informant within Hammer's camp has suddenly gone silent over the past few months, and after seeing their involvement with the recent Genosha debacle...well, we're getting concerned that our double-agent has switched back to the dark side of the Force. We've decided to gain your assistance in hopes of bypassing this person.”

“I have security access codes, I can get you in undetected” Mr. White stated, straining slightly against his shackles.

“Sounds good,” Agent Warren Crass replied as he stubbed his cigarette out on his captive's exposed hand, “but remember...that leniency I mentioned had a maybe attached to it, and I'm not feeling too generous at the moment.”

His name was Baron Helmut Zemo, and he wanted death to rain from upon high. For months, he had been manipulating his former Thunderbolts into working for him, all from his false identity as millionaire criminal industrialist Justin Hammer. However, without his knowledge, three of his “employees” had taken it upon themselves to travel to New York City . If there was one thing Zemo hated, it was being ignored.

“We don't expect you to understand, Mr. Hammer,” Erik Josten stated, “but Hallie Takahama was one of us. We had to find out what happened to her.”

Josten, Karla Sofen, and Melissa Gold sat in a line parallel to the large oak desk that rested in Hammer's lavish office. With the holographic disguise surrounding him, Zemo found it difficult not to break character. He simply stared out the window, his back to the three people he had ordered into a meeting. “I understand perfectly,” he said through gritted teeth, “but that still doesn't excuse your week-long disappearance. We are on the cusp of great things, but if you are not committed wholly then you are worthless to me.”

“If we're worthless,” Songbird interrupted, “then just fire us now and get it over with. You realize that most of us don't even know why we've stayed with you this long, except out of some perverse form of gratitude. You saved my life; you saved Erik's life...Karla, who knows what you've got over her to make her so subservient? But don't think we're your lackeys, Hammer...others have made that mistake and paid for it.”

Zemo closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. Oh, how he wished to simply kill Songbird then and there, to silence her constant whining and dissidence. But she was needed, and the Baron had indeed learned his lesson from his first dealings with the Thunderbolts. Turning, he attempted as much of a smile as a Zemo could muster. “Ms. Gold, please...you are all valued by me, every one of you that I have gathered under my employ. This is not a plot for world domination,” he added, the smile unconsciously growing more sinister, “and I am not the super-villain mastermind that you've all become accustomed to working with.”

“Will the two of you excuse us?” Moonstone asked, turning her head toward her two teammates. Though slightly irritated at the request, Melissa and Erik acquiesced. Sofen stood from her chair and leaned against Hammer's desk, watching the two leave the room with predatory eyes. “We're alone, Helmut,” he said after the door had latched closed, “talk to me without the illusion.”

“You presume too much, Dr. Sofen,” the brusque, German accent of the true Baron Zemo replied, the holographic image of Justin Hammer having faded away to reveal the familiar purple and gold mask that covered his hideously scarred face.

“I'm not the one that revealed my true identity to the most powerful mutant on the planet,” she quipped, lighting a cigarette as she spoke, “and it's not as if you would even have all of these fools sucking at your teat if it weren't for me.”

“Touché, woman,” the Baron replied, nodding his head in acknowledgement of her statement, “but remember our agreement. You need this for protection as much as I...and have I even asked what happened to you when the Thunderbolts disbanded?”

Moonstone narrowed her eyes, looking down at the seated mastermind. She could see the smile forming beneath his purple hood. “I'm glad we understand one another, dear girl... ein Zemo kennt alle.”

“Don't come near me, you mother fucker!”

Mark Scarlotti covered his head with his arms, barely evading the porcelain dish that was hurtled toward him. Bits of ceramic rained down on his neck as the plate shattered against the wall behind him. Removing his arms from about his head, he returned them to the out-stretched open-palmed position in which they had previously been shaped. “Brenda, baby,” he said as compassionately as could, “don't do this. I just wanted to see you guys, that's all.”

“Don't you “baby” me, Mark!” Brenda Scarlotti shouted as tears flowed down her face, forming two streams down to below her chin. “Are you on the lam again, is that it? Is Iron Man gonna bust through my kitchen wall and blast you with his laser beams or something?”

“God damn it, Brenda!” Mark yelled as he rushed the blonde-haired woman, grabbing her wrists to keep her from fighting. “I'm not here to fight with you!”

To his surprise, her frenzied struggle to be free from him ceased. Looking into his eyes, she moved closer to him, rubbing herself against him. Placing her face against his neck, Brenda whispered softly. “Are you back, Mark? Are you giving it all up, finally?”

“Baby,” he said, closing his eyes tight as the words came from his lips, “I'm here to say goodbye for a while. Something big is going down, something I got involved in without thinking things through. I just gotta work some stuff out, that's all.”

She went limp in his arms. “It's always the same thing, Mark,” she accused, pushing away from him forcefully, “you're a murderer and a waste of life. At least with the mob you could get some respect, but why the fuck you decided to put on a costume and cape will always be beyond me.”

Mark hung his head low, his back turned to the woman he loved. “I know you don't believe it,” he responded, “but I did it for you. I did it for Samantha.”

“Well you sure fucked that all up, didn't you?” she asked hatefully, walking out of the kitchen as she spoke. “Close the door on your way out.”

“Do you think I wouldn't give this up in a heartbeat?” Mark yelled at his ex-wife as she left the room. Unsurprisingly, she didn't even dignify him with a response.

INTERLUDE

In a top-secret location somewhere in the hills of Hollywood , the Avenger named Hawkeye was escorted through a darkened hall. The chairman of the West Coast Avengers had received the call less than an hour before, a demand from the United States government that he found too damn curious to refuse. He hadn't been aware that the Commission on Superhuman Activities had established a safe house in California ...and, he honestly felt, the discovery had made him a bit uneasy.

The armed escorts pushed open the large bay doors that led to the ramshackle autopsy bay, stopping in the doorway to allow the archer access. Standing beside a covered body that laid upon a steel slab was a man that Clint Barton had fervently hoped he'd never have to see again. CSA Agent Warren Crass already had his game face on, a permanent scowl that looked as if it had been drawn on by a master artist.

“What's the good word, Crass?” Hawkeye asked as he entered the low-lit room. “I don't usually make house calls without the rest of the Avengers present.”

“Some agents of mine discovered a body a few days ago,” Crass answered, waving a hand toward the covered corpse, “and we've ran it through every identification test known to man. It's the real deal, I'm absolutely certain of it. My question to you, Avenger, is just how in the hell this man made it into the area without you superheroes doing something about it?”

Barton cocked a curious eyebrow at the government agent as he moved toward the top of the covering sheet. “I gotta say,” the hero answered, “I don't like being brow-beaten over something I'm totally in the dark about. Care if I take a look?”

“Knock yourself out,” Crass replied, stepping out of the way while Hawkeye pulled back the sheet.

“Oh...man.” Hawkeye sputtered as he revealed the scarred and melted face of a man that had proven to be one of the deadliest enemies humanity had ever known. “Is that...?”

“Baron Helmut Zemo,” Crass stated, “dead from no discernable cause, as far as we could tell. He was found in an abandoned warehouse in full costume, apparently struck down by a superhuman assassin.”

“The Scourge?” Hawkeye asked.

“Look, what's the use of having you Avengers in town if you can't catch something like this?” Crass responded angrily, curiously evading Barton's question. “We couldn't even stop word of his death from leaking out, and now I've got Genoshan representatives climbing up my ass hairs. Apparently, they're claiming Zemo was the man responsible for the recent war that Justin Hammer declared against their country. From what we've discovered, though, Zemo's been dead for at least three weeks.”

“We may not get along,” Hawkeye said in as serious a tone as he could muster, “but trust me, the Avengers are gonna be all over this. We're still busy with rebuilding San Francisco at the moment, but there's no way Zemo is gonna be killed mysteriously and us just let it slide.”

“I would hope not,” Crass said, throwing the sheet back over the Baron's body, “now see yourself out. I've got diplomatic shit to take care of.”

Though he started to offer a rebuttal, Hawkeye decided against it. Turning on his heels, the Avenger left the morgue in frustration, so angry that he didn't hear the beeping communicard in his tunic for several minutes. Finally, as he walked alone through the halls of the Commission's ad-hoc compound, he answered the incessant hail. “Hawkeye here,” he answered.

What was said by the person on the other end of the frequency added to his curiosity...and to his frustration.

END INTERLUDE

“It started with the H'ylthri. They were aliens, of course.

“Hrm, okay, maybe it didn't actually start there. I was born in London , though you wouldn't know it these days. I lost my accent years ago, after I migrated to the United States . But really, you probably want to know about my parents, don't you? They died when I was a child, leaving me rotting in an orphanage until my eighteenth birthday. That was when I found my passion. Gardening , god how I loved it. I was taken under the wing of a very intelligent man who believed plants were as intelligent as humans. Imagine that, huh? When he died, I continued his research. That's when all this started.

“They were called the H'ylthri, a race of extraterrestrial sentient plants that decided to use me as their stepping stone to our planet. Of course, they neglected to tell me that. When that bolt of lightning came down, powering my plant-gun with the ability to control all flora on Earth, I just assumed it happened because it was my destiny to become something special.

“But I was wrong. I wasn't special at all, it turned out. Or, well, I was in a sense, until I fucked it all up by going out and acting like a madman. I wore a costume fashioned to look like a giant leaf, for Christ's sake. I went from one humiliating defeat to another...they all tend to blur together now, but there's a good chance I even got beat up by the Defenders. The fucking Defenders. My mastery of the green was nothing compared to a blaxploitation “hero for hire” and a big green dumbass. So I settled for the pathetic life I'd carved out for myself, hammering on out of a self-deluded sense of importance.

“But then the H'ylthri finally came to Earth and revealed their hand in my destiny. It wasn't the plant-gun they'd powered...it was me. But even then, with all my new found knowledge, I got beat up. By Iron Fist. And a hairy Canadian guy with butter knives sticking out of his hands.

“Something happened after that, something that catalyzed the changes in my body that the H'ylthri had made all those years ago. I've got purple skin, and I keep talking about something called “the green”, but I really have no idea what the hell that means. I think I'm going insane, and you're the only person here that can possibly help me.

“Can you? Help me?”

Dr. Sofen paused before knocking on the frame of the door, her brow furrowed with curiosity. “Samuel?” she asked, hesitantly. “It's time for our appointment.”

Sitting in the darkened corner of his room, facing the wall, Samuel Smithers let out an audible sigh. “Is this really necessary, Moonstone?” he asked before standing from the chair.

“You came to me looking for assistance, Mr. Smithers,” Karla replied, her eyes fluttering over the purple-skinned, mutated body of the former Plant-Man. Smithers nodded his head in agreement, and then walked toward the doorway.

“Samuel,” Karla began as she followed Smithers from his living quarters, “who were you talking to in there?”

Smithers grunted in reply, prompting Moonstone to look back into the room, at the spot where had been facing. Sitting on the floor in the corner of the room was a small potted plant. “I'm worried about you, Taproot,” Sofen admitted, “you're not connecting with anyone here. Your teammates are there for you, but you have to be willing to reach out to them.”

“I had two friends here, doctor,” Sam stated matter-of-factly. “Volcana's gone and Gladiator has lost his mind. I think he's the one you should be counseling, not me.”

“Why is that?” she asked in reply.

Taproot smiled wide, allowing the small roots growing in his gums to become visible. “I'm a paragon of mental health, my good doctor. The green told me so...”

They called him the Overrider, and nothing made him feel more at home than sitting in front of a computer console. Richard Rennsalaer was a technopath, a mutant with the ability to mentally control electrical systems. While his abilities had made him suited for war, he much more preferred administrative jobs. Clearing his throat, Rennsalaer motioned for his employer to step to the terminal.

“Okay, we've got full SAT-COM with both agents in question, though the second one was a little harder to get a tracking on. At his depth, the image may come through a little distorted. Sound should be golden, though. Agent # 1 is reporting from London , so he's already dialed up and ready to chat. Now, I'll be projecting the electrical resonances straight into your brain, so you'll have real-time sight and sound communication. Am I making sense to you?”

Justin Hammer scowled at his employee, looking down his nose at the seated man. “Begin the communiqué, Overrider. I wish to have their progress known.”

Smacking his lips together, Richard acquiesced. With a snap of his synapses, the Overrider sent the electrical transmissions through the sensors affixed to Hammer's forehead, instantly putting him in contact with the first of the calling lackeys.

A rush of images imploded against Zemo's retinas, as the room upon which he sat was replaced by a smoke filled street in England . Standing in the darkened street was an odd caped character, one whose face was completely obscured by a large fishbowl helmet that reflected the cityscape like a mirror. “Mr. Hammer, events are proceeding as planned. We have followed the Scarecrow to London , and we believe he is closing in on our enemy. Do you wish us to strike immediately upon sight of the target?”

“No, Mysterio,” Zemo replied, the vocal patterns of Justin Hammer sent streaming along the electronic pathway to his agent's ear piece, “let the Scarecrow have his fun. Report back to me when the mission is complete.”

With a slow nod of his globe-like head, Mysterio disconnected the line of communication. Immediately, the image changed again, this time to a small airlock that rested on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean . A man with skin of glistening gold smiled back at the Baron, a man overly excited by his task. “Hammer, Sir, good news. We located it!”

“Excellent work, Goldbug,” Zemo answered, “I had a feeling the US Government would not move it far from where you originally discovered it. Estimated time of excavation?”

“Well, this sucker's BIG,” Goldbug replied, scratching the back of his golden neck as he spoke, “so it's gonna take quite a while. But don't worry, this is my specialty. We'll have it up and ready to go as fast as humanly possible.”

“Make it so,” Zemo replied, cementing the order by ripping away the communication apparatus, disconnecting the conversation from his end. “Keep me apprised of any new happenings, Overrider. I'm retiring to my office.”

Richard said nothing as Hammer left the computer room, his thoughts drifting to curiosity. He'd decided against inquiring why Hammer felt it necessary to implement a personal holographic device, as he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his standing in the Thunderbolts. The money was sorely needed to help treat his son, who was in the care of psychologists. Also, the industrialist had reunited him with TESS-1, a robot with which Rennsalaer had an intimate history of control.

A series of beeps sounded off from one of the adjacent consoles, signaling that one of the Thunderbolts staff had entered the compound with their personal access code. The mysterious Mr. White had finally returned from his classified mission, it appeared. The Overrider cleared the use of the code, deciding to leave yet another of his “teammates” with their secrecy.

He failed to notice the small grouping of bees that had collected in the air vent at his feet.

Donny Gill was riding a silver bullet to hell. Mercury swam in his veins, making his body run hot and cold at the same time. It was chemically induced nirvana, and he felt like a Buddha.

His addiction to heroin was killing him, and he truly didn't give a fuck.

“Hey, Missy,” he said as he braced himself against the frame of the door, “can we talk?”

Melissa Gold motioned him into her room with an extended finger, not bothering to give the boy a backward glance from her sitting spot on the bed. Her fingers flipped the pages of a photo album, and Donny immediately noticed the tears in her eyes. Sitting down on the bed behind her, Gill placed his shaky hands on her shoulders, attempting to console the woman he'd professed to love.

“Donny,” Melissa said softly as she uncomfortably shrugged his hands from her shoulders, “don't.”

A scowl formed on Blizzard's mouth. “Look, we gotta get some shit straight, babe. Why have you been acting like I don't exist?”

Melissa said nothing, her back still turned to him. Frustrated, Donny reached over her, grabbing the photo album through which she'd been looking. “God damn it!” he shouted as he flipped through the first three pages, seeing photo after photo of Abe Jenkins, the deceased Thunderbolt known as MACH-1. “I should've fucking known it had to do with him. He abandoned you so he could go to jail , you stupid bitch! You don't owe him any fucking remorse.”

“You say anything else about Abe,” Songbird said, turning to look over her shoulder at the infuriated man, “and they'll have to take you out of this room in a stretcher.”

Gill stood from the bed and threw the album against the far wall, yelling out nonsensically as he completed the motion. “Who picked you up and saved your life, Missy, when the Thunderbolts broke up? I found you drunk in the corner of the Bar and it looked like somebody had used you as their fucking cum rag! I helped you then, not the fucking Beetle! Why don't you love me like you love him ?”

“You took advantage of me...took advantage of my weakness!” Melissa shouted, stabbing an accusatory finger into Donny's chest. “All you did was make my misery worse, because I had to settle for you after Abe left!”

Blizzard stepped back, a look of confusion plastered across his face. “I...what the...what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You're a drug addict, Donny,” Songbird replied, “and you tried to drag me there with you.”

“Oh, fuck this!” Gill exclaimed, shoving his arm against Melissa's shoulder. The woman fell back against the wall, a look of shock on her face. In retaliation, her mouth opened wide, releasing a blast of pure sonic force from her bionic vocal chords. Blizzard immediately flew backward, his ears covered in an attempt to block out the sonic onslaught. He hit the floor hard, and proceeded to crawl toward the door.

“Fuckin' bitch,” he muttered as he attempted to halt the blood flowing from his ears. As he reached the doorway, a large figure stepped in his way. Donny's eyes slowly moved up, his vision taking in the giant green-scaled monster that leered downward at him. “Who the fuck...?”

Before either he or Melissa could react, the giant creature reached down and grabbed Gill by the collar of his shirt. With a casual toss of his arm, Donny flew into the ceiling, which caved in against the man's back. Blizzard fell back to the ground, welcoming oblivion as he smacked his head on the floor, sending him into unconsciousness.

“Oh my god,” Songbird whispered, “you're...”

“The Abomination,” the scaled behemoth answered for her, turning his scarred and fearsome visage toward her, “and I'm going to kill you very, very slowly.”

INTERLUDE

The paper-thin wings of cybernetic webbing fluttered furiously on his back, lifting his massive form effortlessly into the air. He had to hover low to avoid the large ceiling of the warehouse, but it felt good to regain flight nonetheless. It had been several months since Abe Jenkins had relinquished the Airstrike armor to its proper owner, and the time since had been spent building what was to be his new identity.

Or, rather, a return to an old identity.

The immense green and purple war machine thundered to the ground as he disengaged the wings that provided his flight. The wings themselves were a technological marvel, thin enough to fold like origami in the shell that was cradled between the armor's shoulder blades, but still strong enough to make the heavy metal soar at fantastic speeds. It had taken long hours of work, but finally the Beetle was ready to make his fantastic return to the world at large.

“How's it feel?” the man with the cybernetic enhancements asked, immediately running his fingers over the armor's iron alloy skin. With the hiss of hydraulics, the armor provided Jenkins an exit, folding like a Transformer around his athletically toned body.

“Like fucking heaven, man,” Abe answered, prompting a smile from his partner's face. The Fixer had been a revelation while designing and building the Beetle armor, his technological insight providing breakthroughs that had escaped Jenkins, himself a capable and intelligent engineer. How like Norbert Ebersol the man was, yet nothing like him at the same time. There was a reason for this, a reason that made Abe feel a few pangs of guilt over what he had been forced to do while acquiring the man's essential assistance in the mission.

“Nice to see you stepping up in the game, Abe,” a woman, her voice coarse yet unmistakably feminine, said, “it may be an eyesore from hell, but the bulk is definitely an improvement.” Her name was Katrina Louisa Van Horn, but she preferred her chosen name when amongst the company of males. She was the Man-Killer, and an obvious amount of intimidation came along with her body-builder physique and prodigious strength.

“Babe, this thing could take on the Hulk while keeping Jenkins cool as a penguin in a meat locker,” the Fixer stated with a laugh. With Abe outside of the armor, the bald technologist had already connected his on board CPU with the diagnostics of the walking weapon.

“Call me ‘babe' one more time,” Man-Killer replied, her face twisted into a sort of smirking scowl, “and I'll happily turn you into the world's most expensive paperclip.”

“You kids kill me,” Jenkins commented, a smile on his face as he watched his two reluctant teammates bicker amongst themselves. He still had a few more agents to contact, a couple more people to bring into the fold, but he was happy with who he had assembled. He had his tech support...his brute gal...and, best of all, he had his wild card.

“Yo, Abe,” said the man dressed in red, yellow, and blue spandex, a man who had not been in the room two seconds previous, “did I miss the test run?”

His name was James Sanders, though like Man-Killer he almost preferred to be called by his unique codename. Jenkins had known the Speed Demon for years, having worked with him in various incarnations of the Sinister Syndicate. He was a ruthless calculating bastard whose professionalism sped along at ten times the reaction speed of everybody else in the world. If Sanders so wished, each of them in the room could be dead in his hands in under thirty seconds, including the nigh-invulnerable Van Horn. But with the money that Jenkins and his partner was waving in Speed Demon's face, Sanders' loyalty was unwavering...at least as long as the checks cleared.

“Yeah, you missed it,” Abe responded. Sanders' physiology was a wonder for the scientist that refused to die inside Jenkins. The man had run patterns throughout the city, but he wasn't even breathing hard. What must the world be like for someone who reacted at the speed of thought?

The eyes of all assembled shot to the warehouse's skylight at the sound of its opening, Man-Killer and Speed Demon tensed and ready for action at the merest perception of a threat. Descending from the skylight like a bird of prey, the caped man in the silver mask showed no outward hostility. Landing lightly on the concrete floor, Citizen V nodded to his compatriots. “How goes the recruitment?” the mystery man asked, cutting straight to business.

“Everything's going to plan, V,” Abe answered, taking a drink of the beer that had appeared without warning his hand courtesy of Saunders. “Believe it or not, someone actually contacted us . A Genoshan refugee, one that has an express bone to pick with our targets.”

“Another life destroyed by Baron Zemo,” James Watkiss III stated grimly, “one who shall get their vengeance alongside us all. From the information I procured from Gyrich, I believe it necessary to make ourselves ready as soon as possible.”

“We've got the Genoshan,” Jenkins said in reply, “and the other one, the one we discussed earlier. They're both down for what we've got planned...but remember what we agreed upon: Melissa and Erik come back with us, and they do not end up in body bags.”

“I guarantee nothing,” Citizen V said from beneath his silver mask, “but I will try very hard to spare their lives...”

END INTERLUDE

The scene on the security monitor made Richard Rennsalaer's eyes bug out of his head, the soda he'd poured into his mouth spewing back into the air. The giant green monster had appeared on the monitors with no warning, and the Overrider watched as he pounded poor Donny Gill into the floor while Songbird looked on in shock and horror. How could this creature have made its way into the building undetected, especially when Rennsalaer himself had been manning the security/communication terminals for hours? Only one person had entered the compound in that time...and that's when it hit him.

“Inside job,” he rattled off to no one, “fucking White!”

He immediately swiveled in his chair, his technopathy reaching deep into the computer console on the other side of the room. He had to signal the alarms, he had to alert the others to what very well could be a possible enemy invasion, he had to...had to...

...was he hearing a buzzing sound at his feet?

Looking down at the air vent positioned at the base of the computer terminal, he heard the noise growing in volume. Suddenly, the vent erupted with a solid blast of buzzing fury, a solid stream of winged insects bursting from the air corridor like they'd been fired from a cannon.

They were bees, Overrider realized, when they began to swarm around him, instantly attacking with their painful stingers. He fell to the floor, swatting at his face and clothes as more and more bees poured from the vent, moving around him like a single living entity.

“Good evening,” a voice said from the doorway to the room, the only exit from the chamber. Through pained eyes, Rennsalaer looked at his attacker. The bees flowed in and out from under the large purple cloak, the man's face hidden by a hooded cowl. The bees weren't flowing from the cloak, Richard realized as the bees' stings began to numb his body – a bad sign, he knew – they were flowing from the body of the man himself.

“I am called Swarm,” the man made of living insects said with a thick German accent, “which ineffectual target would you be?”

Fighting through the pain, the Overrider called out with his mind. TESS! He shouted telepathically, desperately trying to contact the one thing that could save his life. TESS-1, come to me!

Several levels below, nestled in an observation cavity underneath the headquarters for Hammer Industries, the massive automaton called TESS-1 stirred to life, awakened by his master's call. The giant robot immediately took to action, its immense arms swinging toward the ceiling.

It began its long ascension through the levels of the building, coming to the aid of Richard Rennsalaer...and it cared not for anything that stood in its way.

The rumbling was felt throughout the complex, the result of TESS-1's rampage through each floor of the building. In the top penthouse office of the large complex, Baron Zemo furrowed his brow as he felt the tremors reverberating beneath him. “Quantum,” he addressed his silent powerhouse of a bodyguard, who constantly stood by his master's side, “find out what is happening.”

Before the large alien warrior could comply, the double bay doors leading to Zemo's office exploded inward, kicked open by an unknown attacker. A yellow colored creature strode confidently into the room, its obviously robotic body covered by a completely unnecessary leather trenchcoat. The being's head was strange, an apparent brain encased in what appeared to be glass. As it walked forward, hydraulics hissing as each leg made a forward stomping motion across the Persian rug, it raised its arm.

Quantum began to move toward the intruder, the Dakkamite's altered chemistry preparing to unleash a torrent of strong-bodied clones. It cared not for the small pistol that was gripped in the clawed metal hand of the interloper; all Quantum cared about was protecting the man to whom he'd pledged fealty.

Had the brain in a jar been capable, it would have smiled while pulling the trigger of its gun. The black bullet exploded from the barrel with no sound, its silence following it as it struck the chest muscles of the advancing Quantum. Immediately upon impact, the bullet burst into a flowing blanket of black liquid, quickly covering every inch of the alien warrior. A few steps later, Quantum was a solid black mass, rendered immobile and untouchable beneath his cocoon of dark.

“Who are you?” Zemo asked, his identity hidden behind the hologram of Justin Hammer. “What have you done to my aide?”

“You may call me Sun, prefaced by Doctor,” the cybernetic voice modulator on the neck of the robot replied, giving the brain a voice, “and I represent the Commission. I and my compatriots are here to pass along a message to you...”

Zemo's eyes narrowed.

“...and kill every single person here, from the janitors on up.”

"Hey, mate...did you feel that?"

Simon Maddicks fell from the high-ceilinged room, his cybernetic glider wings folded at his side as he dove toward the floor. At the last moment before impact with the cold steel of the floor, he extended the wings to their full span, sling-shooting himself back into the air. "I didn't feel anything, Myers," he stated matter-of-factly, "but I did notice that your volley went on pause..."

"Killer fuckin' Shrike," Fred Myers muttered softly while removing another boomerang from his chest pelt, "should change yer name to Killer fuckin' Asswipe, bloody show-off."

The boomerang flew from Fred's hands in a perfect arc, barely evaded by Maddicks as he flew across the room. The two men were professionals, there was no doubt about that, but they still enjoyed a good work out every now and again. Too much free time and a heaping amount of boredom had resulted in the two pairing off in the "play room" that Hammer had graciously installed for his Thunderbolts. Naturally, the two men were the first and only members of the team to take advantage of the multi-million dollar investment.

"Look, there it is again!" Boomerang shouted as the ground again rumbled beneath his feet. The Killer Shrike looked down at his sparring partner with a rolling of his eyes, but ended the insult when he saw the steel floor in the middle of the room buckle upward. The gray metal hand of TESS-1 ripped its way through the floor, desperate to reach its master that was calling for help from one of the upper floors. Once clearing itself of the floor's remnants, leaving a gaping hole in its wake, the massive machine lurched toward the far wall and made an exit as noisily and damaging as its entrance.

"Think something malfunctioned in it?" Maddicks asked from a perch that had descended from the room's ceiling, allowing him to rest while remaining in the air.

"One can only hope..." a voice hissed from above him, prompting the Shrike to jerk his head toward the roof. A grate was kicked out a few feet away from him, allowing the newcomer access to the room via the ventilation shafts that ran throughout the building. Simon immediately took flight again, just as the thin, pale man in black leather fell from the vent duct.

"You're either the bravest man in the world," Maddicks said as he aimed his wrist gauntlets at the invader, "or the most insane, to try and break into this place."

"The Living Vampire makes no claims on the state of his sanity," Michael Morbius answered as he took flight himself, easily evading the electrical blast that was fired toward him, "but make no mistake, I am here to commit murder most foul."

"Holy shit," Meyers exclaimed from his spot on the ground, "tell me we ain't being invaded by the bloody monster squad."

Before Boomerang could utter another word, he heard the hissing sound from the shadows behind him. He turned and activated his bootjets, flying backward in hopes of escaping whoever was approaching, but found he wasn't quite quick enough. The green reptilian creature pounced ferociously, attaching itself to Myers chest as he took to the air. The Lizard, a scientist transformed into a cold-blooded monster, was but a mindless beast, clawing and spitting as Boomerang frantically attempted to dislodge the attacker.

Donny Gill mumbled a string of slurred curses as he crawled down the hallway, a thin trail of blood following behind him. The Abomination had done something to his back, and his legs had gone completely numb. Luckily, he'd turned his attention to Songbird, whose sonic wail was enough to make Gill nauseous even from a good distance away. It didn't matter, let the monster kill the stupid bitch, Donny decided. All he had to do was reach his room – reach his Blizzard suit – and he'd make sure the green toad died in horrible, frozen agony.

“Aw, is poor baby's legs not working?” a voice cooed from a few feet away, standing directly between Gill and his room. He looked up, and through blurred vision saw the redhead in fishnets and leather, her breasts concealed only by thin strips of what looked like electrical tape. Twin swords twirled in her hands as she sauntered down the hall toward him, and Donny could feel the temperature rising to an unbearable fever.

“Well don't you worry,” she said as she stopped directly in front of him, her swords raised to stab downward, “Typhoid Mary is going to make all the pain go away. Eventually, anyway.”

Blizzard rolled onto his side, colliding with the wall while the swords stabbed next to him, narrowly missing his shoulders. “What the fuck is going on?” he yelled as he scrambled forward, the feeling slowly returning to his legs. “Who the fuck are you people?”

Typhoid's reply was cut short as she swiped downward with her sword, only to find the blade blocked by a blast of photonic light. She lifted her head, barely seeing the gloved fist as it struck her square in the jaw, sending her flailing wildly back down the hall. “Get your suit, Gill,” Moonstone said with authority as she advanced toward the already-recovering Mary, “It would appear that war has come to our home.”

“Die, you fucking bitch!” Typhoid screamed as she lunged forward, her remaining sword thrust through the air on target with Karla's chest. Moonstone sighed as the sword plunged deep into her body, exiting out her back. Typhoid grinned wickedly at her killing stroke, but when she pulled the sword free no wound was visible. “What? How?”

“Intangibility,” Moonstone replied as she slapped the back of her fist against Typhoid's face, spinning the woman until she crashed violently against the wall beside her. “Do research on your targets next time.”

Karla looked down at the defeated Typhoid Mary, contemplating on whether she should kill the girl then and there. Her decision was made for her by a bionically enhanced shout for her to duck, projected by the fleeing Melissa Gold rushing toward her. “Get down!” Songbird screamed, the force of her voice nearly knocking Karla down as Gold ran past her.

The Abomination was slowly stalking down the hall after his victims, ripping holes and gashes into the walls as he walked for no apparent reason. Moonstone stood her ground, determined not to show her fear as the monster lumbered toward her. The Abomination stopped directly in front of her, his putrid breath filling the small area with noxious fumes. “I like my women submissive,” he hissed, dwarfing the smaller Karla with his immense size, “so just cower there for a moment. I'll kill you when I'm done with the other two.”

The ground exploded beneath the Abomination's feet, the incredibly large fingers wrapped around him as the hand dug through the steel floor. Erik Josten, the giant named Goliath, grasped onto the gamma-spawned monstrosity with all his strength and pulled him down below, the creature screaming as his dense scales began to crack under the pressure of the larger man's grip.

Moonstone looked down through the hole that had swallowed the Abomination, wondering if even Josten would be able to defeat a monster that had fought the Hulk to a stand-still. So absorbed in her ponderings, she failed to realize that Typhoid had recovered much more quickly than expected, her sword pulled back to take off Dr. Sofen's head from her shoulders. When Moonstone finally did turn around, she was genuinely surprised to find the psychotic murderess encased in a block of ice several inches thick, the expression of hatred frozen on her face.

“Now we're even,” Blizzard said as he removed his hand from the ice block, his cybernetic suit finally giving him the power to assist in the fight.

“It's called the Darkforce,” Dr. Sun said as he leveled his pistol at the seemingly-helpless Justin Hammer, “an energy source that I believe you yourself once used to imprison the Avenger named Captain Marvel. It was quite simple to craft a bullet out of the extra-dimensional source, something that would take your solar-powered bodyguard out of the equation. I'm honestly surprised that you didn't think of it yourself.”

“What is your message?” Zemo asked through gritted teeth.

“I and my fellow criminals have been forced by the government to act on their behalf,” Sun answered, “to tell you that they will not allow you to flaunt their authority with the impunity you've brandished for so long. Of course, if they knew what I know, they would perhaps simply launch an Airstrike on this building and be done with it. My mental abilities have pierced your disguise, but worry not...your secret is safe for now, Herr Zemo. I admire you too much to take away your dignity in such a way.”

A growl came from behind the cybernetic organism, prompting him to step to the side. The furred creature that rested on all fours hissed as it laid eyes upon Zemo. “I do appreciate the irony in this, however,” Sun continued as he stepped backward to the door, careful not to turn his back on his enemy, “that by coincidence I would be accompanied by a monster that you yourself created. It would appear that dear Vermin had deduced your true identity as well...I believe his sense of smell to be extremely acute.”

“Join me,” Zemo commanded, “and I will make your every whim a reality.”

“Even if my more violent comrades were inclined to accept such an offer,” Sun said as he took a bow of departure,” they would be unable to comply. Hypnosis and various drugs have ensured their cooperation, and I myself have a bomb lodged in my chestplate.”

Zemo's eyes narrowed as he dropped the hologram that concealed his identity, determined to face his fate as a true Zemo should, without masks. “You will never make it out of his building alive, this I promise.”

“Farewell, Baron,” Sun said as he closed the doors behind him, “enjoy your reunion.”

Zemo lunged for the swords that rested on the wall as Vermin pounced, bloodlust clouding his damaged mind. The rat-creature that had once been a man crossed the distance between himself and his prey in mere seconds, his slashing claws hitting the German across the midsection. The Baron jumped back, ignoring the pain in his abdomen and the blood that was starting to soak through his uniform. He smiled when he realized he'd pulled a sword free from its holster with his backward movement.

“Come, then,” he demanded, pointing the sword at the circling Vermin, “and let us prove why Zemo will ever be a slayer of beasts...”

To Be Continued...

Next Issue: The attack of the Teddy Bear Squad spills over into Thunderbolts # 26, proving that it's too big for just one issue! Will our favorite band of rag-tag villains prove to be the superior force, or will some of them be going home in body bags?

LIGHTNING STRIKES

So, after way too long a period, here's the 25th issue of Thunderbolts. What was originally meant to be a one-issue story just would NOT die, getting longer and longer with no end in sight while I was writing it. So, now it's a bloodfest in two parts.

Stay tuned for the following back-up stories, written by Brent Lambert, Will Short, and Ian Astheimer, all of which are great works that I'm proud to include in this anniversary celebration. Also, I've included the Hawkeye/Masters of Evil story that I wrote last year for the failed Avengers Spotlight project, if only because it's going to prove itself a fairly important bit of work when the Masters return to this series later on down the road.

And how telling is it that three of the four back-up stories here take place in a bar?

Finally, to everyone that's been reading this series over the past 13 issues, I hope this monster doesn't disappoint. Thanks to you all.

Chris Munn
08/18/05

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
By Will Short

1

Her name was Kira Meyers but, to the drinking men of Alice Springs, she was Loose Kira. And as far as the tiny pink thing that popped out of her -- Kira sweating, screaming, alone at 6:33 AM thirty-two years ago -- as far as it was concerned, she was Mum.

2

By the age of seven, one year before the big move to New York, Fred was already a handsome, bushy-haired rail of a boy.

He went to school wearing what his mother dressed him in and cared more about pretty girls with blonde pigtails than multiplication and the history of the Northern Territory As Told By Missus Greene, Ain't She Old. Never were girls icky. It was straight to kisses for Little Fred and not just girlies in his grade, either.

Fred's third kiss, the first that counted, was a fifth grader named Sally Grainger: missing a tooth, blue-eyed, tan, a poster child for the Aryan race if there ever was one. Her hair was paper-thin, straight, colored platinum like his mum's. Sally's was down to her arse.

"Lil' Fred Meyers," she said to him one day, having to look down on him as she was taller by inches. It was after school and Fred was ready for the walk home. "Yer so cute, I wanna kiss ya."

He peered up at her and said without pause, "I guess yer better do it, then."

Up on his tippy-toes. She tasted like bubblegum. Fred ran all the way home to an empty house afterwards. Later that night, he'd tell his mum.

And the next day, he'd go to school strutting like a cock, ready to spread the word: Fred and Sally, going steady. But it seemed like a moot point after he found her and that sixth grader with the cool scar Joshua Young tongue-wrestling on the bench, five minutes to the bell.

When he told Mum, she gave him a peck on his salty cheek. "Sweet boy," she said. "Girl's a fool for cheatin' on ya."

Fred felt warmth replace the cold streak that had run through him.

That weekend Mum went to market and returned with a present. It was a toy for Fred. 'Sa boomerang, she said. For her sweet boy.

3

Fred's first American kiss came six years later. Perhaps it was the move that caused the gap, or the fact that he was more interested in practicing his fastball on Mum like Coach said, or the lingering memory of Sally Grainger and Joshua Young.

His mum had to work extra hours for three damn weeks to buy three tickets to the Mets game. He heard her on the phone when he should've been asleep one of those nights. Bobby's being a bastard, been there two years and no raise. Tips are paying the bills and tits are making the tips, but I'm not twenty anymore, Tish, I'm not.

The game was on Saturday. Jill showed up at the door in jean-shorts and a Mets shirt that was obviously brand new. Her hair was thick and chestnut like Fred's, hanging about her 13-year-old semi-breasts. Her braces showed when she smiled.

"What're you doin', Fred, makin' her stand in the doorway?" His mum said as she walked up from right behind. "Be a gentleman an' introduce us."

He did. The two women he loved shook hands and traded friendly introductions. All that and a ballgame in one evening? God bless America.

The Mets beat the Red Sox 19-10. In that time Fred had one hot dog and shared his Milk Duds with Jill. When he handed them over, their warm, sticky fingers touched and Fred knew he was happy.

He walked her home to her complex two blocks away; Jill the helpless damsel and Fred the shining knight, unafraid of the streets.

They stopped at the front door and she gave that look with her big brown eyes. She gave that look, the nice girl look.

Jill, sweet as she was, could've used some brushing up on her French kissing. There had to be something to kick it up a notch, something that didn't induce yawning or wanting to go back home and watch the game highlights.

Fred's mum was waiting for him when he returned with a scarlet handprint emblazoned on his left cheek. She hadn't been so mad since he'd signed for her on his report card.

"Look atcher!" she said. Her accent really came out when she yelled, which was rare; her speaking voice was closer to a steady succession of drowsy coos. "Yer thirteen, fer Chrissakes, pullin' fresh shit with that sweet little girl! Keep this up, you'll be bringin' one home preggers. Well, I ain't gonna stand for it. Y'do that, son, yer out. Simple as that."

He apologized. He wasn't sure why, what for, but he said he was sorry and he meant it. His mum took a seat on the couch and pulled a cigarette from her purse like it was a chore. Lit it, leaned back, exhaled.

"Jesus, I just thought I raised you better'n that, Fred," she said. "Y'know?

4

Ronilyn.

Raven-haired and model thin, girlfriend of nearing one year, mysteriously gorgeous, as enigmatic as an 18-year-old girl gets. Locked in someone he didn't know's bedroom, wondering how this goddam balloon worked, would it hurt?

Fred lost his virginity to Ronilyn on graduation night. She told him he took hers too.

Funny thing was, it was the ninth time she'd said that.

A year later Fred left his mum to pitch for the minor league. It was a mystery to him where everything important went after high school.

5

"Pack your shit and get the hell outta my locker room, Meyers," Coach Bingham said. "You're fired."

Bingham was stuck in his late mid-40's, a stocky man, going gray and pretty well pissed at everyone and everything for not telling him the girl-cruising young batter he'd been would turn out like this.

Fred never liked Bingham and the feeling was mutual. Now the coach had a better reason than Fred smoking or rarely getting a curve past right-handers. And for once there was nothing Fred wanted to say to him.

He gathered the things less than, what, ten months in the majors had collected:

One (1) pocket-sized, dirty and cracking mirror. Three (3) towels, one in dire need of deodorization and possibly burning. One (1) picture of Mum. One (1) half-used stick of Old Spice deodorant. One (1) jock strap. Two (2) uniforms.

Fred left them both on the floor in front of Bingham's office. The bastard whipped open his door and shouted something but Fred wasn't listening.

It took thirteen minutes to get from the stadium to home by subway. Plenty of time to think about what he'd say.

Fred took the steps up to the third floor like a death march. A dayglo yellow square on the door caught his eye from a few apartments down. He peeled the post-it off and eyed it.

Fred-

Goodbye and good luck.

Donna

He couldn't hear her voice, of course, and wasn't there when she wrote it. You can just tell things about words though, sometimes, like a sixth sense. Fred could say this much, at least, there were no tearstains on the post-it.

Some shrill sound from inside. The phone. Fred rushed out his keys and left them in the door as he bounded to the cream-colored receiver in his bedroom.

"Hello?"

"Hullo? Hullo, Freddie, 'sthat you?"

The voice was weak, hoarse, not what it used to be.

"It's me, Mum."

She paused. "Is it true, son? What they're sayin' on th' tube? That you -- yer takin' bribes?"

Fred laid down on his bedcover, leaned back on the cool pillow, exhaled until his lungs practically imploded.

"Yeah, s'true."

Another pause.

"Oh. Oh god, Fred . . ."

She sounded so much older. About as old as Fred was feeling. He laid there forever, eyes on the ceiling, and went to sleep with the phone going beepbeepbeep , if you'd like to make a call, please try again.

6

By the time he was 28, people were calling him either Boomerang or just Myers. All the wrong kinds of people. That bushy-headed slip of a boy was a lean, 175 pound man with strong arms and a tendency to drape himself in purple-and-blue spandex, throw around lethal boomerangs, and, say, knock over banks or drop people from roofs. Luckily for Meyers, he'd found some like-minded folks.

The right kind of folks. The wrong kind of folks. Folks like James Sanders.

"Fucked Leila last night," Sanders said like he was more interested in his cards. In the dim-light warehouse, leaning his chair back carelessly, it was hard to see the black leather suit he was wearing. His goggled mask was pulled back, revealing a blonde crew-cut and sharp, snide features.

He laid out his hand. No wonder they called him the Speed Demon. "Royal flush." He gathered the cards and started shuffling so fast that it was slow motion to Myers, the way a helicopter's blades look.

"Wasn't as good as you'd think, all the practice she gets, but hey." He dealt, back and forth. Myers blinked and found that he had his cards already. "I told Morris I was going to get her and I did. You two still, you know, still see each other?"

Meyers was looking at his hand. King of jacks, two of hearts, queen of spades, and some other shit. Useless. Good thing there was no money involved.

"Hey, Meyers. Do you?"

"Huh?" Meyers looked up. "Oh, yeah. We still . . . see each other. Sometimes."

Sanders smiled angularly, reading his cards again. "Want to know what Abe calls her? Loose Leila, the Syndicate Bike. Funny." He put down his cards again, face-up. "Well, would you look at that? You lose again."

Meyers was still staring at his hand. Thing was, he'd figured out why Leila was even with him in the first place, for the memory of that dead hubbie of hers. He'd known that for a long time, not that they ever discussed it. And he knew she was pretty much an open door for their whole syndicate. That was just the type of girl she was, and when it came to the group, a man share's his wealth.

So Meyers couldn't figure out why he wanted to put the sharp end of a 'rang through the fucker's eye. Not that he could even pick one off his costume before Sanders saw what was happening. Sanders was more than quick; he was sharp.

A door opened and shut. Footsteps.

"Game's over, guys. Abner says we got a job."

The van keys dangled from her finger. She had long, bright red fake nails. Always wore that green hat, almost a beret, hiding most of a long mane of dark curls -- Italian dark -- like her loose jackets hid the modest curves Myers knew were there if you just looked. He'd had better looking women. Ones that didn't dress like men, talk like men, fuck like men, drive men around to commit crimes in costume like some backwards-ass Mystery Machine. But he loved Leila. He thought he did, anyway.

Sanders was at her side before Myers could even stand. He put his wiry arm around her waist, pulled her face up to his, saying, "Sleep okay?"

Remember, Fred, the man will side-step it and hit you a hundred times before you can even reach for another.

Leila sneered and pushed Sanders back. "Get the fuck off!" Sanders' eyes remained locked on her as he stumbled a few steps. She pointed at the door with her sharp nail. "Get your shit together and get in the van. The boys're waiting."

Sanders looked like he'd say something, then pulled the mask-and-goggles over his face and disappeared through the door. Myers was at the table, standing. She turned to him.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Leila said.

Her eyes followed him to the door. He paused there for another quick look.

"Well?" she said. "What'd I say, Meyers? I ain't no babysitter."

He shook his head. Meyers realized that there was no man for Leila Davis and, furthermore, only one woman for himself.

7

Kira Meyers' headstone promises that she won't be forgotten. She was buried at home, back in Australian soil, after cancer turned her windpipe and lungs into useless black monstrosities to be photographed and used for scaring schoolchildren.

No one talks about her in Alice Springs anymore. Not about Loose Kira, who took her little bastard to America and let him turn into a god damned criminal. Giving Aussies a bad name, never did nothing for nobody. Good bloody riddance. A wonder she made it this far.

Yet every year, on her birthday -- and on Mother's Day -- there's a fresh bouquet of roses at her grave. Every year. Never misses.

SINISTER NIGHT
By Brent Lambert

“Hey guy, what you want?” a bartender asked. The bartender was about 45. His black hair was graying in patches. He had a rough mustache, but the face of his face was clean cut. He looked like the type of guy who had once been buff, but let booze do him in. His tight white shirt squeezed the bartender so much you could see the veins coming through his chest.

The bartender's question had been directed to Samuel Smithers. To some he was known as Plant Man, but now he was Taproot. As of late, Taproot's connection with his beloved plants was growing stronger. He was changing and he didn't know why or how. He just was.

“Just give me some Tequila,” Taproot said. He watched as the bartender turned around and reached up to the third shelf where the Tequila was kept at. The bottle was half empty and once the bartender was done pouring Taproot's drink the bottle was nearly empty. Just to finish it off the bartender drunk what was left of the Tequila. He drank it quickly though so as not to be seen by his boss or one of his fellow bartenders.

“Yo white ass think you slick, huh?” a black woman asked as she came up behind the bartender. She was quite the large woman. Taproot guessed she was about 350 pounds. She carried herself like she was 100 though. The woman had short blonde hair and blue nails that were probably long and sharp enough to pop tires.

The male bartender turned around slowly and stared into the gray eyes, which were obviously contacts, of the woman. The bartender quickly began to stutter as he tried to explain himself to the woman, “I, uh, I was just, umm, you know, I was just. I didn't want the stuff to go to, you know, go to waste is all.”

The woman pointed her finger right at the man's nose. “I didn't hire you to sit here and drink my shit Jax. If I see you doing it again I'll have Serena and Monica throw yo sorry ass out of here. Ya got me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya,” Jax said meekly.

Samuel couldn't help but to laugh to himself. It seemed that women ran this organization. Serena and Monica were the two bouncers at the front door. That was Taproot's first ever seeing female bouncers, but if the owner was any indication this place had plenty of tough females.

Jax finally bought Taproot his Tequila. “Sorry 'bout that man. My boss is one crazy bitch. She's like a big menopausal hippo running around just trying to start shit.”

“Looks ta me like ol gal shut yo ass up fast,” a Japanese guy two seats down from Taproot said. He was probably 23 years old, but to Taproot the kid looked like he was sixteen. He was wearing a green Fubu shirt, with a green bandana, wristbands, and some Air Force Ones with green outlining. The boy's name was spray painted on both sides of his shoes. It said Hiro and it was done in a cursive type of writing. The boy had enough gold around his neck to make Fort Knox jealous.

“Why you always trying to start shit too, Hiro? Why don't you just go somewhere with your wanna-be black ass?” Jax mocked.

A woman that looked like a skinnier version of Jax's boss came up behind Hiro and started to rub his chest. “Don't talk about my baby like that Jax. You know I could tell Aunt Kiki and she'll be right back on you.”

“Not you too, Mona. Is this just pick on Jax night?”

“Hey, can I get some beer over here?” an elderly Puerto Rican man called out. He had been trying to get Jax's attention for two minutes, but the bartender was still bitching to the Mona girl and her boyfriend.

“Uh, chap, that fellow over there needs a drink,” Taproot said pointing to the elderly man at the end of the bar. Jax looked over to Taproot, smiled as a way of saying thank you, and went to work getting what the man wanted.

“Oh, so we got ourselves Craig David in here tonight,” Mona said to Taproot.

“Excuse me?” Taproot asked not entirely sure what the young lady was getting at.

“You know, Craig David…the British singer?”

Taproot laughed, “Now I understand. Yes I'm from Britain .”

“So what the heck are you doing in a New York nightclub?” Mona asked.

“Leave tha man be, Mona,” Hiro said as he grabbed his girlfriend around the waist.

“I'm here to meet up with someone,” Taproot explained. He knew that wouldn't be enough for the young woman. She was going to keep prodding him with questions. Taproot didn't mind, though. He hadn't had any decent person-to-person conversation in a while. Besides Mona was an attractive woman and if he had to talk to anyone he would want it to be her. He just hoped for Hiro's sake she didn't end up looking like her Aunt.

“Oh, so you on a bootie call then,” Mona giggled.

“Shit, Mona, why don't you just asks him how many times he beats his meat a week while you're at it,” Jax interrupted. He was washing off a glass with a white towel that he had over his shoulder a few minutes ago.

“Ya be an expert when it come to that shit, Jax,” Hiro laughed.

“Fuck you,” Jax said, flicking Hiro off.

Taproot looked down at his watch. It was 2:15 A.M. That was the time when he was supposed to meet up with his mysterious “admirer” in the alley next to this club. “Well, guys, it's been fun meeting all of you, but I really have to be off.”

“I thought you said you were meeting someone here?” Mona asked as she sat down in the lap of her boyfriend. She felt a little movement, but decided not to comment on it. Hiro got pissed whenever she dissed him. It made him screw better though.

“I'm meeting them outside of this club,” Taproot said as he spun his chair around and walked quickly away from the couple and the bartender.

“Damn he sure was in a hurry!”

“You'd be on your way too if you were bout to get a bootie call, Jax. That probably barely ever happens though after that Isis gal.”

Jax's face dropped, but then it quickly got red with anger. “Why you always gotta bring up old stuff, Mona? So what if I got the holes mixed up? I was drunk, dammit!”

“Whatever ya say, playa,” Hiro said with intense doubt in his tone.

“You're two minutes late, Mr. Smithers,” a voice said from down the dark alley.

“I was getting my dick sucked and lost track of time you bloke. Why you give a damn bout two minutes and how the bloody hell you know my name?”

“You're a lot feistier now than you were in the club. You don't like people having the advantage over you, do you?” the voice continued on.

Taproot walked further and further down the alley, not knowing what awaited him, but something was drawing him. It could be telepathy or something more. Maybe it was just pure curiosity that drew him to this person. “Who are you? Why did you want to meet up with me?”

Metallic boots could be heard clanging against the dark alley's concrete as Taproot's “admirer” stepped out of the shadows. As he neared Taproot two red eyes became quite visible through the darkness. Finally his entire body was exposed. The man had skin white as snow and sharp teeth like jaws. On the center of his head was red diamond. His entire body looked metallic in nature. He had his hands folded behind his back. “I am Sinister. I called you here because I think we can be of mutual benefit to each other.”

“And how the hell is that?”

“You're changing, Mr. Smithers. Your powers are evolving and you don't know how to stop them. I can help you push your powers to new heights and give you total control over them.”

“What do you want in return?” Taproot asked with a clipped tone. He didn't like this Sinister. Nothing on him seemed right. From the way he looked to his demeanor. He just seemed to be downright evil and that was something considering Taproot wasn't exactly known for being Citizen of the Week.

“Your research into plants. Give me that and I'll give you what you need.”

Taproot ran the exchange through his head before responding. He knew that Sinister would probably end up getting the better end of this bargain, but he could use help with his ever expanding powers. And if Sinister could give that help why should he turn it down? Just because he doesn't trust the guy? That wasn't a good enough reason for Taproot. “Fine, we got a deal.”

Sinister smiled and held out his hand. In the center of it was a pill shaped like a poison ivy leaf. “Take this and you'll see a change in a week.”

“And how I'm suppose to give you my research?”

Sinister turned around and began to walk away from Taproot. “Upload all your notes on a disc. Meet me here in a week and we'll make the exchange. If you don't show up I will kill you.”

Taproot knew that Sinister was not bluffing. He could tell from the shiver he got down his spine as Sinister made his threat. He'd be here in a week and the guy would get his research.

“Hey man what you doing down an alley? Get back in this club and give me a dance already!” Mona yelled. Taproot had been taken aback by the woman's exclamation, but he was soon soothed by it. Maybe a dance could help him get rid of this sick feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach.

BLIZZARD CONDITIONS
By Ian Astheimer

Usually, I preferred my bars topless, but—since strippers were all good, God-fearing Catholics—no titty bars were open on this side of town at four-fifteen on a Sunday morning. So, I had to settle for nameless: The Bar with No Name, to be exact. Technically, the joint had a name—just not a very fucking good one. For the few of us who worked late, the pub was the Holy Land…or at least The Church of the Nasty Bastards, the kind of place where you'd find Billy Ray Cyrus on the juke box and The Tsunami Sound Experience—Whirlwind and Hydro-Man's punk band—practicing covers of The Clash between racks of pool. That Billy Ray never could hold his liquor.

As I pushed through the double-doors, wooden and busted at the hinges, and pulled back my blue mask, a raspy female voice—like something you'd hear on a phone sex line (or, uh, so I've been told)—greeted me with a heartfelt “You look like shit.”

To which, I replied: “Eat me.”

Katrina van Horn, the owner of the rasp, must've liked the idea because she gave me a smile from behind the bar as I took a stool, well-worn with a chunk of the seat missing and teeth-marks up its three legs. And, Kat wasn't one for smiling. She'd much rather break a man's face than show him her pearly whites--unless she was about to bite off his flesh. “What'll it be?”

I dropped my mask--or what was left of the tattered fabric, anyway--onto the oak counter that framed the left-most wall of the gin joint, laced my gloved hands, and cracked my knuckles. “Jack and coke.”

With a ham-hock of a hand, van Horn snatched my torn remnants off the bar and tossed my mask in the trash or the lost-and-found--not that there was any difference in a place like this. “Excellent choice.” Her tone rang completely false, so I changed my game plan.

“Hold the coke.” No sense pissing off the bar tender, especially when she did double duty as the bouncer on slow nights like tonight.

“That's more like it.” Kat smoothed out her sleeveless t-shirt, pressing hard against the faded flower design. At one point, the print--from some painting, I guess--looked like a giant pussy, stretched across her huge pair of breasts: the best of both worlds in a tight bundle. Now, the image was frayed and fractured, looking more like an inkblot than a snatch. Van Horn's tits were still as fine as ever, though. But, giving the Man-Killer props on her body was about as smart as bragging about laying the Rhino's mom while he was in the room. Trust me on that. (Rhino's mom, by the way? Total fox.) “So," the redhead started, as she ducked below the bar to fish out a fresh bottle of whiskey. "Who gave you the shiner?”

Shit. I gently patted my right eye and winced. Tears started to form, but I fought them back. If the bruise looked as bad as it felt, I'd be in the market for a glass eye by the end of the night. “Some low-rent Spider-Man.”

She sprang up from under the counter, Jack in hand, right in front of where I sat. I nearly fell over backwards but managed to keep my balance on the shaky stool. “What'd he look like?”

Kat reached for the stack of glasses at the near end of the bar, but I waved her off. Now was no time to be civil, man. “A Hitler money shot.”

Her left eyebrow shot up, cocked in shock. ”I'm not even going to try to picture that.”

“He was white. White hair. White mask. Moved like a white blur. Just fuckin' white.” My head still ached as I remembered watching the punk in action. He was like the bastard son of Bruce Lee and one of those Cirque de Sole freaks.

Man-Killer muffled a laugh that shook her chest like her breasts were an unwanted baby. “You got your ass handed to you by Ricochet?”

I groaned and gave the classic tough guy reply: “You should see him.” Then, I took a hit of Jack, and Jack hit back. My mouth puckered, my throat burned, my stomach warmed. It felt good.

Kat didn't waste any time before pouring salt on my wound. ”Why would I want to watch some albino nail the Black Cat?”

Another swig sailed down the hatchet, and I spoke through gritted teeth: "You are the worst bar tender in the history of bar tending.”

”Huh." She rested her head on her fists and her elbows on the bar. "Didn't know you were a time traveler.”

The liquid courage dulled my pain, but I wasn't feeling too fearless, so I ended it there. "How much do I owe you?"

"That'll be--" She took a good, hard look at my busted mug and some pity on me. "--on the house.” And, with that, Kat excused herself to clear tables and laugh like John Candy was brought back from the grave for a one-night stand-up special.

With a yawn, I pulled the crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes from the one pocket I had in this goofy outfit of mine and tapped out the last smoke. Placing the unfiltered cigarette between my lips, cracked and dry, I reached for the pyramid of matchbooks beside the stack of clean glasses and napped the top booklet. My fingers did their thing, tearing out the center stick, striking its head against the oak slab, passing the flame. I took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs and the nicotine calm my nerves, as the match burnt down to the tips of my gloved fingers. A quick chill muted the blaze, and I flicked the stick to the ground. Thin, gray streams rose from my nose, and I opened my mouth like a chimney stack to let the rest of the smoke escape, the cig stuck in my left cheek and burning all the while.

I turned my head to check the door--nothing--and peered down the counter towards a bowl of peanuts that came skidding at me like a lopsided hockey puck. The palm of my left hand rested on the bar and coated it with a fine glaze. The bowl slide faster, easier, and stopped just beside my hand. I looked down; a snout shot up.

"Thanks, man." The muzzle didn't move, but I heard the voice, squeaky and male, just the same.

"No problem." Holding the bottle of whiskey up to the light, I checked for any foreign agents. No dice. That left only one option: this thing was a telepath. Great... I already knew I was headed for Hell, but having make small talk with a mutant gerbil meant God really fucking hated me.

“How'd you do that?” The furry freak scurried to the top of the bowl and tried--and failed--to sit upright on the stack of peanuts. This cat was either very drunk or very retarded. Judging by the smiley face sticker on his side, probably both.

With nothing better to do, I decided to play along. ”Do…what?”

“Hold a conversation with her.” He pointed a tiny, clawed hand toward Kat, who was stacking chairs behind the pool table directly across the floor.

I leaned in like I was about to reveal some highly guarded secret and whispered the truth: “I used my vocal chords.”

The gerbil threw his little arms in the air and a fit of anger--a very small fit. “Hilarious. Goddamned hilarious. You're the next Rodney Dangerfield.”

Tugging at my costume's collar, I broke out my best impression. “I get no respect, I tells ya, no respect.”

His beady eyes stared blankly at me. No laughter rang out in the back of my mind. I slumped. He 'spoke'. “Right… So, what's your secret? How do you melt her icy façade?”

A smirk formed around my cigarette. “Let's just say I helped her come to a…realization…about who she is.”'

The rodent smacked his stomach and tossed back his head, mouth wide open, his voice cackling in my brain. “Helped her come! Ha! Good one.”

So, I did what anyone would do to stop a gerbil from rolling around like he was having a seizure in a bowl of peanuts: I broke his hairy heart. ”Uh, yeah. Anyway, man, you are shit out of luck.”

He stopped spreading his filth for a second to take in the bad news. ”Why's that?” His thin lips fell like melting candle wax over his stained teeth, urine yellow and caked with black grime.

Pulling the smoke from my mouth, I told him, with the straightest face possible, “she's not into gerbiling.”

His eyes narrowed. His muzzle snarled. His hands clenched into fists. He leapt onto the side of the bowl and stood on his hind legs. “I am not a gerbil, you oversized cock!”

I petted his small head. ”Hey, thanks. I don't usually take compliments on my wang size from a ger-“

He butted my hand away. “I am a rat! R-A-T spells…?”

My shoulder shrugged, as I slid the cigarette back into my lips. "Same difference.”

His snout snapped back to reveal a row of jagged molars. "On what planet is that the same difference?” I caught a whiff of his hot breath, a blast of a bathroom stall that'd never been cleaned. My eyes watered.

”Look, you're both rodents." This prick was trying my patience, and I'd just abound had enough of his neurotic shit. Balling my left hand, I pumped cold energy into the fist until it started to smolder waves of cold. "Take a fucking chill pill.”

He took one look at my iced-up glove and sat back down--or tried to anyway. He lost his footing and fell, ass-first, into the nuts. His voice sighed inside my head. “How can I chill at a time like this? I haven't gotten any in three weeks. Three! And the last time was with an intoxicated Mystique.”

I paid Mister Daniels some lip service, then added my two cents. "Harsh.”

His paws picked pieces of shell from his matted, mangy fur. "You have no idea.”

With a tap to the side of the black bowl, I offered some sound advice: "Maybe you should try someone a little more in your league.”

Raising an eyebrow (or whatever the Hell rats have), the head-case gave me his full attention. ”Like…?”

Only one name came to mind: ”Squirrel Girl.”

“Is--" His voice stammered. "Is she legal?”

I nodded. ”Pretty sure.”

”Oh. Oh, yeah. I'd like to get some of that tail." His own wagged eagerly, kicking up peanut dust. "She could stuff my nuts in her cheeks any time.”

With a light chuckle, I snuffed my smoke on the oak. “Yeah, yeah, I'm sure she could.”

His eyes, black and searching, went wide. ”Wonder if she uses that tail to get off…”

Jack chugged down my scalded throat, fueling my fire. “One problem, though.”

Blinking Animal Planet porn out of his head, the roadkill fed a line into mine. ”Whazzis?”

I dropped my face to level with him. "Last I heard, she was bangin' Cage.”

“Cage." His voice was distant, dead. "Cage as in Luke Cage?”

A smirk smacked open my maw. ”You thought Nic?”

The rat paced in disbelief and his bowl. ”Luke Cage. Luke Cage: Power Man. What they hell do I have that Power Man doesn't?”

“I dunno." But, I could guess: "Shitty hygiene?”

He slumped into a broken shell, that smiling face all but gone, hidden from sight. “Fuck me, man.”

”No, but keep trying." Another gulp seared my tongue like Volcana's lips that night we fooled around in Memphis . "And, hey, good luck with Man-Killer.”

With a low-hung head, he waved me off and scooted back down the bar, defeated. “Yeah, yeah…”

That was about the time I heard two grown men start to giggle like a couple of Catholic schoolgirls who'd just lost their collective virginity to a James Dean or Luke Perry or whoever got teenage girls' panties wet any more. Leaning heavily on each other, Mark Scarlotti and Fred Myers stumbled into the bar and straight for the booth where we always sat, between the Masters of Evil's corner counter and the Wrecking Crew's crunched chairs. A stupid grin was plastered on Scarlotti's face, and Myers tripped over his brown duster with every step. Boot-jets were tricky like that.

They were drunk, and I was pissed.

Not pissed enough to break the bottle of Jack across the bar and shove the shards in their smug faces. Not that kind of pissed. Not yet. I was upset, sure, but I wasn't fucking crazy.

Watching as my buddies toppled into their seats, I sucked down the last two swigs—mostly backwash—Mister Daniels had to offer and slid the empty bottle down the bar. Kat swiped and chucked it into the recycling bin behind her.

“Hey,” I called down to her, not turning my head away from the idiots who were too shit-faced to figure out how to sit up straight. “Let me know when it's ten ‘til six. Got an appointment across town I can't miss.”

I heard a rag snap across the hardwood, then her. “Do I look like a goddamn palm pilot to you?”

I grinned. “I know better than to waste my palm on you, babe.”

She threw a sigh into the dingy air. “Ten ‘til six. Got it.”

I slipped the matchbook into my sole pocket. “You're a peach.”

She spat a thick wad into a shot glass. ”You're a tool.”

“So long as we're clear.” My aching arms shoved my bruised body from the bar, and my feet pounded the cracked floor.

“ Crystal.”

“Don-NAY!” Mark shouted in my face as soon as I was standing right next to him. “Donnie boy! The pipes, the pipes!”

“If you keep singing, I swear to Christ I will kill you.” I slid next to Myers, whose face rested sideways on the table, his eyes running circles in their deep sockets, circus motorcyclists in a pair of endless round cages.

“Ah, we both know you haven't the balls fer that." Fred's mouth gnawed on his inner cheek, as drool slipped from his lips. "'Cause you haven't any balls at all!”

Glancing from the Australian at my right to the Italian nodding closer and closer to a concussion across the table, I went for the obvious question: “When did you two start drinking—noon?”

“'S a good question, man." Scarlotti yawned, stretching his jaws into the Lincoln Tunnel. "All my hours blended together a while ago.”

“We started right ‘round, baby, right round, like a record, baby, round-round, round-round seven-firty or eight, I reckon.” Myers slurred the words like a lazy, back-porch poet.

“So…eight hours ago.” Yeah, I did the math. Took five minutes and both hands, but I got it done.

“Eesh, you say it like it's a bad thing." Mark's bloodshot eyes, through slits between heavy lids and all his baggage, locked with mine. "We were celebratin' not getting' our asses kicked while pullin' a job.”

“Looks like you weren't so lucky, me ol' mate.” Fred focused on the welt on my face.

“I'd rather not talk about it.” My head dropped just enough to be noticed by a half-blind drunk.

“Sore spot, eh?” Blacklash noted.

“About the eye, from the looks of it,” Boomerang added.

And, that—for those of you just tuning in—was the comedy stylings of the Killer B's.

“Oh!" Scarlotti shot up in his seat. "Did we show you our tats?”

My forehead creased. ”You got inked?”

”They're rad! Check it.” Lash pulled the purple glove off his left hand and rolled up his black spandex sleeve to reveal a stylized bee, holding a Tommy gun, in a pool of blood. “Pretty wicked, no?”

“Mine's on me arse.” Little known fact: The more Fred Myers drinks, the more Australian he sounds. And, at that moment, I was sitting next to Crocodile Dun-goddamned-Dee.

“You…you fucking cunts!" Rage boiled from my battles. Fire erupted from my throat. My voice was a raw howl. "You got marked without me? That is, in the words of Sam Jackson, some repugnant shit.”

“Ah, quit yer bitchin', ya blubberin' twat. They aren't real.” Myers nodded at Scarlotti, who licked his middle finger and rubbed the ink off his forearm.

Mark doubled over, his body shaking like he was in the middle of an Asthma attack. “You shoulda seen the look on your face, man!”

“Bloody priceless!” Fred shouted through a lopsided smile.

”For everything else, there's MasterCard, baby!” Tears streamed down Scarlotti's beet red face.

“Too right!” Myers yelped, his voice cracking like a wine glass in a vice grip.

“Fuck you both," I spat, waiting for my sense of humor to return.

“A few more drinks, and you'll be pretty enough t' meet my standards.” Boomerang winked at me, still grinning.

“You have standards?" Now, it was my turn to laugh. "You'd screw Big Bertha on the spot if she got close enough.”

The grin faded from Myers' face, as he sat up. “I happen to fancy a bit of junk the trunk, mate." The right sleeve of his duster wiped the drying saliva from his cheek. "No biggie.”

Scarlotti snorted. “'S what SHE said.”

“Always a classic, Marky Mark." Shuffling through his coat's trenches, Freddy fingered a pack of smokes and flicked them on the table. I flipped in my book of matches. We each took one of each. "But, we're delayin' the inevitable here.”

“That's right. That is right." Mark slicked back his blond hair with both hands like old school mobsters did before they were about to drop some knowledge--or somebody. "It's Donnie Boy's turn to tell us about his first time.”

I shook my head, shaggy stands of overgrown hair lashing my mug. “If I must…”

“It's a time-honored tradition, man.” Scarlotti was blowing smoke.

“We've done it twice.” I gave the truth a shot and wound up pumping it fill of holes.

“And, that took time," Blacklash reasoned, staring through me and the cloud of smoke.

“Fine. All right." I took a slow drag of cancer to give my mind its time to dig up a long-dead memory. "It was maybe two years ago—eighteen months at the least…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there." Boomerang threw up his hands to stop me in my tracks. "Where's yer sense of dramatics, mate? Where's the gravitas?" Little known fact: The more Fred Myers drinks, the more intelligent he becomes. "If copyin' off St. John Allerdyce in Grammar School taught me anythin', it's this: ye must open strong and grab yer readers by the bollocks.”

“For real, man!" Mark's jaw jerked forward, sending ash to its grave. "You've gotta get all poetical about this shit. It's gotta be, like, lyrical and all a' that.”

“Borrow from the classics, if need be." Fred coughed to clear his throat and lower his tone. "‘Two ships passed in the night…'”

Scarlotti followed suit. “'…and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.'”

“Too bloody right!" The man to my right slapped the table hard enough to get the pack of smokes to leap. "Our Guinea 's got it!”

From the corner of my left eye, I could see Kat shaking her head furiously, like a hornet flew in her ear and was bug-fucking her brain.

“Well, I did read Maya Angelou's How to Kill a Mockingbird in high school," the man across from me boasted, and the Man-Killer behind the bar rolled her eyes so hard she should've shouted, “sixes!”

“Aww, yeah!" The Australian beamed like Scottie. "Do ye recall chapter eleven, I think it was?”

The Italian titled his head, leaning closer. “The one where she thinks she's a dyke?”

Myers gave the nod. “The very same.”

Scarlotti snapped back in his seat. “Hells yeah! I tore that chapter right of the book, man. Read it, like, a hundred times in tenth grade.”

“While you sad sacks reminisce about spanking it, I'm gonna grab a refill." Any excuse to get away from this conversation was a good one. "Want anything?”

“Fosters," Fred ordered, without even a twitch in my direction.

“Good for you." I patted him on the back before stepping out of the booth. "Get it your own damn self.”

“Think we hit a nerve?” Blacklash whispered as soon as my back was turned.

”Think I give a toss?” Boomerang at his best. Like a cigarette. Unfiltered.

Leaning her torso on the buckling bar, van Horn tried to hide her amusement behind her granite features. But, her laughing eyes, darting around the room to avoid contact with mine, gave her mood away. “Back so soon?” While her lips fought her cheeks to smirk, a chuckle escaped her mouth.

I took a stab at a jab and connected. “How's it going with Mickey over there?”

The humor faded from her face in an instant. "That pig?” she scoffed.

I cocked my left eyebrow like it was a six-shooter and this was the O.K. Corral. "Thought he said he was a rat.”

”Hardy har har," Kat forced, her face all sour curves. "Whatever that vermin is—it keeps hitting on me.”

My head shook with sympathy. "Poor bastard.”

Glancing at the end of the bar, where the rodent was licking himself in that same broken bowl of nuts, Man-Killer sweetened slightly. "I know.”

I bent forward to match her line of sight and spoke in her studded ear: ”He has horrible taste.”

Her head turned slowly, an aircraft carrier in need of a wide birth. When our noses brushed, I got a clear view of her eyes, filled with more stink than an excited Pepe Le Pew. “What, exactly, is it that you want?” she growled through gritted teeth.

I didn't blink, didn't back down, didn't shy away. “The time.”

Throwing her fist within an inch of my mug, she read the watch on her wrist. “Five-twenty-five.”

“Close e-fucking-nuff." Standing back up, I cracked my sore spine and turned toward the door. "I'm outta here.”

“Good riddance" was all the send-off I needed.

Looking over my shoulder, I called to Katrina one last time. “Make sure they don't drown in their own vomit, wouldja?”

She shrugged her stone shoulders. "I promise nothing.”

I road the tight freight elevator to the sub-basement of the otherwise abandoned hospital. Rumor had it: this place used to be an insane asylum, but it went legit in the 70's after shock therapy and lobotomies fell out of fashion. Sometimes, when the air is cold and stale in the winter, the scent of charred human flesh can still be smelled over the years of ammonia water. Of course, rumor also had it: the building was haunted by ghosts of the whack-jobs who bought it inside the white-washed walls, and Elvis lead their charge. So, yeah, fuck rumors. I gave up on them a long time ago.

As I hit bottom, I pulled the elevator's grate door up and stepped into what could easily have been a drug den or hole-in-the-wall coffee house. Cigarette smoke, black coffee, Mary Jane, and something I couldn't place—probably peyote—smacked me in the face and raped my nostrils. I coughed like an old lady in need of her oxygen tank, but no one noticed or cared. The hipsters, in their beanbag chairs and funky clothes, tapped their fingers to the beat of the New Jazz Age on their laptops.

One cat finally glanced up at me, slid his computer off his knees, and approached with a noted limp. His jet-black hair hung in straight chunks over his pasty face and birth-control glasses. He wiped a sweaty palm over his argyle sweater-vest and shoved that hand into his pleated Dockers. He looked like the stunt double for Rivers Cuomo. Once upon a time, this guy was Jackson “Hi-Jack” Gould, a child prodigy and “l33t” hacker (or whatever the Hell) who could mentally control electronics. These days, he went by Milo . I never asked why.

“How was Florida ?” My question dropped as soon as he was in earshot.

“Sunny.” His voice was deeper than you'd expect for a guy who wears ‘geek' like a badge, not that I could talk in this silly-assed get-up.

“Explains the tan.” Truth be told: if Milo got any whiter, he'd be see-through.

“ Colombo loves the night life.” Shifting all his weight to his right leg, Gould pivoted on the heels of his black-and-white checkered Converse All-Stars and lurched to his left.

I trailed, always a step behind. “How'd you kill your week down there?”

”Caught a couple of flicks at the grindhouse where Rubens was arrested.” In the middle of a makeshift aisle, his right foot raised over the limp legs of a programmer, who was snoozing--or channeling a different mental plane, as these hep kids liked to say--with a joint in his mouth, beside a lava lamp. And, that's when I heard the buzzing, shooting straight from Milo 's hip. His leg thudded on the cement floor and dragged behind, as his left took the lead.

“Anything special?” I tried to stay on topic, despite my nomadic mind.

“There's a roped-off chair with a gold placard on its seat that reads: PeeWee Blew His Big Top Here.” To turn the corner ahead, Gould planted his stiff leg firmly and pivoted into the hollow hall to his right.

“Classy.” The space--probably the staging area for corpses awaiting autopsies back in the day--was wide enough for a couple of gurneys, so I took to his side, tilting my head to listen closely.

He must've caught the hint because he gave his knee a whirl. The cap bulged behind his khakis, gears churning, electricity sizzling. The noise echoed in both directions, but Milo didn't mind. He just kicked out his foot to pop the plate back into place. Our chat barely lulled. “Otherwise, the typical: sticky floors, soggy seats, wanks in trenches getting their jollies off, the smell of ripe ass lingering in the air.”

“You, sir, paint a vivid picture.” We came to a set of double doors--the only doors in the underground maze--and pushed them open. At the far end of the darkened room sat a leather recliner, black where the stuffing wasn't sticking out of the stitching. Its seat sagged in the middle, and its arms were laced with slits.

“I'm the second coming of Vincent van Gough.” Milo flipped a set of switches beside his door, and blue florescent light flooded the scene.

“Let's not go crazy.” Through a squint, I eyed the half-circle--all overlapping blades and throbbing needles--plummet from the ceiling, dead-set on snaring the recliner. The taut wires snapped straight, halting the fall and yanking the machine back into the air, before letting it glide to its final resting place, directly in front of the the leather head cushion.

Milo motioned toward the contraption, as he hobbled toward the revolving door that led to the next room, visible through the clear plexi-glass wall. “You know the drill. Take a seat and sit still.”

“Can do.” I could've gone for a smoke right about then, to calm my thoughts, but a deep breath had to suffice. After a couple of shaky steps, I found myself sinking into leather. Shifting my gaze upward, I stared straight into the mouth of the beast, its sharp teeth ready to feast, and gulped. Yeah, a cigarette would've done the trick.

Behind the safety glass, Gould manhandled a joystick, and the claw above clicked its mechanical lips. Then, it slammed down and latched onto my head, like I was a stuffed animal about to be torn from my home and dropped down a shaft and into the hands of some grubby child, only to be left for dead in the attic after my novelty value wore off. Needles jabbed my flesh, prodding my thoughts. The whole device vibrated, transforming its inner buzz into the distorted voice of the techno-path. “All right, man, I need to map your brainwave activity to finesse the neurological calibrations of your new gear, so tell me a story.”

I cleared my throat and cracked the ice. “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times…”

The man behind the glass curtain moved his mouth, and, a second later, I heard his filtered sentence. "Think I've heard this one before.”

“Yeah, okay," I started over. One tale was already on the tip of my tongue, so I stuck it out. "So, about two years ago, I was flying solo for the first time—just me and the suit—tracking down this guy by the name of Occult .45. There was a bounty on this shit-kicker's head, and I intended to collect.

“The story goes: he sold his soul to Scratch for these mystical twin pistols that never ran out of ammo. Near as I could tell, the cat made the right call because, when I tailed him to the pier, he started to open fire on this ship full of Hydra. They rushed him, and he bobbed and weaved, spurting more hot lead than an Iron Man orgasm. It was like a John Woo flick come to life, man.

”Only without the slow-motion.

”Or the fucking doves.”

“It just isn't Woo without the doves,” Milo commented, while twisting a series of knobs and pushing all the right buttons on his switchboard.

“No doubt." I took another deep breath, drinking in the scent memory of saltwater, before continuing. "By the time the swarm of fifty or sixty agents had fallen, every inch of the docks was coated red with freshly squeezed life. There was so much blood that the soldiers who didn't die from the bullet wounds—all two of ‘em—drowned in the shit. From what I heard, by the time the cops arrived the next morning, the dried blood was so thick that the bodies had to be chiseled out.

“And, all that bloodshed barely phased .45. After firing two hundred rounds easy, he just shrugged, turned around, and left.

“Now, me? I was completely out of my mind. I was fucking bonkers, man. That guy just killed fifty Hydra agents in cold blood and walked away without a scratch. That shit isn't possible! That should not happen! And, yet, it did—right in front of me, no less. I was shaking like I had Tourette's. I couldn't tell if I was scared shitless or pumped with adrenaline.

“Either way, I managed to follow the motherfucker into a back alley. He took the streets; I kept to the rooftops, vigilante-style. He braced himself against the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant and unzipped his fly. I saw my chance and took it. I slid into the alley on an ice-slide, came up behind .45, and froze his stream solid. He doubled over, eyes wide with shock and mouth hanging open to catch flies, and his bladder shattered in a sickening crunch.”

The headpiece jostled with artificial laughter. ”Ha ha ha! Was he cold?”

”What do I know, man? I grabbed his guns and got the fuck outta dodge.”

Through the glass, I could hear Milo guffaw; it sounded like a hyena gangbang. “You—ha ha!—you're a moron, man. Everybody knows the first time you go solo it's a ruse. It's all a farce to test your limits, your mettle, and survey your know-how. Used to be: real guys—impervious types who could report back to Hammer as to how it all went down—would suit up like obscure urban legends and fake their deaths. Any more, I implant cameras and little black boxes into LMDs to get the job done.”

“A--Are..." I stuttered, my mind tripping over the information. "Are you serious?”

“As a Mormon heart attack. I have no doubt that the Hydra agents were shot to pieces, but there was never any Occult .45, my friend. If memory serves—and it always does—Hammer had so much invested in the Blizzard tech that he went into the field himself, dressed as that Satanic hitman of yours," Gould leveled, glancing at me with regret through the wall. "Christ, I can't believe he never told you, man. Hell, I can't believe you never figured it out for yourself.”

The needles spun out of my head and left me reeling. “The upgrade done?”

”In two seconds," the vibration informed, before the device went slack and shot back into the sky.

”Good." I stood and marched toward the revolving door. "I've got to see a man about the truth.”

Milo mouthed two words: “Oh, shit...”

Blocking the entire doorway to a seedy motel room and most of the crumbling hallway, Hector Valens, the son of a Mexican immigrant and a Cuban refugee, blew a ring of smoke from his mouth, as he sized up the oversized cigar that looked like it was a child's in his thick paw. Aside from being eight feet tall and seven hundred pounds of muscle, Hector oozed foam from his pours instead of sweat. Because he could take a hit, Valens got saddled with the one of the worst gigs in the underworld: catching new flyers when they came in for a landing. But, the post kept him in the money, so he didn't seem to mind having dozens of freaked-out kids slamming into his crotch at a hundred miles an hour. Hell, he even preferred to be called by his nickname: Crashpad.

He heard me coming the moment I hit the stairwell, I'm sure, but, by now, Hector knew to keep his cool until it was time to throw fists. I approached without any caution, an old friend with nothing up his sleeve. “How's it going, Crash?”

“A lot better now that you showed up," he revealed, relieved. His left hand made a three foot drop to pass me his cigar; I took a quick puff, then handed it back.

Through the growing haze, I kept the conversation kicking. ”How'd you guess I pulled the short straw?”

”Why else would you be here?” Hector killed the cigar by crushing it between his thumb and forefinger, hot embers raining down like confetti on a grand-prize winner. With a flick of those fingers, the stick sailed down the passage and crumpled against the farthest wall.

"Good question," I admitted. On any other night, the lure of a hundred hookers--all prepaid, all gymnasts with impossible knockers--couldn't have brought me to this hole.

“Be careful, D," Valens warned, causing my heart to skip a beat and leap into my throat. Was he on to me? Did he know? "There's only so much old man moaning a guy can take before he snaps.”

My entire body eased, and I lied through my teeth. “I brought earplugs.”

“Foresight—always a good thing.” Taking a step forward, Crashpad turned his body and filled the narrow hallway, before heading for the exit.

I hugged the wall, sucking in my gut, so I wouldn't get flattened. ”Always.”

“I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck.” He nudged me in the shoulder with a fist and nearly knocked my block off.

"Thanks, man." I smiled weakly, then pulled my cowl over my head. "Take it easy,” my mouth managed to mention before it was hidden behind fabric.

“Hasta, compadre.”

As Valens shimmied his way down the stairwell sideways, I reached for the doorknob to Room #2636 and twisted. The man behind closed doors had a tin ear, but I kept the noise to a minimum just the same. No sense showing my hand before all the cards were on the table, I figured. I nudged the door open enough to take a quick glance inside. What I saw didn't shock me. I caught an eyeful of one of the worst kept secrets in the underworld: Justin Hammer's taste for underage Asian girls.

Every couple months, he had a new batch flown in from Singapore or Thailand in shipping crates. These kids never lasted long. Once a girl showed any sign of puberty—any hint of hair other than on top of her head—she was “dismissed from duty," which was just a fancy way of saying she got taken into a back alley and was forced to fellate a magnum. And, the chick—all teary eyes and aching torso—riding Hammer's c