| “ | Bury me in the ocean with my ancestors who jumped from ships, 'cause they knew death was better than bondage.
— Erik Killmonger
|
” |
Erik Stevens, his true name N'Jdaka, was the son of Wakandan prince N'Jobu and an American woman he had fallen in love with while on an observation assignment. Made aware of his heritage from a young age, Erik was raised with love by his father, who grew increasingly radicalized by the treatment of black people in America and began plotting to use Wakandan resources to overthrow the government. He allied himself with Ulysses Klaue, a mercenary and terrorist, to smuggle vibranium out of Wakanda in a heist that killed several Wakandans and in turn led to N'Jobu's brother, T'Chaka, the Black Panther, tracking him down. Outed as a traitor, N'Jobu was struck down by a reluctant T'Chaka, who left his body for Erik to find, leaving him vengeful towards Wakanda.
Erik's quest for vengeance led to him excelling in school and joining the military, working his way to the Navy SEALs before being recruited to JSOC and deploying in black ops across the Middle East and Africa. He racked up dozens of kills, earning him the nickname of "Killmonger". Killmonger left the army, taking up work as a mercenary and beginning his plans against Wakanda by allying with Klaue. Deceiving the man into believing they were partners, Killmonger subsequently murdered him and brought his corpse to Wakanda as a gift before revealing his identity as N'Jobu's son. His killing of Klaue and demands that Wakanda assert itself as a world power endeared him to factions within the country and he subsequently challenged T'Challa, T'Chaka's son, to a duel for the throne. T'Challa reluctantly accepted and was subsequently defeated as Killmonger savagely beat him and tossed him to his apparent death.
Now the unchallenged king, Killmonger took the title of Black Panther, burned the heart-shaped herb that gave him his abilities, and ordered an immediate stockpiling of weapons, intending to use his own experience and training to overthrow the nations of the world and end the oppression of black people. Acting with the support of most of Wakanda's leadership, Killmonger would defend his throne when T'Challa revealed himself as alive and led a rebellion with the aid of both the Dora Milaje and the J'Bari Tribe. T'Challa ultimately prevails, outsmarting his cousin and impaling him through the chest, and takes Killmonger to witness a Wakandan sunrise, where he dies peacefully and is buried at sea. Despite his defeat, Killmonger's rhetoric and experiences deeply moved T'Challa, who vows to use Wakanda's resources to peacefully help struggling people all over the world.
Battle vs. Peacemaker (DCEU) (by BeastMan14)[]
Part 1: Weeks Where Decades Happen[]
“Wait, no! I’m not-“
As the gunshots, harsh and one after the other, rang out through the sewers, Doom nodded, satisfied. He had figured the assassin would shoot first rather than make any contemplations. Peeking slightly from behind a corner deeper into the sewers, he watched as the thug crouched down and ripped the mask off of Alpha, his corpse sprawled ignobly in-between the elevator and the sewer, a fitting end for one that had attempted to climb so far above his station. Just as the assassin turned to leave, both he and Doom paused, mildly surprised, as Beast’s corpse began to dissolve into ash. Under his mask, he raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as the assassin mumbled, “What the fuck?”, then departed with a shake of his head.
Doom waited until the footsteps faded deep into the sewers, then finally emerged from his hiding spot and inspected the bloodbath before him. Beast’s body had collapsed into nothing, while Alpha and his guards lay dead. He noted the slightly glowing blood on the wall with a nod of satisfaction. It could not have gone better. Working quickly, he drew a small vial and swab from his belt, then gently collected the blood, dropping what he had gathered into the vial with a quiet determination. After a few moments, he tucked the vial back into his belt, then stepped out of the elevator, glancing both ways before vanishing into the shadows.
It would take time, but his plan was beginning to form.
Three and a half years later…
The roar of the crowd rang in Peacemaker’s ears, forming a strange symphony with the blood rushing and his heart pounding as he ducked a narrow punch from the towering red-skinned woman before him. He took advantage of the missed strike, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around her waist, feeling the vague heat radiating from her midriff as he pushed against her, a fumbling effort at a grapple that she easily broke. With a laugh, Karlach kneed her foe in the stomach, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and then hurled him against the wall of the cage that surrounded the ring. He stumbled, hitting the ground, then grabbed the cage and pulled himself to his feet, giving a wary glance at the seemingly endless crowd of the fighting ring looking down upon him.
The momentary distraction gave Karlach an opening to grab him by the back of his head and drag him back to the center.
“Ya ain’t done yet, soldier.”
Locking eyes with her, Peacemaker threw an elbow into her throat, forcing her to release him as she struggled to catch her breath. He capitalized, lunging forward with a punch that sent her staggering, then another, then another, then-
She caught the punch, squeezing with enough force to make him flinch, then landed a blow to his stomach that briefly lifted him off his feet. He fell to his knees, gagging and gasping for breath, paying no attention to the looming shadow above him until Karlach lifted him above her head, presenting him to the crowd, before, with a final warcry, slamming him into the floor. He made a weak attempt to stand, only for her to plant a foot on his chest. He glared up at her, cursing as he struggled, and snarled, “I ain’t done.”
She smirked, then drove her foot into his face, knocking him out cold.
“Nah, soldier. Now you’re done.”
The next thing Peacemaker remembered was the distinct pop of the cap of a beer bottle that was slid before him, and he blinked furiously, trying to unblur his vision as he realized he was no longer in the arena, but instead at a table by an arena. He looked around, frowning as he saw a video screen showing a still-celebrating Karlach, then glanced back to see that others were sitting at the table with him. On his right sat a gray-haired, scarred man, while on his left sat an armored, long-haired man, a shield on the seat next to him.
“I lost, didn’t I?”
Soldier Boy took a sip of his beer and scoffed.
“The fuck you asking me for? Don’t remember getting your ass kicked?”
Miles Quatrich laughed coldly before taking a sip of his own drink.
“Pretty sure that’s a sign of a concussion, bud.”
Peacemaker sighed, resting his head in his hands as he massaged his temples.
“Was a User watching, at least?”
“Nope.”
“’fraid not.”
He fully let his head rest on the table, staring blankly into the distance, as his two friends, for lack of a better term, gave each other confused glances. Soldier Boy nudged his shin with his foot, then asked, “The fuck you doing? Have a little goddamn dignity in defeat.”
Still not moving, Peacemaker replied, “What’s the point? At this rate, me and Eagly are gonna be stuck in that damn shelter forever. I’m gonna be some bum when I used to be a goddamned superhero. It’s all a fucking joke.”
Quatrich rolled his eyes and slammed his drink onto the table, pointing an accusatory finger at the depressed vigilante.
“You sure are gonna be a bum if you keep that shit up. Son, you wanna get anywhere, you gotta man the hell up quick. Ya think I just sat around and moped after I got this scar? Hell no, I rolled with the punches, clawed my way out of that goddamn jungle, and taught all my men not to get soft.”
Peacemaker looked up, mildly intrigued. For his part, Soldier Boy crooked a thumb at himself, an assured grin on his face.
“And I sure as shit didn’t spend my time waiting for handouts. I enlisted, made a fucking hero out of myself, and busted my ass ‘til Vought built a statue to celebrate all the Nazi ass I kicked. If you want to keep moping like a pussy, that’s up to you, but don’t expect me to sit by and watch this fucking pity party. You wanna be a hero again? You gotta seize that opportunity.”
Peacemaker nodded along, his brow furrowed in contemplation, and he took a sip of beer as he thought things over.
“Yeah…”
He nodded, his confidence slowly returning, and slapped his hand against the table.
“Yeah! You know what? You guys are right on the money! I gotta get out there and seize the day, and all this inspirational bullshit! Just you two wait, when an opportunity appears, I’m gonna seize the fuck out of it!”
Deep within the sewers, away from prying eyes, Doctor Doom sat upon his throne, his Doomguard watching from above while his two lieutenants, Isshin Ashina and Jim Raynor, stood at attention in front of him. After a few moments of silence, Doom stirred, then sat forward, hands folded. He cast a glance towards Raynor.
“Are the preparations…complete?”
Raynor gave an assured nod.
“Relevant communications have been made, provisions have been placed, and I’ve got our men in position, sir.”
He then looked to Isshin.
“And your forces are…satisfactory?”
Isshin smirked.
“More than that, Doom. They are among the finest warriors I’ve ever trained. They await your order.”
Doom nodded, seemingly satisfied, then sat back, resting his chin on one hand while the other drew a small, green vial from his belt. He stared at it, seemingly lost in it, before placing it back in his belt and booming, “Good. Now, leave us. When the signal is made, you will strike. This city has trodden on our people for too long. Today, the reckoning is upon us.”
Both men nodded, then left, and after a few moments, each member of the Doomguard left as well, all headed in different directions of the sewer. Finally alone, he let his hand rest on his throne, drumming his fingers idly as he pondered to himself.
The path was clear, and by the end of this day, he would find either a glorious victory or a crushing defeat.
No.
He would succeed.
Doom did not fail.
Bok
The ball hit the cell wall, bouncing against a particularly well-worn spot before returning to its thrower’s hand. Staring blankly ahead, he threw it again, letting it return like he had a thousand times before. The movement is well-practiced, borderline mechanical, and, to an outside observer, frustratingly monotonous.
Bok
This is exactly how Erik Killmonger, slumped against the wall by his bed, wanted it to appear. As the ball returned yet again, his eyes briefly traveled to the cell door, where a Peacekeeper, like clockwork, walked by, same as he did every day, every half hour until five o’clock, when he would subsequently be replaced by a Stormtrooper. Of the two, he preferred the Peacekeeper, owing to an open mask that allowed for easier reading of expressions. In the months since he’d been imprisoned here, he’d done his best to carefully memorize every detail that felt important, because if they ever had the tiniest slip-up, he was free. He just needed an opportunity.
Bok
Much to his frustration, he often found himself thinking of how he’d gotten here. Wakanda had been visited by princesses of some sort, he’d busted them attempting to steal Vibranium, and then…it all turned out to be bullshit, a fantasy cooked up by a masked creep in a simulated environment. At least, that was how he understood it. Somehow, a huge chunk of Wakanda ended up with him in “DFederal”, some sort of drug trip of a place that made the spirit realm look like downtown Compton in comparison. But, with the strangeness, came opportunity.
Bok
Another masked creep, this one calling himself “Doom”, came to him, offering a simple deal: vibranium in return for his freedom when he made his move against the people running the city. It seemed easy, and he’d busted his ass to keep it that way. Worked through third parties, eliminated witnesses, and kept it in small circles, just like how he’d been taught to smuggle that poison out of Afghanistan. It had all gone smoothly for a while, right up until his cousin, or at least some version of him, came down on him like a force of nature. Either Doom had sold him out or the cops here were just that good, but it didn’t matter at the end of the day because it had all led to him rotting in a cell, his kingdom stolen from him.
Bok
“Shift change!”
The tinny voice of the Stormtrooper rang out through the cell block just as the ball returned to Killmonger’s hand, his grip tightening on it as he tilted his head to follow the echoing footsteps.
Any day, he’d be out.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Elliot.”
Booker Dewitt scratched the back of his head in a mixture of anxiety and confusion. His partner, with an annoyed sigh, came to a stop, his hand still on the meaty, hairy bicep of their suspect as they dragged the tranquilized Donkey Kong into booking.
“I haven’t got the slightest goddamn idea how we’re even supposed to classify this one. Surely, this is supposed to be Animal Control or Hunter’s Guild business. I mean, it’s an ape, man.”
As the ape, drool dribbling from the side of his mouth, grumbled slightly, Stabler rolled his eyes.
“Look, that crook Baratheon says he’s sentient enough to sign a fucking construction union card, so apparently he falls under our jurisdiction.”
Booker rubbed his eyes, sighing in exasperation.
“These goddamn strikes are gonna put me in an early grave. And I thought Columbia was odd.”
The two continued dragging the ape through the police station, Stabler scanning the strangely empty rooms with a quizzical expression. Arriving at Booking, he breathed a sigh of relief to see an officer, a pudgy bald man admiring a mineral of some sort, sitting at the desk. At the very least, bureaucracy was working. The officer looked up from the mineral, his eyes widening as he saw the suspect of the day.
“Woah, you boys sure this ain’t-“
“No, it’s not an animal control problem, we checked.”
They shoved the ape forward with a grunt, then Stabler leaned forward and gave a perplexed wave around the vicinity.
“Mind telling me why 90% of our department appears to be on vacation, Schrader?”
At this, Hank chuckled, his eyes flitting between the two as though he were attempting to determine whether or not they were joking. At the realization that they weren’t, his smile dropped slightly.
“What, did ya forget to turn your radios on, boys? We got Doom’s hideout. Apparently, some of the Wolves we got in custody finally started squealing. They’re loading up in one of the garages, getting ready to head over to bust this son of a bitch now.”
Stabler and Booker shared a frantic glance, then practically shoved Kong towards the desk as they bolted out the door. As they ran out, they pushed past a lanky, tired-looking forensics officer, accompanied by two others, as they wheeled in a series of body bags. Schrader paid them no mind, choosing to focus on the duo that had quite literally dumped work on his desk.
“Hey! This is your perp, I can’t book hi-oh for fuck’s sake they’re gone.”
With a groan, Hank looked towards DK, whose drool had begun to form a puddle on the desk.
“Don’t suppose you can tell me what you’re in for?”
Entering the expansive garage, the two detectives quickly worked their way through it, pushing past the truly bizarre collection of police officers mingling with cyborgs, bounty hunters, and wizards, to find the first familiar face they could. After a few moments of searching, they spotted one seated by a police van: Lucas Hood, who was meticulously reassembling a glock while his partner, Rama, made a prayer. Hood gave the two a nod, then jammed a clip into his pistol before loading it into his holster. Stabler returned the nod, then asked, “Ey, Hood. There a reason we weren’t invited to this party?”
Fastening his bulletproof vest, Hood shrugged.
“Fuck if I know. Call went out for all on-standby officers. If you boys were out of the station, it ain’t our problem.”
Stabler threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Well, Christ, let us ride with you then. You clearly haven’t left yet, and me and Booker got vests in the car. You won’t even have to wait.”
Lucas looked to Rama, who gave a slight shrug and signaled that it was his call before going to check on the other officers. He glanced between the two of them, then grumbled, “Fine, you can ride with the rest of our team on this one, but either of you gets taken out, it’s not my problem, got it?”
The two detectives nodded, then shared an excited fist pump as Stabler left to grab his gear from his car. As he ran, quietly swearing to himself for parking in a garage on the other side of headquarters, Booker noticed someone else sitting in the van, a tired-looking man clad in a black trenchcoat, inspecting a unique-looking pistol while a cigarette hung from his lips. The man paid Booker no mind, and he turned to Hood, gesturing towards the apparent stowaway with a quizzical expression.
“Oh, him? That’s Emiya. Guess he’s some sort of mercenary, we’ve got a couple that signed off on this one. Brass wants him to be one of the officers taking point.”
“Why?”
“Do I look like brass?”
Emiya gave the two a glare, and they quickly dispersed, continuing their conversation out of earshot while he finished inspecting the Contender. Officially, he was here on mercenary business, and while the pay would be nice for him and Shirou, he had a far more crucial, unofficial purpose: the eyes and ears of the DFSB on assignment. Strangely, Leo had not officially sent orders, so he had taken it upon himself to do the job. Of course, extra money for him and Shirou didn’t hurt, either.
The forensics officer, finally finding an abandoned room, gestured for his assistants to follow him, and they quickly wheeled in the body bags, then unzipped them to reveal a series of men, each clad in white wolf masks, who were very much not dead. Stretching and wincing, one of the Hunters snarled at the lanky man, “Jesus, Berkman, was wondering how long that was gonna take.”
Barry Berkman sighed as he dropped a black duffel bag filled with guns and ammunition clips, then snapped, “Look, I had to wait for the coast to be clear in the least clear place in the entire city, so a little slack would be nice.”
Loading up an assault rifle, the Hunter replied, “Whatever. Just get your mask on, signal should be coming in soon. Remember, comms, then prisoners, then we split up.”
“Look, I think the ultimate moral of May December is that actors are incredibly thin-skinned.”
Stopping to laugh before he took a sip of soda, Beast gave a nod of agreement to Cfp’s comment, their weekly check-in, as per usual, collapsing into a lively discussion of film and television. Off to the side, Annabeth and Ramona shared notes and gossip, paying their bosses little mind, while an armed guard watched the proceedings, an apparent check-in with a former traitor, with quiet befuddlement. For her part, Kerry Loudermilk, Beast’s bodyguard, practiced martial arts in the corner.
Beast set his drink aside, then wiped his mouth before saying, “Yeah, it’s nice to see Downey getting the dub, but it really should be Melton’s. Tough year, I guess. I wanted Sessa and Howerton too, but it’s like nine guys fighting for five spots so-“
A shrill ringing in his ears made him stop, and Cfp looked up from his work with quiet concern as he put a hand to his temples.
“All good, Beast?”
“Yeah, I’ve just got a headac-“
The ringing intensified, this time accompanied by frantic, flashing images. Explosions, gunfire, screaming, and doom. Not just doom in the lower-case, but Doom. Again and again, his voice flashed through the visions, his cape flowed through the carnage, until finally, Doom seemed to look right at him, then say, “Your time is ending, User.”
He jolted out of his seat, Ramona and Kerry almost immediately by his side, and he croaked a pained, “Something’s…happ…ening,” before his eyes rolled into his head and he thudded to the floor. Standing up, Cfp snapped his fingers at his guard, barking an order for medical attention, then began quickly writing a message to the other Users.
‘’Looks like Beast is going through it again.’’
Feeling a wet squelch under his boot, Lucas Hood grimaced, still not taking his eyes off the various shadows cast throughout the oppressively small catacombs of the sewers. Thanks to Stabler leaving his vest in the trunk of his car, they had, in fact, had to wait, costing them precious minutes that now had them playing back-up to the others. If it had been up to Hood, they would’ve double-timed it, but everyone else insisted on a more orderly sweep. Shining a flashlight on a pipe winding over his head, he exhaled, chiding himself for jumping at shadows.
After all, officers sweeping through had made contact, with limited gunfights followed by either arrests or confirmed Wolf casualties, but it had been small. Controlled. Nowhere near the brawl most of the department had assumed.
Hood didn’t like it, and while he tried to hide it, he could tell Emiya, the mysterious point man for this assignment, didn’t seem to like it all that much either. As they reached a point where the passageway seemed to widen out, the assassin came to a stop, signaling for the others to halt, and the group did so. Emiya seemed to tilt his head inquisitively, then nodded for the others to continue on. They stepped further in, finding that the passageway led to a large room where a strange, metal throne sat directly in the center. Scanning the room as best they could, the officers shared anxious glances as Kiritsugu lowered his gun and stepped up to the throne.
An impressed whistle from Stabler broke the silence.
“This guy’s opinion of himself so high that he needs a throne in the sewer? Seems like a standard nutjob to me.”
Pointing his flashlight upward, Hood paused as he saw…something on the ceiling of the building, a brief blink of color that lasted just enough to draw his eye. He waited for the blink to happen again, then quickly shined the flashlight over it, tensing as the illumination revealed what was unmistakably a makeshift explosive attached to the ceiling, a small red light attached to it blinking quietly.With hiss focus on it, he realized that at least a dozen more were on the ceiling, just as Kiritsugu glanced behind the throne, spotting another.
As Lucas turned to yell for everyone to clear the room, the devices exploded.
Gritting his teeth, Kiritsugu activated Time Alter—Double Accel, and moved for the entranceway, not glancing in the direction of the other officers as he made his escape. He came to a stop thirty feet outside of the room, taking a moment to catch his breath and wait for the ringing in his ears to fade as the dust settled. He looked to see if others had survived, but none emerged or made a sound from the pile of rubble.
The eerie silence was replaced by the ring of his communicator, which almost immediately became overwhelmed with messages.
“Jesus, anyone else-“
“We got multiple officers down, I repeat, mult-“
“Anyone else able to reach the station? Can’t get a sig-“
He switched the communicator off, then closed his eyes, trying to focus and remember the steps of his telepathic messaging that Saturos had taught him. Primarily, he remembered the Proxian telling him to not use it unless it was an emergency, grimly noting that it could render him braindead if a careless User picked up and then dropped the signal.
‘’Leo, can you hear me?’’
He waited for a response that, to his concern, never came.
‘’Saturos, Carol, it’s Emiya. Wolves set a trap in the sewer. Please respond.’’
No response.
‘’Jordi, Parcel, status now.’’
No response.
As blood began to trickle from his nose, he ended the mental communication, then rested a hand against a wall. Chaotic radio signal was standard for a situation like this. Not being able to reach your nigh-omnipotent superior? Substantially less so. He switched his communicator on and winced as an inhuman scream rang out over it.
“JESUS, THEY GOT SOME SORT OF A FUCKING INFECTE-“
“-blocked off the exits, we’re pinned down here! They’re coming out of the walls!”
“Jones, fall back, Djarin and I’ll cover ya. Ah fuck, Potter’s down! The hell are these things?”
He flicked through channels, a mix of screaming, gunfire, and dead silence, before switching it back off. He raised his Calico, then quickly began retracing his steps. He heard the occasional echo of gunfire, but the winding passageways made it difficult to trace, so he just focused on the path he knew worked. After a few minutes of walking, loud, dragging footsteps gave him pause, and he turned on his heel, shining a flashlight on a shambling, misshapen gray-skinned individual, who hissed weakly as the light hit their eyes.
Looking them over, Kiritsugu realized, with mild surprise, that the tattered remnants of the creature’s outfit vaguely resembled that of Lelouch vi Britannia, one of Doom’s former lieutenants. Intel had told the DFSB that he had fallen out of Doom’s favor, but they had never been able to determine what exactly happened to him afterwards. The creature stopped, seemingly looking him over, then was joined by another similar-looking creature, then another, then another, then another, until at least two dozen stood before him. Not taking his eyes off the quickly emerging horde, Kiritsugu fell back, raising his Calico and firing as the creatures screamed and charged.
‘’Bloody earthquake…’’
Gazing forlornly at the winding line of traffic in front of him, Chas Chandler laid on the horn of his cab, less in an effort to get things moving and more just for catharsis. He looked anxiously back at his passenger, an elf clad in a green tunic with a sword and shield in the seat next to him, and chuckled.
“Should, uh, should be any minute here, mate. Apologies for the traffic.”
The elf simply stared at the window, not responding, which did little to help Chas’s mood. It had been a smooth enough fare, just pick up the elf and drop him off in the Lower District, and then suddenly an earthquake had ground everything to a halt. Once this fare was over, Chas had half a mind to clock out and bring the cab back to the depot. He knew John owed him a drink, the cheap bastard, and after an hour in bumper-to-bumper bullshit, he’d earned it.
As if the universe itself conspired to shit on him, the ground began to rumble again, and Chas nervously gripped the wheel, letting out a cry of “FUCK!” as the road ahead seemed to split open. At first, it seemed like another quake, but as men in incredibly familiar masks began to climb from the rubble, it occurred to Chas that his day could very much get worse. Putting the car in reverse, he looked back to see that an enormous stone wall had sprung up three blocks down from him, and he stopped to gawk, craning his neck as he realized that it seemed to stretch around the area.
The slam of his car door took him out of his distraction, forcing him to rip his gaze away as he watched his fare, sword and shield drawn, run down the street, following the sounds of gunfire.
“Oi! You owe me for the ride, asshat!”
The elf, making no effort to respond, vanished around the corner. With a beleaguered sigh, Chas punched his steering wheel.
‘’Well, this day’s in the fucking shitter, ain’t it?’’
A bright flash of lightning, followed by an armored figure clad in green rising from the hole in the street, made Chas begin to wonder if he was also magic. He had no time to ponder this, as the figure was soon swarmed by a variety of attackers, including a glowing white entity, an enormous dragon, and a being surrounded by lightning, the sky soon becoming alight with the epic clash. While some stopped to stare, Chas simply switched off the cab, tucked his keys into his jacket, and booked it down the street, eagerly searching for shelter.
‘’I’ll get the bloody cab later.’’
In a matter of minutes, much of the area had exploded into chaos, and Pupil followed closely behind Master as they dashed from rooftop to rooftop, coming to a stop by a water tower as they attempted to survey the carnage.
Scanning the street, Master clicked his tongue.
“The Wolves are making a foolish effort. This attack is small, concentrated on a chunk of the district rather than the city as a whole. If they want a fight, they’ll get it, but it’s a losing one.”
For her part, Pupil was more focused on the clash above them, more an explosion of color and sound than any form of recognizable battle, and she stroked her chin contemplatively.
“Master, are we certain we can stop now? Our bounty will escape unless-“
He held up a finger, silencing her.
“The bounty will have to wait. These criminals are a far greater-“
A crack of thunder gave him pause, and he quickly turned to Pupil, shoving her aside just as a lightning bolt separated them. Each leapt back, drawing their juttes just as the source of the lightning bolt skidded to a stop, his back turned to them both. The man, clad in a blue robe with a katana in one hand and a yari in the other, surveyed both of the foes in front of him, his expression stoic as they each paced around one another.
After a moment of silence, he spoke.
“I had intended to aid in the liberation, but I believe you two each demand my attention. Very well.”
He took a fighting stance, letting the yari rest on his shoulder while the blade hung at his side.
“Let us begin.”
Marcus Fenix grinned as he cut down another Wolf in a hail of fire, the terrorist crying out in pain as he tumbled back into the hole he had just climbed from. He fired again, cutting down another Wolf, and put a finger to his earpiece, yelling over the roaring gunfire, “Christ, Dom, it’s like a fucking turkey shoot!”
In the area on business anyway, he and his fellow COG had been able to deploy quickly, and they’d managed to box in one of the Wolf exit points, surrounding it by setting up firing lines on either side. Initially more reckless, the remaining Wolves were reduced to popping out of the hole and trying to fire back, a useless effort against the sheer firepower. If they kept this up, they’d have this latest revolution shut down in an hour.
What none of the COG noticed, however, was what occurred behind them, as a half-dozen Hunters on each side of the firing line, one group led by one with a prosthetic arm and a patch of gray through his hair, quietly rappelled down from the rooftops, moving slowly and deliberately. One COG trooper, a blonde woman with short hair, turned to grab another clip for her Lancer and locked eyes with the lead Hunter. Her panicked cry of “Marc-“ turned into a weak gurgle as Wolf lunged forward, plunging his katana into her throat, then twisted her neck until it snapped, unleashing a blood-red mist. Blinded, the COG troops yelled out in shock as their ambushers fell upon them, blades cleaving through armor and gunfire quickly subsiding.
After a few moments, the mist cleared, leaving Wolf and his Hunters standing over the corpses. A whistle rang out from the other side, and Wolf looked to see the other Hunters similarly victorious. He nodded, satisfied, and the Hunters quickly dispersed as more Wolves began to emerge from the hole.
“Where the hell’s Ikari?”
Loading his pistol as the elevator worked its way down to the mech hangar, Abe Isamu glanced at his teammates, waiting for some form of answer. The withering gaze forced Isaac Jones’s eyes to the floor, adjusting his glasses and mumbling, “C-class, I b-b-believe. He is en route, s-surely.”
Camila Vera, arms folded as she leaned against the elevator, chuckled lightly.
“What’s the matter, Abe? You don’t think the Kaiju Division stands a chance without the kid?”
Abe scowled, shoving his pistol into its holster, and let his eyes focus on the floor indicator of the elevator.
“Hardly. My concern is that the response is spread thin as is, what with the League and the Avengers both pre-occupied by other threats the Wolves have dumped onto our laps, and I’d like to avoid fighting a kaiju horde on our own.”
Isaac gulped nervously, taking a deep breath before replying, “I-if we stick to our c-c-c-containment protocols, I believe it gives u-us a 73% chance of success.“
The doors slid open, revealing a dozen armed Hunters with guns trained on them, and Isaac could only mumble a quiet, “Oh.” before they opened fire. Futilely drawing his gun from the holster, Abe took the brunt of the fire, his body jerking as bullets tore it to shreds, while Camila attempted to throw herself towards Isaac and was rewarded with several rounds to the head, neck, and chest for her efforts.
After several seconds of continuous fire, the Hunters lowered their guns to survey their handiwork, with Barry turning at the sound of Isaac, coughing up blood as he held a stump of a hand to his chest, attempting to reach for his wrist watch. If he could go back, he could warn them, stop the elevator, try and-
Barry drew his pistol and fired, the shot hitting clean between the scientist’s eyes, then pressed a button on his earpiece and proclaimed, “Kaiju division’s down.”
Alarms and distant sounds of gunfire had jolted Killmonger from his sleep, and he angrily paced the cells, having long since given up on trying to get the attention of any of the panicking guards, who paid him no mind as they ran about the prison. Was this it? Was this his chance?
As if in answer to the question, his cell door slid in, and a blonde woman clad in white leather stepped in. Before he could ask who she was, she raised a strange gun and fired, unleashing a blue beam that turned him into a small, glowing cube. With a nod, the woman grabbed the cube and tossed it into a bag at her hip, full of similar-looking cubes.
Sara Lance looked both ways before exiting the cells, quickly jogging to catch up with her partner as she similarly deposited a cube into a bag.
“There a reason Pete wants these specific prisoners transported, rather than, y’know, all of them?”
Not looking up from her notepad as she crossed out another name, Ava Sharpe mumbled, “Sara, sweetie, that is a fantastic question, but I would much rather ask it when we’re not in a war zone. Let’s focus on grabbing the files next, okay?”
As the two headed down a corridor of the prison, Sara smirked, “Oh, c’mon, we’ve done wayyyy more reckless stuff in way worse places. Remember that time we-“
Her reminiscing was cut short as a door was knocked off its hinges by a body flying into it, and the two froze as an imposing long-haired figure, clad in black with a half-mask, stepped out into the hallway. Even if the metal arm wasn’t a dead giveaway, both Sara and Ava had read enough debriefs on the figure to recognize them immediately.
One of Pete’s best operatives turned into Doom’s most feared assassin.
The man who had singlehandedly annihilated Bane’s entire faction of the Wolves in a single evening.
An enemy whose official recommended strategies were “leave the area immediately” and “if unable to leave, die as slowly as possible as to ensure the escape of your allies.”
The Winter Soldier.
The Soldier turned, surveying them both, then began to advance. The duo gave each other a knowing glance, then charged, with Sara drawing her staff while Ava drew her batons. With an ease that only experienced partners could truly have, they moved in tandem, Ava striking high while Sara stayed low, using the drop in the Soldier’s guard to land a kick to his stomach that felt like putting her foot against a wall. He didn’t stagger, swinging his metallic fist in a blow that Ava just barely managed to avoid. Their assault continued, a desperate effort to force an opening that he refused to give, while they fought to stay just out of his reach.
Sara swung her staff for his legs, and he lifted his leg just in time, deftly avoiding the failed trip attack before following up with a slash from his knife aimed at Ava’s throat. Deftly, Sara raised her staff to parry the strike, earning a grateful nod and smile from her partner, a small motion that nonetheless caught the eye of their opponent. There was a clear affection between the two.
He could use that.
The Soldier lunged forward, forcibly putting himself between the two as he pressed his attack on Ava, who staggered backwards to avoid the ferocious flurry of blows. As Sara, trying to capitalize on his distraction, swung for his head, he ducked, then fiercely elbowed her in the midriff, earning a choked cry and a spit of blood as he felt his arm shatter ribs. She gasped in pain, each breath ragged and wheezing, and Ava cried out, swinging her batons to try and draw his attention again. The attacks were reckless and overeager, a rare outburst of emotion, and the Soldier easily sidestepped them before grabbing Ava by the hair and driving her head into the wall with enough force to crack the stone.
Ears ringing, vision blurring, Ava fell, and the Soldier drew his pistol to finish her off just as he felt a small, metallic object click onto his leg. He tilted his head, curious, just as nearly a hundred thousand volts coursed through his veins. He froze, body twitching as he gritted his teeth through the pain, and his eyes, full of rage, turned to see Sara, struggling to stand, limp to a groaning Ava, sling her arm over her shoulder, then drag her down the hall, finger to her earpiece as she frantically called for a medical evac. Just as the electricity faded, it surged again, nearly bringing him to his knees.
Desperately trying to stay conscious, Sara prayed silently that the stun mine would last long enough for them to reach the roof.
Trevor Belmont grunted as he rolled to avoid the frantic, reckless attacks of the infected foe bearing down upon him. He could tell the city was in deep shit when they relied on the Hunter’s Guild to put down Wolves business, but he was rarely one to complain. Well, he complained often, as Sypha and Alucard loved to tell him, but not about an opportunity for more work. In this case, he and the Guild had found themselves on sewer duty, stopping whatever these things were from getting outside of the hastily erected walls. As the infected slashed forward, he leapt out of the way, then quickly drew a small dagger from his pocket and hurled it into the creature’s eye. With a pained screech, it stumbled back, driving its bladed fingers into its face as it desperately tried to remove the blade, and Trevor quickly followed up by lashing out with the morningstar.
The chain wrapped around the creature’s neck, and with a strained shout, Trevor pulled back, separating its head from its shoulders. The headless corpse wobbled uneasily, only to be sent flying as another infected, a white-haired man in a trenchcoat riding atop it as he emptied two revolvers into its face, slammed into it. The infected skidded to a stop, and Trevor rolled his eyes as Dante leapt off it with a cocky grin.
“Do you have to show off constantly?”
With a smirk, Dante shrugged, then effortlessly landed a headshot on another infected without even looking.
“What can I say? Have fun with what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
Trevor pushed past the half-demon, grumbling to himself as more infected emerged from the sewer. He glanced in the direction of the Hunter, who raised their blunderbuss and fired into the chest of an infected just as it was primed to strike. The creature gave a pitiful shriek as it fell to its knees, powerless to stop the Hunter from sinking a fist into its chest and crushing its heart in their grip. They were a bit much in their own respect, but at least he never had to hear constant quips from them.
Just as the newly gathered horde of infected began to charge, an enormous beam of light disintegrated them, leaving the trio of hunters confused. The Hunter acted first, eyes following the trajectory of the beam to the rooftop of a nearby building, where a Wolf clad in gray and blue armor and wielding a glowing sword stood overlooking them. The figure leapt down, landing with a thud, and surveyed the trio. Trevor, confused, squinted as he recognized the blonde hair that flowed from behind the mask.
“S…Saber? Is that-“
Giving no response, the Wolf unleashed another blast from her sword, and all three of her targets leapt to the side, Trevor gritting his teeth as he felt the heat of the blast just miss him. He rolled to his feet and whipped at her with his morningstar, only for her to easily parry it aside. She fell back, seeming to move in a blur as Dante opened fire with Ebony and Ivory while the Hunter, just now catching up, injected a stimulant of some form into their leg.
Retaking a fighting stance, Trevor mumbled, “You know, she’s not a monster or beast, so technically this doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction. We could simply leave.”
Dante laughed, drawing Rebellion and letting it rest on his shoulder.
“You kidding? This is the most interesting gig I’ve gotten since that stuff with Sukuna.”
With that, he charged forward, locking blades with Saber as Trevor and the Hunter shared a reluctant look, then followed after him.
Bloodsoaked, panting, ammo long since run dry, Kiritsugu grunted as he managed to force a manhole cover open and drag himself to daylight. Staring at the sky, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. His comms had slowly gone quiet as the Wolves sprung their trap, and he hadn’t managed to find a single surviving officer during his escape. As his eyes came to a stop on the towering wall in the distance, he frowned. He needed to get out of the district and get word to Leo, assuming Leo somehow wasn’t already aware. With a grimace, he forced himself to stand just as a Wolf, smoking a cigarette, turned a corner.
The cigarette fell from his mouth as he and Kiritsugu locked eyes, staring each other down intensely. The silence was broken by the Wolf reaching for his radio, only for his quarry to strike first, tossing a knife into his throat. The Wolf fell with a thud, and his killer quickly looted both his gun and his radio from his body. Listening to the arrogant, seemingly victorious communications between Wolf patrols, he faded into the shadows of the alley, heading for the nearest exit.
As he soared over the Lower District, split nearly cleanly in two, Doctor Stephen Strange scanned the area for any sign of his fellow Council members, growing increasingly concerned as he saw no sign of them. They had intended to respond as a united front, but he’d gotten distracted, doing his best to aid civilians caught in the chaos of the Wolves surprise attack. This was nothing like the previous uprising, a glorified citywide riot. This was organized, efficient, and focused on a single area.
He expected nothing less from Doom.
A mighty roar subsiding into a crash caught his attention, and he watched as a dragon, unmistakably the form of Flemeth, fell atop an apartment, caving in most of its rooftop under its weight. Atop it was a familiar flash of dark green. He quickly turned, landing next to the corpse, and his eyes briefly focused on a shredded white cloak and a blood-soaked conical sedge hat as they floated past him. He stopped to see Doom, cape flowing in the breeze, overlooking the chaos, arms crossed and back turned. Before he could move, Doom turned his head slightly.
“Ah, I had wondered if you’d fled, Stephen.”
Strange quickly took a fighting stance, crackling orange energy irradiating from his fingertips. The pose did little to change Doom’s demeanor, and he calmly turned to look at the new arrival.
“What have you done, Doom?”
The despot laughed coldly.
“What have I done, Stephen? I’ve liberated these people. I’ve bloodied the noses of the gods themselves. You are standing at Ground Zero of a new revolution, and it is all thanks to Doom.”
At this, Stephen had to chuckle, still not relaxing his fighting stance.
“A revolution? I had assumed you were smarter than that, Doom. You’ve seen what happened the last, what, three times an egomaniac with a god complex tried to overthrow the city. What’s your plan? Ask to rule the area nicely and hope they don’t chain you to the sun? Face it, Doom. The Users will swat you aside.”
Doom laughed, a far more genuine laugh than Strange had expected, and he would’ve been lying if he claimed that it didn’t unnerve him slightly.
“And do you think I had not accounted for the Users, Stephen? Tell me, does my presence not feel…familiar? Do you not sense the power that flows through my veins? Focus for a moment, and think: How do you believe the walls came to be?”
Strange closed his eyes, then nearly winced as he felt power, suffocating, overwhelming, and deeply wrong, emit from Doom. He struggled to keep his stoic expression, then, as realization hit, he stared at Doom in horror.
“You…you…you stole the-“
Doom raised his arms in triumph, and the city seemed to shake in response. Lightning struck, illuminating the two.
“The power of a User, Stephen! Our new gods were foolish enough to craft themselves in our image, and from that, I formed a plan. I waited, for Doom is nothing if not patient, and crafted, studying the sample I had been cunning enough to secure, and in time, I was able to bend that power to my will. The blood of a User, nay, a Bureaucrat flows through my veins! I have beaten our oppressors at their own game.”
As Doom monologued, Strange cautiously eyed him, lost in thought. He remembered a chance meeting years ago, when he’d been newly welcomed to the Council of Magi and Leo had dropped in uninvited with an informal warning to the Council, urging against any ambitious schemes. He paled as he remembered Leo’s warning carefully.
“The strongest warrior pales before the weakest User.”
Seemingly annoyed, Doom snapped his fingers, drawing Strange’s attention back to him.
“Am I boring you, Strange? Is the liberation of these people not interesting enough for you?”
Strange practically spat as he replied.
“You’re a madman, Doom, fumbling with powers you can’t possibly understand. A User’s blood will ruin you from the inside ou-“
“SILENCE!”
Doom roared, the thunder booming above as if in unison with him.
“Do you not think Doom has prepared for every eventuality? Do you not believe that Doom has spent three years preparing himself to take this power? Doom is all-seeing, Doom is all-knowing! The Strange I knew was wise enough not to doubt me, but perhaps you are a greater fool than him.”
He sighed, collecting himself, before continuing.
“I will give you-“
He held up a finger as if to emphasize the point.
“-one opportunity, Stephen, to prove yourself smarter than your colleagues. Leave now, spread the word that this portion of the city is under my control, and I will spare you.”
He paused, waiting for the Sorcerer’s response, his eyes boring into him from across the rooftop. Strange tensed, weighing his options. He didn’t stand a chance in hell against the powers of User, and even if Doom’s control over it was a lie, he wasn’t sure he could risk that by himself. But, if he left, it would give the madman free reign until the Users could get involved. He took a breath, collecting himself, then retook his fighting stance, a determined look across his face. Doom sighed, genuine disappointment in his voice as he quipped, “Oh, Stephen. I had thought better of you.”
He brought his hands together in a thunderous clap, unleashing a soundwave that obliterated all in its path save for Strange, who managed to quickly throw up a shield that almost instantly shattered as it absorbed the brunt of the attack. The force knocked him off the roof, and he gave a silent thanks as the cloak of levitation quickly lifted him into the air. He fell back, avoiding enormous blasts of green energy as Doom followed him.
The despot attacked ferociously, and Stephen scrambled to avoid every attack thrown his way.
“If you insist on the superheroics, then I will ensure you die like one!”
Nearly slipping on a pool of blood, Master paid no mind to the bursts of color and explosions above his head as he parried a sword strike from Isshin, the samurai relentlessly pressing the attack. As their blades locked, Master briefly glanced to the corpse of Pupil, slumped against a wall with a broken piece of the yari sticking from her chest, then focused back on the battle at hand. He couldn’t let his mind wander, or her death would be for nothing.
Isshin drew his pistol, only for Master to dodge the shot and bring his hand down in a fearsome chop, forcing him to drop it. In one clean motion, he kicked the gun away, then swept Isshin’s leg, nearly knocking the old man to the ground, but Isshin quickly recovered, rolling to the side and stabbing forward with his katana. Master sidestepped the attack, bringing his jutte down with a slash that would’ve taken Isshin’s head from his shoulder had he not turned at the last moment, and Master smelled burning fabric as it tore through his robe. With an impressed smile, Isshin tossed the burning garment aside, then stayed low as he unleashed a Dragon Flash. Master raised his jutte to block the sudden shockwave, digging his heels in as the force sent him skidding backwards. Standing to his feet, Isshin laughed boisterously.
“You fight ferociously! Had we met under better circumstances, I suspect we’d have a lot to teach each other."
Under his mask, Master grinned, preparing an attack as he snarled, “A shame you’re no better than a common terrorist, then. Skilled or not, I will cut you down like I would any criminal.”
Closing his eyes and sheathing his sword, Isshin smirked, then took a defensive stance as Master attacked, bringing his jutte down with a lightning-quick cleave, only for Isshin to quick-draw his blade, knocking the attack aside with an upward parry before slashing a deep cut into his chest. Master staggered, and it gave Isshin just enough of an opening to raise the sword above his head, both hands on the hilt, and bring it down, the blade cleaving down from the shoulder to the gut.
Master fell to his knees, trying to hold himself together through sheer will, and Isshin stepped to his side, somberly nodding at his foe as he raised his sword.
“Stand proud. You’re strong.”
On that final word, he brought the sword down, decapitating Master. With a satisfied smile, he bowed to the corpse of his enemy, then headed for the stairs.
He had a battle to win.
With a wave of his hand, Doom dispelled a series of magic bolts hurled at him, the crackling energy fizzling harmlessly, then countered in turn by tapping his foot, sending a pillar of stone thundering towards Strange. The sorcerer dove to the side, only to grunt in pain as another pillar manifested itself in the side of a building, pinning him. He squirmed, feeling the pressure apply itself, and he transformed it into a mass of moths, who fluttered away as he soared through them towards Doom, who seemed to beckon him closer.
Strange brought his hands together, blew into them, then unclasped them, smirking as dozens of clones of himself surrounded Doom. For his part, Doom simply rolled his eyes, then braced himself as the clones all released the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak. The winding ropes lashed at Doom, who simply allowed them to pass through him before gathering each individual band in his grip, then swung the Strange clones into the ground with all his might. As his clones hit the ground and shattered into bursts of orange magic, Stephen quickly dispelled the magic, steadying himself. Before he could cast again, Doom raised a hand and slowly moved it towards him, saying nothing. Strange’s puzzled expression turned into one of alarm as he glanced down to see that train tracks had formed under his feet, with a train not too far away. A quick portal spell sent the train hurtling on top of Doom, who snapped his fingers, blinking it out of existence, and Strange cried out as the tracks seemed to come alive, quickly winding around him like a snake and dragging him to the ground.
Forced to his knees as the makeshift bindings forced his arms to his sides, Strange struggled vainly, grunting in pain as he felt it tighten around him. Doom approached, slowly and assuredly, with the walk of a man who knew his victory was never in question.
Strange hung his head low. If he wanted to stand a chance, it was time to break the rules.
He needed the Darkhold.
“Can you get me on the line with anyone on the ground?”
Within the communications room of his mansion, Elijah Snow paced anxiously over the shoulder of Cary Loudermilk, who leaned intently over his radio, tuning between every signal he could think of. He frowned, leaning back and stroking his chin as he ignored the ten people sitting behind him, eagerly awaiting any news. After a few moments, he gently removed his headphones and looked at his white-haired superior.
“It’s peculiar, Elijah. I can’t get a signal of any kind in that area. With the technology provided, I should be able to reach someone, and yet…silence.”
Elijah grimaced, turning on his heel to look to Sypha Belnades, who looked at him anxiously.
“Any word from Beast?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve tried his office repeatedly, and nothing.”
With a groan, Elijah put his head in his hands, grumbling, “Of course the one damn time I actually want to talk to Beast, he’s nowhere to be found. Alright, screw waiting, we’re mobilizing now.”
In an instant, Planetary sprung to life, quickly readying themselves as Elijah barked orders.
“Cole, you, Jesse, and Akechi are going in over the rooftops. Five, you and Thane are on recon, in and out, avoid engagement unless absolutely necessary. Main team, you’re all with me. And where the hell is-“
A furious knocking on his front door gave Elijah pause.
“-Constantine?”
The entire team stood on edge, and Elijah cautiously crept to his door, nodded for the others to be ready, then pulled it open, jumping back as a disheveled, panicked John Constantine practically fell through the doorway. Scrambling to his feet, Constantine slammed the door shut, then ran an anxious hand through his hair as he calmed himself. He seemed to notice his teammates after a few moments, giving them a nod before locking eyes with Elijah, who gazed at him with a mixture of annoyance and concern.
“John, where the hell have you been? We were just about to move in on the Wol-“
John laughed incredulously.
“Oh no, squire. You don’t wanna go anywhere near that bloody shitshow, trust me.”
Murmurs of confusion and disagreement rose from the group, and Elijah moved to push John aside.
“John, we don’t have time for this. Either come with us or go home. I don’t give a damn either way at this point.”
Risking a series of icicles sprouting from his brain, John grabbed Elijah by the collar, looking deep into his eyes, then said, practically in a whisper, “Elijah, the Council is gone. Doom wiped ‘em out, I barely got out of there with my head on.”
Goro Akechi, tapping his foot impatiently, scoffed.
“Preposterous. Doom is powerful, but even he couldn’t battle the entirety of the Council on his own.”
John shot the boy detective a dirty look and scoffed in return.
“Well, one of us watched him knock Skullduggery’s head off and blast Flemeth out of the sky, and last I bloody checked, it wasn’t you, yeah?”
Akechi scowled, but stayed quiet, and John turned back to Elijah.
“If Planetary moves in there, it’ll be a slaughter. Doom’s got something off about him, and I’m not sure he’ll feel so forgiving if we move against him. I know you lot don’t trust me-“
He winced, feeling the withering stares of at least three members of Planetary.
“-but trust me on this. We wait, we gather info, then we can move.”
Firmly removing John’s hands from his collar, Elijah paused, contemplating the information as he looked over the team, who all stood waiting on orders. With a heavy sigh, he stepped back.
“Everyone, stand down for now. Thane, Five, you’re still on recon, but do it quietly.”
The drell and the short, well-dressed boy both nodded, then quickly teleported out as the rest of Planetary reluctantly did as told, the murmurs becoming more confused and negative than they were before.
Doom laughed as he dodged another burst of purple flame, grabbing a cackling spirt by the throat and crushing it in his hand as he did so.
“See, Stephen, finally you begin to understand! One must do whatever is necessary to achieve victory, no matter how blasphemous it may be.”
Surrounded by the rapidly moving spirits of the damned, Strange, skin pale, fingertips blackened, flicked both hands upward, summoning an onslaught of chains that quickly surrounded Doom, forcing him to the ground. As Doom struggled, shaking the very ground beneath him, Strange hovered over him, eyes full of scorn and fury.
“We’re nothing alike.”
His voice was low, booming, and full of an uncharacteristic menace.
“I’ve done this to protect the city. The power you stole? You did it to feed your megalomania. Now, burn.”
He dramatically raised his hand, igniting the chains in purple fire that surrounded Doom, completely covering him in a matter of moments. Doom’s laughter soon subsided as a troubling realization came over him: for the first time since he began his plan, something had actually managed to hurt him. The flames seemed to heat his armor, his flesh stinging as it began to burn, but he could be patient for a moment. This was worth pondering.
The Darkhold existed in every dimension, a multiversal constant, so perhaps magic on that level could wound a User? Metafictional damage was an interesting concept to think about. He’d have to look into it further after the battle was over.
Just as the pain truly began to become bothersome, he roared, shattering the chains and launching himself to his feet faster than Strange could react. Through the fire, he charged, grabbing the Sorcerer by the throat. With his other hand, he batted away the spirits without a second thought, then grabbed the cloak, ripping it from Strange’s shoulders as it attempted to force a retreat. Its squirming was stopped as Doom ignited it in green flame, then released the smoldering embers, leaving just him and a struggling Strange.
“You fought well, Strange. Make no mistake, I would find it admirable if it had not been utterly pointless. And the Darkhold-“
He nodded towards Strange’s fingers, which weakly tried to pry Doom’s iron grip from his throat.
“-has given me something to educate myself on. Rest well.”
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his foe’s neck, then let the limp body fall to the ground. He turned his head to the sky, hearing that the sounds of fighting had begun to quiet, while Wolves all around him began to celebrate in the street. As they began a chant of “Long Live Doom!”, he smiled.
It was over.
Doom had won.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”
As he ran into his office, Beast swore under his breath, quickly clearing his desk as he slammed a suitcase onto it. He popped the case open, then opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk with his foot before quickly rooting through it and throwing various clothes into the case. Absolutely baffled, Ramona Flowers, his assistant, watched from the doorway as her boss, who had collapsed in Cfp’s office earlier that day and then quietly snuck out as the chaos unfolded in the Lower District, moved with an urgency she hadn’t seen before.
“What are you doing, exactly?”
Beast’s head poked out from behind the desk.
“I am packing a bag to head to another dimension and wait this shit out. I don’t know how exactly, but I just know everyone’s gonna pin this on me.”
“Well, to be fair, most stuff with the Wolves tends to be your fault.”
“Just for that, you, Scott, and Ramona 2 don’t get to come to the multiverse cabin.”
“I’m Ramona 2.”
He poked his head back out from behind the desk, squinting as he looked her over.
“Oh, yeah. Apologies.”
Slamming his suitcase, a worn-out small red case with wheels and a handle, shut, Beast gave a satisfied nod, then looked to Ramona and said, “Now, if anyone asks, the Wolves killed me. Again.”
“I…don’t think that’s going to convince anyone.”
He pushed past her, pressing the call button for his elevator, then quipped, “Well, it’s gonna have to do, because they’re totally gonna try to pin this. No use pleading-“
He stepped into the elevator, only to blink as the doorway instead led him to a meeting room, where the eyes of the Users, angry and impatient, burrowed into him. He dropped his case, mouth hung open in shock as he attempted to process both what had just occurred and how he could charm his way out of it. After a few seconds, an answer finally came to him.
“Man, fuck you guys.”
King Wass, fidgeting with his desk while he eyed his portable television, which sat stuck on a “Technical Difficulties” card, gestured for a seat that materialized in the center of the room.
“Just have a seat, Beast.”
Beast’s eyes flitted to the seat, then back to the door, then back to the assembled group.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Everyone’s gonna yell at me.”
“No one’s gonna bloody yell at ya-“
Leaning against the wall, Leo, mask hiding his expression, murmured, “I might, day’s still young,” only to be shushed by his nominal superior. A silence hung over the room, and Beast reluctantly did so, slumping into the chair and staring at his feet. Wass, satisfied, nodded to Leo, who snapped his fingers to dim the lights in the room before pulling a projector screen out of thin air. He snapped again, and an image showcasing a map of the city, a portion of the Lower District colored green, appeared.
“What we know, as of now, is that Doom’s Wolves have managed to seize control of around 30% of the Lower District of DFederal and surround it with a several-mile-high stone wall. They lured the majority of the police department, who were dumb enough to fall for an incredibly obvious trap without fucking telling us first, into the sewers, trapped them there, and unleashed some form of infected horde on them. I had eyes on the ground, but he’s since left the area.”
He snapped again, showing a picture of the DFPD headquarters, several flames shooting from the windows while smoke billowed behind it.
“Using this distraction, they seized control of the DFPD for several hours before the DFSB, with assistance from bounty hunters and Planetary, helped take it back, though communications and most forms of transport are completely down for the time being.”
Another snap, this time showing an increasing list of casualties.
“I spoke with Elijah Snow, who informed me that Doom has seemingly killed the Council of Magi. He’s…generally trustworthy, but I’m waiting on confirmation for that one since his source was Constantine, who is…not.”
A final snap showed a list of words: Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How, with all but the last crossed off.
“Doom isn’t exactly complex in his intentions. He’s a nutcase who wants to be a ruler again, and the Wolves were the easiest way for him to do it. The only mystery is how exactly he was able to do it.”
Without actually turning around, Leo rotated his head to look at a mildly unnerved Beast, who looked back, confused.
“Why would I know that?”
“Let me finish, dipshit. You’re going to assist in an investigation into how, exactly, Doom was able to avoid Kadingir, solo the strongest magic users in the city, and then somehow erect a wall around a portion of the city, something only we should be able to do.”
Beast blinked, baffled by his new instructions, and turned to look at the assembled Users, who said nothing. He glanced to Cfp, hoping for a voice in his defense, only for him to shrug and gesture to the handcuff on his wrist.
“Me? Wouldn’t this be the DFSB’s job? Isn’t that the entire point of them being the secret police?”
Leo sighed deeply, calming himself before he snapped, “In case you haven’t noticed, 30% of our Lower District is in enemy hands. The DFSB will be investigating Doom, on top of ensuring that he doesn’t take over the rest of the city, but he’s not even in the top five of things we’re worrying about at this moment. You’re in charge because he knows you’re incompetent, which will, hopefully, allow you to operate underneath his suspicion. Now-“
His lecture was cut off by Wass’s TV finally springing to life, the glowing image of Bayonetta at her desk illuminating the room. Before Wass could set it to a channel he’d actually wanted to watch, he was interrupted by numerous Users crowding around him as the anchor cleared her throat, shuffled papers, and then began speaking.
“Good evening, darlings. I’m Bayonetta, and this is DFNN with a special broadcast. As I suspect many of you are aware, the Wolves have staged a devastating attack on our city. Casualties currently range in the hundreds, with more still coming in, and sporadic fighting continues throughout the streets.”
She put a finger to her ear and nodded.
“Our station, earlier today, received a video recording from Doctor Doom, leader of the Wolves, in his first recorded address to the public since he has taken command of the terrorist organization. Our producers have intensely debated whether or not to air this, but in the interest of journalistic freedom, we have decided to do so. We warn our viewers that this content may be disturbing.”
The image of a Wolf mask, shining in the darkness, flickered on screen. From the crowd of users gathered around Wass, Leo spoke first.
“We need to get this off the air, Doom could easily-“
An urgent shush cut him off, causing him to shoot a glare towards the source, only to soften, a momentary look of genuine surprise in his eyes as he realized it had come from Beast, who focused intently on the screen. After a few seconds, the Wolves symbol vanished, replaced with an image of Doom, slouched in his throne, hands folded together.
“Greetings, citizens of DFederal. I suspect my name is known to any watching this, undoubtably through the smear tactics of our overlords. They call me a terrorist, an opportunist, a nuisance to their tyranny. They say this because they are afraid.”
The various Users chuckled amongst themselves. Unfolding his hands, Doom leaned forward.
“They are afraid of the alternative the Wolves provide: a passively tolerant society where citizens don’t need to fight for their very well-being. For too long, they mocked and tossed aside the “weak” in favor of this system of suffering. They have eaten well, fattening themselves off our very spirits. Doom is here to say this simple truth: the feast is over.”
The camera zoomed out, revealing the strung-up corpses of Strange and Master on either side of the throne.
“We have slaughtered their lapdogs, driven their enforcers from our territory, and we have secured it for our own. No longer will this area be known as DFederal. It is now New Latveria.”
Beast rolled his eyes.
“Of course he named it that.”
Doom continued.
“And how, do you ask? How do I know that New Latveria will stand proud.”
He chuckled coldly.
“Because I wield the very power of the ones that run this dystopia. Their blood runs through my veins, and with it, I control the world as they have. And if our dear overlords don’t believe me, I shall demonstrate.”
He tapped a finger to his forehead, sending a shrieking signal through the minds of every User, save for Leo. Beast froze, gritting his teeth through the pain as he realized the agonizing familiarity of the signal. Doom removed his finger, ending the signal.
“The law of New Latveria is clear: all who come here are free to live as they please. They will not have to fight for their lodging, and none shall go hungry so long as Doom watches over them. If some choose to live in DFederal and play by its draconian rules, that is their choice, and they may come and go as they please. But-“
He balled his hand into a fist, bringing it down onto his throne with a resounding clang.
“-if any warrior or User would dare to disturb the peace we have created, they will be treated as an enemy of the state and punished with the utmost severity. For our part, New Latveria will not attempt to expand, nor will our attacks against DFederal continue. I offer your leaders peace, now it is up to them to take it.”
The video ended, leaving an eerie silence hanging over the meeting for a few moments before Bayonetta returned. She gave a small smile before continuing.
“Well, that was a...fiery statement from Doom. We have reached out to the Users for comment, but have received no reply. Coming up tonight, we’ll give you the heartwarming story of Saxton Hale and his unlikely friendship with King Kong, who he has been attempting to teach sign language. Don’t go away, loves, or I’ll have to discipline you.”
She gave her signature wink, then the TV faded to commercial. As a blaring mariachi track played over a masked man urging people to go to Santa Lifta, Beast felt every set of eyes in the room on him once more, and he coughed nervously. Tugging his collar, he turned to face the group.
“Okay, he could have anybody’s blood.”
Part 2: People Who Died[]
“It has been three weeks since the last of DFederal forces were evacuated from New Latveria, but political tensions between the upstart city-state and the larger city continue to boil. Under escort by a militia, our reporters were able to take a limited tour of the city, where we were shown many of the new, rudimentary facilities as designed under Doom’s leadership.”
A video camera, clearly handheld, panned over footage of warriors working in a community garden, smiling and laughing amongst themselves, while Bayonetta narrated over it, her voice calm and self-assured. Sitting on his desk, Pete Wisdom watched the TV attentively, gripping the remote with a stony expression.
“New Latveria has been hard at work in its establishment of food sources, healthcare centers, and community resources for its populace. While these services are, at the moment, crude, with much of the food freshly planted while the average wait time at a health center is anywhere between half an hour to well over three, representatives of the Wolves assure us that they will grow, with initial issues owing to external sabotage.”
The footage cuts to a Wolf, well-dressed with a white and blue mask on, standing over a group of men, each dressed in fatigues, their faces bloody and bruised while their hands were tied behind their backs. Each of the men gave the camera a wary glance as it passed over them, some determined, others more fearful.
“In a sit-down interview with us, Wolves communication officer Michael Collins alleged that DFederal had been training anti-Latverian guerillas for a campaign of “underground terror”, providing the names of several different mercenaries alleged to have overseen the training.”
The video was briefly replaced with three images: one of a grinning black man with a chainsaw slung over his shoulder, the next of a grim-faced, goateed man with an eyepatch, and the last of an older man with a large scar over a portion of his face.
“In response to these allegations, DFederal put out a statement, replying, quote, “DFederal has honored the sovereignity of New Latveria in spite of various provocations and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Any allegations of sabotage or terror backing are, frankly, false, and an attempt by Wolves to cover up the clear poverty and human rights suppression under Doom’s leadership.”
The Wolf draws a pistol from its belt and fires into the forehead of the nearest man, the camera quickly panning away as a spurt of pixelated blood paints the pavement.
“End quote.”
With a sigh, Pete shut off the TV, pacing around his office as he contemplated his next move. Doom’s victory, frankly, had been an embarrassment for the city as a whole, but especially one for him. As the head of Surveillance, he should’ve seen this coming a mile away, but instead, he’d been caught blindsided, nearly losing multiple agents and having to abandon several assets in the chaos. Most frustratingly, vital intel had been left behind, thanks to the Winter Soldier’s ambush on Songbird and Sharpe. Intel that now lay just out of reach, where Doom could easily find it. He couldn’t let that happen.
He needed a way in, off the books and without provoking a war.
His eyes landed on his desk, covered in various files, and he noticed one amidst the mess, a paper titled “Task Force X Potential Recruits” poking out over the top. With a sly grin, he felt an idea forming.
He walked over to his intercom, pressed a button, and said, “Agent Smart, would you be kind enough to contact Agent Flagg? Inform him it’s of the utmost importance.”
“So, what kind of team am I working with on this?”
Hands folded behind his back, Rick Flagg stood at attention by the door to the last floor DFPD’s holding cells. Pete, a small clipboard at his side, gave him a nod, a non-verbal means of “at ease”, and Flagg relaxed slightly, watching quietly as his superior pressed a keycard to the door. Its bright-red “RESTRICTED ACCESS” sign flashed green as it slid open, the two men quickly heading inside as it slammed shut behind them. For a moment, their footsteps were the only sound, echoing throughout the rows and rows of hallways, each made up of lines of cells. As they reached their destination, Wisdom finally spoke.
“The process for this, Agent Flagg, was highly selective. I had to choose candidates that could not only hold their own in a scrap but could also operate with some level of discretion while also being aggressive enough to appear as mere escaped prison inmates.”
They rounded the corner, and Flagg gave an impressed whistle at the line of inmates before him, each standing restlessly in their respective cells. At the end of the line sat Alejandro Gillick, idly chewing on a toothpick while he held a small remote with a series of red buttons close at hand. At the sight of the two, Gillick nodded to them, a small gesture returned by Flagg. With a wave, Pete continued walking, coming to a stop by the first cell, where a towering gray-skinned, black-haired woman stood before them, arms crossed as she looked to her captors over. Pete handed the clipboard to Flagg, and the soldier flipped through each prisoner’s file, nodding along as he scanned the information.
“Striga…battle record of one loss…”
At the mention of the loss, the woman scoffed.
“You assume me weak? How about you open this cage so I can prove otherwise, you fucking cattle.”
Flagg ignored her.
“Noted mid-level enforcer of the Cult of Orlok, arrested on over a dozen counts of murder, fifteen counts of accomplice to kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, cannibalism.“
“Hardly. It’s an insult to compare your kind and mine.”
“-and, unsurprisingly, one account of resisting arrest and assaulting an officer of the law.”
Flagg closed the file and looked to Pete, mildly confused.
“Thought you recruited people that could be subtle.”
Pete chuckled to himself.
“Well, I figured you needed a little muscle here.”
Flagg gave a grunt of acknowledgement, then progressed down the line, stopping to look at a pale-skinned, white-haired young man in a suit. Humming to himself, the young man paid Flagg little attention as he bit into the tip of his finger, then gently dragged it against the glass wall of the cell. The two watched, faces a mixture of disgust and fascination, as his impromptu art revealed itself to be a smiley face. Content with the work, the man smiled from ear to ear and waved excitedly at them, a gesture Flagg ignored as he checked the folder.
“…Cutthroat. Battle record of one loss…arrested on over three dozen counts of murder, two confirmed counts of murder of a law enforcement officer, three cases of attempted assault…”
As Flagg read out the charges, Pete nodded quietly, his expression not betraying his…other occupation’s run-in with him prior. After reading Five’s report, he personally intervened to ensure the bastard was locked up and the key was thrown out until he had decided that Cutthroat could be useful. But, hey, what Flagg didn’t know certainly wouldn’t hurt him. The list finally came to an end, and Cutthroat beamed and clapped excitedly.
“What fun memories! Are you going to let me out so I can make even more?”
Flagg stared at him, then, after a few seconds, replied, “Not now.”
Cutthroat made a pouty expression with his lips, then stomped off to a corner.
“You’re no fun!”
As the serial killer stood in the corner, Flagg looked to his superior with an immensely skeptical eyebrow.
“You sure we can trust this one?”
“Trust has got nothing to do with it. He makes a wrong move, you pop his head off, savvy?”
They continued down the line, Flagg stopping in surprise as he spotted the next recruit: a muscular man with shaggy hair and a pencil moustache. At the recognition, the man smirked, leaning against the glass and giving a half-hearted wave.
“Lawton? The hell you doing here? Thought you were taking contracts with the DFPD.”
Deadshot shrugged.
“Turns out contracts on the DFPD pay a bit more. Would’ve turned out fine if it hadn’t been for the Bat. Even here, I’m still dealing with him.”
Pete put his hands in his pockets, quipping, “Figured a friendly face might make the mission easier. Well, friendly-ish.”
Flagg shook his head in disappointment, but said nothing as they continued down the line. He knew what the sharpshooter was capable of. They next came to a stop in front of a disheveled, black-armored man, his unkempt hair clinging to his face as he hunched in a corner, back to the glass. At the sound of footsteps, the figure turned his head slightly, revealing the metallic black mask over his eyes. At the sight of him, Flagg groaned.
“This guy? Really?”
Pete shrugged reluctantly.
“No one in our custody knows the sewer like him. Besides, he’s got a bone to pick with Doom.”
Flagg sighed, then reluctantly opened the file.
“Kai Leng. Battle record of four losses, placed twenty-second in Tarot Royale, placed seventh in Se7en Royale…”
Kai Leng seemed to flinch as if struck at the mention of every loss.
“…arrested on six charges of attempted murder, three charges of stalking, twelve counts of loitering, six counts of theft, four counts of breaking and entering, two counts of squatting, one count of attempted kidnapping of a DFederal Bueracrat, one count of aiding and abetting a known terrorist organization, two counts of public intoxica-“
Kai Leng shot to his feet, lunging and slamming his into the glass, eyes burning with rage into the face of an unimpressed Flagg.
“Enough. I am aware of my crimes. Now, am I aiding in a mission against Doom or not?”
Flagg pointedly closed the file and replied, “Yeah, you’ll do.”
Satisfied, Kai Leng stepped back, pacing around his cell, while Pete and Flagg came to a stop at the last cell, where a goateed, dark-skinned man with faded locks sat patiently, eyes scanning his captors. He and Flagg locked eye contact, seemingly looking one another over, and the soldier warily averted his gaze after a few moments to check his file. “Last but not least, Erik Killmonger. No personal battle record at this time, one win as leader of Wakanda as…”
He squinted, mildly baffled.
“…Chairman Killmonger?”
Pete rolled his eyes.
“Bloody stupid in-joke among Users. I honestly can’t be bothered to learn what it means.”
Flagg shrugged, then kept reading.
“Arrested on four counts of arms trafficking, one count of collusion with a known terrorist organization, seven counts of murder, three charges of criminal conspiracy, two charges of witness intimidation, and one charge of attempted bribery of a DFederal official.”
Flagg whistled, then looked up to make eye contact with Killmonger once again.
“Care to tell us what officials you bribed?”
Killmonger said nothing, earning a quiet chuckle from Flagg, who closed the file and handed the clipboard off to Wisdom. He squatted down, sitting at Killmonger’s level, and asked, “So, criminal mastermind, you gonna cooperate on this one, or am I gonna have to keep a special eye on you?”
After a long silence, Killmonger quietly snapped, “Depends on what I’m getting out of it.”
“What you’re getting-“ interjected Pete as Flagg stood up and stepped closer to Alejandro.
“-is a little bit of your time in the slammer shaved off. I’d say that’s a pretty sweet deal, eh?”
He paced up and down the hallway, shifting attention between each of the prisoners as he spoke, each prisoner watching him intently.
“Of course, I ain’t working for the Health Ministry, so this isn’t a handout for you lot. Your side of the deal, as explained earlier, is simple: Kai Leng is going to escort agents Flagg and Gillick into New Latveria, where you will infiltrate DFederal Prison and extract a highly classified cache located within. The rest of you are effectively a security detail, designed to give them extra manpower without risking compromising anyone actually valuable.” Pete came to a stop, surveying the prisoners for any clear reaction. Killmonger, Kai Leng, and Deadshot seemed to listen intently, while Striga merely glared at him and Cutthroat appeared to be attempting a handstand. Three out of five was workable, he supposed.
“Now, I know what you’re all thinking: “Oh, these bloody idiots are gonna bring me right to the Wolves! I can kill ‘em and get in big with Doom!” Unfortunately for you, we accounted for that.”
At this, Flagg stepped forward, holding up a small tablet with five red buttons on it, each button having a small picture of a respective prisoner’s face. Unlike Pete, Flagg carried himself seriously, standing up straight and speaking with authority as he explained.
“Before each of you were brought to your cells, you were implanted with a bomb in your neck, about the size of a grain of rice. Make a break for it, try to take a swing at me or Gillick, or, hell, mouth off one time too many, and we press the bomb and pop your head like a zit.”
Striga bared her fangs, snarling in indignant rage.
“Are you so confident a puny bomb could pet me down?”
Flagg’s thumb wavered over the button, his expression stoic as he stared her down.
“Wanna try me?”
A long silence passed before Striga cursed in a language he didn’t recognize and spit against the glass. Satisfied, Flagg gestured for Pete to retake the floor.
“Now, this ain’t exactly an official mission. There'll be no medals or parades for any of you at the end of this. Get back alive, you go back to your cells, and maybe I’ll pull some strings to make things a tad more comfy. Die, and we never even knew you were here. The official story is that you all escaped during the Wolf-backed riot at the prison and just happened to be running loose through New Latveria. Now, any questions? Comments? Objections?”
Finally, Killmonger stood to his feet, stretching out of apparent boredom.
“Nah, this ain’t my first dirty work. Besides, even if I had anything to say, ya’ll would just blow my head off, so how about we hurry up and get this started so we can be done?”
Pete pointed to Killmonger approvingly.
“Straight to business! I like this one.”
Cutthroat raised his hand, blood still trickling down his fingers, and Pete reluctantly turned to him.
“Yes, you will get to kill people.”
Cutthroat’s hand went back down.
I can’t play this game/so I ask again
Music blaring in his headphones, Peacemaker laid on his bed, a glum expression on his face as he absentmindedly reached over to his nightstand and grabbed a chip from his helmet, flipped over to be used for storage, and tossing it into the waiting mouth of the eagle sitting by his bedside. He continued this several times before turning to look at Eagly, the bird staring blankly at him. With a sigh, he pulled the headphones free and sat up, the worn-down bed creaking underneath him.
“Man, I don’t know what to make of this shit, Eagly. Just when I’m starting to get on my feet, they take over a chunk of the city. How the hell am I gonna get a User’s attention when they’re all caught up in Cold War bullshit?”
For his part, Eagly squawked, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he waited for more chips. Peacemaker ignored his pet’s protest, continuing to rant to himself as several other inhabitants of the shelter gave each other uncomfortable looks and gave the man a wide berth.
“All I need is one golden fucking opportunity, but I’m so tired of waiting. Feel like I’ve been waiting for two years at this point, so what’s even the point?”
As if the universe itself heard him, a tap on Peacemaker’s shoulder made him whip around violently, hands thrown up defensively, only to relax to see his “neighbor”, a blonde-haired young man with a scar over his eye, standing behind him. Unimpressed, the young man nodded towards the envelope in his other hand.
“Mail for you, Peacemaker.”
Peacemaker blinked, confused, then gingerly took the envelope from him, looking it over as though it could explode at any moment. He alternated between looking at the envelope, then his neighbor, then the envelope, then back to his neighbor, then back to the envelope. For his part, the young man sat down on his bed and, with a hint of annoyance, asked, “So…you gonna open it?”
“Well, uh, yeah, I’m gonna open it, it’s just…why did I get mail?”
“Well, maybe you should open it and find out.”
Nodding as if that were deeply wise advice, Peacemaker carefully tore open the envelope to find a letter, handwritten but still eloquent. Palms sweating, his eyes scanned every word, holding it closer and closer as he read down the list.
Dear Peacemaker, We represent a powerful employer with a vested interest in hiring men of your skillset. With the recent instability in the city, we believe it is in the best interests of the city that bounty hunters and mercenaries continue to be well-paid and kept on-side. As such, we would like to offer you the following terms: five prisoners have broken free from DFederal Prison and are loose within New Latveria. Enclosed are their pictures, complete with identities. As the city’s hands, officially, are tied, we entrust their recapture (or their execution) to you. Of course, it is up to you to supply yourself with gear and a way into New Latveria. (We advise against bringing the eagle.) If your performance is found adequate, we may be able to find you a home and a chance for steady employment. Sincerely, A Friendly Benefactor
With a resounding cry of “LETS FUCKING GO!” that gave most of the shelter’s residents pause, Peacemaker leapt to his feet, scattering the contents of the envelope across the floor, hands raised to the air excitedly. Still laughing, he threw his “neighbor” into a hug, the young man awkwardly keeping his hands at his hips as Peacemaker jumped up and down. Caught in the excitement, Eagly furiously flapped his wings, shrieking in approval. After a few moments of jubilant celebration, Peacemaker calmed down slightly, crouching down to gather the photos as he talked.
“Man, I cannot wait to be out of this place, dude. Whole world is looking up for me, uh…”
As he struggled to remember his name, Peacemaker snapped his fingers, confused.
“Uh…no…I got it. Leland, right?”
Luke Castellan sighed and replied, “Dude, we’ve literally had beds next to each other for a year and a half.”
Peacemaker stared blankly, still fumbling for a name.
“…It’s Luke.”
“Yes, Luke! That’s it. I’m never gonna forget you, buddy, but I just gotta ask one last favor.”
He hooked a thumb behind him, where Eagly was still excitedly flapping and squawking.
“Can you watch him while I’m on this mission? It’s gonna be like two…maybe three…maybe four days, actually. Anyway, no more than a week, tops.”
Luke looked to Eagly, who had taken to ripping up Peacemaker’s pillow with his beak, and hesitated.
“Well, I mean, I guess if it’s just gonna stay here I can keep an eye on it.”
Peacemaker beamed and gave the teen a clap on the shoulder as he gathered his things, pulling out a duffel bag full of firearms from under his bed.
“Fuck yeah, dude, I owe you a huge one. Look, he’s basically housetrained, just open a window when he needs to shit and give him some of these chips when you want him to behave.”
He lifted his helmet off the nightstand and dumped out the chips before turning to attempt to give Eagly, only for the bird to aggressively flap its wings and batter him away amidst a series of panicked cries of, "Alrightalrightalrightalright, hey, watch the claws! Just trying to say I love you, man. Christ.”
As Peacemaker pushed past him, Luke squinted, realizing he recognized the chips.
“Wait, are these my chips?”
“Haha, probably. Anyways, I’m out. Thanks a bunch, Leland!”
As Peacemaker, bag of guns in one hand and helmet in the other, ran out the door, Luke looked back to Eagly, who was happily eating chips on the floor, and wondered if it was too late to immigrate to New Latveria.
“Alright, people, heads on swivels.”
Following closely behind Kai Leng as the assassin weaved through the complex catacombs of DFederal’s sewer system, Flagg barked orders to the rest of the Task Force as they advanced through the sewers, some taking things more seriously while others continued to walk casually. As they walked, Flagg glanced back to the others, making eye contact with Gillick, who gave him an assured nod that he quickly returned.
“Should be another couple minutes of walking,” chirped Pete in his earpiece. “Now remember, communications are cut off once you’re in New Latveria, so do try and avoid getting in any trouble, yeah?”
Flagg replied, “Affirmative,” then went back to the mission at hand, alternating between scanning the path ahead and checking the people behind them to ensure no one was getting wise. On his third check, he noted that Killmonger had come to a stop and cursed under his breath as he walked back, signaling for Gillick to take the lead. Upon completion of the switch, he walked behind Killmonger, who was crouched low, paying him no mind as he inspected what appeared to be the curled-up corpse of a young man in blue and gray armor. Annoyed, Flagg gave him a tap on the shoulder, getting his attention.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing?”
Killmonger gently closed the young man’s eyes, then replied, “Was checking on one of the people this city of yours abandoned. Not allowed?”
Flagg scoffed.
“No, generally speaking, abandoning the mission to poke at a corpse isn’t allowed. Figured you’d know that, soldier.” The emphasis on the last word earned a scowl from Killmonger, who stood to his feet and snapped, “I was a soldier, but I ain’t anymore. I’ve killed enough of my brothers and sisters across the world as is. I bet you know what that’s like, soldier.”
Flagg glared at Killmonger, then gestured with his gun for him to get back in line with the others. Chuckling to himself, he complied, feeling Flagg’s eyes burrowing into the back of his head as they walked.
“You and I aren’t alike, Killmonger, so I’d try and save the Hannibal Lector bullshit for someone who cares.”
Further up ahead, Deadshoot wryly quipped, “I’d listen to him, Killmonger, Flagg doesn’t tend to budge on very much.”
“Shut up, Lawton.”
“Hey, I’m on your side.”
Still smirking, Killmonger shrugged.
“I mean, way I see it, we’ve both killed plenty of people on behalf of a country that don’t give a damn about us. Difference is, I admit it, while you still think you’re helping people.”
“I am helping people. My country, and this city, are safe because men a hell of a lot better than you laid down their lives for it, and we’d all do it again if-"
Killmonger yawned, exaggerating just enough to make the yawn’s intention clear, and Flagg briefly considered triggering his bomb and telling Pete his finger twitched by accident, but his better judgement won out.
“Nah, you can save all that “some gave all” stuff, I’ve heard it and I’ve seen it. If it helps you sleep at night after a hard day of doing the empire’s bidding, that’s all for you, just keep me out of it.”
Flagg briefly scanned the ceiling for any sign of a threat, then replied, “Hey, I did “the empire’s bidding” to keep its people safe. What’d you get out of it? Because I’ve read your file, and it looks like all it got you was a spear to the chest.”
Killmonger pivoted to face him, his cocky grin replaced with a barely hidden glare of disdain, and seemed to contemplate a response, only to grumble under his breath and turn back, advancing further into the sewers with the rest of the squad. Satisfied, Flagg resumed his duties, only to stop as Gillick held up a fist, signaling for him to do so. Cutthroat, humming to himself, paid no mind, walking until he bumped into Gillick, who glared at him until he took a step back, smiling sheepishly.
Weaving through the group, Flagg crouched low, with Gillick joining him, and whispered, “What do ya got?”
“Hostiles, not sure how many, but I can hear footsteps up ahead.”
Flagg squinted, craning his neck to try and see around the corner as he heard the low echo of conversation. After a few seconds of fruitless effort, he stopped.
“Well, shit. We gotta get everybody in an ambush position, I’ll send Lawton to flank, Striga and Cutthroat around the chokepoint up ahead, Killmonger will stay with me, and Kai’ll-wait, where the fuck’s Kai Leng?”
Gillick shrugged, then pointed ahead, earning a frustrated exhale of breath from Flagg as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I swear to god if he gets himself killed, I’ll get his revival fast-tracked just so I can shove a boot up his ass myself.”
The Wolf militiaman spit tobacco, letting the dark lump hit the water of the sewer as he and his men continued their patrol. Letting his AK rest on his shoulder, he looked back to the others, who each gave him a thumbs up as they continued on their path. They had received word to patrol the sewers especially vigorously, as their superiors had intel that someone was planning to infiltrate New Latveria. Where, exactly, they weren’t sure, but safe was ruled to be better than sorry. Why they would be stupid enough to do so in clear violation of the terms set by Doom and the Users was beyond them, but they weren’t really in the appetite for questioning orders.
Regardless, it was an easy enough gig, with little in the way of activity beyond the occasional run-in with DFederal’s homeless or any particularly large sewer pests. He preferred it to wall duty, for one, as he wasn’t much for heights, and patrolling for saboteurs within New Latveria was a lot riskier of a job.
A shadow turning the corner gave him pause, and he signaled for the others to stop. The quiet clicking of guns being cocked and trained echoed out throughout the sewer, and a lone bead of sweat traveled down his forehead as the shadow grew larger and larger. As a figure in black armor rolled around the corner, he nearly screamed the order to cut the man down, only for the figure to hold up his hands, giving them a brief pause.
“Do not fire! I have come to warn you of an attack by agents of the city! I was the one that sent the initial tip, I’ll help you kill them! All I ask is an audience with Lord Doom so that I may-"
In an instant, his head burst open with a high-pitched pop, and his corpse hit the ground, leaving the stunned militia standing motionless. This proved a fatal error, as a bullet pinged off the corner and struck one of the militia clean in the chest. As another passed through the man next to him’s head, the leader gave a cry for cover, then ducked behind a wall. As the bullets seemed to die down, he breathed a sigh of relief just as a large, gray hand smashed through the wall, grabbing him by the head, and he let out a panicked scream as his skull was crushed.
The surviving militia fell back further, yelling to one another to call for backup as the attacker, a hulking woman in black armor, charged forward. Bullets bounced uselessly off her, not even slowing her advance as she cleaved one man in half, then caught his torso and hurled it into the chest of another. One of the men ducked behind a pipe, praying silently as he heard the screams of his comrades grow more panicked, and he fumbled for his radio, his finger hitting the button, only to let out a choked cry of pain as a white flash severed his hand. In shock, he watched it clatter uselessly to the ground, the radio still in its grip, then turned as a pale-skinned man, beaming from ear to ear, peered out from the shadows, admiring his handiwork.
He stared silently at the hand on the ground, the blood pooling from it, then looked up to the militiaman, eyes peering into him, and asked, “Doesn’t the red look so pretty against the boring old sewer colors?”
Not waiting for an answer, he plunged a knife into the man’s throat, cackling to himself as he did it again and again. The red was everywhere now, and it was beautiful.
The last of the militia had broken into a full-on run, paying no mind to one another as the berserker woman claimed one after another, strange bullets seeming to bounce off her armor and into those fortunate enough to avoid her grasp. For his part, Gillick advanced from cover to cover, content to shoot as many in the back as he could, and gave an appreciative nod to Deadshot, perched on a walkway, as he took his shot. As the last seemed to fall, he took a moment to reload, only to curse as one of the militia, playing dead, shot to his feet and dashed down a sidepath. He looked to Deadshot, who yelled, “I don’t have a shot! Too many damn corners!”
Before he could pursue, Flagg dashed past him, yelling something about how he had it. As his superior vanished into the darkness, Gillick considered following, only to settle for keeping an eye on the more bloodthirsty prisoners instead.
Gritting his teeth, Flagg weaved around each corner, hot in pursuit of the surviving Wolf. If he got away, called his buddies, the whole operation was over before it started. He heard the distinct slam of a door, likely that of a maintenance closet, and turned to see just that around the corner. He took a moment, collecting himself, then slowly approached the door, turning the doorknob and peeking inward. Seeing no one, he stepped inside, then let out a grunt of pain as he felt the butt of a gun hit the back of his head. Staggered, he stumbled inside as the Wolf lunged forward and shoved him into a shelf, then quickly pulled the shelf down on top of him.
Pinned, Flagg struggled, trying to free himself, only to freeze as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Under the mask, the Wolf grinned. Not only did he avenge his friends, he’d get to be the one who busted the city’s efforts to bring down New Latveria. He’d be a hero, surely getting the ear of Doom himse-
He gasped as a blade pierced his chest, then fell dead, revealing an out-of-breath Killmonger standing behind him. Admiring his handiwork, he grinned at the helpless Flagg.
“Shit, ya’ll are fast. Was worried he’d take you out and get us all in trouble.” He gazed down at the Wolf’s gun, left on the ground by the corpse of its wielder, then looked to Flagg, who glared at him as he struggled to free himself. The silence felt deafening, then was broken by Killmonger bending down and lifting the shelf up, giving Flagg enough room to free himself. Still on his knees, the soldier looked warily at his unlikely savior, then finally mumbled a sheepish, “Thanks.”
For his part, Killmonger just smiled.
“Now you owe me one.”
Groaning as he stood to his feet, blood running down the back of his head, Flagg turned on his communicator.
“Gillick, it’s Flagg. Everything good there?”
“Mostly. Hostiles eliminated and no sign of alarm, but…”
He heard something thump against the ground.
“It appears our way in is dead. Head is completely gone, so I suspect his bomb was set off.”
Before Flagg could inquire further, Pete’s voice chimed in.
“Well, he served his purpose. Dumb bastard got his hands on a communicator, went and radio’d ahead.”
“How the hell did he get that past us?”
Pete laughed, apparently amused by the question.
“He didn’t get fuck all past me. I let him send the message, intercepted it, then trimmed the details out so it would get the Wolves paranoid and spread themselves out thin, looking for spies. I figured he’d go turncoat, so good to see my people reader still works. Now, dump those bodies down a pipe and move your asses. You’re almost at the entrance, and I don’t want you lot getting caught standing around.”
Pete cut off, leaving Flagg standing next to a particularly vindicated-looking Killmonger. Noting his smile, Flagg snapped at him.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Nothing. Seems like your boss is colder than you expected.”
“Not another goddamn word, understood?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Part 3: Paint the Town Red[]
“And as we go about this new day in glorious New Latveria, it is important that all citizens remember that in these early days, our society is young and fragile, and like the glorious children of a new generation, it must be protected so that it will grow powerful!”
As the booming voice of their leader rang out from speakers all across the city, armed Wolves paid it no mind, simply nodding along at the wisdom and guidance as they continued their patrols. One group came to a stop by a garden, watching for a moment as a redheaded woman in silver and red armor dutifully explained proper planting process to an attentive group. As the guards seemed to waver, Sybil briefly glanced in their direction, only to relax slightly as she recognized Vulcan among the group, given away by the budding horns poking out from his mask.
“As I was saying, garden maintenance is all about balance. Too much care and you risk smothering the seeds, too little and they’ll die. Any questions?”
A white-haired young man with a blindfold over his eyes raised his hand, and as Sybil pointed to him, the guards continued on their way. Content, they headed towards the border security station, not noticing a muscular, sloppily-dressed Wolf as he briskly walked past them.
Cursing up a storm underneath his breath, Peacemaker quickly dove into an alley as soon as the coast was clear, ripping off the Wolf mask and tossing it into the garbage before taking a second to collect his breath. Things had gone mostly okay so far. Obviously, attempting to walk through the gate with a bag full of guns was a no-go, so he’d had to bust out an old Wolf mask he’d borrowed from a recruitment meeting. He’d had no actual interest in working with a pack of terrorists, of course, but he’d figured it’d be nice to have part of a disguise just in case he needed it for a stealth mission. His helmet, shiny as ever, sliding back on felt like he was whole again.
Thinking of how the guards had waved him through without even checking to see if his cover story was true, he smirked to himself. He was smart as hell sometimes.
He poked his head out of the alley, looking both ways, before heading towards the looming, wrecked prison on the horizon. Step one was a crushing success, now he just needed to pull the rest off.
Deeper within another, separate alley within New Latveria, a manhole cover stirred, shaking slightly, before stopping, a quiet mumbling and rumbling emanating from it. After a few moments, the cover was punched off, flying into a wall and embedding itself. With a snarl, Striga climbed from the manhole first, glancing around warily before turning back and helping the team out one by one. Flagg, an annoyed scowl on his face, climbed out last.
“You know, I was kind of hoping we could keep things quiet?”
Striga shrugged, paying the man no mind.
“You want quiet? Perhaps you should get strong enough to move a cover without assistance then, cattle.”
Flagg grumbled under his breath, then signaled for everyone to gather around, spreading a map across the ground and using a knife to demonstrate movement.
“Alright, so we’re about here.”
He gestured to a collection of buildings in one area of the map.
“Prison is about a mile this way. We stick to back-alleys, we stay quiet-“
He glared at the various team members, his gaze staying on Striga and Cutthroat for just a bit longer. “-we should be there soon. Lawton, I want you to head up to the rooftops, get a vantage point, and give us a little cover fire if things get a little too hairy. Do not fire unless I give you the order, clear?” Looking up from a routine inspection of his wristguns, Deadshot clicked them back into place, then nodded, a wry smile underneath his mask.
“You don’t seem too concerned about whether I’ll just run.”
“Because you’re the one person here who’s smart enough to know we’re your best shot. Now, get moving, I don’t wanna sit around this damn alley all day.”
The group quickly stood to its feet, with Deadshot using a nearby trashcan to boost himself onto a nearby ladder, climbing to the rooftop so he could scan the street. Dissatisfied, he leapt to the next one, keeping an eye on the street as he did so.
For several minutes, they worked in silence, ducking from alley to alley, as Deadshot, watching from above, gave them directions. Eventually, Flagg signaled for them to stop, cursing under his breath at the options presented to him. The alley had led out into the street, where a waiting Wolf patrol idly exchanged small talk, paying no mind to the citizens walking past them. He gestured for Gillick to step closer, and the assassin gently pushed past the others, coming to a stop as he similarly surveyed the street.
“Way I see it,” Flagg mumbled. “We got three options: Either we try and get past them, try and blast our way out, or we try and find a long way. Thoughts?”
Alejandro mulled the options over for a moment, then, with a subtle nod of his head, gestured towards Cutthroat, who had taken to twirling a knife between his fingers to alleviate his boredom. Flagg tilted his head quizzically, to which Alejandro answered with a hand gesture of scissors cutting a rope. As it dawned on him, the soldier stared, a mixture of disgust and confusion on his face.
“You shitting me?” he whispered angrily. “We cut him loose, that’s a lot of blood on our hands.”
Alejandro shrugged, then replied, “Pete’s idea. Not mine.”
Flagg stared apprehensively at the rest of the group, then put a finger to his communicator, trying to get in touch with Wisdom. The painful burst of static in his ear served as his answer. He’d hoped that the Wolves comms blackout had been figured out by now, but that, unfortunately, was not the case. He gripped his gun, the realization that it was his order to make weighing on him, and then, with a heavy sigh, nodded.
“Cutthroat, up front.”
Excitedly, Cutthroat beamed, shoving past everyone and standing too close for Flagg’s comfort.
“Is it time? May I finally paint this beautiful city red?”
Scowling, Flagg gave him a thumbs-up, then grabbed him by the collar as he began to walk past, glaring into his near-vacant eyes.
“Listen, this ain’t just killing because you can. You got a job, and it’s to lure them as far away from us as possible, got it?”
Cutthroat gave a mocking salute, enough of an acknowledgment for Flagg to slowly loosen his grip. The instant he was free, he stepped out of the alley, drawing two knives from his coat as he whistled happily. The Wolves tensed as he approached, then the lead of the patrol raised his gun and barked, “Hey! Drop the kni-“
The dagger pierced his throat, his body falling limp to the ground as Cutthroat lunged forward, slashing through his comrades with reckless abandon. In an instant, the street was overtaken with gunfire and screaming. Coated in blood, Cutthroat laughed heartily, running down the street in pursuit of new playmates. With the coast clear, Flagg gave a heavy sigh, then gestured for everyone to keep moving. He kept his head on a swivel but could still feel the mocking glance of Killmonger on his back.
“Still sure ya’ll are the good guys on this one?”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, so somebody else made that call, then?”
“I will pop your goddamn head off like a zit.”
Peacemaker crept down the street, unnerved by the lack of people. If he was being honest, he felt kind of dumb having put so much effort into an infiltration mission only to encounter basically no people, but the occasional scream and gunfire in the distance made him think there were maybe some extraneous circumstances at play. As if it were an answer from the universe, he turned a corner and instantly felt his boot squelch against something warm and wet. He winced, eyes squeezed shut, then mumbled, “Oh, please don’t be gross, don’t be gross, don’t be-“
He looked down to see the hacked-apart body of what appeared to be a a small, robotic child, the runoff of oil from his corpse forming a puddle.
“Oh.”
Baffled, he looked up to see at least a dozen other bodies, each butchered and sliced apart in a similarly savage fashion. It looked like a wild animal had gone berserk in the middle of the street, but surely the Wolves could’ve handled it. The city didn’t get its ass kicked by these guys just so they could struggle with pest control. He cursed at the sound of footsteps, then slammed into cover before drawing his Desert Eagle and cocking it. He closed his eyes, taking slow, rhythmic breaths to calm himself, only to open them again as he heard a woman, pained, plead, “Please, why…why are you doing this? We weren’t hurting anyone.”
A voice, enthusiastic and almost innocent, replied, “I’m not hurting anyone either! You all just look so much prettier when there’s so much red!”
With an exasperated “Fuck!”, Peacemaker popped out from behind cover and fired, the round completely destroying the hand of the apparent assailant, a pale-skinned, white-haired man. Holding her bleeding eye, Sybil struggled to see her savior, but gave them a grateful nod as she scrambled to her feet and ran for cover. She’d help, but for now, she needed to focus on healing. This stranger would just have to handle it himself.
Cutthroat’s knife clattered to the ground, but he paid it no mind as he looked at the ruined, gushing wreckage of his hand. Blood poured down his sleeve, a finger hung by a thread, and his thumb twitched as he attempted to move it. It was…beautiful. The cock of a gun grabbed his attention, and he glanced at the muscular, oddly-dressed man staring at him.
Scowling, Peacemaker snarled, “Next one’s going in your peehole, fuckface. Now, get down on the ground!” Cutthroat beamed, practically hopping up and down giddily, then lunged at him, dodging the initial shot before slicing at his hand, forcing the gun to clatter to the ground. Peacemaker fell back, avoiding the slashes from the man’s other knife, and mentally kicked himself for stepping in.
So much for a stealth mission.
Watching through a scope as the remaining Task Force members headed down the street, Deadshot shifted slightly, taking a moment to stretch his neck. He hadn’t had to actually take the shot on anyone yet, but it was best to stay limber and alert. Plenty of recon missions had turned into firefights in the blink of an eye. Flagg turned a corner, vanishing out of sight with the rest of the team, and as he began to sling his rifle over his shoulder, a blur of activity, almost unnoticeable to anyone without eyes trained by years of experience, made him stop for a moment.
He crouched low, scanning the rooftops, hoping to spot something, anything as he ignored the sounds of gunshots and profanity underneath him. Just as he began to dismiss it as paranoia, a moment’s glint of sunlight off the scope gave him just the hint he needed. He swiveled, locking in on his apparent target: a scantily-clad woman wielding a sniper rifle, her focus apparently on the streets rather than the rooftops. Briefings from his time as a bounty hunter made her immediately familiar.
Quiet, one of Doom’s fiercest guards.
If she was here, then the disturbance had caught the eye of the higher-ups, which was less than ideal.
Part of him felt a sense of excitement, getting to outdraw someone so formidable, but the rest of him shrugged it off.
As he lined up his shot, he held his breath, finger squeezing the trigger…
…then exhaled loudly as Quiet pivoted on her heel and fired right at him, the round grazing his helmet as he hurled himself to the side. He glanced behind him at the massive hole blown through the wall behind him, then stayed low, crawling as fast as he could for the stairway. As another round punched a hole clean through the rooftop, he hit his communicator.
“Flagg, I got a visual on Doomguard. At the very least, Quiet is here, no idea on the rest.”
There was a pause before he got a reply.
“Well, shit. You need us to get you?”
Even in this situation, that got a chuckle from him.
“You know better than that. I’ll meet you at the prison after I deal with her.”
“…alright. But we get there and your vitals are still going, we-“
“Yeah, yeah, blow the bomb. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Get moving.”
He ended communications, then quickly vaulted over the side of the rooftop onto the stairwell. If he was gonna pull this off, he’d need to stay moving.
As gunshots rang out above the street, Cutthroat paid no mind as he swiped at his new playmate, a slashing blow that Peacemaker managed to sidestep before driving his knee into his gut. The psychopath stumbled back, seemingly unaffected, then grinned at him with an unnerving, empty smile that briefly sent a chill down his foe’s spine.
Peacemaker took a fighting stance, circling him as he waited for the next attack. He really didn’t have time for this, given that he had to track down those inmates, and he could practically hear the patrols on their way now. As Cutthroat charged again, a reckless stab that he was able to punish by grabbing his wrist and bringing his elbow down onto it with a satisfying snap, realization finally dawned on why the guy trying so hard to murder him was ringing a bell. He was an inmate.
He supposed this meant he wasn’t technically wasting time, but as Cutthroat took advantage of his distraction by biting his shoulder, Peacemaker yelped in pain and drove his elbow into his nose, breaking it. Cuthroat staggered away, laughing to himself, then said, “You’re fun! I can’t wait to see the red inside you.”
The mixture of compliment and threat gave Peacemaker pause before he snapped, “You’re not getting any colors out of me, ya fucking freak.”
Before he could think up any snappier comebacks, he was forced back by Cutthroat, having drawn yet another knife from…somewhere, leaping away just in time. Rather than hitting air, the knife embedded itself into a car with a clunk. Cutthroat frowned, briefly stymied as he attempted to pull it free. The cock of a gun stopped him dead in his tracks, and he turned just as Peacemaker, having dived for his gun, pulled the trigger. The round slammed into his chest, knocking him off his feet.
Bemused, he stared down at the gaping wound in his chest, seemingly fascinated rather than in any actual pain, and listened intently as it seemed to emit a high-pitched whine. Before he could express his interest, the explosive round in his chest detonated, showering the street with his remains. As blood sprayed over his face, Peacemaker sputtered and gagged.
“Why the fuck…do I always leave my…goddamn mouth open?”
He frantically wiped the gore from his face and shoulders, then yelled in surprise as he stumbled over something round. He looked down, then jumped back in surprise as he realized that he had stumbled over Cutthroat’s head, still smiling even as it was all that remained of the body. Making eye contact, he stared blankly, then seemed overtaken by a burst of inspiration. He dug awkwardly through his pocket for his phone, then crouched down and held up the head. He took a moment to settle on a pose, then stuck his tongue out as he took a quick selfie.
With his evidence of a kill now captured, he tossed the head aside with a grumbled, “Fuckin’ Joker knockoff…” then headed in the direction of the prison. One down, five to go.
A bullet soared through the air, slamming into the image of Deadshot, only for him to shatter into pieces instead of crumbling dead. As he realized that using his reflection in a window as bait worked, Deadshot grinned, then fired. Just as the round should have hit her, Quiet vanished in an instant, and he scowled slightly. He adjusted, trying to track her. As much as he hated to admit it, she was good. He had to wrap this up quickly, or she was going to be the one walking away. His scan became more sweeping, searching for anything that could give him a heads-up.
For an incredibly brief moment, he saw it, a small glint of the sun hitting scope, then it was gone. He quickly swung towards it, aimed, and fired, a brief smile of satisfaction crossing his lips as he saw Quiet jerk, the round passing clean through the scope and into her head, only for it to vanish as he felt a heavy impact in his chest. Flung back, he gasps, touching a hand gingerly to the gaping hole in his chest. He tried to stand, but the air just wouldn’t come back to his lungs, leaving him to stare at the sky as he took ragged, pained breaths.
Hand shaking, he managed to reach his communicator and gasped, “Flagg…managed to…take care of sniper.”
“Nicely done, Lawton. You en route now?”
He laughed in response.
“No. Unfortunately, she was damn good. Managed to tag me, don’t think I’m gonna be up and about anytime soon.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Put in a good word for me with Pete, will you? I didn’t do all this for free.”
Before Flagg could reply, Deadshot’s hand fell away, and he breathed one last, pained breath before lying still.
After another couple minutes of walking, the surviving Task Force, now reduced to nearly half its number, finally found themselves at the fence surrounding DFederal Prison. The building, once a looming reminder to the people of the Lower District, now sat decrepit, chunks blasted out of its infrastructure, while its once-effective fence had several holes punched through it. Flagg signaled for everyone to move, with Alejandro keeping an eye on the street as the others gingerly crouched and ducked through one of the holes. Striga, for her part, simply rolled her eyes and jumped the fence.
Once everyone was clear, Alejandro joined them, surprised to see that they had come to a stop almost immediately. He got his answer before he could even ask why, stopping at the sight of dozens of corpses, some in Wolf apparel, others not. They had been hacked, slashed, and some were even clearly bitten to pieces, and while some were in a state of decay, others were still relatively fresh. He turned to look at Flagg, who quietly debated his next move.
“Guard force?”
“Nah. They’d just be shot. This…this is something else.”
Killmonger cleared his throat.
“If it’s something else, how about we not hang out here and wait for it to take us out?”
Striga stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as her gaze turned upward, where a figure stood silhouetted on the roof of the prison. With a snarl, the figure leapt down, landing feet first, then stood and surveyed them, drool running from his chin as blood dripped from the axe in his hand. From the towering appearance to the wolf-like fangs, Flagg hated to admit he knew exactly who this was: Father Gascoigne, former member of the Hunter’s Guild, locked up after he had begun targeting civilians and fellow hunters.
Gasciogne looked each member of the team over, eyes hungry as he surveyed the biggest threat, then spoke with a low, tired growl.
“More beasts for the slaughter, eh? Well, then…”
With a flick of his wrist, his axe extended.
“…my hunt is far from done.”
As he prepared to attack, Striga drew her blade, turned to Flagg, and then said, “Go. This one is mine.”
Flagg initially started to protest, then took one look at the feral beastman standing before him, then gave her a nod and replied, “Once you take him out, meet us inside. Third floor.”
She laughed.
“You sound confident that I listen to you, cattle. Now, go.”
Flagg, Killmonger, and Alejandro quickly turned and ran for the entrance, and as Gasciogne lunged for him, Striga roared in fury, slamming into him and dragging him away before tossing him aside. He swung with his axe, a blow easily caught by her blade, and as they stood locked together, she hissed, “Come then, you fucking mutt, give me a fight worth having!”
The sounds of battle faded as the trio entered the prison. It had taken a lot more effort than intended, but they’d finally reached the objective.
Part 4: My Heart and My Best Intentions Tell Me That is True[]
As the surviving members of the Task Force fled into the prison, a pair of footsteps echoed across the streets surrounding it. Most avoided this area, deemed “a hazard zone” by the Wolves in the immediate aftermath of the bloody uprising, and even the Wolves themselves debated what to do with it when so many patrols went missing in efforts to clear it out before it’s demolition. Unfortunately, those orders were temporarily suspended, leaving the area in the hands of a duo of Wolves with the misfortune of being in the area.
The two Omegas scanned the area with their guns, finally coming to a stop by the wreckage of a car. Leaning against it, one, a taller man with long hair, sighed.
“Well, that’s the city part patrolled. Only took two goddamn hours.”
The other Omega, a shorter, stockier man, chuckled, lifting his mask as he smoked a cigarette.
“Oh, like you got something better going on? Hot date? Some gardening, maybe?”
The taller Omega flipped him off.
“For a matter of fact, I like working in the community garden. It’s quiet, nobody bothers you, and you never have to stop what you’re doing to look for a roving death squad of prison inmates. Enormous gardening W.”
The stocky Omega stamped out his cigarette, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
“Whatever. Let’s just do a sweep of the prison and then we can clock out.”
He took a few steps towards the prison entrance, stopping as he saw the corpses littering the yard, and the taller Omega hesitated to move from the car, listening carefully to sounds of steel clashing and beasts roaring in the distance. He fidgeted anxiously, fingers drumming on the side of his gun. He looked to his friend, who seemed similarly frozen, and a nervous chuckle escaped his lips.
“What’s the matter? Got something, uh, something better going on?”
The stocky Omega chuckled hesitantly.
“Nah, I just…remembered that they’re gonna blow the place to hell anyway. Anybody hiding in there is a dead man. Let’s get outta here.”
The taller Omega considered debating the point, teasing his friend for the sudden change of heart, but the intensifying sounds made him decide to take the rare point of agreement. The two quickly hurried down the street, making a quick agreement that, if asked, they didn’t hear or see a thing.
As their voices got dimmer and dimmer, the car, more specifically the man hiding under it, breathed a sigh of relief. Making sure the coast was clear, Peacemaker rolled out from underneath it, then reached back under and dragged out his duffel bag, He’d nearly had the prisoners in his sights, but the sounds of patrol had forced him to hide out for a minute, which was frankly just his luck when it came to this kind of mission. Listening to the sounds of combat, he quickly opened the bag, humming a rock song to himself as he assembled his P90. His pistol had been plenty reliable, but those kind of noises sounded like they were gonna require more than a pistol.
As the last piece clicked into place, he looked the rifle over, giving a satisfied nod before he cautiously crept past the entrance. His rifle pointed forward, he nervously glanced in every direction, giving his best effort to keep an ear out for the fast-approaching sounds of violence. A wet squelch under his boot made him stop, eyes closed in a wince. Slowly, he glanced down, peeking an eye open to see his boot deep in a long rotted over pile of entrails leading from a dead Wolf’s stomach. Nose crinkled, he lifted his foot and kept walking, only to stop as he heard a blood-curding howl of rage and pain.
He hit the deck just as Gasciogne and Striga came flying around the corner of the courtyard, the hunter clawing at Striga’s half-cracked visor while her gauntleted hand tightly gripped his throat. With a roar, she slammed him into the ground, cracks forming beneath him from the impact. She raised her blade, poised for a finishing strike, only to get knocked back as he drove his feet into her chest. As she staggered back, he follows with a strike from his axe, only for her to sidestep and bring her arm down on his, snapping it with a sickening crunch and forcing the axe from his grip.
As the two stayed locked in struggle, Peacemaker, staying as low to the ground as he physically could, crept slowly by, doing his best to pretend to be a corpse. He had a job to do, and frankly, a fight between a werewolf and a vampire was simply not his business.
Gasciogne roared, then leapt feet forward towards Striga, who grabbed him by the ankles and slammed him down. As he tried to stand, she leapt up and drove her blade down, only for Gasciogne to catch it mere inches from his chest, blood tricking down the blade as it sliced into his hands. They stayed lock that way, struggling intensely, until Striga pushed down harder, the tip beginning to pierce her foe’s chest. Gasciogne ignored the pain, still attempting to push it free, and with a weary yell, Striga brought her elbow down on the guard of the sword, forcing it deeper, before finally leaping up and driving the blade down a final time.
As it sunk clean through his chest, embedding itself into the ground, Gasciogne continued to try and free himself, his efforts getting slower and slower until he finally, with a pained wheeze, laid still. The adrenaline wearing off, Striga finally felt a sharp pain in her side and slumped onto the blade’s guard, taking a moment to catch her breath. She gently kicked the corpse just to ensure he was dead, then wearily looked first to the prison, then to the gate.
A small smile spread across her lips.
All she had to do was walk out, then she could find the Wolves and someone able to get this damn bomb out of her head. Then, she would have her vengeance. She’d gladly serve this “Doom” if it let her strike back at the cattle that thought they could-
Her thoughts were interrupted by an intense pressure in her skull, and as she realized what was happening, she barely had time to yell a final curse before her head exploded, leaving her body to slump to the ground, joining the countless others that littered the prison yard.
Watching from the window, Alejandro nodded, satisfied, and lifted his sleeve back over his wrist monitor before going back to join with the others.
As Alejandro rejoined them, Flagg, mildly confused by his brief disappearance, gave him a reassured nod before turning back to a blueprint of the prison, sprawled across a cafeteria table, and continued tracing a path. He looked between Killmonger and Alejandro, gauging their reactions as he talked.
“Way I see it, we got a decent path here. Pete’s office is hidden in the prison library, so Killmonger and I will head up that way. Gillick, you’re gonna scout us out an escape route down through the lower levels. Should be a way to get us into the sewers through there.”
Killmonger seemed surprised by the plan.
“You really wanna go up there, just you and me? Feeling a little confident.”
Flagg, still plotting a path, didn’t bother to look up, mumbling a reply of, “If you wanted to pull off a double-cross, you’d have done it by now. Besides, I can’t exactly have you go looking for an escape alone, can I?”
As Flagg talked, Killmonger glanced to Alejandro, who locked eyes with him and rolled up his sleeves, showing his wrist monitor with the vitals screen pre-loaded. Alejandro, expression unchanging, let his sleeve fall back down, and Killmonger sighed, giving a content nod.
“Nah, double cross ain’t worth it at this point. Been around your gang of psychos so much that the Wolves’ll probably just kill me too.”
Flagg smirked, then rolled up the blueprints and shoved them into his pack.
“Finally, you’re learning. Now, let’s move. Alejandro, keep me posted.”
Alejandro simply grunted in response, then drew his pistol and headed in the direction of the prison basement. Killmonger initially tried to fall behind Flagg, only for the soldier to gesture him to walk ahead. With a chuckle, Killmonger did as told, following instructions as they ascended the stairs. They mostly stayed silent, save for the occasional reaction to the carnage strewn about the prison. Overturned tables, blasted open cells, and shell casings littering the ground, each painting a picture of the violent last stand of the Peacekeeper/Stormtrooper forces left on their own.
Killmonger, in spite of himself, came to a stop at his cell, almost out of a mixture of reflex and still burning resentment. His fist clenched as he stared at the small spot on the wall in his cell, gently worn from hours upon hours of throwing that damn…
A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, and he reluctantly turned to look at Flagg. He seemed surprised to see a look of genuine concern rather than annoyance or impatience, and the soldier nodded towards the cell, curious. “Going down memory lane?”
Killmonger chuckled coldly.
“Something like that. Just thinking about old wounds.”
“Well, you can think about ‘em back in DFederal. Keep moving.”
Killmonger, reluctantly, did so, only to stop as he heard Flagg say, “Hey, Killmonger.”
He turned, confused, only to quickly react and grab a small, red object tossed in his direction. As soon as it hit the palm of his hand, he knew what it was: a rubber ball. He looked to the ball, then to Flagg, who had his usual stoic expression.
“Saw it laying on the floor, figured it was yours. Now, go.”
Killmonger stared at the ball for another few seconds, then tucked it into his pocket before turning on his heel and continuing on his trek.
In one of the many abandoned rooms of the prison, a rat cautiously crept out from underneath rubble, it’s nose twitching in search of food. For some time, it had subsided happily on the abandoned food of the cafeteria, and when it was in a pinch, the various bodies left lying about were plenty nourishing. But things had grown sparse, much of the food was gone, and men had come and taken many of the bodies, their loud voices booming of “returning for revival.”
Not that this concerned the rat, of course. It just wanted a steady supply of food.
The heavy thumping of boots in the hallway made it freeze, staring in the direction of the door, nose still twitching. A large shadow cast itself under the door, and the rat began to back away, finally sprinting to safety as the door was kicked off its hinges and Peacemaker, gun at the ready, stepped through. He scanned the room, grumbling in disappointment as he realized the room was all clear.
“Man, I’m never getting out of this shithole.”
He turned and left, heading down the hallway, then paused as he heard the faint murmur of voicing. Hearing at least two voices, he did a silent fist pump, then headed in that direction. Maybe he’d spoken just a bit too soon.
“So what are we looking for exactly? Secret lever? Statue head with a button in it?”
Killmonger mused as he searched the library, flipping through books and checking shelves. Seeing a relatively sparse section labeled “manga and anime”, he turned to look at Flagg, still absorbed in his own investigation, and quietly began flipping through them. Leafing through a dog-eared copy of Dragon Ball, he smiled to himself, crouching low to take a moment to read. His reading was interrupted by Flagg saying, “Got it!” and he reluctantly made a mental note of what page he was on before tucking the book into his vest.
He stood and walked over to Flagg, who looked to him, then gestured with his head towards a book on the shelf that rang hollow when he knocked on it. Killmonger leaned in to inspect it, then rolled his eyes as he saw the title.
1984 by George Orwell.
“Man, your boss ain’t subtle, is he?”
With a sigh, Flagg replied, “Subtle when he wants to be,” then pulled the book from the shelf, causing it to emit a quiet beep as it scanned his palm. It beeped affirmatively, and after a few seconds, the shelf slid back, exposing a small office that was left untouched. Killmonger whistled, impressed, then looked to Flagg’s hand, mildly confused. “When did he get your prints? Thought you’d never been here.”
Flagg pushed past him, simply responding, “Like I said, subtle when he wants to be.”
The two looked over the small, somewhat cramped office space, which had little beyond a desk, papers, writing utensils, and a phone, almost certainly disconnected.
“So, what are we looking for?”
Flagg crouched under the desk, shining a flashlight and running his hand along the surface in search of any odd points.
“We…are looking for files. Thanks to his work with some volunteers, Pete had a suspicion that DFederal networks could be picked clean by hackers before anyone caught wind of it, so he…”
His hand came to a stop over a strange, metallic bump, and he pushed against it, smiling as he felt it click into place, causing a hidden drawer to emerge from the desk, a bulky manila folder tucked away as its sole treasure. “…tended to keep things analog.”
He stood to his feet, only to glare at Killmonger as he grabbed the folder and began flipping through it. Flagg attempted to reach for it, barking, “Hey! That shit’s classified.”
Staying just out of reach, Killmonger smirked and quipped, “We don’t even know if this is the shit we want. For all you know, we’re about to head back with your boss’s laundry list, and I gotta lot more to lose if this is a bust. Now, just let me…”
He stopped, glancing at a confused Flagg as his smirk got bigger. His initial avoidance stopped, and he calmly held out the file, still open, for Flagg to take. Suspicious, Flagg cautiously walked towards Killmonger, taking the files from him as though they were a weapon.
“The hell’s so funny?”
“Take a look, soldier boy. Looks like ya boss’s hands are even dirtier than ya’ll thought.”
Flagg shot Killmonger a distrustful look, then began to glance through the files. What was initially a passing glance became much more focused, his annoyance changing to a mixture of genuine shock and concern as more and more information became clear. Page after page of elaborate dealings, many on the mundane side, only for Flagg to notice the details often hidden inside. Communications with criminal leaders, inventory listings of weapons and illicit substances, and, most shockingly, a detailed itinerary of dealings with Asajj Ventress, rogue Wolf leader, and details of arms sales and cash transfusions.
“What the fuck?”
Flagg’s grip tightened and he looked to Killmonger, furious expression in his eyes making the younger man genuinely tense, hand on the blade in his belt. Flagg took a step towards him, then thrust the file into his eyes. Killmonger looked down, confused, but before he could ask, Flagg snapped, “Hold onto that.”
He began rooting through various drawers while Killmonger looked on, finally breaking his silence and asking, “Mind telling me what you’re thinking?”
Flagg grunted as he dumped out a drawer, leafing through it’s contents before replying, “Trying to see what the hell else Pete’s hiding from me. Signed up for this shit to protect the city, not clean up my boss’s mess.”
Killmonger held up the file.
“Well, what we doing with this?”
Before Flagg could continue, the click of a gun being cocked gave them both pause, and they turned to see Alejandro standing in the doorway, gun pointed at Killmonger. The assassin, a cold expression across his face, said, “What you’re going to do is give that to me.”
Killmonger weighed his options. Charging head-on was a great way to get shot, but no way in hell was he handing over the files. Surprisingly, Flagg made a choice for him, stepping in the way and glaring his nominal second-in-command down.
“Stand down, Gillick.”
Alejandro’s expression didn’t change, nor did he make any effort to stand down.
“Not working on your orders, Flagg.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to put that together. Let me guess: Pete had you here to make sure things went smooth, silence anybody that got their eyes on what this shit was? He’s spent the last three years funding the goddamn people that we’re running from, Gillick! You really wanna keep that shit covered up?”
Alejandro sighed.
“This isn’t a debate, Flagg. Please, step aside, so that I can finish my mission, then you and I can go home and finish-“
His sentence was cut off as a Desert Eagle round reduced his head to bloody stump, and his corpse fell to the floor in front of a stunned Flagg and Killmonger. After a few moments, they tore their eyes away from the corpse on the floor to look up and see Peacemaker, his initial expression of determination quickly falling away into one of panic and confusion. He looked to the two, sheepishly, and asked, “Ah fuck…he wasn’t a prisoner, was he?”
He raised the pistol, alternating it between the two in front of him. The guy with a medium fade and spears hanging from his belt he recognized as a bounty, but the other, a clean-cut man in a more official uniform, he didn’t.
Keeping his gun trained on Killmonger, he looked to Flagg and asked curtly, “You a hostage?”
Flagg stared at him, baffled, and Peacemaker looked to him with concern.
“It’s alright. You don’t gotta talk, just blink. I can get you out of here, man. Just let me wrap this up and we’ll be ready to rock.”
Flagg threw his hands up.
“I’m not a hostage! Who the fuck are-“
A snowglobe, a small ornament of Big Ben, sailed through the air, colliding with Peacemaker’s helmet and sending him staggering back. As he thanked god the helmet took the blow, he was unprepared for Killmonger to charge forward, wrapping his arms around Peacemaker’s waist and continuing forward until they collided with a table. Peacemaker awkwardly tumbled over it, knocking it on its side, and Killmonger took advantage of the distraction to take cover and load his Recce.
Flagg emerged from the office, opening fire on Peacemaker as the vigilante scrambled for cover, frantically overturning another table to hide. Flagg took cover by a bookshelf, yelling to Killmonger to move forward as he did so. Killmonger nodded, moving to flank, only to duck back as Peacemaker fired off a shot in his direction. As the two applied pressure, Peacemaker winced, feeling bullets wear down his makeshift cover. He reached into his belt, fumbling for another explosive round, and grinned as he found one. Quickly loading, he took a deep breath, waited for a break in fire, then quickly peeked around the corner and fired. The round pierced Killmonger’s table, causing him to stop, tilting his head as he heard a pressurized whine.
He barely had time to curse as the round detonated, blowing the table to bits and sending pieces of it hurtling across the library. For his part, Killmonger was hurtled backwards, slamming his head into a shelf. Ears ringing, he struggled to stand as he desperately blinked away his blurry vision. It came to a focus just as he saw Peacemaker advancing towards a similarly dazed Flagg, hand outstretched. His ears rang too loud to tell what was being said, but he knew it wasn’t anything good.
Pulling a splinter from his arm, Peacemaker walked towards Flagg, genuinely concerned at the man not moving. He walked towards him, paying a seemingly still Killmonger no mind, and whispered, “Hey, buddy? You good? You’re a hostage, right?”
A bullet pinged off the helmet, knocking him on his ass with an aggravated, “FUCK!”
He staggered to see Killmonger struggling to his feet, and yelled, “Quit throwing shit at the goddamned helmet, asshole!”
He raised his Desert Eagle and fired back, a round that punched a hole in the shelf next to Killmonger, who rolled away and fell back, firing off a few covering shots as he retreated from the library. He needed to get him away from Flagg if he didn’t want Pete setting off the bomb in his head, and that meant establishing distance. Watching his quarry escape, Peacemaker gave one last hesitant look at a still knocked-out Flagg, then reluctantly gave chase. Like it or not, he was only getting a confirmed payday for one of these guys.
Surveying over the city from his office, Michael Collins sighed before he swiveled in his chair to face the two anxious looking Omegas in front of him. He looked between the two, unimpressed, before finally speaking, tone dripping with annoyance.
“So, to be clear, you two went on patrol by the prison, and when asked for a status on the area, you said…”
He gestured for them to answer, and the two Omegas looked anxiously between each other before the taller of the two mumbled, “It was all clear, sir.”
Collins nodded, resting his chin on his fist.
“Mhm. This is interesting to me because we’re now getting reports of gunfire and an explosion inside the prison, and a concerned citizen saw some fresh corpses on the lawn. So, I suppose the question is: does “all clear” mean “suspicious activity but we don’t feel like investigating”?”
The two Omegas exchanged looks again, and the taller one quietly shook his head.
“I see. Well, since you both clearly need re-educating, I’ve got new orders for the two of ya, courtesy of Doom himself.”
Both the Omegas froze, eyes wide with shock.
“F-from Doom, sir?”
Collins nodded.
“Indeed. He wants you two on demolition duty, so I hope you enjoy sewer patrol. Now, get a move on, lads. That prison ain’t destroying itself.”
He turned back in his chair to overlook the city, and the two Omegas awkwardly shuffled out of the room, quietly bickering all the while.
Hearing the heavy thumping of footsteps behind him, Killmonger quickened his pace, then quickly turned and took cover around a corner, leaning out to open fire. Peacemaker, returning fire, dived into an open cell to avoid the shots, then quickly reloaded as he heard the sound of his target continue running. He poked his head out of the cell, cursing as he saw Killmonger begin to run down the steps, and quickly ran to the railway. A few quick shots forced Killmonger to stay low, relying on the meager cover of the safety railing as he kept moving, while Peacemaker sized up the area. The stairway led to another floor of cells, which in turn led to a general area in the middle. He glanced down, eying the railing for the next floor, and mentally did the math in his head.
He nodded, then took a few steps back, sucked in a deep breath, and vaulted over the side…
…only to let out a frantic, “Oh shi-“ as his hands just missed the railing of the next level, sending him crashing to the floor. Mid-escape, Killmonger stopped, genuinely baffled, and looked to see Peacemaker lying in a groaning, pained heap. Feeling something crack as he sat up, Peacemaker cursed as a round pinged by his head, and he quickly scrambled under a table as Killmonger rained fire down on him. His eyes glanced towards his gun, left lying on the floor, and he kicked himself mentally for trying the jump. Although, if he had pulled off the jump, he would’ve looked cool, so, practice would have to make perfect on that one.
As Peacemaker hid under a table, Killmonger calmly vaulted over the steps, smirking to himself as he approached his would-be killer’s hiding spot, gun trained forward.
“You can come on out. Let’s just get this done.”
There was a pause, then a quiet “Fuck you.” as a tomahawk came hurtling out from the table. Killmonger jerked his head to the side, narrowly avoiding it, then turned back, raising his gun to fire, only to cry out as the tomahawk bounced off the wall and into his back. He turned, trying to pull it from his back and inadvertently giving the Peacemaker to slide out from under the table, lunge forward, and spear him in the chest, sending them both colliding to the floor. Peacemaker moved quickly, putting himself under Killmonger and wrapping a beefy bicep around his neck. His airway restricted, Killmonger struggled, flailing as he tried to break the grapple. Just as his vision began to blur, he felt his hand tap against the cool metal of Peacemaker’s helmet, then fumbled til he felt skin. His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open, as he drove his thumb into Peacemaker’s eye, earning a yell and the loosening of the chokehold. He seized the opportunity, driving his elbow into Peacemaker’s gut then rolling to his feet and drawing a spear.
He brought it down for a killing blow, only for Peacemaker to catch his wrist and kick him in the stomach, sending him reeling backwards. He leapt to his feet, drawing another tomahawk as Killmonger fell back, and they circled one another, each waiting for the other to strike. Peacemaker moved first, slashing downward in an attack Killmonger easily sidestepped before countering with a stab that Peacemaker caught with his axe. Their blades locked, Peacemaker elbowed him in the face, sending Killmonger reeling back. As Peacemaker tried to follow up, he gritted his teeth in pain as his opponent quickly drew a sword and stabbed him in the gut mid-lunge.
Doing his best to ignore the pain, Peacemaker grabbed Killmonger’s arm and pulled him into a headbutt, the sound of metal impacting against his nose ringing out with an echoing crunch. As Killmonger held his nose, Peacemaker grabbed him around the waist and tossed him over the table. He grabbed the sword by the hilt and pulled it free from his stomach, quietly hoping the adrenaline wouldn’t wear off before the pain actually started to register. He held his stomach with one hand and wielded the axe with the other, leaving him open as Killmonger slid out from underneath the table and swept his leg out from under him.
Peacemaker crashed onto his back, narrowly turning his head in time to avoid a blade that would’ve pierced his throat, then kneed Killmonger in the stomach. He tossed the younger man off of him, staggering to his knees just as Killmonger kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling again. He groaned, sitting up again, then this time catching Killmonger’s second kick before shoving him away long to properly stand. Holding his side, he circled Killmonger, frowning as he grinned and readied his blade for another round.
Ducking under a slash from the hatchet, Killmonger roared as he wrapped his arms around Peacemaker’s waist, lifting him over his head, then slammed him down onto a table behind him. Peacemaker rolled with the impact, kicking Killmonger in the jaw as he leapt to his feet, then leapt over a frenzied slash from his sword. He leapt down from the table, sinking his tomahawk into Killmonger’s shoulder and using the momentum to yank him downwards, the sword clattering out of reach. He snarled, holding his shoulder, then swept his leg out, tripping up Peacemaker and bringing him to the ground. With a vicious sneer, he stood on shaky legs and drove his boot into his side, repeating the kick again and again before staggering away to grab his side.
Peacemaker held his side, every breath now feeling like a dumbbell on his chest. Attempting to sit up, he grumbled under his breath.
“Fucking adrenaline. Couldn’t wait two goddamn minutes.”
His vision blurred slightly as he saw Killmonger scoop up the sword, and he idly glanced away from his would-be killer, blinking the blur away as he saw his gun lying on the floor. He took a deep breath, trying to stand before settling into a crouch, and waited as Killmonger practically roared, then lunged forward. He stabbed out, aiming for Peacemaker’s throat, only for Peacemaker to dive underneath the attack, sliding across the floor, hand outstretched. He slid, fumbling, and just managed to grab his pistol. He spun, aimed, and pulled the trigger just as Killmonger was practically on top of him, the round slamming into his chest and sending him flying.
Killmonger hit the floor, lying very still, and Peacemaker finally exhaled, letting the gun drop from his hand before collapsing. He took heavy, ragged breaths, holding his hand to his side in an effort to stem the bleeding. He needed to get up. He had to, or some other asshole was gonna claim that bounty.
More importantly, he needed to get home and make sure that Leland was taking good care of Eagly.
He forced himself to his feet, limping, and winced as he pulled his phone from his pocket and took a picture of the still not moving form of Killmonger, a sizable puddle of blood having formed underneath him. He looked it over, an uncertain expression on his face, then turned the phone camera toward him, crouched by the body, and took a grinning, thumbs up selfie. Looking the picture over, he grinned, satisfied.
“Nice, there we go. Now they can’t just say I found the-“
A single gunshot rang out, and Peacemaker, blood dribbling from his mouth, looked down at the impact point in his chest. With a final, grumbled, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” he collapsed, dead, and Rick Flagg vaulted over the railing of the steps to rush to Killmonger’s side. He put a finger to Killmonger’s neck, feeling a very faint pulse, and cursed as he saw the gaping wound in his chest.
“Ah fuck, can’t leave anybody alone for five goddamn minutes.”
He unzipped and tore aside the remnants of Killmonger’s vest, trying to get a better view of the damage, only to jolt as Killmonger gripped his wrist. A weak smile spread across Killmonger’s lips as he looked at his nominal superior.
“Took ya long enough.”
Flagg chuckled in spite of himself, then replied, “Yeah, well, thought you could handle that guy. Won’t make that mistake again.”
Killmonger glanced at the corpse of Peacemaker, his smile vanishing.
“Ain’t gonna make any mistakes at all if you don’t get out of here.”
Flagg shook his head as he attempted to staunch the considerable bleeding from Killmonger’s chest, hands already crimson red.
“Nah, I’m not leaving any more people behind on this. You’re gonna come back with me, and you’re serving the rest of that sentence.”
Killmonger tightened his grip on Flagg’s wrist, finally grabbing his attention.
“You aren’t listening. I’m good as dead, and you’ll be too if the Wolves catch you here.”
He looked into Flagg’s eyes, a shocking sincerity to his voice.
“You were already gonna take a bullet for me. Don’t waste any more time, get out of here with those damn files. I just want you to promise me something.”
Flagg stopped his efforts, looking to Killmonger, and gave a reluctant nod.
“You get those files to somebody clean, make sure the whole damn city hears about ‘em.”
There was a long pause, then Flagg nodded, somberly replying, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Killmonger smiled, teeth bloody, then laid back and closed his eyes, his breathing slowing. Flagg hung his head for a moment, then stood to his feet and headed for the exit point, keeping an ear out for any Wolves. The files, tucked safely under his shirt, sat as a reminder that he wasn’t finished.
“And you’re absolutely sure we set them right?”
The tall Omega asked his shorter compatriot cautiously as they crept through the sewer, doing their best not to step in anything too gross. The short Omega rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, dude. We set them exactly where the demolition team told us to, so they’ll basically sink the whole prison into the sewer depths. Come on, the safe point should be on the right here. Or the left, I think.”
“You think?”
“Look, they didn’t give me a goddamn map.”
After a few more minutes of wandering and bickering, they finally came to a stop, and the shorter Omega pulled a small detonator from his jacket.
“Alright. We should be clear, so let’s do this.”
He pressed the button, and the two winced as they heard a muffled boom, followed by the sounds of crumbling while the walls shook from the force. Distressingly, the walls didn’t stop shaking, and the ceiling began to crack and splinter. The taller Wolf glanced upwards as a small piece of debris fell on his shoulder, then turned to look at his compatriot. Despite his mask, the dissatisfaction was apparent.
“Think maybe we should’ve gone left?”
“Man, fuck you. I better not hear about this when we get revived.”
Before they could bicker further, the roof collapsed.
As the sewer exploded and crumbled around him, Flagg leapt to the side, avoiding a chunk of ceiling as he raced through the sewer. The Wolves bringing the entire prison down on top of him was not part of the plan in the slightest, but he just had to get back to the DFederal part of the sewers. And, if his directions had been correct, he was almost there.
He turned a corner and came to an entranceway that led to a narrow metal bridge that hung precariously over a deep chasm. He gave a quick glance down, and even with all he had been through in service to both his government and the city, something about staring into the abyss, pitch black and seemingly stretching for miles and miles, put a chill down his spine. Remembering the mission, he shook it off, looking back up to the bridge just in time for a piece of the roof to fall clean through the middle of it, snapping it into two and leaving a considerable gap.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He’d accompanied Pete to a meeting with Chairman Beast once, and while he hadn’t been massively impressed, Beast often-handedly referring to the city as “actively hostile to existence” had stuck with him. Looking at the gap in the bridge, he was starting to understand what Beast meant.
But there wasn’t any time to ponder that.
He had a mission to complete.
He took a few steps back, closed his eyes to focus, then opened them, a look of steely determination across his face. With a yell, he ran forward, leapt, and kept as much of his body forward as he hurtled through the air. His hand, outstretched, just barely reached the bridge, clinging into a gap in the walkway, while he cried out as he felt his shoulder pop. Flailing, he reached with his other arm, securing himself, then pulled himself up. He soldiered through the pain, practically dragging himself onto the bridge, before finally collapsing into the entranceway of the DFederal sewers.
Before he even had a moment to catch his breath, his communicator buzzed to life.
“-agg! Flagg! You finally popped back on the radar, so you better bloody answer me. Flagg!”
With a sigh, Flagg slumped against the wall, then answered the communicator.
“I’m here, Pete. I’m here.”
“We’re getting reports of seismic activity in New Latveria. What in the fuck happened over there?”
Flagg gave a weary glance towards the collapsed bridge.
“Mission was a…technical success, but the rest of the team…they’re gone, Pete. All of em.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“Well, that makes debriefing them a bit on the easier side, yeah? Do you have the files?”
Flagg paused, feeling the folder pushing against his stomach. He could practically see his boss leaning in eagerly, awaiting his response with bated breath.
“…no, sir. They were destroyed when the Wolves blew the prison up.”
“…what? They blew up the prison? Why?”
“I haven’t got the slightest goddamn clue, sir. I don’t think they made us.”
Pete audibly sighed.
“Well, at least they can’t get their grubby mitts on my files now. Alright, head to the extraction point, Flagg. Good work today, mate.”
Pete disconnected, leaving him alone, and as he trudged through the sewers, Flagg couldn’t quite feel as though he echoed that sentiment.
Epilogue[]
Three days later…
“Doctor Doom spoke for the first time today in front of the ruins of the DFederal Penitentiary, applauding the demolition of the facility as “the latest blow in our war against the austerity and cruelty that once oppressed these people” and explaining the city’s plans to build a new urgent care clinic in its place. He stated that is to be the “first of many for a people that have been starved for care” and that New Latveria would not rest until-“
Pete Wisdom, with a cold chuckle, switched off the TV before turning to look at Rick Flagg, who stood at attention, eyes dead ahead. Pete leaned forward, looking over the operative for a few moments. Something was off about Flagg, at least energy-wise, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Shrugging it off for the moment, he turned back to the meeting at hand.
“Well, if they haven’t figured out that we were behind that whole mess by now, then I suspect we’re in the clear for the moment. Any suspicion on your part?”
Flagg shook his head.
“No, sir. All operatives were confirmed dead in the field and I’ve seen to their revival requests personally. The files were similarly destroyed in the prison’s demolition, so our tracks were covered for us.”
Pete nodded, flipping through Flagg’s mission report.
“Well, that’s just peachy then. I suppose I should ask one question.”
He leaned forward, tenting his hands together.
“Would you happen to have any idea as to why Killmonger’s body cannot be located?”
Flagg turned, raising an eyebrow.
“I…wasn’t aware it couldn’t. Sir.”
Flagg leaned back in his chair.
“Well, that’s the funny thing. With New Latveria nonsense, we tend to have to take surviving blokes at their word on who bit it and who didn’t, on account of Doom blocking tracking and what-not, so we were going to go off your report here for who and who not to bring back.”
He tapped the image of Killmonger, marked with a red X and a large stamp that read DECEASED.
“So imagine my surprise that when it was our little gun runner here’s turn, the lab geeks told me that it would’ve created a duplicate.”
Flagg looked genuinely surprised by the revelation.
“So you’re saying he’s alive? Then, we should attempt an extrac-“
Pete held up a hand, silencing him, and shook his head.
“Unfortunately, because of how swimmingly our last operation went, my bosses have told me that New Latveria is off-limits for the time being. As much as I hate loose ends, we’re going to have to hope this is a clerical error and not a bloody leak waiting to happen.”
Pete and Flagg stared at each other for a moment, Pete waiting for his subordinate to fight the point, but Flagg, jaw tensed, simply stood back and gave a nod.
“Alright, sir. We’ll wait, then.”
“Indeed, we will. Now, Gillick is on revival leave, so for our second order of business, I’d like to introduce you to your new partner-“
Flagg turned at the sound of Pete’s office door opening, and his eyes widened at the sight of Peacemaker, helmet at his side, stepping through it. Peacemaker walked in, locked eyes with Flagg, and seemed briefly taken aback.
“Hey, I know you! You’re the hostage!”
“I’m not a goddamn-“
Flagg cursed under his breath and turned to Pete, crooking a thumb at the confused Peacemaker.
“We’re giving a job to this guy? He nearly compromised our entire mission!”
Pete shrugged.
“A misunderstanding, Flagg. He was just following orders.”
He leaned back, smirking to himself.
“My orders, to be exact.”
Both Peacemaker and Flagg let out a baffled, “What?” in unison, and as both immediately tried to interject, Pete gestured for silence.
“I hired Peacemaker as a means of ensuring the team couldn’t go rogue once you went dark, plus any chaos he got up to would serve to muddy the waters when it came to the Wolves reporting your collateral damage. Fortunately, his services-“
He glanced to the image of Killmonger.
“-were apparently not needed, but as a reward for a job well done, I’ve arranged for him and his pet to receive housing and he will be, for now, an operative of this department. Now, I expect him to be fully let into the fold, and you will cooperate with him as needed. Am I understood, Flagg?”
Flagg gritted his teeth, and Peacemaker noted that he seemed to be clenching his fists behind his back, but after an uncomfortable silence, he quietly replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Now, you’re dismissed.”
Without any further word, Flagg turned on his heel and pushed past Peacemaker, letting the door to the office swing shut behind him as he exited. Even as he left, he could feel both sets of eyes on his back, but he was confident Pete didn’t know about the file. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the down button.
If he could get out of here safely, he had an appointment with Vic Sage that he didn’t feel like missing.
Sitting atop his new throne, this one made from steel and melted down ammunition, Doctor Doom leaned forward, carefully surveying the prisoner standing before him: Erik Killmonger, a former collaborator turned apparent foe, now standing before him in handcuffs with a half dozen Wolves at either side. As he full under Doom’s withering gaze, Killmonger didn’t flinch or shrink away. He simply stared right back. It was insolent, but Doom was begrudgingly impressed.
“Explain yourself, interloper. You have done the Wolves a great service in the past, but that will do you no favors for the atrocity your compatriots committed against New Latveria.”
Killmonger scoffed.
“Nah, those weren’t my compatriots. Those were my jailers and the other inmates they dragged into that mess. Whole reason I’m here now is because I’m offering my services for a little payback.”
He held up his shackled hands.
“It’s why I’m finding these a little disrespectful, you feel me?”
Doom leaned back in his throne.
“Explain these…services you wish to provide.”
Killmonger shrugged, a cocky grin across his face.
“Ya’ll already know what I can do. Infiltration, assassination, sabotage…whole spec ops playbook, all at your command.”
Doom’s mask hid any emotion he may have been conveying, and he made no effort to move.
“And you would provide these services to my cause? For…what, exactly? Killers like you do not operate altruistically.”
Killmonger took a step forward, more confident now, and Doom held up a hand, signaling the guards going for their weapons to stand down.
“Well, shit, I ain’t doing it for you. I wanna drive a dagger in the heart of the people that thought they could lock me up, use me as their weapon for their wars. Revenge is all I ask for.”
Doom nodded, and after a moment of silent contemplation, he snapped his fingers, causing the shackles around Killmonger’s wrists to vanish. The former prisoner smiled, rubbing his wrists and giving Doom an appreciative nod.
“You are to report to Jim Raynor first thing tomorrow morning. Lodging and clothing will be provided for you. Make no mistake, this is not a kindness, Killmonger. If you vow to fight for Doom, Doom expects that vow to be followed. Do not make me regret this, or Doom will make an example of you for all to see. I have spoken.”
Still smiling, Killmonger was led away by the guards, leaving Doom alone in his throne room. As soon as he was confident that he was alone, he collapsed into hacking fit, holding a hand to his mouth as his body was wracked by cough after cough. The fit subsided, and Doom stopped to look at the strangely-covered blood that was left on his gauntleted hand. Ever since the uprising, the day he had blackened the eye of the city’s overlords, his body had seemed to scream at him, take every opportunity to remind him his power was stolen, not natural. He despised it.
“Negative side effects still popping up?”
Doom shot a glare at Mister Sinister, calmly leaning against the door, who returned it with a mocking wave.
“Essex, how did you-“
“-get past the guards? You did ask for discretion, after all.”
He walked forward, setting a small brown case on the ground, then kicking it to Doom. It slid across the floor before floating into the air and directly into Doom’s hand, and he cautiously cracked it open, revealing two dozen green vials. He snatched up a vial, downing it, then sighing in relief as he felt the shaking and coughing subside. He quickly regained composure, setting the case at his feet as he glared at Sinister.
“What is your progress on negating these side effects, Essex?”
Sinister’s grin didn’t fade in the slightest as he gave his answer, expressive as always.
“Well, I’m certainly giving it my best effort, but it takes time, Doom. Not every day one is given the blood of a User and told to reverse engineer it. It’s a challenge, even for one of my towering intellect.”
Doom balled his hand into a fist.
“You have been given ample supplies, ample opportunity, and plenty of resources for your side projects, Essex. Doom expects results, not excuses.”
Sinister put a hand to his chest, mockingly wounded.
“Yes, well, all I ask for, Doom, is time. I am but one man with only 24 hours in a day, surely you can understand that limitation?”
Doom sat back, resting his chin on his fist, frustration visible.
“You have my patience…for now, Essex, but I expect a continuous supply of the medication in the meantime.” Sinister nodded.
“Of course, Doom. For my part, I would advise against putting any strain on your body to the level you did in the uprising.”
“No one tells Doom what his limits are. Not the gods, not any meddling heroes, and certainly not you, Essex.” Sinister shrugged, backing away all the while.
“Very well. Consider it less an order and more…friendly advice. I’d hate to see you burn yourself out just when things are getting interesting.”
He faded into the shadows, the last thing Doom saw of him his glowing red gem before that blinked out as well. And then he was left, alone, with nothing but the small brown case and his thoughts.
“And we had a hell of a match at Shang Tsung’s Kombat Club last night, as the Serpent took on Ken Masters in the latest round of the Men’s Welterweight Championship Tournament. Masters starting strong and fast, battering down the newbie with a variety of hits and always staying just out of reach, but he just couldn’t put his opponent down for good.”
Setting his phone aside as he listened to DFederal Radio, Beast, sitting alone in his dark office, frantically scribbled on a white board, connecting various points and mumbling to himself. Across the top of the board was written “OPERATION: DOOMPOSTING”, though that had been hastily crossed out and replaced with “DOOMWAR”, which was in turn replaced with “DOOM SONG” which was in turn replaced, again, with “DOOMWAR!!!”, while various pictures of Doom and his associates littered the board.
“Serpent nearly getting knocked out of the ring, only to recover and catch Master with a nasty Buckshot Lariat, then following up with a leg drop while Masters is down, though Masters is on his feet quickly.”
He wrote the letters “RM”, then underlined them, nodding to himself with a hint of satisfaction.
“Masters takes things airborne with a Shoryuken, nearly knocking Serpent through the roof of the cage.”
Beast kept mumbling, connecting dots between notes titled “sources of funding” and “weapon supply?” He took a step back, taking a sip of Mike’s Hard as he paced around the office.
“Masters channels a Heat Rush and nearly takes it there, but he gets greedy with his hits and overshoots on a Tatsumaki Senpuyaku that Serpent counters, catching in a grapple and turning that into a power bomb.”
Beast frowned uncertainly, staring dead center at the board, which stayed blank. His frown vanished as an idea seemed to come over him, and he began writing something in large letters.
“And Serpent wraps things up on an incredible note, climbing to the roof of the cage and hitting Masters with a Coffin Drop from almost thirty feet. Transitions right into a pin, goes for three, and he qualifies for the final bout against Jago, fresh off a win over Kano, with winner going on to face reigning champ Little Mac at the Klash of Kings next month.”
Finally confident in himself, Beast stood back, surveying the entire white board before stopping to look at the final step of his plan, dead center on the board, written in giant letters: “FIND THE RIVAL.”
“Well, regardless of who makes it, this is gonna be a heck of a fight, folks.”
Expert's Opinion[]
While Killmonger was a craftier warrior with superior combat training, Peacemaker's sheer physicality and combat talent outweighed that. Armed with superior gear and capable of taking a lot more punishment, Peacemaker just couldn't be put down with what Killmonger was bringing to the fight, and it just became a situation Killmonger couldn't think his way out of.