Robert Morgan’s penthouse apartment, Boston, Massachusetts
October 10, 2008, 11:04 a.m.

Isobel awoke to the sun piercing through the thick white curtains. With a sigh, she stirred to consciousness. She stretched out, rolled over, and reached out to the other side of the bed. Her hand brushed over cool silk. She slowly raised her head and looked around the room. A bottle of champagne sat atop the dresser across the room, and her clothes were still strewn between here and the hallway. But of her lover she saw no sign.

“Lash?”

No answer came.

She climbed out of the bed. She took the sheet with her and wrapped it around her body as she continued in to the living room. She found the remains of their love-making on and around the couch, but no signs of Lash anywhere.

“Lash? Are you here?”

He didn’t answer this time either. She started towards the kitchenette unit. Maybe he left a note, she thought.

The kitchenette was a long pub-style bar with a fridge, stove, and microwave on its far side. A few random papers were stacked neatly on the bar’s corner, but none of them were addressed to her.

She slumped down in to the nearest barstool. No need to get panicked, she told herself. He’s a busy man. He probably just didn’t even think a note was necessary. I’m a big girl after all.

But all the self-assurance in the world did nothing to counteract the gnawing sense of worry in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t get over the feeling that something didn’t seem right about this setup.

No, I’m just being foolish. I always have tried to sabotage myself when things are going well.

The gnawing didn’t go away. She still felt uneasy. But the discomfort in her stomach was growing. The metaphysical pain had given way to real pain. She rose from her seat in a panic as she felt the bile rise in her throat.

She reached the kitchen sink just in time to heave the remains of last night’s dinner in to the garbage disposal. She gasped for breath as the dry heaves continued for several minutes after the total evacuation of her stomach.

Ten minutes later, she finally felt comfortable to rise from her hunched position over the sink. She turned on the hot water before activating the disposal. As she watched the vomit wash away, she could only think, What the hell caused that?

She wondered briefly if it was a reaction to the power expenditure she and Lash unleashed the previous night. But she remembered using as much or more electricity in the past without such dramatic physical consequences. It had to be something else.

Her stomach turned again.

This time she rushed to the bathroom and heaved bile in to the toilet.

She heard the front door open just as she flushed the bile down the drain.

“Lash?”

“Isobel? Where are you?”

“I’m in here.”

Lash walked in to the bathroom. One hand held a brown paper sack; the other held two coffees in a drink carrier. He quickly set them on the floor and rushed to her side.

“Are you all right? I just went to get us a late breakfast. What happened?”

She shook her head. “Something bad’s happening to me. I can’t stop heaving.”

Lash gently wrapped an arm around her. He helped her to his feet. She leaned her body in to him as he helped her from the bathroom.

“Let’s get you back in your dress. I know a doctor who specializes in metahuman cases. I’m sure he will make room for one of the famous living legends.”

Isobel glared at him, but she didn’t fight him as he helped her in to her dress. She felt exhausted. In fact, the more she moved, the harder she found it even to think.

“I think… I think something’s really wr—”

Her feet turned to jelly beneath her. Lash grabbed her by the waist before she could tumble to the floor. Memory faded as he lifted her in to his arms and walked towards the door.

By the time they entered the hall, she was asleep.

*****

Somewhere beneath Riccapoor
October 11, 2008, 9:34 p.m.

After hours of questions, jabs, pleas, and threats, Black Owl realized that Bart Hill wasn’t talking. Whether he was Daredevil, the Coward, or just some lout on the street, the man in the tattered costume didn’t have anything to say.

Or it could be something else entirely. Owl vaguely remembered that early on, Daredevil didn’t speak. No one quite knew how or why he didn’t speak, but it wasn’t until a few months in to his career as a mystery man that Daredevil started forming words. Could he somehow be having a relapse to his earlier memories?

He tried to put the mystery of the Coward to the side for the time being. He knew his focus was best put elsewhere. The Claw now held Atoman hostage. That alone was reason to worry, but the frequent blood samples being taken from his own harm added to his concern. The Claw knew something about him that even he didn’t know. He wanted answers, damn it!

He looked at the Coward. “If only you would talk, you bastard! Tell me how to get out of here!”

The Coward looked up at him. Their stares fixed on one another. The Coward gritted his teeth. Black Owl watched the other man spit on the floor.

The voice came in little more than a low whisper. Low and deep in the throat, the gravelly voice scraped against his eardrums like fingernails across the chalkboard. But it was still a voice.

“What do you need to know?”

Black Owl could think of nothing to say in response.

“This isn’t my idea of a good time,” Coward said. “Now what do you need to know?”

“The way out! The way to stop the Claw and whatever he has planned!”

The Coward dropped his head. “Can’t be done.”

“Can’t be done! That’s all you have to say after all of this? What the hell is going on here?” The Coward leaned hard against the wall. He slowly struggled up to his feet. With his shoulder still pressed against the wall, he raised his head and gave Black Owl a sick grin from beneath his torn mask.

“I have fought the Claw for six decades. I have killed him a dozen times. He cannot be stopped. He returns and returns and no one can stand in his way. Nothing can stop him.”

“Have you given up completely?”

“I will never give up. But I am unwilling to deny reality. Even if we win today, in another five, or another ten, he will be back and Riccapoor or Hong Kong or wherever will again be in danger. Isn’t it best to confine him here, to stop him, to let him have his little victories in order to protect the greater good?”

Black Owl couldn’t believe his ears. He remembered Daredevil as just that: the bravest of all mystery men. He didn’t back down against even the most insane odds. And now he was willing to give up in the name of the ‘greater good’.

“You’ve lost all touch with what good even is. You’ve been playing his game for so long, that you can’t see past your own shadow. You won’t even dare to find something better. The Claw was right. You are a coward.”

Black Owl could barely make out the blur of movement before a blue-gloved fist slammed in to the side of his jaw. The blow took him off his feet. He flew several feet and slid to a stop just shy of the brick wall.

The Coward staggered away from the wall and towards Owl. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again!”

Black Owl smiled despite the taste of blood in his mouth. “That’s the man I remember. That’s Daredevil!”

The Coward’s hand flashed out again, this time around Black Owl’s neck. He yanked Owl upright. Their eyes met. Black Owl could see the cold fury burning in the other man’s eyes.

“That is not my name! Not anymore.” The Coward released Owl’s neck. Owl slumped back against the wall.

“I was a coward. You and that monster were both right about that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t take that name and make it untrue in my every action. I will help you, Danville.”

Black Owl hid his silent surprise. Next to no one knew his private identity. No one living anyway. Only Terri and Atoman were aware, and that was honestly one more than he would have liked.

The Coward patted Owl on his shoulder. “None of us our perfect, Doug.”

With that last cryptic statement, the Coward turned towards the steel door that sealed them in the room. He grabbed the door by the three bars that closed off the door’s only window from being used as egress. He pulled back, twisted, and spun away. The door ripped from its hinges and fell to the floor at his feet.

“Let’s go.”

*****

Somewhere beneath Riccapoor
October 11, 2008, 10:55 p.m.

London couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as a woman no older than himself carried him down the tunnels of the sewer at blinding speed. She moved so fast her feet only brushed over the top of the filthy water. So fast London could barely keep his eyes open. He certainly couldn’t talk. And he had no way of warning her of the shadows moving before them.

They came out of the shadows at high speed. Silver Streak came to an abrupt halt. London rolled out of her arms. His hand went to the harness at his chest and pressed the activation switch just in time to hit the ground. He used the super strength to roll to his feet, as a half dozen local women, all in the distinctive costumes of Lady Foulplay, floated towards him.

Silver Streak cursed in Chinese. “Run, London! We cannot beat them. They are too powerful.”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” he said. He lunged forward and took a Foulplay by surprise. His punch landed against her jaw and she went down like a ton of bricks.

The other five Foulplays turned their attention to him. Maybe not my best idea, London thought. He backed away, but the women floated ever closer.

A whirlwind of air whipped up behind the Foulplays. London looked past them to watch Silver Streak twirl her body around at high speed. She came to a sudden stop, but the rotating air continued around her arms. She directed them downwards and instantly two blasts of force crashed in to a pair of Foulplays.

But another Foulplay took her attack as her own time to strike. She dropped down on Silver Streak from behind and delivered a ringing blow straight between Streak’s shoulder blades. London could only watch as Streak went down like a ton of bricks.

The remaining three Foulplays turned their attention to him. He readied himself for their attack. He knew he didn’t stand a chance, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

A boomerang whirled out of the abyss behind him. It struck a Foulplay across the shoulder. It sliced straight through flesh and bone before whirling back around in to its owner’s hand.

London turned to see Black Owl emerge from the darkness. But the man behind him caused his eyes to go wide. Daredevil casually raised a hand to retrieve his boomerang.

Black Owl’s hands flashed to his cape. A moment later, he hurled what looked like a trio of children’s jacks towards one of the Foulplays. The jacks exploded and coated the woman’s face with a layer of acid.

London took the momentary distraction caused by the new arrivals to strike. He dove at the final Foulplay and pummeled her over and over again with his fists.

The sewer tunnel sat strangely still in the aftermath of the battle. Only the trickle of the moving water created any sound as the three men looked each other over.

Black Owl was the first to speak. “When did you get here, Rusty?”

“Yesterday. I heard you needed some help.”

Daredevil looked over the Foulplays. “Seems he wasn’t the only one.”

London nodded. He deactivated the harness and felt the strength wash away. He could feel himself weaken and tire, but he pushed it aside. He wanted to turn the harness back on, and the thought scared him. Am I becoming addicted? he wondered.

Daredevil splashed over to Silver Streak’s side. She stirred and opened her eyes. “Uncle Bart?”

Daredevil helped her to her feet without saying anything in response. She continued to look at him as she whispered several words in Mandarin.

Black Owl clapped London on the back. “Rusty, my boy, I’m glad to have you back on our side. But these ladies are only the beginning of our problem.”

“The Claw, I know. And the name is London now.”

“He still has Atoman. We need a plan. We have to stop him before he can do whatever it is he wants with the big guy. That kind of power in the wrong hands….”

“I understand.” London turned back to Silver Streak. “You have somewhere we can regroup.”

She nodded. “It is small, but should suit our purposes.”

“Good, then we have some catching up to do. And if all goes well, the Claw won’t even know what hit him!”

*****

Location unknown
October 12. 2009, 12:27 a.m.

Aidan Jin Fitzgerald-Chang, AJ to his non-existent friends, knew he wasn’t exactly the fitting in type. Hell, he pretty much hated everyone else at Redwing High School as much as they hated him. But he never expected any of them to kidnap him. He assumed it was Chad and all his football cronies, but he couldn’t make out anybody else in the dark. All he knew is he seemed to be in someone’s basement. The light barely shone through thick metal grates above his head. Everything seemed murky, almost overcast.

A figure emerged from the dark and stumbled straight in to him. AJ braced himself for a fight until he realized it was a girl. She was about his age, but even in the darkness he could tell she wasn’t one of his classmates. Her hair was long and wavy. She wore a skirt and a baggy sweater, both of which looked gray in the dim light. She tripped over him, but AJ reached out to keep her from falling to the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Without my glasses I can’t see anything, and this dark just makes it worse.” She spoke with just a hint of a Southern drawl. AJ wondered if she recently moved north or something.

AJ made sure she was steady on her feet before he stepped away. “I don’t— what is— do you know where we are?”

She shook her head. “I was going to ask you.” She threw her hand out. “I’m Emma by the way. Emma Friedlander.”

“AJ Chang. Nice to meet you, I guess. How did you get here?”

“I don’t really remember. I went to bed. I remember some rustling in the next room, and the next thing I know I wake up here. What is this place?”

“I thought some classmates were playing a prank on me, but now I’m not so sure. Where are you from?”

“From right here in Austin.”

“Austin, Minnesota?”

Emma chuckled nervously. “No, Austin, Texas, silly.”

“You’re from Texas?”

“Yeah, why? Aren’t you?”

“Last thing I remember was going to a party in Redwing. Redwing, Minnesota.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. It can’t be. I came home from the Laundromat. I went out back to get the clothes out of the car. I slipped. And then I woke up here.”

“Is someone else here?” The voice came from somewhere ahead of them in the darkness, perhaps where Emma staggered in to his arms.

“Hello, we’re here,” AJ said.

Flood lights came up above them, instantly blinding AJ. He fought to blink away the sudden light in his eyes, but it only allowed him to see the shadowy figure approaching them.

As his eyes adjusted to the new look. He could see the new figure before him, a white kid about his age. His dark hair was cropped short against his head. Behind him stood three other young men. As AJ surveyed the room, he counted at least a dozen more young women and men, none more than his own age.

The room seemed like something out of a science fiction film. The walls were made of some kind of plastic-based material, light gray in color. Multiple frosted windows lined the walls just below the solid white ceilings. The light glowed through the ceiling itself.

“What is this?” Emma said.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The short, dark-haired kid looked back and forth between AJ and Emma. “I hope one of you has an answer.”

“I don’t know,” AJ said. “I wish I did. Who are you? Where are you from?”

“The name’s Timothy Lucas. What do you mean, where am I from? I’m from San Fran, aren’t you?”

Before AJ could utter a word in reply, the soft hum of a motor filled the room. The walls shifted beneath the windows, and several spigots emerged from the wall.

“What the hell—?”

Tim’s words were cut off by a sudden bout of coughing. The gas turned a soft yellow as it poured out of the spigots. AJ struggled to cover his mouth, but already the gas filled the room.

Emma coughed and collapsed to the floor beside him. AJ tried to help her, but he found his own body getting heavier. He watched as Tim’s face darkened. The other boy’s skin began to blister and crack. Blood-flowed out of him as his skin fell away leaving new pink flesh.

He turned back to Emma and found her unconscious on the floor. Her body twitched over and over, as if a victim of some kind of high-speed seizure. His own vision seemed to blur and he stumbled backwards. His rear struck the ground hard, but his feet remained firmly rooted in place. AJ pulled his hands up and tried to reach out, to stretch his body upwards. But he could barely use his arms now. He could only look at the flesh of his hand as it slowly flowed downward with gravity.

His vision blurred even worse. AJ could feel the skin falling on his face as well. His skin flowed down, completely free of any bone structure. He could feel the panic start to set in as he fought to even breathe. His head screamed with lack of oxygen as the darkness began to move around him. Everything vanished in to black.


Dominique surveyed the scene below her. Bodies lay in heaps around the room. Several bodies were burned out completely. Others sat unmoving, obviously lifeless. “What went wrong?”

“We’re not sure, mistress,” the sniveling scientist said. He pushed the thick frames of his glasses back up on his nose. “It should have worked. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Some of the biochemists felt it may be impossible to make a one hundred percent effective strain of the metavirus. But most of us thought that was pointless nay-saying. Obviously, there must be a way—”

Dominique threw up a hand, calling for silence. She looked over the room below. She could see a writhing mass of skin and a boy with no visible sign of hair on his body. Another woman seemed to be afire, but still moving around the room. Another boy ran his head in to the wall, over and over, with no sign of ill effect.

“How many live?”

“We still haven’t finished complete studies on some of the new lifeforms. We are sure about four while two show signs of movement but no noticeable life functions.”

“So best case scenario, we have six survivors out of twenty.”

“Yes, mistress. Which is still fifteen times the rate of normal strains of the virus. In some ways it could be considered a success.”

Dominique glared at the scientist. “This is not the kind of ‘success’ I am looking for. Clean the room; remove the survivors for isolation; and dispose of the remains in the ovens.”

“Yes, mistress. It will be done.”

Dominique nodded. This was only the first round of tests. Many more would follow. It didn’t matter to her how many died. She would know the secret even if it took a million deaths.

It will be mine. It will be mine.