Cage watched the van doors close and shook his head. “What the hell was that about?”
“With him? Who knows,” Lieutenant Stone said. He was tall and broad, with a pair of dark glasses hiding his eyes. He wore a SWAT uniform beneath his body armor. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked over at Cage. “Used to tangle with Thor every other week.”
“Thor? Hunh.” Cage rubbed his chin. “Maybe I’m moving up in the world.” He smiled and looked at Stone. “How’s life in the trenches?”
“Same old, same old. You given any thought to my offer, Cage?” Stone slid his glasses down his nose and looked at Cage over them. “Code: BLUE could use a guy like you.”
“You couldn’t afford me, Stone,” Cage said, laughing.
Stone grunted and looked over to where Misty Knight was standing near her partner. “What about you, Misty? Ever think of coming back to the force?”
“I like being private, Stone. I get to punch who I want, without filling out reports in triplicate afterward,” Misty said.
Stone gave a bark of laughter. “Lucky woman.”
“Make my own luck, Stone.”
Felicia Hardy, the some-time thief known as the Black Cat, watched the others, nibbling on one of the Vibranium claws that tipped her glove. On the inside of her wrist, a digital timer flashed green, then began to count down. She looked at it, frowning.
Round Two had just begun, and with the new round, there was a new target, which meant she had twenty-four hours to prepare before she had to kill Luke Cage.
|
#1
OCT 09 |
 |
“Round Two”
The Rand Incorporated building loomed amongst a bevy of similar juggernauts, including Oscorp Industries, Fisk Enterprises and Stark Technology. Fluted architecture and a subtle Asian influence gave it a unique look amongst its brethren. Which wasn’t strange, really; after all, hadn’t it been designed to capture the beauty of an unearthly design with earthly materials?
Danny Rand, sometimes known as the Immortal Iron Fist, stood in front of his office window and watched the ocean of concrete and steel that was New York roll by.
“The Mongoose?” he said.
Cage, sitting in one of the over-stuffed chairs in front of Rand’s desk, nodded. “The Mongoose. Sounded like he was working for someone.”
“You annoyed anyone lately?”
“No one with the money to hire two super-hitters.”
“Joystick isn’t exactly major league,” Rand said, turning.
Cage shrugged. “Stone said she’s a thrill junkie and that Mongoose likes a challenge.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Guess he got one.”
“Lucky thing Misty and Colleen were there.”
“Yeah-hey!” Cage frowned.
Rand smiled. “Sorry. Stone get anything out of your furry friend?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, I guess we play the waiting game then. Unless you want to--”
Cage shook his head. “Nah. That’d be too much like pro-bono work.” He smiled. “I did manage to net us an extra set of eyes that might be perfect for something along those lines.”
Rand sat on the edge of his desk. “Oh?”
“Felicia Hardy.”
Rand blinked. “Hunh.”
“What?”
“Isn’t she kind of-uhm-” Rand waggled a hand.
“What?” Cage made a gesture.
“No. Not that.”
“Is she-” Cage spread his hands.
Rand shook his head. “A bit criminal, maybe?” he said, at last. “I mean, I’m not knocking her abilities or anything, but-”
“Reformed criminal.” Cage raised a finger to emphasize. “Reformed. It looks good on the news. Good publicity.”
“Maybe,” Rand said, crossing his arms.
“Besides, she’s got super-powers.”
“Yes. Crazy bad-luck super powers.” Rand rubbed his chin. “Not my idea of a necessary ingredient for a team.”
“I already hired her,” Cage said, shrugging. “Figured you wouldn’t object.”
“I’m not. I’m just-ah-” Rand shrugged. “You know?”
“No?”
“Synergy, is what I’m saying,” Rand said, gesturing to Cage, then back at himself. “Cooperative synergy.”
“That’s a made up word right there,” Cage said.
“No it’s not. I learned it in business school.”
“Then what is it?”
“Synergy. It’s-ah-” Rand made a series of complicated gestures. “Synergy.”
“Not hearing a definition, Danny.”
“It’s its own definition, Luke.” Rand hopped to his feet. “Synergy.”
“Quit saying ‘synergy’,” Cage said. His eyes widened. “Hunh.”
“What?”
“Are your windows regular glass or--”
“What?” Rand turned.
The Buick LeSabre crashed through the window and on through Rand’s desk, filling the room with a hail of glass and wood splinters.
Downtown
Misty Knight watched the Code: BLUE officers book the Mongoose, then turned her attention back to Lt. Stone.
“Seriously, when did this get built?” asked said, gesturing at the square building around them. Stone took off his glasses and hung them from his armored vest. They were sitting in Stone’s barely-there office. It was spartan, with no hint of personality. No pictures, no placards. Just concrete walls and a map of the city sagging with colored pins.
“Got finished a few months ago. Officially, it’s Experimental Detention Facility 42. We like to call it the Block.”
“Bigger on the inside than the out,” Colleen Wing said, putting her feet up on his desk. Stone nodded.
“Tesseract technology. Courtesy of a few generous investors.”
“Love them generous investors,” Misty said. She flexed her bionic arm, her fingers clicking audibly. “Two months ago, it sounded like Code: BLUE was getting the axe.”
He shrugged. “Two months is a long time in politics.”
“The rest of the team?”
“Teams of their own, now. We got two rotating shifts of six teams apiece. Not big teams, mind, but big enough to slap cuffs on some colorblind mook who just went three rounds with an off-duty Avenger.” Stone leaned back in his chair, smiling tightly. “Or, even better, arrest ‘em before they cause property damage.”
“Big dreams,” Wing said. “What’s the facility like?”
“Artificial dimensional construct.”
“A which-what?”
“Ship in a bottle,” Stone said. “That’s the way it got explained to me. All I know is that in the event of trouble, we can close the prison itself off from – well - everything.” He spread his hands. “Sounds good to me.”
“Too good to be true, almost,” Misty said. She knocked on the desk with her metal fist. “Knock on wood.”
“Yeah.” Stone rubbed his palms over his bald head. “Look, I got a budget now. Not a big one, but--”
“Stone,” Misty said. “I said no.”
“What about a consultancy?” Stone said. He leaned forward. “Look, we’re good at handling the idiots with superguns or who can run real fast, but we’re still lacking in the hurt locker department. If the Rhino or some other two-story ten tonner decides to tangle with us, there’s going to be a lot of 10-13 calls. I want to avoid that shit right from the get go.”
“So hire the Hulk,” Misty said. Stone snorted.
“Which one? They come in rainbow colors now. No, I need people with experience-”
“Like, say, Luke Cage?” Wing swung her feet off the desk and slumped forward. “Or us? How about Iron Fist?”
Stone was silent. Wing looked at her partner. Misty shrugged. Then,
“How big was your budget again?”
The Rand Building. The sub-sub-basement
Hobie Brown prowled through the streets of the Empire of Hypothetical Science, making a list and checking it twice. There were things that were probably weapons, vehicles, household appliances and other, far more esoteric, items scattered about in heaps and piles. Some of them moved, most of them made noise and all of them were dangerous.
Brown couldn’t have been happier.
A remote controlled antigravity platform followed him, and onto it he loaded anything that looked interesting.
Most of the stuff was most likely going to end up being one form or another of prototype of something people were already using. He’d already catalogued sixteen separate forms of electric conductor, and ten personal grooming appliances. Museum bait, more than anything else, but--
He stopped in front of an Egyptian sarcophagus. There was a generator built into its side. He pressed a hand to the surface, then snatched it back.
“Definitely a current going through there.” He squatted, and blew dust off of the generator. The plaque said Cavor-Randall Industries. Hobie squinted up at the bland face of the sarcophagus. “Hunh.”
Dust pattered down onto his head. He looked up. More dust. He heard a distant thud of sound, like a muffled bass beat.
“That’s odd.”
Another thud. The building groaned. Brown rubbed his chin and headed for the work-station he’d set up in the dining car of the six car train that sat on unfinished rails in the center of the Empire.
Inside, he pulled a leather case up onto his desk and popped it open, revealing a purple and green outfit. He pulled out the mask - his mask - and looked up.
The building shook again. It was obvious that something was going on. Considering who he was working for at the moment, it wasn’t hard to extrapolate potential scenarios.
None of them good.
His back twinged with phantom pain. It had been more than a year since his accident. More than a year since he had become involved in the Great Game and gotten his spine nearly snapped as a result.
If not for Spider-Man-
“Get back on the horse that threw you,” Brown said, after a moment.
A few minutes later, the cloaked shape of the Prowler bounded out of the train car and loped towards the hidden elevator that led to Danny Rand’s office.
Upstairs. Moments earlier.
A second car punctured the office window, pin wheeling out into the hall after taking out the office door and far wall.
Gale force winds tore at Cage as he clung to the floor, his fingers dug in deep. Rand, for his part, clung to Cage and tried to focus past the howling wind of the hurricane that seemed bound and determined to squeeze its way into his office.
“What the hell is going on?” Cage bellowed. His fingers cut grooves in the floor as the winds pushed him back.
“Tornado season came early?” Rand said.
“Funny!”
“Yeah?”
“No!” Cage raised a fist and pounded it through the floor, anchoring himself more firmly.
“I thought it was funny,” a voice said, as the wind died suddenly. A blue and orange blur hurtled through the open window and towards Iron Fist, who dove out of the way. He rolled to his feet as the blur made a ninety degree arc and came back towards him.
“But then, I’m a schtick comedy man, myself,” the blur said, as Iron Fist rolled aside. Gouges appeared in the patch of floor where he’d been standing and the blur came to a stop, revealing a lithe figure in a blue and orange bodysuit, with a snarling tiger’s face for a head.
“Flying Tiger’s the name, winning points for offing your butt is my game,” the former blur said. He flexed clawed fingers.
“Not if I get to him first, mon ami,” a blonde man dressed in white and blue said as he walked through the shattered window, supported by swirling winds. “Allow me to introduce myself…I am Cyclone and I will be killing you today, Iron Fist!”
“What?” Iron Fist said. He held up his hands. “Whoa, time out. Do I know either of you?”
“Nope,” Flying Tiger said, darting forward, claws outstretched. “Don’t need to either. Nothing personal, you understand-”
A car door skidded through the air and struck him in mid-leap, sending him tumbling.
“Oh good. I hate when things get personal,” Cage said.
“Oh this won’t do,” Cyclone said, gesturing. A miniature tornado looped forward, coalescing out of nothingness and struck Cage, spinning him up and carrying him backwards. Iron Fist leapt forward, his fist heading for Cyclone’s face. Another burst of wind caught him and sent him off course and slamming into a wall.
“You own this building, non?” Cyclone said. “It must be nice to be so wealthy, oui? How would you feel if I tore it apart, brick by brick?”
“How about you don’t?” Rand asked, struggling against the wind. “I paid a lot for this building.”
“C’est la vie,” Cyclone said. The building shook. He smiled. “You would not believe how easy it is to scoop up these cars, mon ami.”
Cage pried himself out of a cubicle and charged back towards Rand’s office. Winds buffeted him and Flying Tiger swooped towards him again.
“At ease, soldier,” the criminal said, grabbing at Cage. “This ain’t your dogfight.”
“Hell it ain’t,” Cage said, grabbing the other man’s wrists and trying to drag him down. Flying Tiger kicked him in the head and Cage stumbled, but did not release his grip.
Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat, sat on top of the Fisk Tower and watched a number of midsize suburban automobiles penetrate the length of the Rand Building. Chin balancing on her palm, she let her claws play across the brick.
It had been boredom, mostly. Mostly.
The Great Game was exciting, oh yes. Dozens of super-powered opponents, involved in contests of varying length and difficulty. She looked at her claws, thinking of some of the things she had done in the past few months. In Europe, mostly. In Mexico. Monte Carlo.
God, hadn’t that been--
She closed her eyes, pushing the thoughts aside. She concentrated on what was going on in front of her. She wasn’t planning on getting involved. Not this time. If she did, she’d be disqualified for sure. Cage wasn’t the target.
So Hardy sat and watched. She didn’t doubt that Cyclone and the Tiger would get a drubbing. They’d been picked to provide an interesting fight, but nothing more. While the Tiger was a team-player, for the most part, the Frenchman was anything but.
Thoughts of Monte Carlo came back and Hardy hissed. It had taken her two hours to swim to shore. Bastard.
She sighed and settled back on her haunches. Cage was going to be difficult. He wasn’t an idiot. If she came at him straight on, he’d take her down and worry about the why of it later.
“Strategizing, kitty cat?”
Hardy whirled, claws telescoping to their full, gleaming length. The barrel of a pistol tapped her nose. She looked up at into a dead white face.
“You.”
“Me.” The owner of the face stepped back, the pistol disappearing beneath a trench coat. “Smile.” He pointed up to a floating sphere. “You’re on candid camera.”
“Figures. I hope they’re providing good commentary.” Hardy settled back, but didn’t sheath her claws. She turned away from her visitor.
“Oh, the best.”
“Why are you here?”
“As a reminder, that’s all. Keep your nose out of this one.”
“No worries there,” Hardy said.
“I’m not worried.”
Hardy turned back, but the man was gone. The camera remained, however. She blew it a kiss.
The Prowler braced himself as the building gave another shudder. The private elevator pinged open and he sprang out. The wind struck him like a fist-a series of fists-and he rolled with it, bounding to his feet as he struck a wall. He clung to the wall, and rotated his head, trying to find the cause of the typhoon-strength winds.
Ah. There.
He’d read up on Cyclone when he’d worked for Silver Sable. The Wild Pack had gone up against the Maggia a few times in Europe, and Cyclone had been a Maggia operative; one of their most well-known, in fact. He’d been the super-villain equivalent of a rock star. Brown had never gone up against him, but a few of his acquaintances had. The stories hadn’t ended well.
Iron Fist was avoiding furniture, glass and assorted debris, literally dancing through the maelstrom towards the white-sheathed form of Cyclone, but he wasn’t going to get there anytime soon, Brown saw. No matter how skillful, it was impossible to fight something you couldn’t touch. Couldn’t hit.
Cage was in a similar bind. While he had a grip on Flying Tiger, there was no way he could get to Cyclone. Which meant it was up to Hobie Brown, man of a thousand interests.
Luckily, he’d planned for this occasion, back when he was contemplating a career in amateur vigilantism. How do you fight something you can’t touch?
Don’t try and touch it.
Clinging to the wall, he dug a hand into his satchel belt and pulled out a handful of compact gel-spheres. He squeezed them, letting the shock coils in his gauntlet warm them up just enough to begin the dissolution process. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he let the winds take the whole bunch.
Cyclone, just like his namesake, created a vortex of air. He used the currents that circled his thin form like tentacles or barriers as need warranted. But regardless, he was the aleph. The air always circled back to him.
The gel-spheres, warmed into a semi-liquid state and disintegrated, and in the process re-hydrating their dehydrated contents. Cyclone didn’t notice the cloud of pepper and hot chili powder until it circled his head in a blistering halo.
The winds fell, as Cyclone stumbled, blinded and wheezing. He clawed at his face and staggered right into Iron Fist’s blow. It caught him in the midriff and lifted him up, right into a second strike that sent him sprawling into unconsciousness.
Iron Fist whirled, even as Cage drove Flying Tiger’s head into the floor with a satisfying crunch. Cage looked up at the Prowler crouching on the wall.
“Hobie.”
“Luke.”
“How’s your lady?”
“Divorced.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me about it.” Brown dropped lightly to the ground and glanced at Cyclone. “I was hoping that would work.”
Iron Fist looked at Cage and pointed at Brown. “Synergy.”
“Danny, you can’t just be taking credit for-” Luke began, but Rand crossed his arms and grinned.
“My chi is strong. Synergy.”
“You--” Luke began, then spun, his hand flashing out. His fingers fastened around a metal sphere that had been buzzing towards the unconscious villains. The camera eye oscillated and focused on Cage’s face as he looked down at it.
“What the hell is this?”
Not very far away, the Black Cat rose and stretched, running her hands through her hair. The timer on her wrist began to beep. She smiled slowly.
Round three.
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Secrets! Lies! Murder? And, the man called Paladin! Be here in thirty for ‘ROUND THREE’!
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Danny Rand, sometimes known as the Immortal Iron Fist, stood in front of his office window and watched the ocean of concrete and steel that was New York roll by.
“The Mongoose?” he said.
Cage, sitting in one of the over-stuffed chairs in front of Rand’s desk, nodded. “The Mongoose. Sounded like he was working for someone.”
“You annoyed anyone lately?”
“No one with the money to hire two super-hitters.”
“Joystick isn’t exactly major league,” Rand said, turning.
Cage shrugged. “Stone said she’s a thrill junkie and that Mongoose likes a challenge.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Guess he got one.”
“Lucky thing Misty and Colleen were there.”
“Yeah-hey!” Cage frowned.
Rand smiled. “Sorry. Stone get anything out of your furry friend?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, I guess we play the waiting game then. Unless you want to--”
Cage shook his head. “Nah. That’d be too much like pro-bono work.” He smiled. “I did manage to net us an extra set of eyes that might be perfect for something along those lines.”
Rand sat on the edge of his desk. “Oh?”
“Felicia Hardy.”
Rand blinked. “Hunh.”
“What?”
“Isn’t she kind of-uhm-” Rand waggled a hand.
“What?” Cage made a gesture.
“No. Not that.”
“Is she-” Cage spread his hands.
Rand shook his head. “A bit criminal, maybe?” he said, at last. “I mean, I’m not knocking her abilities or anything, but-”
“Reformed criminal.” Cage raised a finger to emphasize. “Reformed. It looks good on the news. Good publicity.”
“Maybe,” Rand said, crossing his arms.
“Besides, she’s got super-powers.”
“Yes. Crazy bad-luck super powers.” Rand rubbed his chin. “Not my idea of a necessary ingredient for a team.”
“I already hired her,” Cage said, shrugging. “Figured you wouldn’t object.”
“I’m not. I’m just-ah-” Rand shrugged. “You know?”
“No?”
“Synergy, is what I’m saying,” Rand said, gesturing to Cage, then back at himself. “Cooperative synergy.”
“That’s a made up word right there,” Cage said.
“No it’s not. I learned it in business school.”
“Then what is it?”
“Synergy. It’s-ah-” Rand made a series of complicated gestures. “Synergy.”
“Not hearing a definition, Danny.”
“It’s its own definition, Luke.” Rand hopped to his feet. “Synergy.”
“Quit saying ‘synergy’,” Cage said. His eyes widened. “Hunh.”
“What?”
“Are your windows regular glass or--”
“What?” Rand turned.
The Buick LeSabre crashed through the window and on through Rand’s desk, filling the room with a hail of glass and wood splinters.
Downtown
Misty Knight watched the Code: BLUE officers book the Mongoose, then turned her attention back to Lt. Stone.
“Seriously, when did this get built?” asked said, gesturing at the square building around them. Stone took off his glasses and hung them from his armored vest. They were sitting in Stone’s barely-there office. It was spartan, with no hint of personality. No pictures, no placards. Just concrete walls and a map of the city sagging with colored pins.
“Got finished a few months ago. Officially, it’s Experimental Detention Facility 42. We like to call it the Block.”
“Bigger on the inside than the out,” Colleen Wing said, putting her feet up on his desk. Stone nodded.
“Tesseract technology. Courtesy of a few generous investors.”
“Love them generous investors,” Misty said. She flexed her bionic arm, her fingers clicking audibly. “Two months ago, it sounded like Code: BLUE was getting the axe.”
He shrugged. “Two months is a long time in politics.”
“The rest of the team?”
“Teams of their own, now. We got two rotating shifts of six teams apiece. Not big teams, mind, but big enough to slap cuffs on some colorblind mook who just went three rounds with an off-duty Avenger.” Stone leaned back in his chair, smiling tightly. “Or, even better, arrest ‘em before they cause property damage.”
“Big dreams,” Wing said. “What’s the facility like?”
“Artificial dimensional construct.”
“A which-what?”
“Ship in a bottle,” Stone said. “That’s the way it got explained to me. All I know is that in the event of trouble, we can close the prison itself off from – well - everything.” He spread his hands. “Sounds good to me.”
“Too good to be true, almost,” Misty said. She knocked on the desk with her metal fist. “Knock on wood.”
“Yeah.” Stone rubbed his palms over his bald head. “Look, I got a budget now. Not a big one, but--”
“Stone,” Misty said. “I said no.”
“What about a consultancy?” Stone said. He leaned forward. “Look, we’re good at handling the idiots with superguns or who can run real fast, but we’re still lacking in the hurt locker department. If the Rhino or some other two-story ten tonner decides to tangle with us, there’s going to be a lot of 10-13 calls. I want to avoid that shit right from the get go.”
“So hire the Hulk,” Misty said. Stone snorted.
“Which one? They come in rainbow colors now. No, I need people with experience-”
“Like, say, Luke Cage?” Wing swung her feet off the desk and slumped forward. “Or us? How about Iron Fist?”
Stone was silent. Wing looked at her partner. Misty shrugged. Then,
“How big was your budget again?”
The Rand Building. The sub-sub-basement
Hobie Brown prowled through the streets of the Empire of Hypothetical Science, making a list and checking it twice. There were things that were probably weapons, vehicles, household appliances and other, far more esoteric, items scattered about in heaps and piles. Some of them moved, most of them made noise and all of them were dangerous.
Brown couldn’t have been happier.
A remote controlled antigravity platform followed him, and onto it he loaded anything that looked interesting.
Most of the stuff was most likely going to end up being one form or another of prototype of something people were already using. He’d already catalogued sixteen separate forms of electric conductor, and ten personal grooming appliances. Museum bait, more than anything else, but--
He stopped in front of an Egyptian sarcophagus. There was a generator built into its side. He pressed a hand to the surface, then snatched it back.
“Definitely a current going through there.” He squatted, and blew dust off of the generator. The plaque said Cavor-Randall Industries. Hobie squinted up at the bland face of the sarcophagus. “Hunh.”
Dust pattered down onto his head. He looked up. More dust. He heard a distant thud of sound, like a muffled bass beat.
“That’s odd.”
Another thud. The building groaned. Brown rubbed his chin and headed for the work-station he’d set up in the dining car of the six car train that sat on unfinished rails in the center of the Empire.
Inside, he pulled a leather case up onto his desk and popped it open, revealing a purple and green outfit. He pulled out the mask - his mask - and looked up.
The building shook again. It was obvious that something was going on. Considering who he was working for at the moment, it wasn’t hard to extrapolate potential scenarios.
None of them good.
His back twinged with phantom pain. It had been more than a year since his accident. More than a year since he had become involved in the Great Game and gotten his spine nearly snapped as a result.
If not for Spider-Man-
“Get back on the horse that threw you,” Brown said, after a moment.
A few minutes later, the cloaked shape of the Prowler bounded out of the train car and loped towards the hidden elevator that led to Danny Rand’s office.
Upstairs. Moments earlier.
A second car punctured the office window, pin wheeling out into the hall after taking out the office door and far wall.
Gale force winds tore at Cage as he clung to the floor, his fingers dug in deep. Rand, for his part, clung to Cage and tried to focus past the howling wind of the hurricane that seemed bound and determined to squeeze its way into his office.
“What the hell is going on?” Cage bellowed. His fingers cut grooves in the floor as the winds pushed him back.
“Tornado season came early?” Rand said.
“Funny!”
“Yeah?”
“No!” Cage raised a fist and pounded it through the floor, anchoring himself more firmly.
“I thought it was funny,” a voice said, as the wind died suddenly. A blue and orange blur hurtled through the open window and towards Iron Fist, who dove out of the way. He rolled to his feet as the blur made a ninety degree arc and came back towards him.
“But then, I’m a schtick comedy man, myself,” the blur said, as Iron Fist rolled aside. Gouges appeared in the patch of floor where he’d been standing and the blur came to a stop, revealing a lithe figure in a blue and orange bodysuit, with a snarling tiger’s face for a head.
“Flying Tiger’s the name, winning points for offing your butt is my game,” the former blur said. He flexed clawed fingers.
“Not if I get to him first, mon ami,” a blonde man dressed in white and blue said as he walked through the shattered window, supported by swirling winds. “Allow me to introduce myself…I am Cyclone and I will be killing you today, Iron Fist!”
“What?” Iron Fist said. He held up his hands. “Whoa, time out. Do I know either of you?”
“Nope,” Flying Tiger said, darting forward, claws outstretched. “Don’t need to either. Nothing personal, you understand-”
A car door skidded through the air and struck him in mid-leap, sending him tumbling.
“Oh good. I hate when things get personal,” Cage said.
“Oh this won’t do,” Cyclone said, gesturing. A miniature tornado looped forward, coalescing out of nothingness and struck Cage, spinning him up and carrying him backwards. Iron Fist leapt forward, his fist heading for Cyclone’s face. Another burst of wind caught him and sent him off course and slamming into a wall.
“You own this building, non?” Cyclone said. “It must be nice to be so wealthy, oui? How would you feel if I tore it apart, brick by brick?”
“How about you don’t?” Rand asked, struggling against the wind. “I paid a lot for this building.”
“C’est la vie,” Cyclone said. The building shook. He smiled. “You would not believe how easy it is to scoop up these cars, mon ami.”
Cage pried himself out of a cubicle and charged back towards Rand’s office. Winds buffeted him and Flying Tiger swooped towards him again.
“At ease, soldier,” the criminal said, grabbing at Cage. “This ain’t your dogfight.”
“Hell it ain’t,” Cage said, grabbing the other man’s wrists and trying to drag him down. Flying Tiger kicked him in the head and Cage stumbled, but did not release his grip.
Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat, sat on top of the Fisk Tower and watched a number of midsize suburban automobiles penetrate the length of the Rand Building. Chin balancing on her palm, she let her claws play across the brick.
It had been boredom, mostly. Mostly.
The Great Game was exciting, oh yes. Dozens of super-powered opponents, involved in contests of varying length and difficulty. She looked at her claws, thinking of some of the things she had done in the past few months. In Europe, mostly. In Mexico. Monte Carlo.
God, hadn’t that been--
She closed her eyes, pushing the thoughts aside. She concentrated on what was going on in front of her. She wasn’t planning on getting involved. Not this time. If she did, she’d be disqualified for sure. Cage wasn’t the target.
So Hardy sat and watched. She didn’t doubt that Cyclone and the Tiger would get a drubbing. They’d been picked to provide an interesting fight, but nothing more. While the Tiger was a team-player, for the most part, the Frenchman was anything but.
Thoughts of Monte Carlo came back and Hardy hissed. It had taken her two hours to swim to shore. Bastard.
She sighed and settled back on her haunches. Cage was going to be difficult. He wasn’t an idiot. If she came at him straight on, he’d take her down and worry about the why of it later.
“Strategizing, kitty cat?”
Hardy whirled, claws telescoping to their full, gleaming length. The barrel of a pistol tapped her nose. She looked up at into a dead white face.
“You.”
“Me.” The owner of the face stepped back, the pistol disappearing beneath a trench coat. “Smile.” He pointed up to a floating sphere. “You’re on candid camera.”
“Figures. I hope they’re providing good commentary.” Hardy settled back, but didn’t sheath her claws. She turned away from her visitor.
“Oh, the best.”
“Why are you here?”
“As a reminder, that’s all. Keep your nose out of this one.”
“No worries there,” Hardy said.
“I’m not worried.”
Hardy turned back, but the man was gone. The camera remained, however. She blew it a kiss.
The Prowler braced himself as the building gave another shudder. The private elevator pinged open and he sprang out. The wind struck him like a fist-a series of fists-and he rolled with it, bounding to his feet as he struck a wall. He clung to the wall, and rotated his head, trying to find the cause of the typhoon-strength winds.
Ah. There.
He’d read up on Cyclone when he’d worked for Silver Sable. The Wild Pack had gone up against the Maggia a few times in Europe, and Cyclone had been a Maggia operative; one of their most well-known, in fact. He’d been the super-villain equivalent of a rock star. Brown had never gone up against him, but a few of his acquaintances had. The stories hadn’t ended well.
Iron Fist was avoiding furniture, glass and assorted debris, literally dancing through the maelstrom towards the white-sheathed form of Cyclone, but he wasn’t going to get there anytime soon, Brown saw. No matter how skillful, it was impossible to fight something you couldn’t touch. Couldn’t hit.
Cage was in a similar bind. While he had a grip on Flying Tiger, there was no way he could get to Cyclone. Which meant it was up to Hobie Brown, man of a thousand interests.
Luckily, he’d planned for this occasion, back when he was contemplating a career in amateur vigilantism. How do you fight something you can’t touch?
Don’t try and touch it.
Clinging to the wall, he dug a hand into his satchel belt and pulled out a handful of compact gel-spheres. He squeezed them, letting the shock coils in his gauntlet warm them up just enough to begin the dissolution process. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he let the winds take the whole bunch.
Cyclone, just like his namesake, created a vortex of air. He used the currents that circled his thin form like tentacles or barriers as need warranted. But regardless, he was the aleph. The air always circled back to him.
The gel-spheres, warmed into a semi-liquid state and disintegrated, and in the process re-hydrating their dehydrated contents. Cyclone didn’t notice the cloud of pepper and hot chili powder until it circled his head in a blistering halo.
The winds fell, as Cyclone stumbled, blinded and wheezing. He clawed at his face and staggered right into Iron Fist’s blow. It caught him in the midriff and lifted him up, right into a second strike that sent him sprawling into unconsciousness.
Iron Fist whirled, even as Cage drove Flying Tiger’s head into the floor with a satisfying crunch. Cage looked up at the Prowler crouching on the wall.
“Hobie.”
“Luke.”
“How’s your lady?”
“Divorced.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me about it.” Brown dropped lightly to the ground and glanced at Cyclone. “I was hoping that would work.”
Iron Fist looked at Cage and pointed at Brown. “Synergy.”
“Danny, you can’t just be taking credit for-” Luke began, but Rand crossed his arms and grinned.
“My chi is strong. Synergy.”
“You--” Luke began, then spun, his hand flashing out. His fingers fastened around a metal sphere that had been buzzing towards the unconscious villains. The camera eye oscillated and focused on Cage’s face as he looked down at it.
“What the hell is this?”
Not very far away, the Black Cat rose and stretched, running her hands through her hair. The timer on her wrist began to beep. She smiled slowly.
Round three.
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Secrets! Lies! Murder? And, the man called Paladin! Be here in thirty for ‘ROUND THREE’!
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