Chapter 14: Reprisal
Volume 1: Origins
November, 23, 1:15 A.M.
Molot Boga
Molot woke in unimaginable pain. It took everything he had not to cry out. Only his years of training and anger at the mutant that crippled him have kept him conscious.
His rage and hate for the Red Hood simmered, and he wanted nothing but to tear the boy apart.
Molot Boga had been pinned inside the armored vehicle; it was mangled and deformed by whatever was sent hurtling toward them by the Hood. His arm was pinned between the seat, and he could tell by the way it was bent that it was broken; the pressure of the seat on his arm helped him not bleed out.
Glancing through the shattered window, he noticed the destruction and death. He recalled when the alert went out. He had felt confident that he alone was enough for such a target, not requesting additional support outside of what was allocated to his response team. It was to his shame he hadn't even gotten close to the boy known as Red Hood.
He turned his head, ignoring the pain that spiked from the motion. He stared over the bodies, the Hand soldiers, and the destroyed armored vehicle, now scrap metal, the exact vehicle that pinned him down. Whatever thrown weapon the Hood wielded wasn't standard; the intel said he worked alone; he wasn't a mutant, just some kid; Molot knew that to be false. He had tech, advanced tech, and a mutant.
The burning house is one of Tombstone's houses on paper; in reality, The Hands operation was under attack. Even though Tombstone was a common thug, he had still aligned himself with The Hand; knowing when to bow one's head is a talent that some never acquire.
The Hand needed money to fund their many endeavors, and one method that seemed to be lucrative in the states was drugs; the country's citizens had a fiendish craving for illegal substances, and The Hand used that to weave its way through the underworld.
He gritted his teeth as pain wracked his body. Damon Dran had faith in him, and Molot Boga was seldom to disappoint. In his missions to prove his confidence was greater than others, he had known setbacks, but never had he known defeat.
Molot Boga was a Russian Orthodox monk who was kicked out of his order for violent behavior. He used his devotion to God to fuel acts of vengeance and violence. His monastery had caught wind of his activities and sanctioned him. It was doing this that moment in his life he met Damon Dran; The man had shown him a brighter path and sponsored him inside his organization, The Hand.
Red Hood had decimated his men, dismantled them, and thrown them around like mere children; Molot Boga had noticed it; the man burned the air around him as the crushed men and women that had taken over small countries and assassinated world leaders with ease.
'Gods and Demons walk amongst us,' he had recalled those words Dran said. He was weary of the others, especially the freakishly powerful Tarantual and his hitman El Uno and the equally deadly swordsman Gorgon.
The Hand expected their soldier to deal with these freaks of nature. He needed more strength. That was his thoughts as he lay trapped in the wreckage before the blackness enclosed his consciousness.
Cole Stephens x Carl Thomas
Carl unloaded the small caliber pistol as the red cowled menace strolled forward, shells deflecting uselessly off the matte black armored suit.
Carl swallowed hard, regret filling him as his impulsiveness alerted the Red Hood to his location. He didn't let up. He unloaded and reloaded quickly, crawling backward as he continued to crawl away from the sedate pace of the Hood.
"No. Get back!" He screamed. His body spasmed uncontrollably as a powerful wave of electricity passed through him.
"I've been wondering why I hadn't got a prompt about your death." Said the Hood standing over the shivering form of Carl Thomas.
Carl gritted his teeth. Fear gripped his body and twisted his muscle, taught and raw from the powerful current of electricity. The Hood stared down at him. He, like everyone else, heard the rumors of the Red teenage vigilante, but seeing him and witnessing his prowess personally made the stories lackluster.
'Another mutant,' he thought through the pain. He once thought his brother was a genetic wonder, but he soon learned how wrong that was; there were others. Even if the media barely mentioned the stories, the streets would still talk.
Finally, he managed to say. "This House is under Tombstone protection. Only a fool would make a play against him."
The Hood crouched down, steely grey irises boring into his. He scrutinized the man's facial features, matching him with the blurred figures in the newly unlocked memories.
"What do you know of the Yorks murder?" Growled the Red Hood. His voice came out a deep baritone.
Carl spat. "I know you're one of those mutants. I've heard of you. The word on the streets is nobody can put you down, and they say you and that big bulletproof brother in Harlem are almost alike."
The red cowl winked out of existence. His long locs of hair tumbled loose. He hadn't paid attention to Jeremy's looks before, but after the memories, he understood he favored his mother and father equally. He had his mother's trademark steely grey eye with a slight slant, his father's solid and pronounced Caribbean jawline, and cheekbones.
Carl's brows rose, and his eyes became saucers, and he stuttered his words, realizing the implications of what just occurred; his earlier bravado drained from his eyes.
"I... I don't know anything about the Yorks. All I know is that Bro was paid to participate in the hit. Look. It's the truth. I had nothing to do with that. I can tell you about the organization you're up against." Carl said.
The Hood just stared, looking into the man's eyes.
"Pity. I had hoped a mission or something would have popped up from confronting you," he said aloud, confusing the man's features.
Carl begins to beg and please, swearing not to snitch; he even tells Cole of other drug dens—places he will hit soon as possible. The upgrade from the system was too tempting to pass up.
Allowing the dealer to spill everything he knew about his brother's operations even garnered a system prompt. He would have to check that later.
"You would have died tonight regardless, doubly so that you hurt her; I'll make sure you're death sends a message to your brother." He stood up, his cowl reappearing on his face, his voice baritone dropping to the menacing sound of the Hood.
"No. Please," Carl begged as he tried to crawl away. "Tombstone, he's like you too, twice as bad and more powerful." Was that a threat? He cocked his head to the side.
"Tombstone." He said, chuckling.
Carl frowned but continued. "That's good you heard of him. This makes what I'm trying to say much simpler. Listen, you're fucked. He will come for you, your friends, their friends, and then your family; hopefully, you don't have a pretty mother or sister, hate to see a debt placed on their heads because of your sense of duty and justice." He laughed.
The temperature rose unnaturally. Heat poured from the man like a sauna. Carl reeled back from the sudden display of power, sweat pouring from him as the outpouring of heat slowly receded.
"That angered me on a level you wouldn't imagine." It also really angered him on a level most wouldn't ever experience. It had touched upon a spot that Jeremy York had left behind.
"Unfortunately, there's isn't time to make you comprehend since you will die regardless."
Those words sent chills down Carl's spine. The Hood opened his clenched hand, and his trademark Glock settled into his waiting hand; a fitting executioner's weapon, he thought.
Carl's eyes enlarged. He couldn't believe he would die here. He had one final moment, and he imagined his brother would avenge him before a thunderous bark emanated into the night.
The sensation of a system prompt settled on him. He had killed before but never had it been personal to him before. He stared at the body as his soul's earlier turmoil doubled on, returning to normal, the turmoil of the man's presence vanishing, soothing his emotions back into the mask of indifference before turning around. His heightened hearing could already make out the sounds of sirens. Additionally, his technology-laden helm had alerted him about an incoming force of officers.
Cole Stephens
He strolled through the aftermath as he contemplated. Tombstone and the others would be a problem to take head-on. He didn't know what version of Tombstone and Tarantula he had to contend with, each potentially a heavy hitter, similar to Luke Cage and Spider-Man.
Those two did take on the likes of Spider-Man. Each held some wins under their belt.' Regardless he was part of the team that murdered Jermey York's parents. Then there were the unknown agents The Hand could have, and he needed some intel.
He revved the motor of the superbike as he sped out of the neighborhood. Concerned neighbors were outside; camera phones pointed at him as he crouched into the bike, opened the throttle, and disappeared into the night.
He had purchased it from the Shop for $77,000. MV Augusta F4 Veltro Pista. It had some slight changes; he had also purchased a stealth mode, [Depleted] promethium-titanium hull, and other minor changes that had cost him another hundred grand but robbing dealers was a lucrative business.
The Augusta F4 growled as it sped across FDR Drive. He weaved in and out of early morning commuters, and the digital clock told him it was 1 A.M.
Supernatural senses trained and honed over a lifetime of crime fights had alerted him. Jason's Todd instincts were lauded even by Batman, and he was set to be his replacement for a reason.
His left hand squeezed the front brake making the bike's back end rise before he spun the bike around on one wheel. Black, quiet, and armed to the teeth, the black hawk loomed in the sky as the mounted weapons opened up in a thunderous roar of high-caliber ammunition.
Vehicles swerved and crashed as the attacking chopper fired indiscriminately. He curled across the lanes as twin cannons bared down on him; the booming sound emanating from the destructive weaponry glowed ominously as the rapid rate of fire was like a spotlight across the FDR.
The matte black helmet he wore left side shattered. The sniper's bullet painfully snapped to the side. His left eye was gone, and the pain shorted out before it started, but he still growled loudly.
Who? He thought. He wavered and almost lost control of the high-powered motorbike. He crouched against the bike, its powerful motor thrumming inside his chest as he glanced sideways behind him; a man leaned out of the helicopter. He wore a tight-fitting suit similar to what a diver would adorn; the only part of him exposed was the lower portion of his face. The savage grin on his face irked him. The man froze as he saw Cole exposed eye to land on him.
What surprised and identified the man to Cole was the bullseye logo on the man's head—one of the most prolific street-level killers.
Bullseye is a psychopathic assassin; he uses the opportunities afforded him by his contracts to exercise his homicidal tendencies; not only does the target die, but the man is known to leave behind the bodies of victims in his sick pursuit.
'He is supposed to be a member of the Daredevil rogue gallery.' Cole thought. How much had he changed continuity, or was he unaware of Marvel's ethos?
The man supposedly lacked superpowers, but what average man could use almost any object as a lethal projectile, be it weapons like shuriken and sai or seemingly harmless objects like playing cards and pencils? His marksmanship is uncanny, at a nearly metaphysical level.
He had a sudden realization. 'Things were about to get much tougher here on out.' The psychotic assassin tipped an imaginary hat toward him and raised a rifle strapped to his shoulder, and fired on the van ahead of him, destroying the back tire and causing it to swerve across the lanes before. He heard it before he saw a family in that van.
"Bastard!" He raised himself, M1911 appearing in his waiting, ready hands as he began firing upon the black hawk.
His mind splintered into numerous tactical actions, but he only had a split second to choose a route; he chose one that would work out for the family but open him up to injury.
The black hawk dived under the highway, vanishing from his site, avoiding the unexpected damage he was causing. He sped toward that van; the husband gripped the steering wheel, eyes enlarged, and the mother was turned, reaching toward the child with her eyes on the man speeding beside them.
He looked ahead; there was a tunnel up ahead. Cars were turning around, fleeing the battle on the interstate to flee into the tunnel. This night has turned out to be a spectacle. He had to save the family; some reason he couldn't explain was telling him to help them, namely, the young girl.
He opened the throttle until he caught up with the van. The chopper emerged ahead, the copter blades whirring almost silently. He was almost sure an average human wouldn't even detect the noise it was making over the city's already considerable noise pollution. Its 50-caliber armaments glowed a menacing orange as the two twin cannon began their deadly whirling.
Bullets tore toward the family van as Cole's hand clamped on the window before leaning away, pulling the van out of the way of the ammunition. With his other hand now free, he reached out; his enhanced strength and gauntlet hand crushed the car exterior as he gripped the van, pulling it from the path as the black hawk rolled past.
Bullseye's eyes squinted in contemplation at the target on the bike. He wasn't any regular Joe Schmo. He should have asked for more money. He didn't have much to go on, but the feat he witnessed made him grin savagely. A meta. He enjoyed killing them the most; bastards didn't have to train, and some didn't need to heal longer than a day to be in top shape. He ducked back into the chopper.,
'Let's cut him off on the other side. Let's see him dodge Stark Industry heat seeker, and I bet that superbike is giving off a lot of targets!' He chuckled into the headset as the pilot went about the mercenary orders.
Cole had made sure the family was safe. He could see other cars pulling over, all gawking at him. He hadn't said much but felt terrible for his part in their horrible night.
He placed his hand on the bike, and it vanished. A sharp gasp came from behind him, and he turned to see the mother with her cell phone out; the young girl, no more than nine or ten, clutched her daddy's arms as they stood near their wrecked van.
What's with people and their need to record everything? They were shot at by a military helicopter, granted his fault, and now they were recording right after like it didn't occur. He shook his head and began to walk toward the other end of the tunnel, but before he released his drones and his mental thumb pressed on his newest reward.
The appearance of the matte black Tumbler batmobile had silenced the onlookers. He rubbed his hand down the length before the connection to his helmet synced, and the suicide door opened. Inside was compact; there was a harness that wouldn't look out of place in a sci-fi movie that gave him almost 360 range of motion inside.
[author] Sorry for the updates been in a slump with writing lately. Let me know what you think of the story. I should be able to upload three more this week depending on my work schedule [/author]