Issue 08


Strange Men and Stranger Things


"And remember folks, you got to Spin! To! Win!" the host declared, the audience joining in, reciting the gameshow's title and catchphrase.

Castle grimaced in disgust as he flicked the television off. "I cannot believe you watch that crap."

David shook his head from where he was lying down on one of the beds, the mattress creaking with his every movement. "Hey now, a man needs to have his hobbies. I have my gameshows, and you got your vigilantism," he pointed out, sitting up and glancing out the half-shuttered window. It was night now, which meant it was time to get to work.

They had all been shocked to discover that Innsmouth still existed in this day and age. They had driven straight into town under the haze of rainfall, and proceeded to explore as much as they could before locating some run-down little hotel on the town's outskirts. There had been no other vehicles on the roads, and every pedestrian they had seen (and they had only seen enough people to comfortably count on two hands) had eyed their van with undisguised suspicion and contempt.

The whole town may as well have changed its name to Misery. All the buildings were grey slabs of concrete, with more than a few boarded up windows. The hotel they had found, The Gilman House, was in an utter state of disrepair. David doubted they had had any actual tenants in over a decade, if not half a century. He and Castle had checked in, making sure to tell the Corpseman to stay put in the van. They had discussed having him come along, since splitting up in this place seemed like an obviously Bad Idea, but the man refused to relinquish his gear.

Rather than argue the point, they had left him in the van and got on with their plan. Which was to lay low until late night, and then start hunting for any clues pertaining to the missing children. Apparently they were being transported up here, and since the whole community was clearly xenophobic, Castle was willing to bet they would overhear murmurs of travellers disturbing the peace if they could find some locals.

"You KNOW that show is rigged right? Crownguard ain't nothing more than a dancing monkey," the Punisher countered, unzipping his duffel bag (which the receptionist had clearly ignored, not wanting to deal with them any longer than necessary) and pulling out his pistols. Precious things, made specifically for him by one Stuart Clarke, they resembled desert eagles but lacked the ferocious recoil – some sort of stabilisers built into the grips. Castle had inspected them once when maintaining the weapons, and had instantly known that the technology was way beyond his understanding. He had a sneaking suspicion it may have even been of alien origin.

David shook his head as he got off the bed and grabbed his laptop bag. "Hey now, he's part of the show's appeal! It wouldn't be half as ridiculous without him in that golden tux!" So he had a soft spot for the dude – he had been a big shot actor in the 80s, ripping through fantasy roles and being utterly ridiculous in an awesome way. Young David Lieberman had been quite the fan. Of course age caught up with everyone, and now the Golden Knight of the Silver Screen was no more.

"Whatever you say," Frank Castle said, holstering the pistols and throwing on his trenchcoat. The black garment was heavy, weighed down with discrete armour plating to give it some level of protection against bullets. It also concealed the various armaments the Punisher had strapped to his body.

David shook his head. Typical Frank. Always ready for a gang war. "So, cruising?" he asked as they headed for the door, ignoring the peeling wallpaper.

"Cruising," Castle replied with a nod.


"Love the Emperor, for He is the salvation of mankind."

His voice was the only thing audible in the darkness. His eyes were closed, his head bowed. He was down on one knee, hands in the shape of the Imperial Aquila. His lasgun, with its golden double headed eagle mark, was resting on the opposite seat. It was as good an icon as any.

"Obey His words, for He will lead you into the light of the future."

The words were old, and familiar. They were amongst the first he could remember hearing. Every night, before heading to sleep, he and his kin would kneel in the chapel and bow their heads. Every night they would speak the words that guided their steps. Krieg would atone. They would bleed and die until the Emperor deemed them cleansed of their sin.

"Heed His wisdom, for He will protect you from evil."

But this…this was far beyond what he had ever imagined for himself. Cast adrift, isolated from the Korps. It continued to rattle him, to be so far from the Imperium, to be so far from His gaze. Even as he tried to steel his soul to continue doing his duty, he…worried. So he prayed. His lips uttered the words drilled into his mind, even as his hands trembled ever so slightly. He wished to speak to a Confessor, or even another Krieger. But he was alone.

"Whisper His prayers with devotion, for they will save your soul."

He was the only light in this dark world. He was doing as much as he could, trying to fulfil the mandate all members of the Korps – no, all members of the Guard had. The protection of humanity. He would safeguard this world, as best he could. Because he was the only one who could. The Emperor had sent him here not for anything he had done. No, He had sent him to remind the lost souls of this planet that He knew of them, that he still watched over them.

"Honour His servants, for they speak in His voice."

And he would start with the children. He would save them, as the Emperor saved humanity. That was his duty, here, in this foggy settlement. He heard the doors of the vehicle open, and the two others get in.

"Tremble before His majesty, for we all walk in His immortal shadow."

He opened his eyes and raised his head, looking at them, his prayer done. The Heretek and the Assassin. No, they had different identifiers…names. Lieberman and Castle. The Korpsman retrieved his lasgun and slung it over his shoulder. Lieberman was no more a Heretek than many guardsmen in truth. The Mechanicus frowned upon anyone but them knowing how to operate machinery, but he had seen too many lives saved by such illicit knowledge. And Castle was not part of a Death Cult, despite how he acted.

They were here though, and they were willing to assist the Korpsman in carrying out his duty. "Do we have a plan?" he asked, taking care with each word. He still wasn't quite comfortable conversing in the native tongue, or conversing in general really. But…but he was no longer part of the Korps. It was more akin to…being part of an Inquisitorial retinue. He nodded at that. Yes, he could make do with that. It was a constant battle to remind himself of that detail, but he would persevere.

"Yeah, we're going to find a bar and see what we can overhear," Castle replied, arms folded across his chest, David behind the wheel.

"A…bar?" A long pole made normally of metal?

"You know, where you get to get drunk? Alcohol?" Lieberman added.

"Ah. A casual mess hall," the Krieger replied with a nod to show he understood. He didn't, not really, but it was something he had heard of whenever the Korps had been deployed alongside other regiments.

"Uh…sure," Lieberman stated, glancing at Castle before the engine rumbled into life.

Eavesdropping…ah, that was listening of a sort. Hmm. The Korpsman could see what Castle and his ally were planning. He doubted it would work though. The agents of the enemy were cunning. And merely waiting, whilst a very guard way of approaching problems, was of no use when lives were on the line. "Maybe…a direct approach?" he offered, the van rumbling as it headed down the street, it's lights barely cutting through the fog that had rolled in.

"Wouldn't work. No one here would want to talk to us, and I'd rather not alienate the whole town just yet," Castle grunted.

Yet. The Korpsman nodded. Castle knew more about such operations than him. Best to follow his lead.


"What a dump," breathed Jules.

They had passed the half rusted WELCOME TO INNSMOUTH sign roughly twenty minutes ago, an accurate herald of what they ended up finding in town. Urban decay blighted their sight. Rusted chain link fences decorating the unkempt yards of dilapidated houses. It truly was nothing much to look at.

Next to him, Natsumii just takes in all the details. "Bertha, what can you tell me?"

"Well, the town was practically abandoned after the 1920s. The FBI conducted some kind of massive raid, arrested a large number of the residents," the blonde replied, her face lit up by her laptop screen. She glanced up, peering at the buildings around them. "No records make mention of it being resettled though."

Natsumii looked over her shoulder at their hacker. "None?"

Bertha shook her head.

The Asian woman sighed and resumed scanning their surroundings through the fog. "Great. Send a message to Agent 7 updating her of our status. Include our coordinates." A whole town just…living off the grid? Suspicious. So suspicious that if they weren't tracking the Punisher and the Corpseman she'd have had Jules drive them straight back out. Sure, maybe a clerical error of some sort had resulted in the town being removed from maps, and the isolationist locals never bothered correcting such a mistake. Or maybe something was up, and someone wanted people ignorant of Innsmouth. "Any luck tracking the van?"

"No. There's a storm moving in. You'll have to do things the old fashioned way," Bertha called out from behind them, lightly tapping her laptop. "I'm barely getting signal."

Natsumii blinked and reached for her phone. A quick check confirmed that her own device was struggling to maintain its link with the outside world. "Send our coordinates to Smithers too." Not that it would do them any good – going by his estimates it would be another thirty hours before the truck was ready to roll. Still, the more messages they sent out, the better the odds of someone actually receiving one. She tapped out a swift message and forwarded it to the man in question. "Jules, give me a roaming sweep of the town. This place isn't that big – keep an eye out for the van."

"Aye," her driver replied, and she focused her attention on their surroundings as well.

Behind him, sitting next to Bertha, agent Roberts snored lightly.


They drove for maybe twenty minutes before they found a lead, at a small bar overlooking the shingle beach the town was built next to. A large, relatively non-descript black van. Normally, it would have been inconspicuous, but they hadn't seen a single other vehicle since entering the town. Not even a pickup truck.

"What do you think?" Jules asked, pulling into the small car park whilst giving the van a clear berth. No one was actually in it from what they could see – probably in the bar itself, fishing for information. Or more likely grabbing drinks. Jules could have gone for one himself, after all the driving, but he was on the clock. The driver sighed to himself as he parked the car. A good glass of wine would have been perfect right about now.

"Numbers match, we got them," Bertha replied, typing away with one hand as she prodded Roberts awake. The agent was clearly not a field operative, having grown bored of their long journey and asking for permission to sleep before they had even left New York. Natsumii had let him, welcoming the man's deference. A few of the cubicle jockeys got uppity around the patrol teams from time to time, in the grand tradition of office rivalries – especially since the two divisions shared funding, and Fury's teams had been putting a hefty dent into that as of late.

"I thought you had no connection?" the Japanese woman asked, checking her sidearm.

"I don't, but I made sure to save a copy of the dossiers to my hard drive," their tech specialist replied, tapping her beloved laptop.

"OK. Bertha, you're mission control. Jules, with me. We're just another crew of alphabet agency grunts passing through if anyone asks. If something comes up, we go loud only on my order. Got that?"

"Got it," Jules said with a nod, checking his own sidearm before exiting the car. A glock 22, standard issue for law enforcement across the nation. The SHIELD armoury had a whole host of pistols available for agents, though Jules hardly bothered with anything heavier. If he couldn't handle it with a glock, he really shouldn't be handling it all. After all, SHIELD had quite the roster of superheroes it could call upon – let them handle the military grade threats. Such things were way beyond his pay grade. "Alright sleeping beauty, up and at 'em," he declared, banging his fist on the passenger door Robert's was lying against.

The man jerked in alarm before frowning at him in clear disapproval, but he nodded and turned to confer with Bertha. Jules shook his head. They really should've woken him before going over the plan but…well, they were used to it being just the three of them. Acclimatising to suddenly being a team of eight would take some time. He patted down his coat, shivering in the evening cold before nodding at Natsumii as she got out of the car as well. "Ladies first," he said, nodding at the door.

His boss rolled her eyes but took point. She was very much a lead-from-the-front kind of person, though SHIELD's HR department preferred the term 'reckless'. He followed her in, the faint whistling of the wind outside immediately replaced by a silence more befitting a mortuary than a bar. He noted as many details as he could from the corners of his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed forwards on the counter and an easy smile on his face.

Whatever had been happening here had instantly stopped the moment they walked in. Everyone was looking their way. A group of three fishermen having some beers, all heavy set and bearded with sallow eyes. A rat faced woman with a glass of wine and a book in her hand. Two other men, younger than the fishermen, jaundiced and wearing cheap clothes that had been repaired by hand more than once, playing darts. A bald, overweight barman, his eyes bulging as he looked over the new arrivals with barely concealed disdain.

And sitting in the corner, isolated from the other patrons, were the Punisher and Microchip. Who were staring at them.

And Natsumii was staring right back.

Jules let the smile drop from his face and sighed.


The tome floated in front of him, the pages turning as he quickly scanned the contents of each one. Now and then a passage would catch the Sorcerer Supreme's attention, and he would slow is pace to fully read the relevant information before moving on. In his hands he held his phone, swiftly copying down what he found into a neat little document he could refer to.

-Cthon – Elder God

-Limbo dweller, banished there following his reign on Earth.

-Potentially the first black magician of Earth.

-Has his own Necronomicon – the Darkhold.

-Spawned servitor species – N'Garai (labour race), Broodlings (priest race).

-Affiliated with the entities: Kierrok, Y'Garon, Whisperer.

Wong had proven invaluable, as always. His initial hunch regarding the visions of the Sorcerer Supreme had proven accurate, and he had wasted no time in acquiring the relevant tomes from amidst the shelves. The librarian had also taken care to seal them into the chamber, ensuring not only their privacy but also preventing any acolytes who maybe wandering around at this time of night from coming across something they were better off not knowing.

But as Doctor Strange read on, he felt his anxiety slowly turn into fear. Whilst he had defied a god once before, Dormmammu had been an entity native to the Dark Dimension. This…Cthon, was a native of their actual normal reality. A native that had long ago been banished true, but still a part of this world. That meant (and he had conferred with Wong about this) that no matter what wards were erected, Cthon would always have a link with Earth that could be exploited to bring it through and back from wherever it had been sent.

Prevention also seemed to be the only reliable way to deal with such an incursion as well, since information regarding Cthon's original banishment was infuriatingly scarce. Even when perusing the chained shut books Wong kept a careful watch over, they could find only the most oblique references to some sort of power that cast out Cthon (and more worryingly, "his kin") from Earth into the Limbo they now inhabited.

The book in front of him snapped shut, and drifted over to rest atop the pile of similar tomes already stacked on Wong's desk. "Alright, is there anything else you can give me Wong? Because from what I'm reading, it's in our best interests to locate the source of this pressure and deal with it as soon as possible, rather than wait for whatever this is to break through the wards and roll out the welcome mat for Cthon." A bit like explorative surgery, now that the doctor thought about it.

"Sadly no, Sorcerer Supreme. We have precious little information on many entities that dwell beyond this plane of existence," Wong replied calmly, not even looking apologetic. Strange squinted at the man, trying to see if he could pick out the faintest trace of an emotion. No quirk of the lips, no subtle shifts of eyebrows. He gave up after a moment and sighed.

"But this Cthon was…well, terrestrial for lack of a better term, wasn't he? Shouldn't there be at least some sort of evidence for his past presence? Monuments, myths, anything?" Doctor Strange listed as he began to make his way out of the library. He was grasping at straws and he knew it. If there had been anything else useful, Wong would have already told him or provided the relevant source of such knowledge. He had even asked after a copy of the Darkhold, only to be informed in no uncertain terms that the library at Kamar-Taj had never ever contained the accursed grimoire.

Not for the first time he felt a stab of annoyance at how little the sorcerers seemed to know at times. Their knowledge of magic and its application was imposing yes, but when it came to the actual threats that faced the ward? Half the time the information was hidden ro secured away in such a way that it was bound to be forgotten about, and the other half it was deliberately censored just in case someone stumbled across the book who had no business being anywhere near it's vicinity. On some level he understood, the less people that had access to such knowledge the smaller the chance of it being abused, but if it was open and free they would have been able to prepare an effective countermeasure to the threat they were now facing.

As a doctor, Strange loathed unknowns. He had applied himself to his studies specifically to answer the numerous questions he had, though each answer he found only led him to more questions. Such was the way of magic, endlessly leading one deeper and deeper into its mysteries.

Wong seemed to consider his words for a moment as he unsealed the library, opening the door to let them out before replying. "Sadly nothing that has not already been recorded in these tomes. I shall send word to the other Sanctums, but that will take time, Sorcerer Supreme."

Doctor Strange nodded. "Alright, have them gather whatever information they can and forward it to me," he ordered, marching swiftly away, his mind already working through all the possibilities. A cult? One of the servitors? Possibly. Due to the weakened nature of the ward over the past year, a…herald…of sorts of Cthon may have snuck through and begun laying the groundwork for a ritual to open a way for its master to follow.

"I shall have them send scrolls to the Sanctum Sanctorum, Sorcer Supreme," Wong assured him.

The sorcerer sighed as he held up his hand, still holding his phone. "No good, have them text me."

"Text?"

Strange paused, glancing over his shoulder back at the librarian. "You have a phone right? You know how to text?" he asked, his voice somewhat hesitant.

"Yes, Sorcerer Supreme."

Relief flashed across the man's face. "Good."


The Korpsman drummed his fingers on the body of his lasgun. His eyes were fixed on the front of the canteen Castle and Lieberman had entered, waiting for the signal.

It had been quickly established that it would be best for the soldier to keep out of sight, his dogged refusal to go without his gear making him ill-suited for what appeared to be an infiltration mission. Whilst Castle and Lieberman weren't particularly stealthy, they at least could conceal their weaponry about their persons, and their lack of gas masks made them infinitely less out-of-place in what seemed to be a sleepy and isolationist community.

So he sat in the back of the van, watching through the rear windows, ready to move. The heret- Lieberman, had assured him that everything would go fine, and that he was just being paranoid. Castle had just nodded approvingly at Wilhelm's apparent cynicism however. Danger was always just around a corner, and no one could afford to be lax in their vigilance. Hopefully Lieberman would learn this before he died.

The Krieger blinked as one of the bar window's shattered suddenly, a pair of figures flying through it. He saw the black longcoat of the Punisher, one arm clutching the neck of Lieberman's jacket, and other already reaching for his weapons.

The guardsman wasted no time. He swung the rear doors of the vehicle open and stepped out, raising his lasgun to ensure he didn't catch his two allies sprawled out on the ground. With practiced ease he flicked the weapon to its semi-automatic setting, and squeezed the trigger. Las bolts stitched their away along the front of the building, a few searing through the grimy windows. The red flashes spoilt his night vision, but he did not care. Suppressing fire was always inaccurate anyway.

He tracked his gun from left to right and back again, showering the building with fire, it's stone facing cracking and bursting apart from the heat of the bolts. There were cries of alarm and outrage from inside.

A bullet pinged off the van door next to him.

He ceased his assault, throwing himself backwards into the van once more, falling flat in the storage compartment as he heard the crack of solid projectile gunfire.


Roberts swore, his hands shaking as he squeezed off another shot at the van. Next to him, back pressed against the side of the SUV and gun also in hand, was Bertha. She had a hand raised to her communicator, and was urgently talking into it.

The SHIELD agent heard nothing of the hacker's words as he continued to fire his glock at the van, only pausing when he ran out of bullets. He set about reloading as a brief moment of peace descended on the parking lot. The Punisher was already on his feet, dragging Microchip behind him to the van.

"Freeze!" Roberts yelled at the vigilantes, taking measured breaths to stop his hand from shaking. He was aiming a gun at the god-damned Punisher. This wasn't something he was meant to do. He was a number cruncher, not a field agent!

Frank Castle didn't even slow down, merely flicking up his own pistol to open fire with an almost contemptuous disregard. With a curse, Roberts took shelter behind the solid bulk of the SUV. He was pretty sure it was armoured – Natsumii's team had been riding around in it for months, they must have upgraded it since then to better handle the kind of scrapes Fury expected them to get into.

Right?

"Natsumii and Jules are ok!" Bertha reported from next to him, smiling in relief. "Some of the civilians got hurt though. She's having Jules hang back to provide first aid." On cue, Roberts heard further gunshots, and bullets striking the van as its engine roared. Daring a glance around the edge of the SUV, the SHIELD agent saw the Punisher's vehicle lurch into motion and swing out of the parking lot, Natsumii striding out of the wreckage of the bar, her gun held in both hands as she took aim. Her last gunshot rang out as a tire exploded, the van lurching dangerously as it sped down the street.

Roberts just stared at that display of marksmanship, before being elbowed in the ribs by Bertha. "Quit gawking and get in!" the blonde ordered, yanking the rear door of the car open and hopping inside. Roberts glanced at her then back at Natsumii, who was already sprinting towards them. The man muttered another curse under his breath and dived in after Bertha, just as his boss reached the car.

They were in pursuit seconds later.


Jules heard the rumble of vehicles outside and knew that things were rapidly spiralling out of control. His hands were soaked in dark blood, the young man he was attending to thrashing and screaming in pain. A laser bolt had caught the dart player in the arm, purely by accident, and the flesh of his bicep had just…burst apart.

The SHIELD agent had grabbed whatever towels he could get his hands on and set about staunching and binding the wound, even as Natsumii had stormed out of the building, her face covered by a mask of sheer rage at the audacity of the vigilantes. She'd managed to order him to look after the civilians until the emergency services arrived before departing, and he was going to see that order carried out.

With the young man tended to, he moved onto the next injured bystander. All things considered, there were few injuries – a minor miracle in his book, considering they'd just been strafed by a laser weapon. One of the fishermen had taken a bad cut to the neck from a shard of glass, and the man seemed to be doing a good job of stifling the flow of blood. His beard probably helped. Still, Jules made his way over and knelt by the man's side, ignoring the other two who he had been sharing a drink with.

The agent muttered a few stock phrases to keep the man calm as he gently pushed aside the man's beard to check the wound.

And froze as he beheld the scales on his neck, a few torn loose around the gash that was still seeping dark red blood.

No.

Not red.

He eared back in shock as the man growled and swung a fist at him, falling onto his backside and putting some distance between himself and the…thing. "What the hell?!" Jules gasped out before the barman swung a full bottle of brandy at the back of his head.