Marvel Prime 009

When Kitty Pryde arrived at Steve Rogers's house late the next morning, she found him up on a ladder, emptying dead leaves out of the gutters. She grinned, called hello, and held the ladder steady while he finished the last fifteen feet that he hadn't done yet.

"Thank you, Kitty," he said as he put the ladder away. "I decided that, since Kurt is being such a good Samaritan, I should start on the maintenance right away.

"Unfortunately, this is about all I'm sure that I know how to do…."

"What else were you going to do?" she asked, looking around. "Yard's clean, grass won't need mowing until spring, somebody already raked up the leaves."

"I thought about furnace maintenance— I did it at home, I was small enough to get into places my dad couldn't— but after one look at the thing in the basement that I'm… pretty sure is the furnace? No.

"I do like the control for it. I found that, and turned it up. The numbers are big and easy to read.

"There's one thing I hope you can teach me right away, though."

"What's that?" Kitty asked.

"It says 'Mr. Coffee' on the machine in the kitchen, but that's no percolator I ever saw," Steve said. "Do you know how to work a Mr. Coffee?"

Kitty laughed and followed Steve inside. She found that there were filters for the machine, but no coffee. In fact, no perishables at all.

"What did you do for breakfast?" Kitty asked. She then smacked herself in the forehead. "I forgot to leave you the money. Well, it's in my backpack, so that's easy to fix.

"Did you have breakfast?"

"No, but that's okay, so long as I get a big lunch." Steve looked thoughtful. "Is there a market close by? And a butcher's shop?"

"There's a Key Foods not too far off, come on, we'll do a little shopping." Kitty grinned, then said, "But you have to promise not to go ballistic— sorry, get upset— at the prices, or at least not to say anything about it, you know, loudly. I looked up the inflation rate last night before bed, and things have, on the average, gone up thirteen hundred percent, Steve."

"Thirteen hun— holy cats, that's… gosh, that'd make a loaf of bread… around two and half dollars." Steve looked scandalized. "What are wages like?"

"Not really comparable," Kitty admitted. "Come on, we'll talk while we walk."

They did talk a good deal, and Kitty introduced Steve to a couple of schoolmates— not really friends, she was a grade ahead of them in most things, despite being the same age— that they ran into on the way.

Neither Peter Parker nor Mary Jane Watson seemed to find anything odd about Steve, whom Kitty introduced as "An out-of-towner that I took pity on when I ran into him while he was trying to figure out the subway schedule."

"You poor man," MJ said, smiling. "I've lived here my whole life, and I still get confused trying to read a subway schedule, let alone a subway map."

"Kitty's taking good care of me," Steve said. "Which is… a good thing." At the kids' odd looks, he decided to try the story he'd worked out on them. "I was raised Amish. Strict Amish, in a settlement well away from any non-Amish folks. I left the faith after rumspringa— that's when Amish kids are given a chance to experience 'the real world.' I stayed with my great-grandfather for the last few years. Which still didn't prepare me for the modern world— Grandfather was very old fashioned, owned nothing made after World War II at all.

"I can't even figure out how to make coffee out here in the big world."

"And you came to New York after that upbringing?" Peter said, raising an eyebrow. "You're either brave or crazy, Steve. Or maybe, you know, some of both."

Kitty snorted, covered her mouth, then stage-whispered, "It's both, I'm pretty sure.

"Anyway, we need to go shopping, the poor man has no groceries, not even any coffee. See you guys later."

"At school, if nothing else," Peter said. He offered his hand to Steve and said, "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Just Steve, please, or I call you Mr. Parker."

Peter laughed and said, "You win, I'm not old enough to be mister. Except when I'm in trouble with a teacher, anyway."

"Nice meeting you," Mary Jane said. "Don't let Kitty drive you totally insane."

Kitty and Steve continued towards the grocery store, and after they'd gone a few paces, he asked, "Have you ever seen her dance?"

"Who, Mary?" Kitty asked. "Well, not really. Just at school dances and stuff. Why?"

"I assumed she's a professional dancer, or training to be one," Steve said. "I've never seen anyone that graceful in my life.

"Don't get me wrong, Kitty, you're graceful, and I'd love to see you dance, but Mary… I'm pretty sure my mom would've liked to see her dance, and Mom loved the ballet."

"Okay, well, so far as I know, Mary doesn't take dance lessons, though I guess she is awfully graceful, I just never really noticed it before you said something," Kitty said. Then she gave Steve a playful glare and said, "Now, how the heck did you know that I dance?"

"Oh, come on," Steve said. "You're very graceful, Kitty, and it's not just the kind of graceful that comes from knowing how to fight— it's more than that, so I knew you had to dance."

"Are you that… aware of how people move all the time?" Kitty asked.

"Since the Super Soldier experiment, yes," Steve said. He looked thoughtful. "It got stronger after I learned to fight myself, too."

"Neat," Kitty said. She snickered a little, looked sideways at Steve and said, "But I don't think you're ready to see me dance yet, Steve. Dance has changed a lot in the last sixty-eight years, and I'm pretty sure that it'd shock you out of your socks."

"Ah," Steve said, and he blushed pink. "So it's like the… clothing styles, I guess, and has gotten more, uh, permissive?"

"Yeah, that's it in a nutshell," Kitty agreed. "Okay, there's the store. Listen, let's just get everything you need for a couple of weeks, then we'll cab it back. Easier than a trip every couple of days."

They did that, and Steve managed to keep his complaints about prices down to a mutter, though he did roll his eyes and shake his head a lot.

On the way through the checkout, Kitty spotted a newspaper rack, saw the Times, and grabbed one. She hadn't thought about it yet— her morning had been taken up with chores and talking to her mother before going to see Steve— but she wanted to know if there was anything about the Nazis that Steve had captured the night before.

She checked through the paper on the cab ride to Steve's place, found it on page four of the front section; Neo-Nazis in possession of stolen weapons claim capture by Captain America.

She read it, and snorted. The reporter was treating it as a joke, especially since there were also claims of a "ninja ghost" that helped with the capture.

"Well, your first press notice in modern times wasn't exactly a big deal," Kitty said once they were in Steve's kitchen. He was putting away groceries— Kitty left it to him, since he'd be the one who needed to find them— while she glanced at the news. "The skinheads reported that a man who the world thinks is dead and a ghostly ninja took them down, so it's being treated as a joke."

"That's actually something of a relief," Steve said. He'd finished everything but the coffee, which he rather pointedly left on the counter. "I'm not ready to go back to active duty just yet, I want some time to adjust to this time, learn some things… like how to make coffee."

Kitty laughed, asked how many cups he was likely to drink, and showed him how to make coffee with the modern machine.

Steve definitely liked the speed of the coffee maker, and he soon enough sat down across from Kitty at the kitchen table with a cup. He inhaled deeply with his nose over the cup, smiled, sipped, and made a sound of appreciation. "Mr. Coffee is a definite friend of mine.

"So, Kitty… two concerns: How do I go about catching up, and what the heck is going on with you turning into a ghost?"

"Let's deal with the easy one first," Kitty said. "Steve, you aren't stupid, that's really obvious. Also, this place has cable, and the modem in the living room is active, so I think the best way to catch you up would be a mix of the internet and a directed reading list."

"What's 'the internet.' Kitty?" he asked. "Sounds like an international fishing treaty to me."

Kitty laughed and said, "There's no easy way to explain it, I don't think, but basically, it's a… okay, it's a communication network that is very nearly completely automated, and it allows you to not just communicate with others, but to access a whole bunch of information, more than you'd believe."

"How do I access the internet?" he asked.

"For that, we'd need to buy you a computer." Kitty thought for a moment, then said, "I think a desktop would be better at first. Bigger keyboard, things like that."

"Is it expensive?" Steve asked.

"Not really." Kitty looked thoughtful, then said, "Okay, yeah. Computer. Let's go, there's a computer store only a few blocks away, and Kirby's is having a Black Friday sale."

"Wait, I have a better idea," Steve said. "You go get the 'computer,' I'll stay here and fix lunch. You will join me for lunch, I hope?"

"Sure, thanks,' Kitty said. "I'm not a picky eater, so whatever you're having is fine."

"Uh, no pork, right?"

"Pork's fine, I'm not really a practicing Jew. I wear the Star because of my heritage, not religious convictions."

"Oh, okay." Steve smiled. "I make a mean bacon cheeseburger."

"Sounds good," Kitty agreed. "I should be back in half an hour, forty minutes at the outside."

Kitty bought a good "utility computer," and, since Kirby's was an "official outlet," added a Kindle reader, as well. She added a couple of hundred dollars in Amazon gift cards so that she could load the device with books on contemporary history, then spotted a display of how-to books. She grabbed one about computers and one about the internet, after flipping through them and discovering that they were heavily illustrated with actual screenshots.

She took a cab to Steve's place, he carried in the computer components, she gave him the ten-thousand-plus dollars that remained of Klein's ill-gotten cash, and they ate lunch before she set the machine up while he looked at the book on computers.

Kitty wasn't surprised when, after she'd turned on the computer and registered the various necessary programs, made him an email account, gone to Amazon and started an account there, including starting a credit account for the Kindle with the gift cards, and then turned the machine off, Steve was able to turn everything on with no mistakes or signs of impatience.

"Excellent," Kitty said. "Did the book tell you how to start the Windows tutorial?"

Steve nodded, referred to the computer book briefly, and did so. While he did that, Kitty registered the Kindle she'd grabbed, connected it to the Amazon account she'd started for Steve, and started grabbing history books. She went with Churchill's history of World War II, then started looking for others to fill in the gaps. It took a while, since she was trying hard to avoid political bias, and when she decided that she had enough, she looked up to find Steve looking at a Google results page on which he'd searched… oh.

From the look on Steve's face, she assumed that he'd searched for his parents names. As she watched, he sighed and leaned back. "I knew they had to be dead," he said quietly. "But… well, I had to know. I'm not going to read the articles— I know all I need to know."

"I'm impressed," Kitty said, trying to lighten the mood. "Googling already. You're learning computers better than any other… you were nineteen when they made you into Captain America, so… you're learning better than I would have expected for a ninety year old man."

Steve snickered, looked at Kitty, and said, "Thanks. I think." He looked at the Kindle in her hand and said, "What's that?"

By the time she'd taught him to use the Kindle— the device fascinated him, especially when he realized that she'd put more than eight thousand pages of material on the reader (the Churchill books alone were almost five thousand pages)… and not used any significant portion of its memory.

"Okay," Steve said. "At this point, I think I'm mostly okay, so if you want to go and hang out with your friends, or your mother, or girlfriend, I'll be okay."

"Mom's gone to work already," Kitty said, "And Illyana won't be home until four, which is still an hour off." At Steve's questioning look, she said, "Her family all goes off and does something together every Saturday afternoon. They were going to see Anna Karenina today, no surprise there."

"All right then," Steve said. "Let's talk about you being a ninja ghost."

Kitty laughed, then said, "Okay, okay. I did try to 'go ghost' last night, and it worked. I walked through my closet door. Didn't feel sick after, either, like I did after the last time last night."

"Can you do it now?" Steve asked.

Kitty smiled, got up, and walked through the chair she'd been sitting in. "That's a yes, in case you were wondering."

"Golly," Steve said, shaking his head. "That's pretty amazing.

"I remember the one with all the hair, he acted like it hurt when his hand went through you. Can I try that, see if it hurts me?"

"Uh, if you're really sure that's a good idea, sure," Kitty said, and she held out her arm. "It's still ghosted. I kind of like that I don't look ghostly when I do that."

"It may come in handy, yes," Steve said, nodding. "There's a definite tactical advantage to it." He reached out cautiously and waved his hand quickly through Kitty's hand— a sight that he found almost as disconcerting as the sudden pain that resulted. "Ow."

"You okay?" Kitty asked, watching as Steve flexed his hand a couple of times, then shook it.

"Yes, the pain wasn't awful," Steve said. "And it's already diminishing. It felt like… like a mix of a muscle cramp and really bad pins and needles."

"Okay, well, I'm not about to try to ghost through your head, then," Kitty said.

"Thanks." Steve grinned, then said, "Hey, you said 'it's still ghosted,' a minute ago. Can you just ghost parts of yourself?"

"Yeah," Kitty said. "It's a little more… I have to concentrate more, but I can do just part of me."

"Interesting." Steve grinned a little and said, "You want to see if we can't figure out more of what you can do?"

Kitty liked that idea, and before she left at four— she claimed she was going through "girlfriend withdrawal"— they discovered that she could, with a bit more concentration, ghost through Steve without hurting him, that she could ghost him, too, so long as she was touching him, though that tired her out very quickly, and one other thing, one that left her delighted.

"Uh, Kitty?" Steve said after she'd let go of him, returning him to solid, but not herself. He looked at her a little oddly. "I think we found a new power."

"What new power?" she asked. "Are you okay, because—"

"I'm fine," Steve assured her hastily. "But… you do realize that I'm standing up— and you're looking me in the eyes?"

Kitty blinked, looked down— and saw that she was standing in the air, about a foot above the ground. "Omigod, I can fly!"

Turned out that she was mistaken— but she could walk on thin air as easily as any solid surface, and that was enough for her.

"Okay, now I'm definitely putting myself out there as a superhero." Kitty grinned. "Ghost Girl? No, too fifties— sorry!"

"That's okay," Steve chuckled. He sobered a little, then said, "Kitty, this isn't a game, you know."

"I know that," Kitty said. "Steve, I honestly thought I was going to die, yesterday. Twice. So I know, really-down-deep know that this isn't a game or a… a decision to make lightly.

"But I also know that I can't just… stand around, not while I have the power to make a difference. I don't know if it will ever happen, Steve, but if I can keep just one kid out there somewhere from having to hear that her dad's dead, that he died because he refused to help some asshole criminal launder the money he made off of selling drugs to kids, off of prostituting women and girls, off of protection rackets and illegal gambling and— and off of doing the wrong thing?

"If I save just one kid from that, then it's worth the scared and the hard work, and anything short of being killed myself. Which I'm not gonna let happen, because I love my Mom, and I love Illyana, and I think you might be the big brother I never had before, and I haven't even met Spider-woman, let alone Iron Man, whose suit has to be computer controlled, so I'm gonna be all sorts of careful, or I'll never get to ask to see the code for it.

"But I'm gonna be a superhero, and that's all there is to it."

Steve stared for a long moment, a slightly stunned look on his face— then he laughed. "Okay. All right, Kitty. I won't interfere, and if I can help, I will.

"Hey… ghostly…. You know, if you wanted to call yourself the Spirit of Seventy-six, I could maybe use a sidekick."

"Oh, god, no," Kitty groaned, rolling her eyes. "Partner, maybe, sidekick, never— and I will not be the Spirit of Seventy-six, no way."

"Okay," Steve said, holding up his hands in surrender. Then he grinned and said, "And don't think I didn't hear the compliment you slipped into that rant, Kitty.

"I could stand to have the little sister that I never got to have before, too."

"All right, then," Kitty said, and she looked at her watch. "It's almost four, I'm gonna go. You get stir crazy or something, give me a call. Oh, and here." She scribbled down the email address she'd made for him, and said, "When you get to the chapter on email in the internet book, you already have an email address, I had to make one for the Amazon account that you need to use the Kindle. And mine's below it, send me an email with any questions you have, or just to try it out.

"Remember, if you try the microwave, it's a one thousand watt model, and you never, ever put metal in it."

"I'll remember," Steve promised. He looked at the paper and laughed. "Okay, I like my email address, thanks. 'Shield_Slinger ' that's great." He read hers and snorted. "And yours is good, too. ' .David , that's cute."

"You actually know what a shuriken is?" Kitty said. "I'm impressed."

"Part of my training was learning martial arts from some Japanese-Americans," Steve said, nodding. "So, yes, I know about throwing stars."

"Cool." Kitty hesitated, then said, "I'm gonna tell Illyana that I got super powers, Steve. Can I tell her the whole story?"

Steve hesitated, then said, "I'd like to meet Illyana for myself before I decide that, Kitty, if that's okay."

"We can do that," Kitty agreed. "We're planning on renting a movie and going to my place, to order pizza and watch whatever, so we can stop by here on the way to the movie rental place. In about an hour, maybe?"

Steve agreed, and turned to the computer to do more looking around on the internet.

A while later, the doorbell rang and he glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen, blinked, frowned, and went to answer the door. It was Kitty, and she had another girl with her, taller, with long, straight blonde hair and icy blue eyes.

"Hello," Steve said. "Come in, ladies. I had no idea it was so late. I started looking up things on the internet, and I would have sworn I'd only been at it for twenty minutes or so."

"The internet is a time warp," Kitty said sagely. "Happens to us all, sooner or later.

"Introduction time: Steve Rogers, refugee from the Amish way of life, this is Illyana Rasputin, excellent dancer, decent martial artist, and my girlfriend. Illyana, Steve's a super-nice guy, probably because of the old-fashioned, and he makes a mean bacon cheeseburger."

They shook hands, and Steve offered the girls a seat, got them a can of soda each, and they talked for a few minutes, mostly about the possibilities of the internet and about the martial arts that Kitty had started teaching Illyana.

After a very short time, Steve caught Kitty's eye and said, his voice level. "I like your girlfriend a lot, Kitty, and I'd be horribly uncomfortable with asking you to lie to her on my account. Tell her the truth— with me here to demonstrate certain things, that will be a lot easier."

Kitty looked at Steve intently for a moment, then nodded and said, "Okay. Thanks, Steve." She turned to Illyana and said, "Steve's no refugee from an Amish community, 'Yana, he's a refugee from the year nineteen forty-four.

"That warehouse I went into last night, it wasn't just any warehouse— that jackass Klein picked it for a reason, Illyana, it has a history that's pretty significant to the Nazi movement…."

Half an hour later, Illyana stared as Steve picked up the couch she and Kitty were sitting on, did so casually, and without visible effort. He then showed her his shield and costume— and Kitty showed off her own powers, as well.

"Bozhe moi," Illyana exclaimed when Kitty walked them both through the time-tossed hero. "Katherine Anne Pryde, only you could possibly set out to get evidence of wrongdoing on a bunch of skinheads— and come out of it with super-powers and Captain America for a friend!"

Kitty cracked up, Steve laughed heartily, and the girls left a few minutes later. Steve decided that he didn't trust the internet and his time sense, and made supper for himself before going back to his research.

He ended up staying up until midnight, despite turning off the computer at nine. After he showered and got ready for bed, he decided to read for a while— and Winston Churchill's history of World War II caught him completely.

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"Jake, I'm telling you, this guy's got something going on."

Jake Liefeld sighed and said, "Bobby, you're my little brother and I love you, but come on— how many times have I told you that there ain't no super-criminals in the world anymore, haven't been since World War II, and yes, I know there are superheroes now.

"Just because there are superheroes doesn't mean that there are supervillains, okay, Bobby?"

"Jake, I saw the guy pick up the Keller brothers— one in each hand— and throw them across Sully's Bar and grill, from the front door clear through the rest room doors." The younger man shook his head in a mixture of awe and admiration. "We're talkin' forty feet, here. And John and Joe Keller are a solid two-fifty each."

"And a guy who can do that wants to hire you?" Jake said, looking skeptical.

"No, Jake, he wants to hire us— package deal or no deal." Bobby Liefeld grinned hugely as he added, "Everybody knows there ain't nobody can figure odds like you can, Jake, and that I'm the only runner never been picked up by the cops."

Mostly because no cop would believe anyone would ever trust a moron like you to take thousands of dollars from one room to another, let alone clear across the Boroughs, Jake thought. You're so stupid you don't even know you're stupid, and that takes doing, considering everyone but me tells you you're an idiot every time they see you.

"Okay, okay," Jake sighed. "Where did he want to meet?"

"Murdock's Bar and Grill, down in the Kitchen," Bobby said. "He said he'd buy a meal if we just showed up and let him make his pitch."

"Murdock's?" Jake grinned. "Okay, you should have told me that first, Bobby— I'd go listen to somebody read the tax code for a meal at Murdock's."

Half an hour later, Jake and Bobby Liefeld went strolling into Murdock's Bar and Grill in Hell's Kitchen, or, as many called it these days, Midtown West. The area had cleaned itself up a lot since the early nineties, and wasn't any sort of rough neighborhood, not any more.

Murdock's Bar and Grill stood on 46th Street just a half a block from where 12th Avenue ran alongside the Hudson River, and the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum. The place didn't look like much from the outside, since it sat in a basement under H&H Bagels, with only a simple neon sign that said "Murdock's" pointing down to the entrance. Inside, though, the place was spotlessly clean, decorated in rich, dark wood paneling halfway up the walls, painted a subdued shade of red along the top half. The tables were big, the chairs and booths comfortable, the bar fronted not by stools, but tall captain's chairs.

The smells hit you immediately. Murdock had a back area that was sealed off from the rest of the place by a highly functional air curtain, and he allowed smoking back there. (He got away with it by calling the back room a "private club." Membership was a buck a year— but it was still private, so he could allow smoking there.) The smell didn't waft up front, the ventilation systems were separate, but somehow, even the non-smoking areas of the bar always had a hint of pipe tobacco. Not enough to overwhelm, and some people didn't even smell it under the smell of food, but it was there.

The food smells… Murdock's didn't offer a fancy menu— as close as they came were a roast beef sandwich and a steak sandwich, both served au jus— but the food was all great. The hamburgers could not be beat anywhere, not for Jake's money, and he'd never heard anyone complain about anything.

The other catch was that the owner— Matt Murdock, who'd opened the place up after his law practice went broke— was some kind of… magical guy, or something. He was blind as a bat, and had one gimpy leg, had been that way since an accident when he was thirteen where he shoved an old man out of the way of an out-of-control truck carrying chemical waste. A spill of the materials had cost him his eyesight, the truck clipping his hip had made sure he'd never walk without a cane again— but he could still toss out even the most stubborn and obnoxious of drunks by himself.

The magical part was that you couldn't come into the place packing a weapon of any sort without Murdock knowing. Pistols, knives, brass knuckles, garrotes, even rolls of pennies— the guy knew you had them and wouldn't let you sit down until you turned them over to the bartender. He never called the cops, no matter how illegal what you were carrying might be, but you didn't get it back until you left. Period.

Jake and Bobby both knew the drill. Even though the place was mostly empty this far from regular meal times— it was a little after three— they went straight to the bar, where Jake handed the bartender the small pistol he carried and his knife, and Bobby handed over the short steel weight— about the size and weight of a roll of nickels— that he favored, and the bartender thanked them.

They sat at a table in the back, and didn't wait long. They'd only ordered a beer and a soda, hadn't even received their drinks, when three men came in, two of them slender-but-not-skinny, plainly bodyguard-types, the last short, rather stocky, and immaculately dressed. The two bodyguards wordlessly turned over their guns, a knife apiece, and a collapsing baton apiece. They stayed at the bar while the short man started walking towards the table where Jake and Bobby sat. He hadn't reached them when the door between kitchen and bar area opened, and Matt Murdock himself appeared there.

"Excuse me, sir," Murdock called. "I'm going to have to ask that you leave your walking stick with the bartender."

The man turned to Murdock and said in a surprisingly deep voice, "I beg your pardon, sir? This is not a weapon."

"Uh-huh," Murdock said, shaking his head in annoyance. "Sure. Except that it smells of ozone and battery acid. It's a touch-taser, I believe.

"You leave it with the bartender or you leave my establishment, sir. We both know that you don't need it to walk, so don't try that one on me— I'm a gimp, I know how gimps walk, and you aren't a gimp.

"Stick at bar— or take your business elsewhere."

For a long moment, the well-dressed man simply stood in place, his eyes slightly narrowed. Then he sighed exaggeratedly, strode to the bar and handed the bartender his walking stick, a simple black rod topped with what looked like a crystal of some sort.

"Someday, you must tell me how you do that, Mr. Murdock," the man said as the bar owner nodded graciously and started to turn away.

"You wouldn't want to try it," Murdock said over his shoulder. "I doubt you could learn the trick without being willing to blind yourself."

The door to the kitchen swung shut, and the man that Jake and Bobby had come to meet finally came to the table and sat down opposite the older of the two. Jake looked him over for a moment, decided that whatever else the guy was, he was a serious player, and said, "You wanted to offer me a job, I hear."

The man smiled— a bit stiffly, but all of his round features seemed rather stiff— and drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, five-six or so. His bald pate gleamed as he nodded and said, "In a moment. I did promise to buy you a meal for simply listening to me, and the air does smell delightful. Let's order first."

The waitress approached, and the stranger let Jake and Bobby order first. Bobby ordered a steak sandwich, Jake a Knockout Burger, and the stranger a Rope-a-Dope sampler. They all three watched the waitress sashay tantalizingly away— she was tall, fit, and built to make a man drool, with black hair that fell in near-ringlets halfway down her back— then turned to business.

"My name," the small man said, "is Wilson Fisk. I am attempting to bring order to the criminals of this city. Over the last fifteen years or so, the many and diverse ethnic groups have all been taking over their own areas of expertise, and going to war with each other over territory and… shall we say the right to operate in an area.

"Russians run girls, gambling and drugs in Brighton Beach, strive to control all of Brooklyn, Jamaicans attempt to secure the drug trade and gambling in Jamaica in Queens, perhaps to expand to control the whole borough, though they seem willing to let individual entrepreneurs deal with the prostitution trade in the area. The Blacks, Chinese and Koreans fight over Manhattan, the Colombians try to take territory from everyone… it's quite messy.

"It need not be. It can be organized, as it was in years gone by, and it can be run by one man. That man could be wealthy and powerful beyond the telling… and I would be that man."

Bobby Liefeld grinned and bobbed his head eagerly, but Jake just looked at Wilson Fisk with no expression. After a moment, the older and wiser Liefeld said, "I'm not hearing about anything that could use my specialty."

"If I succeed, you will be placed in charge of odds-making for all illegal gambling done in the city." Fisk produced another of those very stiff smiles. "Before then, however, I would hire you— and pay very, very well, Mr. Liefeld, make no mistake— for a special project."

"What sort of 'special project,' Mr. Fisk?"

Fisk smiled and leaned forward a little. "You are, I am sure, aware of the activities of Spider-woman and Iron Man?"

"Sure, who isn't?"

"I suspect that, sooner or later, they will interfere with my attempts to take over the city's criminal enterprises. Your job will come in two parts; first will be analyzing their patterns of appearance, and attempting to discern when and where they will interfere with my activities." Fisk smiled coldly. "I will provide you with all the best information on their appearances, abilities, and personalities, as determined by the best psychologists in the city. I will provide you with computers, should you need them. And I will see to it that your information is updated regularly. I want a probability expression as to where and when they will run afoul of my business, about which you will also receive a great deal of information.

"Do you believe that you can perform this first part of my special project?"

Liefeld didn't answer right away, just sat and stared at a spot on the table, his lips moving imperceptibly as he thought about that particular sort of odds-making. Fisk let him think, didn't interrupt, and Bobby knew, from long experience, not to bother his brother when Jake wore that expression.

Just as the owner dinged the bell to tell the waitress to pick up their order, Jake looked up at Fisk, nodded and said, "It'll take time, and I may need a computer to help me track their appearances— I need to see patterns, not just be told about them— but I can do it, yeah."

"Excellent," Fisk said, nodding. "Let us wait to discuss the rest until after we've eaten, the food smells amazing."

They ate, didn't talk during the meal, and once the waitress had cleared away the dishes and refilled their drinks, Fisk said, "Before we progress any further, Mr. Liefeld, I should tell you up front that I am offering one half a million dollars for your efforts on my special project, but that you must agree to both halves of said project to receive the job."

"Half a million— okay, you have totally grabbed my attention, Mr. Fisk." Jake sat up straight and said, "Tell me about part two, please."

"In part two," Fisk said, smiling again, "you will be asked to make odds on battles between Spider-woman, Iron Man, and the two together against a small team of my own… specially able personnel. I will want to know what configuration of personnel is best against each of them, and against the two together, and which of my team should concentrate their attacks on whom if they are together, etcetera, so forth and so on."

"I'll need full rundowns on the abilities of these special personnel," Jake said, "including video of them doing… whatever it is they do."

"Of course," Fisk said, nodding. "In addition, your brother will be working as a courier for me, carrying… sensitive orders to my various lieutenants around the city. His ability to go unnoticed by the police is… rather amazing."

"Yeah, he's a good kid, Bobby is," Jake said, and grinned as his brother swelled up. "One thing, Mr. Fisk; after I get paid for the special project, I may not want the other job. Is that a problem?"

"Not really, no," Fisk said, waving a hand. "I suggest we negotiate then. You might like the salary and fringe benefits that come with such a job.

"Does that meet with your approval?"

"Completely," Jake said. "Frankly, I'd like to get used to having lots of money."

"Stick by me, Mr. Liefeld, and I can virtually guarantee it." Fisk smiled again— and something about the smile looked wrong.

After a moment, Liefeld understood what the wrongness was; this was the first time that Wilson Fisk had actually shown his teeth while smiling… and his incisors looked pointed and sharp, while all four canines weren't just sharp, they were significantly longer than usual, as well, giving the man a smile that looked… almost monstrous.

"Oh, and I will pay you five thousand dollars a week, your brother three thousand, as a maintenance salary until the job is done— let's call the half a million a completion bonus, shall we?" Fisk let his smile go back to a chilly curve of the lips. "And so you know, I will be one of the 'specially able' persons that will deal with Spider-woman and Iron Man.

"So. Here are your first week's salaries. If anyone whom you trust, Mr. Liefeld, should ask whom you work for… don't give them my name, but instead my… alias, I suppose.

"Tell them that you work for the Goblin King."