The minivan was slowly negotiating the crisscross of traffic at the corner of Central Park by Washington Square. Their faces and names began to tie up in Tosh's mind. She could recall the digital records of their names, occupations, and ages. And the U*N*I*T logo in the top thumbnail corner. "You guys ever work for Bruce?" She was vaguely recalling a previous encounter. "That mad bastard in Scotland."

Tony tutted. "Bruce is strictly T2, Ms. Sato. That's your lot. We may have worked with him…" His eyes flitted to meet Sheila's gaze, but she was looking down into her lap. The car jerked forward a few inches.

"The big shit's dead now," Sheila murmured. "Let's not dwell on it." She stared out onto the Park, noting the tourists milling around.

Tosh leaned forward. "Can you be sure?" She hated Bruce. She had heard of his death before in many places. She wanted it to be true.

Tony held the top of the steering wheel and tried again to catch Sheila's attention. He mimed a big shark of a bite. "As sure as watching reruns of Jaws."

"But the shark keeps coming back," Sheila mumbled. She was irritated by his chirpiness.

"No," he sighed, letting the minivan roll forward again. "It's a different shark in each film."

Tosh sat back. That was equally frightening. There was always one more shark.

:::

Peter squatted out of sight on the top of the Arch and watched the traffic start to move again around Washington Square. He had meant to return to his apartment. There were photos to upload, there was money to be made, there were bills to pay. But he hesitated a little longer, watching the Dodge minivan finally escape the mesh of yellow cabs and delivery trucks.

He pulled the red mask forward onto his chest to let him breath in some of the sharp air. Even with the gasoline fumes and the stench of the drains, he loved the city during the day.

"I was so busy talking," he thought. "I can't remember what she said her name was." He looked over the ledge again. He was sure the name would come back to him. It was not really that important. He met people every day. There was no way to remember them all. He remembered the faces.

But he had felt a little rude. After taking down that idiot, the Pterodactyl, he should have been more caring. He had made it all about himself. Clearly, the young woman was shocked, and he had talked about himself.

"I should apologize," he thought. "Maybe check out that she's okay."

She was young, yes, but older than him. Why that made a difference he did not know.

He looked over the ledge again, pulled the mask back over his face. He focussed sharply on the receding traffic. There was an MTA bus following the Dodge. He figured that he could probably flip down onto the roof of the bus, note the licence plate, then fly away un-noticed.

He looked at the screen of the digital camera. Or he could just zoom in and take a picture from there. Peter knew he was clever. Today he felt it.

:::

Wilson sat on the sand. He was usually embarrassed to be seen sitting on the ground. But this was a particularly secluded beach on a particularly remote part of the Pacific Coast.

"Wanna beer, Boss?" His helpful, unassuming guide, Pedro, was securing an awning between some idyllic palm trees. He pointed to a plastic crate of Buds sitting in a cooling stream.

Wilson considered the offer for a second. He had let himself relax for the first time in years. He was wearing relaxed clothes, thinking relaxed thoughts. The FBI were far away. But he was still the man he had made of himself. A glass of wine in the afternoon was most acceptable, a beer almost intolerable.

"No thank you, Pedro," he replied warmly. "Maybe some wine later on?"

"Si." Pedro lit a cigarette. "There will be California's finest at the cabin." He puffed out a little cloud of dirty smoke. "And Cuba's finest too." He laughed at his own joke.

Wilson smiled slightly. He would have enjoyed a cigar at that moment. He nodded and waved to Pedro, indicating that a cigarette would do.

Pedro lit a second cigarette and brought it over. "A great view, eh Boss?" he said pointing at the beauty of the blue waves, the wisps of high white cloud. "Better than the big city!" he joked.

Wilson took a shallow draw on the cigarette. "A picture postcard, Pedro. But the life of the city has its own beauty." He thought briefly about all his projects on hold back in Manhattan. But he had to be patient. Time would reward him. "Does the cabin have Skype, Pedro? I need to make a call this evening."

Pedro nodded and flicked the cigarette into the unspoilt water. "Si, Boss." He reached into his back pocket. "But there is FaceTime on my phone if you need to speak now?"

Wilson eyed the phone and sighed. His solitude was a very relative thing. Then he laughed. "This evening will be fine."

Wilson took another draw on the cigarette. He too flicked the end into the water. Beauty was spoilt so easily.

"You were a community leader in Mexico City, Pedro?" Wilson asked.

Pedro returned to the strips of wood holding up the canopy. "Si, Boss. But you make me sound good. If a bad man put up an old grandmother's rent, I would have something to say." He mimed rapping a baseball bat into the palm of his hand. "That's all."

Wilson looked out to the ocean. "I'll need you to work with someone you might not like, Pedro. Can you do this?" Wilson ignored the irony that Pedro was so willing to work with him, Wilson Fisk, Kingpin of Crime in New York City. But Pedro was not against crime, he was against injustice. And, now and again, justice needed to crack some heads.

"I gave up my own comfort a long time ago, Boss. I work with this man, I work with that man. Next week, I will shoot this same man, push that other man out a window."

Wilson looked back to see Pedro staring across to him. "Present company excluded," Pedro joked. "I think we are always on the same wavelength." There were no nerves.

"Yes," said Wilson. "Yes, we do."