From Russia with love part 1

The only sound in the dark hospital room was the beeping of the machines keeping Semyon alive, stuck in the coma ever since he crossed the path of the Masked Man. Anatoly and Vladimir both stopped in front of him, their eyes fixed on their fallen comrade. The brothers were accustomed to violence, both part of this life since they were born. They had seen truly horrible things in Russia and some even worse in the US.

Still, seeing Semyon looking like he lost a fight against a train gave them pause. It looked like every bone in his body was broken, suspended and held together by metal.

"My god," Anatoly breathed.

Who the hell was this Masked Man? Anatoly himself traded punches with him and lost, luckily not as bad as Semyon had, but he had been defeated and he escaped at the last moment. They'd seen man after man, hardened Russian enforcers, share the same fate. Was this Masked Man even human at all? He felt like a man, like flesh and blood, but could a mere mortal do something like this?

"Give me the kit," Vladimir asked, interrupting his musings, his eyes still on Semyon.

Anatoly did as he asked, giving his brother a small flask and a syringe; Vladimir stared at the ominous yellow liquid inside the flask for a second. They had no idea what that thing was, but Madame Gao assured them it would wake Semyon from his coma so they could ask their questions.

Neither of them expected Semyon would live much past that, not after he was injected with that thing.

"He'd understand," Vladimir said, glancing at Anatoly, before grabbing Semyon's arm.

Anatoly doubted he would, but they did not have many options right now. Whatever this Masked Man was, he couldn't be stopped. No matter how many men they sent, it was never enough. Of course, they couldn't very well start shooting everyone in sight, that would draw Superman to them and make an already complicated situation worse, but surely 10 or 15 men armed with knives, bats, pipes and whatever they could find should be enough, right?

Except it wasn't and Anatoly and Vladimir simply didn't see things improving. And for their own good, things needed to improve. The Masked Man by himself was already a big problem, but the biggest problem they had was appearing weak in a line of business where that was suicide.

Fisk, Madame Gao and Nobu would not tolerate their mistakes for much longer and when they reached their limit, it would be over for Anatoly and Vladimir.

They needed to find another way, they needed an edge; what Semyon possibly knew could be this edge. Semyon was the one that got closest to finishing off the Masked Man, the only one who successfully laid a trap that almost killed him. The Masked Man escaped half-dead and Semyon was the one who followed the trail of blood.

Anatoly would like very much to know where that trail would lead them.

Without ceremony, Vladimir began to pull the tubes and wires connected to Semyon, the syringe already ready with Madame Gao's concoction.

"Let's hope this thing works," Anatoly said. "Because if it doesn't…"

"Then what?" Vladimir retorted, glaring at him. "What are you so afraid of?"

Anatoly inhaled deeply. He loved his brother, he really did. He would kill and he would die for him without thinking twice, but sometimes he had to hold himself back not to smack him around; good thing Vladimir was the one with the famous bad temper and not him. At the same time that the fire burning inside Vladimir made him such a powerful man, it was also his weakness. To Vladimir, as long as they were together, nothing could defeat them. Masked Man, Fisk, Madame Gao, Nobu… Not even Superman and the Avengers. It didn't matter.

He knew that wasn't true. He knew their situation was one step away of being irreversible. He knew that they had to tread lightly. Because if they couldn't solve this Masked Man problem, Fisk would make them pay and they would count themselves happy if they got out alive, let alone with a portion of their business.

Opening his eyes, his anger successfully controlled, Anatoly stared at his brother.

"We were in that hellhole of a prison for three years," he said, raising three fingers in the air. "From Princes of Moscow to shitting in a bucket. I promised myself back then that if we ever got free, we'd never lose what we had again. Especially not to pride."

His brother held Anatoly's shoulder, his eyes fixed on his.

"Pride was what got us where we are," Vladimir answered. "Even when we had nothing, we at least had that. And now you want us to cast it away? To bow and scrape to these sons of bitches who had it easy their whole lives?! We went through hell itself to get here!"

"And I'm afraid to go back," Anatoly whispered.

He would never admit that to anyone but his brother, but it was true. Anatoly feared going back. Sometimes he thought if it was worth it. They were rich, they had power, why should they risk everything to get a bit more?

From all their sins, pride was more likely to be their downfall.

Vladimir put the syringe down and approached his brother.

"We are never going back!" Vladimir promised. "And we will never lower our heads. Not as long as we are together." He paused, looking into his eyes. "Are we together, brother?"

Anatoly grabbed his brother's hands. "Always."

He smiled and nodded, taking the syringe again. And without hesitation, he pierced Semyon's heart with it, injecting Gao's mixture.

For a few seconds, absolutely nothing happened. Then Semyon got up screaming, his eyes wide with terror.

"Semyon, it's us!" Anatoly said, trying to call him down. "Breathe. You're safe."

"Tell us about the man who did this to you," Vladimir asked.

Semyon looked at them, eyes still wide, his face black and blue and swollen.

"The Devil!" he said, incoherently. "He's the Devil… Devil!"

Anatoly and Vladimir looked at each other, neither able to mask the apprehensiveness in their eyes. They hoped Semyon would calm down and tell them what they needed to know.

Matt smiled as he approached his office, hearing Foggy and Karen talking. His buddy, as always, was cracking jokes and trying – very badly, Matt noticed – to flirt, which mostly consisted of self-depreciative commentaries and weird, but kind, compliments to Karen.

Karen, he realized, thought the whole thing cute; which was better than creepy, of course, but not quite where Foggy was aiming yet. He would have to give him some tips.

Arriving at the door, Matt opened it, swinging his cane in front of him as if he needed it. The voices stopped for a moment when they looked at him and he just waited, knowing what was coming.

"My god, are you okay, Matt?" Karen asked, worried, going to him.

"What happened to your face?" Foggy asked, not nearly as tactful as Karen, but just as worried.

The truth was that a Russian got lucky and hit him with a baseball bat, right in the face; not as terrible as it could've been, but strong enough to leave him with quite the bruise. Obviously, Matt couldn't tell them that.

"I ran into a post," Matt explained, chuckling. "Got distracted, you know how it is."

"Did you go to the hospital?" Karen asked, lightly touching his face, still incredibly concerned for him.

"Yes, someone already took a look at it." It was only a partial lie. Claire was, after all, a nurse.

"You gotta be careful, buddy," Foggy said, also getting very close to look at his wounded face. "Womankind will never recover if you permanently damage your pretty face." He paused for a moment. "Might be good for me, though."

Matt rolled his eyes as Karen laughed.

"Sadly for you, it will heal," Matt answered, walking to his desk. "So, how are we? Still close to bankruptcy?"

"Always," Foggy agreed. "But we have some good news. Josie finally paid us."

"For the grand reopening?" Matt asked, smiling.

"Yep. Josie's Bar is finally back on business!" Foggy celebrated. "We should totally go there tonight."

"Is the water complication fixed?" he asked, uncertain.

"Well, it should be," Foggy answered, hesitantly, "but just to be safe, let's stick with alcohol."

"Fine by me."

"Josie's Bar?" Karen finally asked, barely following the conversation.

Foggy was happy to explain. "The sleaziest, most awesome bar in Hell's Kitchen. It was recently closed because of a, um, problem with their water supply, but after a few renovations they are finally reopening. Why don't you come with us?"

"Sounds good. Tonight?"

"Yeah." Foggy was very happy now, but he suddenly realized his dazed smile was beginning to unsettle everyone, because he went on, looking at Matt. "Aside from that, I think I got us a few new cases. Some people are being illegally forced out of their homes. Mostly elderly people and immigrants, you know, easy targets because they don't understand the law, but I think we can help. I'm visiting some of them later, offering our services."

Right thing to do, no doubt, but Matt doubted they would get paid at all. Probably cooked meals and maybe fruit. But, well, a job was a job.

"I could help," Karen added, immediately. "You know, a lot of them probably won't speak English and I'm fluent in Spanish."

"That would be handy," Foggy said, smiling at her. "Unfortunately, my second language is fairly rare in the US."

"Which one?" Karen asked.

"Punjabi." Foggy answered and Karen simply stared. "It's a long story."

"He learned to get closer to a girl in college," Matt summarized.

"Not so long, apparently," Foggy smiled, completely unashamed. "So yeah, I would gladly take any help you can offer."

"Meet you there?" Karen asked, grabbing her purse. "I have some quick stuff to do, but I'll be there."

"Sure, see you later."

Foggy stared at her the whole time, until the door was closed.

"Ah, crap, I'm in trouble, Matt," Foggy admitted. "I've been struck by the Cupid again, I think."

"You're lucky those arrows aren't lethal, Foggy, otherwise you would be dead," Matt retorted, smirking.

"No, this is different! I think we really have a connection, you know?"

"So what's the problem?"

"Well, Matt, if you weren't blind it would be quite easy for you to figure it out yourself," Foggy answered. "On a scale of 0 to 10, Karen is a solid 11. Whereas I am, stretching, a 4."

Matt laughed. "You're not ugly, Foggy."

"Says the blind man!" He got closer. "Really, go ahead, feel my face if you dare. But I'm not responsible for any nightmares."

He rolled his eyes. Matt didn't need to see to know Foggy was severely exaggerating this, as he did everything else.

"Look, Foggy, why do you like Karen? Is it because she is a 'solid 11'?"

"Of course not! I mean, that's not a deal breaker, but it's not why I like her. She is kind, smart, driven… Really, what's not to like?" he said, dreamily, then he shook his head. "But girls like that don't go for guys like me. They go for, well, guys like you. You damned, beautiful bastard."

Matt rolled his eyes again. "You not being fair, Foggy. If you truly believe Karen is more than just beautiful, then you should trust her to see past beauty alone. She is smart enough for that, isn't she?"

"Of course she is, but… I don't know, Matt," Foggy sighed. "It's like the Punjabi-situation all over again. I open my heart, get out of my comfort zone, and then she steps all over it."

"First of, the Punjabi-situation was creepy as hell. Don't do that again. Second, you're not the same boy you were back then. Now you're a successful lawyer, with your own firm, life experience and, above all, confidence."

"Do I really have confidence? I'm not that sure…"

"You do!" Matt insisted. "Maybe not so much when it comes to women, but you do. Just… Pretend this is a case. Karen is the jury and you have to convince her to date you."

"Do I have any evidence to prove my point?"

"You don't need evidence, you just need to make the jury believe in you."

"Our profession sounds really bad when you put it like that, Matt," Foggy mentioned.

"I know," Matt admitted.

"But you presented an interesting point-of-view. I shall try." He stopped for a second, then turned to Matt again. "What do you mean the Punjabi-situation was creepy? I thought it was cute."

"You stalked the girl to language classes, Foggy. You actually learned to speak Punjabi."

"It shows dedication," Foggy insisted.

"Trust me, it really doesn't."

Foggy frowned. "What do you know, anyway? You had your own college-romance with that Greek girl and I was left alone. What was I to do?"

This time Matt was the one who frowned. There were several ways to describe his relationship with Elektra, but "college-romance" wasn't one of them.

"Let's just… Work," Matt said.

"Fine by me," Foggy agreed, happily. "Hey, you think we'll meet the Avengers in Josie's tonight? I kinda miss them, they are cool people."

"I'm pretty sure they have more important stuff to do, Foggy," Matt answered, opening a book in braille.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Foggy admitted.

"Look at the size of this fucking TV!" Jessica exclaimed, impressed, when an entire wall of the apartment opened itself to reveal a TV almost the size of a cinema screen; the light coming from it was enough to illuminate the entire apartment.

Clark was speechless. His apartment's renovation was finally over and he went back to it with Jessica to see how it was; except that, by the amount of changes Tony's crew made, it could very well be another apartment entirely. An apartment that would probably belong to a very rich person, 150 years in the future, by the amount of tech all around.

The changes started right at the door. Clark fished his key out of his pocket to open it and only then he realized that there was no keyhole anywhere. He frowned, before noticing a retina scanner and a fingerprint scanner that most definitely weren't there before; hesitantly, he approached them both and after a pair of blue glows, the door unlocked itself, sounding not unlike a bank's vault door. Weird, but he could live with that, he supposed.

That was when they truly witnessed what Tony had done.

Simply put, Clark didn't recognize his apartment anymore. There wasn't a single thing left from his old place, not even the floor, the ceiling or the number of walls. His old wooden flooring, basically rotten and so dirty it was permanently stained, was gone, replaced by some expensive ceramic; a quick x-ray scan revealed a lot of tech imbued in it, but he had no idea what for.

The ceiling was repaired, the hole where his upstairs neighbor could peek through was closed and the whole thing was freshly painted, almost glowing. The walls, also, were painted, no longer exhibiting the non-removable stains all over it, and two of them were simply taken down to make his living room bigger. The windows were way larger now – more than enough for someone to fly through them, he noticed – and the glass was no longer the yellowish dirty thing from before, but some kind of darker material, no doubt made for privacy. Another x-ray scan revealed that the walls were reinforced now, probably even bulletproof, as were the windows, ceiling and flooring.

What really caught their attention, however, were the furniture and the appliances. Whereas before he had a fridge that might very well have existed since the Soviet Union, now everything in the apartment seemed something out of Star Trek's Enterprise. Everything was chromed, glowing and even his cabinets had touchscreens for some reason; what did they do, inform him how many plates they had inside?

And then there was the TV: a colossal monstrosity that could possibly blind a human being, taking an entire wall of the apartment.

Clark was without words for a long moment.

"We have to watch Firefly on that," Jessica exhaled, her eyes wide, breaking the silence. Well, she healed fast, so she probably wouldn't go blind that easily, but was there really her reaction to all this?

"Oh my god, what is this?!" Clark exclaimed, finally regaining his voice. "How much did Tony spend here, 10 million dollars?"

He would've been freaking out badly if Tony hadn't essentially done all this behind his back; as it was, he was still freaking out, thinking about how much money he had thrown away to do all that, but not as much as he would normally. Clark called that progress.

"12 million dollars, approximatively, sir," Kelex answered, projecting her drone form in the middle of the apartment somehow, not through Liquid Geo, but like a blue hologram, Jarvis' style; Clark and Jessica simply watched, shocked. "This place was hardwired for some sort of AI, sir. I have successfully uploaded myself on it." There was a pause. "All systems functioning as they should, no bugs detected anywhere."

"12 million dollars…" Clark repeated; his eyelids were shaking slightly.

"So you're like, part of the apartment now?" Jessica asked, apparently not caring one bit about the money spent, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice.

"That is correct," Kelex answered, not bothered or not even realizing Jessica's apparent dislike. "Mr. Stark installed sensors everywhere. I can, for example, calculate the exact weight of the furniture on the flooring and even the temperature of your skin."

"That's not creepy at all…" Jessica whispered, no longer as excited.

"I am glad you think so, miss Jones, because I have also uploaded myself to your apartment," Kelex added.

"Motherfu–"

"Okay, Kelex, we'll talk later," Clark interrupted, holding Jessica before she could break his new apartment. After an investment of 12 million dollars, the last thing he needed was an angry Jessica inside it. "Just… Give us some privacy. You know, no recording or peeking private stuff."

"Oh, is that a problem, sir?" Kelex asked, almost as if she was surprised. "I assumed since you can see through walls and hear everything happening in the building that there were no secrets to be kept."

Jessica stared at him with livid eyes.

"We'll talk later, Kelex!"

"Very well, sir, I can sense you are distressed." Just like that, Kelex faded.

There was a moment of silence.

"I swear to god, Clark, if that thing records me in the bathroom I will–"

"Kelex won't, she knows how to respect boundaries, don't worry," Clark said, fast. "So, everything seems nice, right? Want to see yours?" he asked, trying to change the subject. He would worry about Tony later.

Jessica breathed deeply, calming herself. "We'll see it in a minute, let's just sit down for a while. Saying this, she simply dropped upon one of the new couches, groaning in pleasure. "Holy shit, the stuff these rich assholes can buy sure are nice…"

Clark watched her lose herself in her little world for a moment, but when it became clear that she wouldn't restart the conversation, he said:

"So… What was it that you were telling me before we arrived?"

"Right! I was telling you about what Turk told me, right? The vigilante guy," Jessica remembered, opening her eyes filled with glee. "Calm down, You-Know-Who, I'll tell you what I found out in a minute."

He suddenly recalled vividly how happy she was on that conversation they had a couple of days ago, by phone, where Clark learned that for some reason, criminals were referring to him as You-Know-Who and refusing to say his name, as if he would appear out of thin air if they did it. Maybe he needed to sit down too.

"You know this is nonsense, right?" Clark asked, almost forgetting what he was saying when he felt the no doubt incredibly expensive couch; if sitting on a cloud was possible, it would probably feel like that. He opened his eyes after a moment, trying very hard to continue his thought. "I don't just fly to wherever someone says my name. How would that work? I mean, when people scream 'Superman' very loudly, in distress, I'll probably hear it, but I won't show up every time someone says it."

"Let the little shits believe it, it's funnier that way," Jessica said, smirking. "Things get real peaceful when criminals are scared like that."

That didn't sound right to Clark.

"I don't like to know my name inspires fear," he admitted.

"It doesn't, at least not on good people," Jessica answered, putting her feet over his lap as she laid down without a care in the world. "Those kinds of people, though? The only language they understand is fear. Fear of the police, fear of the Avengers, fear of you. And as long as they're afraid, they won't hurt innocents."

She wasn't wrong, he knew that, but even then it bothered him. He was supposed to inspire hope, not fear, to guide people to a better path. Clark sighed; maybe it would take time for that to happen, but he truly hoped it would someday.

"And what about the Masked Man?" Clark asked, putting the conversation back on track. "What did you find about him?"

By the grin on her face, she definitely had something good. Jumping up, she grabbed her backpack and picked a bundle of pictures and notes.

"Oh, this and that," Jessica answered, tossing all that to Clark. "Gotta tell you, it wasn't exactly difficult, the guy basically left a trail of assholes with broken bones behind."

Jessica was exaggerating, but not a lot, Clark realized as he began to look at the pictures and notes. Photos of people beaten to unconsciousness, limbs twisted in weird angles, alleys and places by the docks with blood stains all over it, telling what was, without a doubt, a grim story.

"Jesus… Who is this guy?" Clark whispered, truly shocked.

"No idea, but he can sure fight," Jessica answered, happily, probably misinterpreting Clark's horror by admiration. "This Masked Man isn't beating one or two people he takes on by surprise, Clark, he is facing 10, 12 guys at the same time and leaving them like that. Turk would tell you, he knows what he's doing."

Clark turned to her. "You think this is cool? Look at them! The fact that this guy didn't kill anyone yet is a miracle."

Jessica frowned. "I'm not one for killing people, but I wouldn't exactly shed tears for these guys if one of them dropped dead, I'll tell you that much." He widened his eyes at her words. Jessica sighed and grabbed the photos out of his hands, picking the top one. "See this guy here? Know who this is? Name is Thomas Ridley. Small fry, been in some gangs, but never actually became someone important, so the police didn't really care much about him. But he does like to steal shit and, being the cowardly turd he is, he prefers to steal from women and children."

He didn't realize it yet, but he was holding his breath for some reason. Jessica went on.

"Until, one day, something must've gone wrong, because a woman and her two-year-old daughter were found dead in an alley where he used to mug people." Jessica shrugged. "Police took him in, but there was no proof. People say he walked out of the station laughing." Jessica looked at Thomas Ridley photo. "Well, he sure as hell can't laugh now, not with his jaw broken like that. And I doubt he's going to walk again if those knees pointed backwards have anything to say about it.

She shuffled through the pictures and grabbed another one.

"Now, this one is interesting too. Part of the Russian mob, you can see by the tattoos. This was before you started flying around, of course, but this shining member of society liked to rob banks. Combining cops and civilians he probably has about 2 dozen kills. Innocent people, people with families and all their lives in front of them, until they crossed this son of a bitch's path. Until a week ago nobody had a clue where he was, until he suddenly appears right in front of a police station, beaten so badly that he most likely will never be able to twitch his fingers and fire a gun anymore."

Clark didn't know what to say in response to that, but Jessica wasn't finished yet. She grabbed another photo, a guy on a hospital bed, so bruised that he could barely tell the color of his skin.

"This one is my favorite," she announced. "Harold Harkin, family man, happily married with a beautiful wife, proud father of three cute little girls. Successful businessman, not rich, but not poor either, hard worker American. People all over the country were outraged when he was found like that, because if a man like him wasn't safe, who was? Well, the outrage ended quickly when the police found out exactly how close he was to his little girls…"

"God…" Clark whispered, tossing the photo down, disgusted by the very sight of the man.

"None of these people are nice guys, Clark," Jessica said after a few seconds, seriously. "I checked, believe me. Some are worse than others, but they're all trash and I want you to know this."

"Why?" Clark asked.

"Because I'm not stupid and I know you'll look for this Masked Man. Knowing you, you'll find him sooner or later, sooner if you're actually looking for him. And I want you to keep in mind what I showed you today. Sure, he might go overboard a few times, but he saved a lot of innocent people, he hasn't hurt anyone that didn't have it coming and he hasn't killed anybody."

"So far," Clark added.

Jessica shrugged. "Like I said, I wouldn't care if it happened to someone like that," she said, pointing at Harold Harkin's picture.

"It's not right, Jessica," Clark argued. "I can understand the anger, believe me, and this… thing over there deserves to stay the rest of his life in jail, but if the Masked Man starts killing people... How long will it be until he is not any different than them? How long until he kills an innocent man by mistake?"

"Well, like I said, no one died," she said, glancing at the photos. "And he clearly knows what he's doing. This is not just raw violence and anger, he knew where to hit, how to cause pain, how to permanently injure… And he knew exactly when to stop too. It's no coincidence that they're all alive, I can tell you that much."

Clark didn't like it one bit. That level of violence was not what someone looking to do good did. This Masked Man might've been hurting horrible people, he even might've been saving innocents, but no one did what he did to those people for purely good reasons. He wasn't kidding when he said he understood anger and that was anger. Clark knew it well, he had witnessed terrible things all over the world, things that made him sick, and he had to actively stop himself from doing something like this more than once.

That's why he knew that no matter how much good the Masked Man was causing, he was not doing this only to help people. He was doing it to let his Devil out.

And if he kept doing it, if he kept feeding it, it was a matter of time until they were one and the same.

He sighed, tiredly. Still, Jessica was right about something, the Masked Man hadn't killed anyone. He was violent and he was enraged, but he hadn't killed anyone and so far he had saved a lot of people, people Clark himself wasn't able to help. Maybe he was a vigilante, true, but technically so was Clark, he remembered.

He really needed to meet this guy. Either to stop him from crossing a line and becoming the very thing he hunted or simply to stop him, period.

"Alright, I promise I'll keep this in mind," Clark said, looking at Jessica. "What else can you tell me about him?"

Jessica grinned. "Well, he seems to have some issue with the Russians. Lately, he is solely hunting them down, disrupting their operations, causing a lot of losses for them."

"Any idea why?" Clark asked, frowning.

"Nope, no clue. But between him and you, the Russians are getting desperate."

"That's never good," he said. Cornered animals usually fought ten times harder and more viciously.

"Yeah, I don't think so either," she agreed. Jessica hesitated for a moment. "Another thing you might want to know… It's just a theory of mine, but I think the Masked Man might be enhanced."

Clark's head snapped in her direction. "Why do you say that? Because of the way he fights? Does he have super-strength or something?"

"As far as I know, he hits hard, but not that hard. Not gonna lie, by the look of things he fights well, maybe too well, but I don't think it is because of some kind of enhanced strength. No, what I mean is how he finds his targets."

"What do you mean?"

"Okay, now he's going after the Russians, so that theory doesn't apply now so much, but before he was simply beating people who were committing crimes. You know, rapists and muggers, he would find and stop them before they could do anything. Thing is, do you know how tiny are the chances of someone stumbling upon stuff like that in time to stop them? And doing it again, night after night? Sure, you can do it, but he's no Superman."

"You think he's… what? Sensing the criminals? Seeing the future? Listening to them?"

She seemed embarrassed for a second. "I've no idea, okay? It's just a feeling. Using technology for surveillance is a possibility too, I mean, that's how most spy agencies do it, isn't it? But he doesn't seem connected to an intelligence agency or even the cops and he doesn't seem rich enough to pull something like that by himself."

"How can you tell?"

"He fights people using a freaking t-shirt, if witnesses are to be believed! Can you imagine a rich guy doing something like this? At the very least they would wear some kind of protection, bulletproof vest or something, but not a t-shirt!"

"That actually makes sense," Clark admitted. He stopped a moment to think. "So we have a possibly enhanced vigilante, beating up Russian mobsters… That's really not a lot to go on."

"Can't you just hear him? Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't stumble on this guy yet. He is out there almost every night, beating criminals."

Clark sighed.

"I'm one man, Jessica, and the world is a big place. New York has been quiet lately, nothing so serious happening that the police can't handle. Other places in the world? Not so much." He looked at her. "Last night, I saved people from drowning when a dam broke in China, stopped a big shootout in Brazil and prevented a terrorist attack in the Middle East… After the first bomb exploded and claimed a lot of innocent lives."

He closed his eyes, trying to repress his memory. Clark knew, better than anyone, that not even Superman could prevent every bad thing from happening, despite what some people thought. But that didn't make it easier when he had to see with his own eyes the people he couldn't help.

Clark opened his eyes again and continued.

"After that, I looked for the terrorists who did that and caught most of them." He looked at Jessica. "And then I came back to sleep a little bit." She touched his shoulder for a moment and he was thankful for the gesture. "I don't need a lot of sleep to function, less and less each year apparently, and I can go on for days without resting, but even I can't be everywhere at all times. I-I need rest and I need a life too, other than Superman. As callous as this might sound, I have to make choices, I have to react to the worst situations, and a bit of unarmed fighting barely registers in my hearing as an emergency."

That's not to say he relied solely on his gifts to help people. He trusted his vision and hearing, of course, but he also used other sources. Kelex, for example, had hacked a few satellites, so she could provide fast and reliable information about what was going on around the Earth, from dangerous storms forming over populated areas and volcanos about to erupt, to troops moving to start conflicts. As a good reporter, he also followed the news, also a good source to know what was going on. And obviously he had contacts like Tony and Natasha to provide him with additional information.

When it came to stopping situations without previous warning, though, his gifts were all Clark had to rely upon, that was the truth; but even he couldn't listen to everything at the same time and distinguish perfectly what was what. Not unless he was entirely focused on his task and looking for something clear. He was conditioned to follow certain sounds: gunshots, screams of fear and rage, bombs, natural disasters, yells for help… But punches? Fist fights? Unless he was really paying attention, those sounds were no different to him than any others.

And sometimes – more than he could ever accept – this ended up costing lives. Clark knew he wasn't a God, that he couldn't simply do anything he wished and save everyone, but that didn't stop him from feeling guilty when he failed like that.

Jessica squeezed his arm and released him.

"I know, Clark, I didn't… I didn't mean anything by it," she said, a bit embarrassed, not meeting his eyes. "Well, if not by sounds or flying over Hell's Kitchen, then you'll find this guy using some other method. You're investigative reporter, aren't you? Use your detective abilities." Saying this, she got up. "I'm going to see how my apartment is, if Stark kept his end of the bargain or if it's still a hole. Want to come?"

"Sure, I'll be right there, I'll just call Tony first and thank him," Clark said, looking around; 'thank him' didn't sound like much, not when Tony spent about 12 million dollars on a gift to him, but he was sure it was all Tony needed or wanted from him. "You should too."

"Whatever. Wanna watch the big TV later?"

"Sure, but I can't stay long, I actually have to deliver a new story to the New York Bulletin today."

"Anything interesting?" Jessica asked, going to the door.

"Compared to Mutant Factories and Masked Vigilantes, no, not really," Clark joked.

"We can't all have cool jobs," Jessica bragged. "I mean, I'm basically Sherlock Holmes and you… You do some nice stuff from time to time too, like writing a new recipe or talking about the weather."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I still remember that naked guy you had to take pictures from, the one with hair all over." They both shuddered. "That seems like a real nice job."

Her raised middle finger was the only response he got before the door was closed.

The blue hologram of Tony's suit glowed brightly in the middle of the room, as he and Bruce watched. Several numbers were displayed around it, the formulas as clear to the two scientists as simple words would be to any person, and the pieces of the suit moved by themselves, showing exactly what each of them could do.

As soon as it was complete, another suit assembled over the hologram armor, this one red in color, the huge parts putting themselves together until the previous suit completely disappeared under it. An armor that covered another armor, until the whole thing became big, bulky and threatening.

"I present to you, the Mark XLIV, AKA the Hulkbuster," Tony said, opening his arms in a grand gesture. "Or, you know, more or less how it's gonna be."

Bruce was listening to Tony, but he was too busy analyzing the numbers to answer. He got closer, holding his glasses, doing the math inside his head; he turned to Tony.

"Did you already build a prototype?" he asked.

"No, not yet," Tony answered, stepping closer. He hesitated for a moment. "Here's the problem: this is all nice and mathematically perfect, but it's theoretical. Everything we did was based on estimates from when the Big Guy came out to play. I mean, we had footage of you breaking tanks, wreaking havoc in Harlem, smashing Chitauri in Hell's Kitchen, biting a Kryptonian's head… But we don't have actual numbers that we can rely upon with absolute certainty." Tony exhaled. "We have to move on to practical tests."

Tony was a smart man and as such, he already knew what Bruce's answer would be.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Bruce exclaimed. "Tony, this is insane! We have the numbers, we did the math together, we don't need me to call the Big Guy so we can poke him with a stick."

"And what if we're wrong? What if the estimates are off? What if you got stronger? That's why we test stuff before we need to actually use it, Bruce, because if it goes wrong, we can fix it."

"I'm pretty sure that if I Hulk-out things will go wrong and we won't be able to fix anything," Bruce retorted. He shook his head. "Tony, you know I can't control it."

"Actually, that's not true," Tony piped up. "Jarvis, put on the footage of Tests 1, 2 and 3."

"As you wish, sir," Jarvis promptly responded.

Bruce frowned for a moment, confused, until three screens in front of them turned on and he could see himself inside the Avengers Tower. For a moment, he didn't understand, not until it began playing; he choked on his own saliva.

He saw himself getting up in the middle of the night, sleepy, and running face first against the plastic wrap someone – someone named Tony Stark, no doubt – taped on his door; the plastic wrap, almost invisible to his drowsy eyes, tossed him on his back against the floor.

On the second screen, Bruce saw himself calmly opening a bottle of Coke, only to realize too late that there was a Mentos carefully stuck under the lid, which promptly fell inside the drink and started a chain reaction that turned the whole think into a geyser, soaking the whole kitchen and him.

Lastly, he saw himself entering the bathroom during the night, with the urgency only someone with a full bladder could muster, only to end up covered in his own urine when he failed to notice that the toilet had a plastic wrap over it; Bruce could only stare at his wet socks, as he visibly remembered the moment with horror.

Very slowly, Bruce turned to look at Tony.

"Those were tests?" he asked, his voice too calm. "You mean to tell me that I was covered in pee because of a test?"

"How does that make you feel?" Tony asked, not unlike a shrink.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. He breathed slowly for a second, then opened his eyes.

"I feel like I could strangle you," Bruce answered, still too calmly.

"You or the Big Guy?"

"Oh, that's all me, Tony."

Tony's response to the threat was a bright smile.

"And you say you don't have control!" he said. "See? If that didn't make you turn into a green rage monster, what would? I mean, look at those wet socks. And your heart rate was barely elevated."

"It is true, Dr. Banner, your heart rate was stable," Jarvis agreed.

Bruce seemed like he would complain about Jarvis reading his vitals, but he decided against it.

"Not turning into the Hulk and controlling the Hulk after I turned are two very different things," Bruce replied. "You could've asked me that before pranking me like a teenager."

"Control is control, Bruce. You know how to stop yourself from turning, you know how to focus your rage when turning. Now you gotta learn to come back after turning."

Bruce closed his eyes in frustration.

"It's not that simple, Tony."

Tony just stared at him, unusually serious for a moment. "I know. Remember when I told you about my Arc Reactor, about how I learned to control it?" He raised his hands when Bruce opened his mouth, ready to interrupt. "I know, I know, I didn't turn into a furious, muscled person, I know. But the principle of the thing is the same: I had to learn to live with it." He tapped his chest, where the Arc Reactor had been before he was able to surgically remove it. "I woke up after almost being blown up by my own bombs with a car battery attached to my chest. I honestly can't tell how I survived that kind of surgery, in a cave no less, but I did and I used what I had to make my first Arc Reactor."

To his surprise, Bruce was listening without saying anything.

"Now, I could've given up, I could've stayed with the car battery and not risked anything, but I made a choice and I stuck with it. And it was that choice that made all the difference, because the Arc Reactor in my chest was what powered my first suit and allowed me to escape. And now I'm Iron Man, an Avenger, fighting for good and all that, instead of making weapons." Tony pointed at Bruce. "What you have is a burden, I agree. But it'll only put you down if you allow it to put you down. If you learn to control it, if you take this terrible privilege and do something with it, then it becomes a gift. The choice is yours."

Both of them stayed in silence for a long while. Tony could understand Bruce's reluctance, his fear, that feeling that nothing could be done about it; he felt the same when the Arc Reactor started to poison him and he couldn't find a way out. But just like Fury and the "ghost of Howard Stark" forced him to go on, he needed Bruce to snap out of it and try.

The Hulkbuster was, after all, a contingency plan to stop an uncontrollable Hulk. One that didn't involve calling Thor and Superman to battle the Big Guy. But for that to happen, for they to actually build a suit strong enough to stop the Hulk, they needed the Hulk himself. A weird paradox, true, but that didn't change their situation.

And if Bruce learned to accept himself and actually learned to control the Big Guy, well, all the better for everyone.

Bruce opened his mouth to finally say something, only to be interrupted by a phone call. Tony sighed in frustration.

"Mute this thing, Jarvis," he said.

"Sir, it's Mr. Kent. Should I tell him you'll call back?" Jarvis said.

"Oh! Never mind, put him through, I want to know what he thought about the apartment."

"Apartment?" Bruce asked.

"I renovated his apartment when he traveled to Asgard, it just got done today," Tony explained, before speaking loudly. "Hey, Clark, how're you doing? Bruce is here too."

"Hey, Tony, I'm good, how about you? And you, Bruce, everything alright?"

"I'm fine, thanks, Clark," Bruce answered.

"Yeah, everybody is fine, how's the apartment?" Tony asked, excited. "Did you like it?"

"It's… It's amazing. I think you spent too much on it, I'm not going to lie, but it looks great, Tony. Thank you."

"Pepper was the one who dealt with most of the decoration, I'll tell her you liked it. I took care of the technological stuff. Say, why aren't you using the hologram projector?"

"The what?" Clark asked.

"You can use the hologram projector to link the call, sir," a feminine voice answered, probably Clark's AI, Kelex.

Suddenly, there was a glow inside his tower and Clark was there by their side, project in a blue hologram form, looking shocked as ever.

"You installed a hologram projector in his apartment?" Bruce asked, exasperated. "Why?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Tony retorted, grinning at Clark. He knew that, on his apartment, a projection of his lab had taken form as well, complete with his and Bruce's form.

"Wow… This is –"

"Superfluous?" Bruce finished for him, rolling his eyes. "A complete waste of money?"

"Well, a little bit, yes, but also very cool," Clark said, impressed.

"You're taking this a lot better than Cap, you know," Tony said. He thought for a second. "And Thor's girlfriend, she was actually very pissed when I ordered one of these installed in her apartment, in London. Thor liked it, though."

"I imagine Steve is still a little overwhelmed with the new technology. Natasha told me she's having quite a bit of trouble explaining some of the things he found on the internet..." Bruce winced at the same time Tony smiled. "Tony, no, don't even think about sending him weird stuff!"

"I would never… By the way, what did you think about the TV? I gave mine to Thor, it wasn't made for human's eyes. I actually made a special pair of glasses for me and Pepper, but she didn't like to have to wear them all the time."

Clark's hologram smiled. "It's pretty awesome, but I hadn't the chance to test if for real yet. So, I can see you two are busy, I just called to say 'thanks'. It was very nice of you, Tony."

"Oh, don't mention it, I had fun with it." He stared at Clark for a moment. "I actually thought you would be a hell of a lot more bothered by all this, to be honest. You have some kind of money-phobia, don't you?"

Superman rolled his eyes. "From where I come from, it's called common sense. But, where I come from, we also appreciate gifts and we don't ask how much they cost… Even when they clearly cost a lot. So thank you again, Tony."

Tony was a little bit embarrassed by the continued gratitude, but he didn't show it, he simply changed the subject.

"By the way, Clark, I took a look at those schematics you sent me. What were they called… ICERs? The tranquilizer guns."

"You're using guns now too, Clark?" Bruce joked. "Your 300 different abilities are not enough?"

He laughed. "A scientist from SHIELD developed them some time ago and I found them very interesting. As good as normal guns, but non-lethal. Just expensive to make, so we were bouncing some ideas off to find a way to lower the costs."

"Why?" Bruce asked. "SHIELD has no shortage of money."

"Ideally? To exchange every lethal weapon we have lying around for one of those, at least those in the hands of law enforcement and civilians. But we'll see how it goes." He turned to Tony. "What did you find out?"

Tony was still a bit distracted by Clark's announcement that he wanted to exchange all the weapons for ICERs and he could see Bruce was too; he didn't think small, did he? He shook his head.

"I'm studying a new process that might work to lower the costs," Tony answered, "but I've got nothing conclusive yet." He tilted his head, pensive. "If it works, we can add them to my Iron Hope project. The law enforcement suits would certainly benefit from it."

The Iron Hope project was Tony latest big venture, one that he'd been working on more or less since the Kryptonian invasion. No, that wasn't right, the invasion wasn't what inspired Tony: Superman was. Superman and his infinite drive to help, anyway he could. If Clark was out there saving people, then why shouldn't he do the same?

Similar to his Iron Legion, the Iron Hope project consisted of a group of remote-controlled suits. Difference was, that the Iron Hope project had several kinds of different suits, each built to a specific task. Why send people into a building on fire when they could send instead a group of fireproof suits, equipped to extinguish the fire and rescue victims? Why send cops against armed criminals, when they could send bulletproof suits to apprehend the criminals without any need to fear for someone's life? Why send simple humans to disaster-struck areas, when they could send a group of suits equipped to search for survivors, capable of lifting several tons of debris and fly?

He was more than aware that a project like that was massive and the political resistance he would find would be fierce. It would be expensive and it had to be very well thought, so that the very people he wanted to help wouldn't end up losing their jobs; the last thing Tony wanted was for firemen and cops to be fired, replaced by his suits. They were perfectly capable of working together.

But even with all those problems, Tony believed it was worth it. The Iron Hope project would save lives, just as Superman did every day. First, if it all worked out, in New York. And then, who knew? Maybe the whole world.

Clark wasn't the only one who thought big, after all.

"So you really want to exchange lethal-weapons by those?" Bruce asked Clark, snapping Tony out of his musings. "I'm sure the NRA will love this."

"Well, no one said it's going to be easy, if it's possible at all," Clark answered, sighing. "But we'll only gain with this. The ICERs work just as well as any lethal-weapon when it comes to incapacitating a hostile. Cops wouldn't have to worry about shooting innocents, civilians wouldn't have to worry about crazy people with guns and they still would be able to defend themselves from criminals… If we do it right, it's going to be a good thing."

"They are well-made," Tony admitted reluctantly. "Who is the guy who invented those again? Is he looking for a job?"

"He prefers to remain unnamed and I don't think so. But I'll tell him that," Clark promised, smiling. "Tony, I have to go to work, but thank you again for the apartment, it was one heck of a present. And thanks for the help with the ICERs too. If you need anything, just ask. See you two later."

And just like that, with a last wave, Clark disappeared.

"So, what else did you install in his apartment, anyway?" Bruce asked, after a moment. "Does it fly like a Helicarrier as well?"

"Oh, this and that," Tony said. "A hidden and secure safe for Clark to keep his alien tech, a secret passage that takes him right to the roof of the building, a top of the line computer, bulletproof walls and windows… It's probably to heavy to fly, now that you mentioned it, but it will most likely resist a missile, even if the rest of the building collapse on top of it."

"Why?" Bruce asked, exasperated. "It's Superman's apartment, he is missile-proof!"

"Speaking from experience, having your home hit by missiles… Not cool. At least his stuff will survive, even if the entire building doesn't," Tony answered, typing in his computer for a moment. He glanced at Bruce. "Do you know what else is missile-proof? The underground lab I built to test the Hulk's strength," Tony said, looking at Bruce's surprised face with a raised eyebrow. "It makes those old bunkers from the Cold War that could withstand a nuclear bomb look like cardboard boxes. Want to see it?"

There was a long silence. Bruce looked at the Hulkbuster's hologram, then at the place Clark's hologram was standing; then he looked at Tony's chest, right where the Arc Reactor used to be. He sighed.

"Let's take a look," Bruce finally answered.

It took Tony a lot not to cheer.

"Anatoly may be the way in," James Wesley said, glancing respectfully at the man in front of him. "He seems more amenable to the proposition, or at least not as… vitriolic as his brother."

Wesley was standing in the middle of a luxuriously decorated apartment, a penthouse fit for a king, with huge windows that allowed him to see New York under the afternoon sun. But at the moment his attention wasn't on the apartment or to the city itself, it was, fully, on the man in front of him: Wilson Fisk.

His boss was an intimidating man, dwarfing Wesley with his massive size, both in height and width; he was overweight, true, but it was clear even to someone barely paying any attention that most of his immense form came from muscle mass. His head was perfectly shaved, as was his face, and his black suit was expensive and tasteful, with cufflinks shinning under the sun.

What grabbed the attention of anyone who looked at Fisk, however, was the sheer intelligence in his eyes. He was a brilliant man, a commander, and Wesley respected him as such, more than anyone.

Fisk's face remained blank for a moment. Then he turned around and looked through the window.

"Confrontations can be expensive," Fisk finally said, slowly, his raspy voice no more than a whisper. "And draw unwanted attention. I'd prefer to handle this quietly. How are we on the timeline?"

Wesley looked down for a second.

"Stark is being troublesome," he admitted, finally, sighing. "I realized I won't get anything from him but wasted time. I'm applying leverage over the sellers instead."

"Smart. Stark can't buy the buildings if they don't want to sell them to him," Fisk said. He glanced at Wesley. "How long until you get results?"

"Not long," Wesley assured, quickly. "As for the group of buildings we already acquired, I'm in the process of removing the tenants, it's going well." He hesitated. "Sir, if I may ask, why are those buildings so important? Why does Nobu wants them?"

A long minute passed and there was no answer. When Wesley thought there wouldn't be any, Fisk turned to him.

"When it comes to those people, Wesley, is better not to ask too many questions," he said. "Nobu wants those buildings in exchange for their support and we want their support. That's all."

Wesley didn't like this, didn't like how Nobu behaved, but he kept his mouth shut. Wilson was right, the less they involved themselves on Nobu's business, the better.

"As for the Russians," Wesley continued, "Assuming we can settle quickly, we should be on schedule."

"We will," Fisk guaranteed. "One way or another."

"What about the masked idiot?" Wesley asked, uncertain. "Madame Gao provided some sort of concoction to wake up the Russian from his coma, but I'm not certain what the Russians intend to do after that."

The Masked Man was proving himself quite a problem, beating the Russians, interrupting the delivery of Madame Gao's product, hurting their operation… And worse of all, attracting unwanted attention. Now more than ever, they didn't want anyone's eyes on them.

"If the brothers can't handle him," Fisk finally said, "I'll find another solution."

Wesley smiled a bit, with no doubt in his mind that, if it came to that, Wilson's solution would be final and quite spectacular.

"I'm sorry to come here today, I know you have an important event this night," Wesley apologized. "It was not my intention to distract you."

"These matters needed to be solved," Fisk said, his voice low. "And I appreciate the company."

That pleased Wesley a great deal. "Nevertheless, I overstayed my welcome. I'll leave you to your work."

"Thank you, Wesley."

"Thank you, sir," Wesley said, quickly leaving the apartment. Fisk already had too much to worry about without adding his own problems to it.

He could only hope that the Russians would, for once, do something right and spare them from having to fix everything.

Aleksei "Rhino" Sytsevich was good at what he did. He wasn't the smartest man alive, he knew that, nor he had leadership capabilities or the charisma to inspire people like a boss should or a commander would in battle.

No, what Aleksei had was a tremendous capacity for violence and the unstoppable drive to chase his prey, no matter what stood in his way. And then trample them to death, near death or permanent damage, depending on what his bosses wanted at the time.

He was a huge man, full of muscles, scars and tattoos, the very picture of a Russian Mafia's enforcer, which was, coincidentally, what he did for a living. From Moscow to New York, Aleksei plied his trade, cracking heads for the Russians, collecting debts, killing… Whatever paid, he wasn't picky.

Unsurprisingly, business was always booming. There would always be work for those who had no qualms about doing whatever they were told to do and even more to a big, skilled fighter during a time when guns simply couldn't be used. If there was one thing Aleksei knew was that there were always people that needed to be hurt and since guns couldn't be fired with that damn alien flying around, then fists had to be used.

Aleksei was more than fine with the current situation.

Which was what brought him to the present job: locating and capturing the owner of the apartment where the Masked Man hid a while back, after being almost killed in their ambush. And all he had to accomplish this were his fists, an address and the generic description of the owner, who apparently was a hot, black woman.

For once, there wouldn't be any killing or breaking, at least not too much. They needed the woman alive so she could tell them where to find the Masked Man. After that, well… The woman would either be a corpse or a prize, Aleksei had no illusions or problems with either idea.

"This is the place," Anatoly said, stopping the car.

He didn't like that many people, much less admired them, but Aleksei knew his bosses were smart men; they had to be, after all Aleksei was making way more money now than he ever made before. Anatoly, for example, had all the good qualities a boss should have: he was cold, always a step ahead of his enemies and brutal when he needed to be.

Vladimir was too, except that he, like Aleksei, sometimes allowed his emotions to take the better of him; lots of people ended up dead when that happened.

Two hot-headed people were too much in a mission like this, Anatoly said, and Aleksei had to agree.

As discreetly as they could, Aleksei and Anatoly left the car and entered the building, trying to remain as inconspicuously as they could, which wasn't easy, considering Anatoly's face was completely bruised and Aleksei was a huge tattooed man. Once inside, they went upstairs, their eyes scanning the place for any threats, until they finally stopped in front of the apartment. His boss glanced at him and nodded; Aleksei charged, breaking the door into splinters.

With the adrenalin flowing in his veins, he looked around quickly, looking for the woman, ready to grab her and knock her out; except there was no one there. Moving fast and with purpose, Anatoly checked the other rooms, his taser ready, but the fact that no noise came from there was a good indication that he didn't see anyone.

Lights out, silence, dust over the furniture…

"She's not here," Anatoly cursed. "She has not been here in a while."

His boss closed his eyes for a moment, thinking or simply reigning in his anger; then he opened them and stared at Aleksei.

"I want you to–"

Before he could finish his order, they heard a door opening outside. In a silent agreement, both of them left the apartment, just in time to see a young Latin American man looking at them, fear clear in his eyes. Her neighbor, no doubt.

"Hola," he greeted, his voice shaking.

Anatoly didn't answer. He simply glanced at Aleksei, nodding once.

Without having to be told twice, Aleksei charged.