No matter what anyone ever wrote, night never falls on Manhattan.

Or Brooklyn.

Or any other New York City borough.

There is simply too much ambient light for that to happen.

Take this street. Where it is doesn’t really matter. Its past midnight and yet the street is still, at least partially, illuminated. Sure, some neighborhood kids have knocked out some of the streetlights with rocks and bits of masonry, but the remaining lights are doing their best to keep things lit.

Despite their best efforts, there are some long shadows on the block. Inside one of those shadows stands a man in a black leather jacket. He is watching the front of a nearby tavern very closely. A vintage Schlitz neon sign is doing its part. Alternately, it flashes

“SCHILTZ BEER”

“S_HI_T_ BEER”

and, more philosophically,

“S_HI_T_ B_E_”

“Ain’t that the truth,” the man in the shadows murmurs to himself.

He continues to watch the window and ponder the deeper meanings of the beer sign. He does that until the window explodes outward, showering the street with shards of glass, the remains of the neon sign and a man in a green and yellow costume.

The man walks out of the shadows and extends his hand to the man on the ground. The man in green and yellow takes the proffered hand and is pulled to his feet.

“I thought you said you could handle this on your own.”

“I can.”

“The window might give me a different answer.”

“There is a guy in there who thinks he knows karate. He said he learned it from watching old Bruce Lee movies. There is nothing more dangerous than a guy who thinks he knows karate.”

The man who had been hiding in the shadows stepped into the light. He was Luke Cage, known to some as Power Man. The man in green and yellow was his partner, Danny Rand, the Iron Fist.

“See, and here I thought, I don’t know, that maybe the living weapon of K’un L’un might be better in a rumble than some dude who learned to fight watching bootleg videotapes.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” said Iron Fist, sheepishly.

“That won’t be a problem for me,” said Power Man, heading toward the bar.

Iron Fist grabbed his partner by the shoulder.

“I’ve got this Luke.”

“Better. Time is money.”

Iron Fist crossed the street and dove through the opening his previous exit had created. This time Power Man could hear the sounds of the fight. It was going badly for the denizens of the bar. There were too many bones breaking for Fist to be losing.

A few moments later a body came flying through the broken window. It landed with a thud amidst the broken glass. This one wasn’t wearing a green and yellow costume. This one was wearing dirty jeans, a flannel shirt and a pea coat. His wrist hung from his arm at an unnatural angle. One of his eyes was already swelling shut.

Power Man picked the man up and threw him over his shoulder just as the door to the bar opened. Iron Fist sauntered out looking none the worse for wear. He carried a pair of longnecks in his hands. Beads of condensation bubbled up and rolled down the bottles as the warm night air hit them.

“On the house,” said Iron Fist, passing a bottle to his partner.

Power Man looked at the label began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Iron Fist.

“Shit be,” said Power Man. “Shit be.”

AND IN THIS CORNER…

Part I

By Bruce Cook

A few days later in the Manhattan offices of Heroes for Hire.

“…and I make the tiara work.”

Luke Cage laughed at his own joke. He sat on a plush leather couch, his feet crossed at the ankles on a glass top coffee table. Danny Rand sat behind a nearby desk signing checks.

“This would go a lot faster if you’d sign some of these checks.”

“And listen to you complain about my handwriting? No thanks, Danny. Put that private school penmanship to work.”

The phone on Rand’s desk let out an electronic chirp.

“Mr. Rand?”

“Yes, Ms. Royce?”

“Your 11 o’clock is here.”

“Send him in, please.”

Danny Rand slipped his pen into the pocket of his suit coat. Then he stood, stretched and straightened his coat. Luke Cage also stood, popped his knuckles and rolled his neck.

“Showtime,” Cage said.

The door to the office opened. Jennie Royce, the Heroes for Hire office administrator, escorted a man into the office.

“Mr. Dominic Majors.”

Then she effortlessly excused herself, shutting the door silently behind herself.

“Nice to meet you Mr. Majors,” said Cage, extending his hand.

Majors shook Cage’s hand mechanically. He was nearly Rand’s height. He had a slightly receding hairline that he slicked back. He hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a pair of expensive athletic shoes, equally expensive jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with tribal designs and the word PUNISHMENT in gold ink.

“You as well,” he said, taking a seat on the couch.

“What can we do for you Mr. Majors?” asked Rand from behind the desk.

“I am the President of M-1 World. We are the parent company of the Super Fight Championship.”

“SFC?” asked Cage. “I’ve seen the promos. That looks like it’s going to be quite a show.”

“We certainly hope so,” said Majors.

“SFC? Can one of you bring me up to speed? I apparently spend too much time signing checks.”

Cage narrowed his eyes at Rand. A grin played at the corner of Rand’s mouth.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the general public is fascinated by fights involving people like you and your partner,” started Majors.

“Like us?” asked Rand.

“People endowed with super powers Mr. Rand. However, they are also afraid of being too close to the action when brawls between heroes and villains take place. There is simply too much footage of buildings falling on bystanders to make up close combat palatable. That is, until now.”

“And that’s where you come in?”

“It is. The Universal Championship Wrestling Federation had some luck presenting fights in a controlled environment. Unfortunately, they have battled charges of predetermined outcomes and other more serious charges. The goal of the SFC is to bring together fighters from different disciplines in a legitimate and controlled environment to determine a champion.”

“And make a little money along the way,” said Cage.

“It’s the American Way, Mr. Cage.”

“And where do we fit in?”

“We would like to hire you to work security for our upcoming event in Las Vegas.”

“Why us?” asked Rand.

“Your reputation is sterling and we feel that your presence would give the rest of our hired security more authority.”

Cage looked at Rand. Rand was rubbing his temples with his index fingers. He gave an almost imperceptible “no” nod to his partner.

“We’ll do it,” said Cage.

Rand dropped his head into his hands.

“Excellent,” said Majors, standing. He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Cage. “Have Ms. Royce send the necessary documents to this address.”

“We’ll see you in Vegas,” said Cage, shaking Majors’ hand.

Majors exited the office. Cage plopped back onto the couch and crossed his feet on the coffee table. Rand stood.

“What part of me shaking my head translated to ‘We’ll do it.’?”

“Oh relax, man. We pull cushy security duty in a Vegas casino on someone else’s dime. That’s easy money.”

“It never works out that way, Luke.”

“You worry too much, Danny. Besides, weren’t you just saying you wanted to see Cirque de Soleil?”

“Yes.”

“They have a show in every casino. I think it’s a law.”

“Give me the card. I’ll get the papers sent.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Meanwhile, in the elevator outside the offices of Heroes for Hire.

Dominic Majors rode the elevator alone, a smile on his face. A chirping sounded filled the elevator car. He touched his earpiece.

“Good afternoon sir. Yes, they took the job. Yes, I’m sure that can be arranged as well. Yes, I think the ratings will be through the roof too. Everything is under control. I’ll take care of everything on this end.”

Majors touched the earpiece again to end the call.

The elevator doors opened with a ding. Majors stepped off his smile even wider, if that were possible.

McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas – Several Weeks Later

“…still don’t think fighting for profit is noble.”

“What do you think it is every time we bust up Chemo and you deposit those checks?”

“That’s different!”

“No, it ain’t.”

Luke Cage and Danny Rand were walking through the private terminal. They’re bags had been whisked away on departure and they were told a limousine would take them to the hotel. Hidden behind black shades, neither man had been accosted in the terminal.

Cage pushed open a door marked “Limos.” The Las Vegas sun and heat hit them like a jackhammer.

“People live here?” asked Rand.

“Love too,” replied Cage.

A driver, in black suit and tie, held up a sign that said “Rand/Cage.”

“Our ride is here,” said Cage.

The Heroes for Hire ducked into the waiting limousine and the driver shut the door. The interior of the car was as cool as the outside had been hot. Cage opened the mini-bar and pulled out couple of bottles of water. He tossed one to Rand.

“Gotta stay hydrated in the desert.”

Rand watched as Sphynxi, Eiffel Towers and Pyramids passed by outside his tinted window.

“This doesn’t look like the desert. It looks more like Ralph Bakshi’s idea of Disney World.”

“You’ve got to lighten up man. This is easy money. We don’t have to do anything but make sure a bunch of drunk yokels don’t get out of hand once the bell rings.”

“That’s what we always think. It never works out that way.”

“I know this whole thing somehow offends your sense of honor, but their check cleared and the sign does say ‘for hire.’”

“I know,” replied Rand sullenly.

“Who knows, you may learn something.”

“Highly unlikely,” grunted Rand.

The two Heroes for Hire rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

A few hours later

Having checked into a luxury suite with no incident, Cage and Rand suited up. When the private elevator reached the lobby, it was Power Man and Iron Fist who stepped out onto the shiny marble floor.

They were immediately intercepted by Dominic Majors and another man, presumably his assistant.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction,” he asked eagerly.

“Everything is fine Mr. Majors,” said Iron Fist.

“So tonight is the big night?” asked Power Man.

“Yes. My employers are so very excited. They wanted me to extent their thanks for taking the job. They don’t want anything to go wrong tonight.”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” replied Power Man.

“I’d like to see the security layout,” said Iron Fist.

“Of course,” said Majors. “My assistant, Mike, will take you to the control room.”

“Right this way, sir.”

“You good here?” asked Iron Fist.

“I’m fine. I’ll check out the concourse and the lobby.”

Iron Fist and Mike walked down the corridor.

“Your partner is a very cautious man.”

“It was beaten into him…literally. Let’s go take a look at that concourse.”

“Of course,” said Major, “but before we do that I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, it seems one of our fighters had some visa issues and wasn’t able to make the tournament. That leaves us with a gap in our brackets.”

“And?”

“Well, my employers were wondering if you’d be interested in taking that spot.”

Power Man laughed.

“I like you, Dom. You’re a hustler. I came here as a security consultant. Why on Earth would I want to get in your ring?”

As if anticipating the question, Majors pulled a contract from his jacket pocket and handed it to Power Man. Power Man unfolded the document and began to skim it.

“Page Four. Section 3,” said Majors.

Power Man flipped to page four. He read Section 3 and let out a long, loud whistle.

“That’s the payout?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many rounds?”

Still later, in the control room.

A bank of monitors showed different camera angles of the arena. The place was packed to the rafters with people enjoying the preliminary fights. All of the fighters had verified powers. None of them had name recognition, either good or bad.

The crowd was eating it up.

“I can’t believe you let him talk you into fighting.”

“Listen Fist, for the kind of cash they’re willing to pay I’d fight the Hulk.”

Iron Fist shook his head slowly.

“Hey, we weren’t all to the mansion born. Call this my rainy day fund.”

Iron Fist knew there was no talking his friend out of his decision.

“Who are you fighting?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“How can you prepare for a fight without knowing your opponent?”

Power Man cracked his knuckles in response.

“Just another day at the office.”

Iron Fist turned his attention to the monitor. The preliminaries were over. The opening music began to play. The director was barking orders. The opening montage began to show pictures of the famous participants: Batroc, El Vampiro, Power Man.

“I’ve got to go get ready.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” said Iron Fist, a grin turning up one corner of his mouth.

“Fist, if the yellow shirt and tiara didn’t embarrass you, then we’re golden.”

Power Man opened the door and exited the control room.

Iron Fist turned his attention back to the monitor where the first match was taking place.

Thirty action packed minutes later – somewhere beneath the ring.

Power Man stood on a metal platform. It was designed to rise up through the floor of the arena and stop on the outside of the ring. He would then step into the specially designed ring and face his still unnamed opponent.

“Are you ready?” asked the production assistant who had been assigned to him.

Power Man adjusted his tiara and smiled.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

He heard the opening beats of NWA’s “Fight the Power.” He’d chosen that as his entrance music about twenty minutes prior. The floor above him opened. Fog began to billow from a machine mounted just below the ring. His platform began to rise.

As Power Man’s head cleared the opening, he heard the tail end of his ring announcement.

“…hailing from New York City. With skin like steel…he…is…POWER…MAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!”

The platform locked into place with an audible hiss. Power Man stepped from the through the fog to a furious round of applause. He raised a fist into the air, Tommie Smith style, and stepped through the fog into the ring.

As the fog began to dissipate, he could see his opponent’s outline. The ring announcer told the captive audience the rules of the fight. The fog thinned out some more and Power Man’s opponent began to come into focus.

He was smaller than Power Man, but he looked wiry. He was wearing a green outfit and…a yellow hood tied at the back of his neck?

Power Man laughed in spite of himself.

“Fist, you sneaky bastard, you didn’t tell me they got you too!”

Power Man’s amusement turned to shock when his opponent turned around. The man was wearing the traditional gear of the Iron Fist, but it was not Daniel Rand. The man was much older, flecks of silver ran through the whiskers on his face.

“What the…” was all Power Man managed to get out of his mouth before the man launched a flying roundhouse kick at his head.

TO BE CONTINUED