Some time ago…

Manhattan
Broadway and 42nd Street
Times Square

It was pouring of course…

The city was in the grip of a massive storm that had gathered force and moisture over the Rockies and swept down from Canada like a horde of locusts, devastating everything in its path. Parts of Alberta through Ontario were buried under literal tons of snow, frozen solid and dark within the howling wind that churned with a gale force, driving the monster south and east.

Unbelievably, the blizzard had gathered strength, crossing the Great Lakes on sheets of thick ice, which had crippled trade across the waterways. Not that any ship with any sane captain would have braved the waters with swells and waves that were taller than most buildings. The Edmond Fitzgerald was not the only ship to be lost on the Lakes in a storm, and by comparison WNBC Cleveland and the Weather Channel were calling it the worst storm to hit the area in over three decades. Still, there were always those that would try.

But the storm, Nature’s Force did not care as it drove relentlessly on, rolling and roiling through the New England States, but even the Midwest felt the ravaging bite. All along the southern shores of the Great Lakes, from Michigan to Pennsylvania, cities were swept by the wind and snow, or on the fringes with a deluge of sleet and rain. The heart of the storm plodded through New York however, veering only when it came to Albany, then almost turning on a dime and plowing through Massachusetts as it made a B-line for the Atlantic. Every inch of ground within fifty miles of that line was buried in a blanket of icy snow, then sleet, and finally the rain…

The wind was howling through the gray stone and glass canyons, gaining speed and swirling, licking at hurricane levels and touching off spinning devils of freezing rain and spits of snow. The driving rain came sideways all too often, ripping umbrellas to shreds and staggering those foolish enough to be out in the midst, on the streets. The gutters were overflowing; water churning from the sewer grates that always seemed clogged with sodden, smelling debris. Rats darted along the edges of buildings, scurrying to safer dwellings above ground as the tunnels filled with the rush of rising water. Traffic crawled along Broadway and Seventh Avenue, snarled in the flooding intersections. The lights of the Theatre District and the Deuce flickered maniacally all around, dimming, threatening to die altogether.

He did not care. Lately the darkness was a blessing.

He ignored the wind that ripped and clawed at the tails of his long, waterlogged coat, but he remained unmoved. He held his hand on his hat, only to keep the brim shading his eyes as he squinted towards the east along 42nd Street. The water was a nuisance, splattering his face, making him blink, and it would have to be much colder before he would feel the effects. Still, it was annoying, but was expected, late March in Manhattan.

Staring at the Baxter Building, he wondered what they were doing. He had not been back yet, and probably wouldn’t be for some time. Not until he needed to at least. There was really nothing there that he could not replace, his possessions at any rate. Some mementos maybe, and some memories.

He knew that they had suffered through, along with most of the rest of the world.

They were in house he knew, seeing the winking of dull green atop the Omni-wave Antennae array, even if the lights weren’t blazing in the lower floors that housed the holdings of the ‘World’s Greatest Fighting Team’. Light flickered on both floors that held the various labs, and on the housing levels there were only a few darkened windows. Richards was probably absorbed in some experiment, which was usually the case on dark and stormy nights. He could picture the world’s smartest man, eyes piercing as he watched for a chemical reaction or a shift in numbers, a surge on some computer screen displaying row after row of gibberish that only a couple other like minds in the world might be able to decipher.

It was still early, so he imagined that Suzi was getting in some quality time with the kids, probably watching Sponge Bob Square Pants with Frank. Val was probably asleep, though nearby, maybe with that new nanny, Debbie. The bitch: He vaguely remembered how she had almost taken his ass out, though a lot of that time was a red fog that just pissed him off all the more if he dwelled on it.

Johnny was probably in Brooklyn with that girl he was seeing, Kari something. At least that was what she was calling herself. He knew that wasn’t the girl’s real name. Hell, he couldn’t pronounce her real name, not that it mattered at the moment. He’d deal with her eventually.

“First an Inhuman, then a Skrull an’ now a Kree,” he mused, finally turning away. “Ya sure can pick ‘em Matchhead.”

Despite everything, he hoped they were all right. Well, maybe not so much Richards. There was still some animosity there, the lingering effects of what the Frightful Force had done to him. Between the Wizard, the Puppet Master and the Controller, they had unleashed his inner rage and turned him against his family… again. It seemed to be a recurring theme with Geiger, and himself for that matter. The Mad Thinker had done it once too, and in a round about way, so had Richards. Maybe Reed was right and deep down he blamed Mister Fantastic for making him a monster, making him pilot the ill-fated Excelsior that had turned him into an orange skinned, rock encrusted freak. Maybe not. Did it really matter why?

Not really. They had been through hell and back though, over the years, and somewhere in the dark pit that his soul had become there was still a spark that cared for the closest thing that he had to call a family. Hell most recently as envisioned by the Red Skull.

He had missed most of that himself, but he knew what had happened to the others; the horrors and tortures that the Fantastic Four had suffered as well as the X-Men and the Avengers and all of humanity under the Skull’s regime; his Fourth Reich. It was sickening, the twisted vision of a madman, the extreme ideals of a sociopath that should have been drowned at birth…

“Ya should ‘a killed him, Steve,” he muttered, feeling the anger rising again. “Ya should ‘a cut his fuckin’ head off with that pie platter a yers.”

He shivered, but not from the cold. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm his temper. He needed to keep his wits and be in control shortly, as soon as he screwed his courage up. It was hard though; remembering what he had gone through himself after Debbie Bernard had sent him spiraling back through time.

The things he had done. He had lied and cheated. He’d killed old, dear friends trying to return home. And the things he had seen…

Worlds recreated with his passing, twisted out of shape and lost as his presence altered reality. Ancient Egypt suddenly including a compliment of West Coast Avengers stranded because he had stolen their Time Platform. Old Salem, where a monster had been slain and lives were changed forever. He had killed Captain America in one setting, and saved Bucky in another. He had been the one cast into the waters, frozen in ice for decades and finally recovering in the Red Skull’s delusions made reality by a wish and a Cosmic Cube.

He vaguely recalled the battle. It had been important, even though the Skull had won and tossed him ‘back where he belonged’. And the rest was history, like they said.

He had seen it all, almost as though he had lived it. He had been witness, this time drifting in the Time Stream rather than the icy currents of the North Atlantic. Like dominoes tumbling away to Infinity, or pages of a book moldering with age and crumbling one by one to reveal the next he had seen time in all its glory, all its splintered, fractured images…

A dark world where Sentinels held sway, where first Mutants were hunted and slain, and then Mutates and Marvels, heroes and villains alike…

A world where a one-armed Thor ruled with an iron fist, his Golden Realm of Asgard hovering over Manhattan like the Sword of Damocles…

A devastated Earth with an aged and ancient Hulk as dictator and despot, calling himself Maestro…

A world under the thumb of the mutant Apocalypse…

Another ruled by the Sphinx…

Another by Doom…

By Namor…

Dracula…

Zemo.

It was endless. But the worst—the absolute worst was the world that he knew he had been returned to. A world that was brittle and haggard after what the Skull had done, that terror lurking in the recesses of every mind on Earth creating fear and suspicion, hopelessness. There was a schism coming, a choosing of sides that would result in countless deaths and a shift in power that would plunge the world into devastating war; the Final Conflict if left unchecked.

Unless he did something.

That’s what the voice had said as it showed him the shape of things to come, worlds that might or might not be depending on what he did. Floating in the Time Stream, all that he could do was watch and listen, and think…

Why me? he had asked.

Because you are the focal point in so many trials, the voice had said. You are the most trusted of your brethren, beloved and known. More so than the Shield or the Spider. You have the knowledge and ability to change the course, to bend the Time Stream, to avert disaster.

That is why I directed your travels through the ages. That is why I have molded you to become the champion and avatar. The fate of your world and countless realities lies in your hands, on your shoulders…

He had seen the shadowy crimson form wading through the Time Stream, standing on the shores, the fringes of each and every twisted reality that he had seen. Both had watched as empires rose and fell, as worlds crumbled and faded from view.

A universe engulfed in cosmic fires, the Phoenix Force left unchecked…

A blot of white, all that remained after Captain America used the Ultimate Nullifier…

The Beyonder standing in a void of chaos wondering what had gone wrong…

A world of distrust, formed of conspiracy…

His world.

He shuddered as an icy finger trailed up and down his spine. It wasn’t the cold of nature that made him shiver, rather the chill of things to come. It was so blatant, so obvious, but he was the only one who could see it. But only because the Centurion had opened his eyes. Dark times were coming that would make the Red Skull’s Fourth Reich look like the Easter Parade. It was up to him to stop that from happening.

Fine.

He’d been in the hot seat before, what was one more time. But he would need help, he knew. Despite what the Centurion had said, he was just a man. Cosmically altered, granted, but he was all about the fight and not the finesse. He needed people who could do the things that he could not. Tact, stealth, brains; he needed a team, which was why he had come to Times Square.

He glanced up at the building, at the specific windows with the silhouette of a black raptor etched into the glass. The rain blurred his vision, but he knew what the words below the icon said:

Nightwing Restorations

The lights were on. Somebody was home.

Ben Grimm bit down on the soggy bit of cigar clenched between his teeth and strode forward at last. Behind him the winds screamed, whipping through the steel and stone canyons of Manhattan. He reached up, his thumb depressing the button in the wall panel beside the door, hearing the crackling buzz of the intercom.

Waiting…

THE GATHERING

Part I: The Dark

By Curtis Fernlund

Manhattan
Times Square
Nightwing Restorations

Benjamin J. Grimm accepted the offered mug of coffee and leaned back into his chair, content to be able to relax, if just for a little while. He was tired, and it seemed that he had been on the go since he had returned, since the entire world had returned from the fantasyland that the Red Skull had created. Like the song said, he’d been ‘round the world and goin’ again’. Definitely not a trip he was looking forward to.

Immediately upon his return… awakening… whatever, he had started to plan and plot. He knew that there was a lot to do. He knew too that he would need help, and his mind had started racing, flipping through mental pages of his memory book of those he knew, and those that could help, and most importantly, those that would help. A lot of the names that had popped up were possibilities, but he knew that eventually their faith in their friends would be put to task against their faith in the cause, and he wanted to avoid that. Heroes like Daredevil, Hawkeye and his Thunderbolts, USAgent and the like all lived on the edge, but push come to shove, they and those like them would eventually have to cross a line that they would not be willing to cross. Grimm needed commitment, dedication even, so he had started thumbing through the B List, but even there, there were names that got scratched right off the bat. There were two names, however that fit the bill and then some.

“So, what’s your story, Grimm?” Misty Knight said as she sat in one of the slick leather chairs flanking the dark, cherry wood desk. Ben looked her over as she settled, crossing her long legs and raising her own coffee mug to her full lips as she eyed him back. She was the ‘ebony’ half of Nightwing Restorations, the muscle of the Daughters of the Dragon. She looked good, dressed in a raggedy pair of blue jeans, leather riding boots and a black turtleneck sweater. Last time he had seen her she had her hair in a tight ‘fro, but now it was shaved closer to the scalp, though he doubted that was because of fashion.

“Yeah, Ben,” the other half of the Daughters piped up. “I’m not usually one to pun, but you seem pretty… grim.”

Ben had to smirk and roll his eyes. How many times had he heard that over the years? He glanced at Colleen Wing and noted that she still looked quite fine as well. She had let her hair grow out again and was still dressing in that pseudo Japanese motif, wearing a short silken kimono in gold trimmed in black, black tights and boots. She was drinking tea, taking the chair behind the desk with her heels propped up on the corner. He noted too that her swords were leaning against the wall behind her and within easy reach.

Ben Grimm took a healthy swig of his coffee, strong, black and heaping with sugar, and settled back in his chair. He was surprised that it did not creak under strain of his weight, then realized that it made sense that the Daughters would have some reinforced furniture considering their clientele, not to mention four hundred plus pounds of steel hard skin called Luke Cage, Power Man. He glanced between the two women, both old friends and past allies, wondering where to start, and how? He knew that they would balk at what he had to say, the tale he had to tell, but he knew too that he had to convince them. He needed them, and their friends, along with a couple mutual acquaintances.

Grimm sighed. As always he would just have to do his best.

Ravenscroft Asylum
Upstate New York
Later…

Just what the hell was he getting himself into?

John Jameson walked the stuffy dark halls of Ravenscroft by rote, doing his hourly rounds, but his thoughts were a million miles away.

Outside the blizzard was finally winding down. The snow had dwindled to scattered flakes blowing wildly on the howling winds, but no more accumulation was expected as the monster worked its way north and east and out to sea. Inside the solid walls of the old mansion/converted asylum, the heat was blasting and Jameson felt his sweat beneath his arms and trickling down his back, further adding to his mood. His heels clacked on the hardwood floors as he stalked the long corridors in the Minimum Security Wing, the smell of mildew and oak paneling clogging his senses as always.

Here were housed the criminally insane and superhuman. Ravenscroft had been converted and refitted to incarcerate the lunatics with super-powers, or at least delusions of grandeur; those that could not acclimate to regular facilities like the Vault, Stryker’s or Tablerock. Those that had no hope of ever rejoining society in any kind of compatible, industrious way were sent here until cured, or until dead. Most usually the latter, unfortunately. With great power came great responsibility, but when madness ruled, there came great consequence as well.

Jameson smirked, checking the security of the doors that he passed, glancing at the incarcerated on monitors. It was late, and most were sleeping, thankfully. He did not need the distraction of the howling, yowling inmates as he considered what he had been asked to do. It would cost him his job, he knew. A job that he liked well enough, though it could hardly compare with the life he had once led…

He had been an astronaut; one of the best and one of the last to travel to the moon before the Apollo Program had been shut down. Before that he had been a soldier in the USAF, and a pilot- a fucking colonel with a future in the military with medals and commendations up the ass. He had been a hero. Women fawned over him. Little kids wanted to grow up and be like him…

Where had it all gone wrong?

He still remembered the Spider-Man saving his ass, and his ship when he was set to crash and burn on reentry after a failed moon flight. His father had persecuted the hero inthe Bugle, actually suggesting that Spider-Man had sabotaged the flight for his own glory. Unbelievable…

Now at least, but back then…

His father, J. Jonah Jameson had been his hero growing up, and if his father said that Spider-Man was responsible, well, then he was. The seed of doubt had been planted, so when weeks later, John Jameson had changed from radiation into a hulking brute, who was he to argue when his father sent him after the Spider-Man? What a fiasco that had been.

And again, the Spider-Man had saved him, as the radiation from space spores had changed him and had made him just a bit crazy in the process. But that had not been the turning point either.

That came months later, on his final mission to the moon. He had found a jewel, a glowing red crystal that he had secreted from NASA and kept—foolishly—as a souvenir. That had been the turning point, the moment that had changed his life.

The Lunar gemstone that he had brought back and worn about his throat as a good luck token had changed him, morphing him monthly into a raging beast called the Man-Wolf; a silver-furred lycanthrope that ran wild through the streets of Manhattan on a bloody, lustful spree. Again the Spider-Man had saved him, at least at first. But somehow the gemstone had bonded with Jameson, and the curse would not be lifted, but only controlled for a time. He had tried to use the transformation as a gift, to be a hero and recapture the glory that he recalled and craved, but eventually the Lunar gem had called its owner home.

He had been teleported to another world in another dimension. A world of arcane ritual and bloodthirsty savagery where he was proclaimed the destined savior and star god. He had helped to liberate that world, though he had lost countless allies and friends in the process, and finally freed himself of the gem’s curse.

He had wandered aimlessly afterwards, back on Earth. His days as an astronaut were done, though he made a living off of his laurels giving speeches at colleges around the country. But after a time, even those offers began to dry up. He was not Neil Armstrong after all, or even John Glenn. When he got the call from Captain America, well, he could not believe it.

He spent months in the employ of Avengers Inc. as pilot to the Avengers and on security detail. The pay was great, as were the benefits, and being in the Marvel clique was only, maybe just a step below walking on the moon. He had finally found purpose, and his life was getting back on track; a life free of his father’s biased input and the cursed bad luck that seemed to dog his heels as the poor man’s Tony Nelson.

So of course, it ended. Baron Zemo and his Masters of Evil had seen to that, almost destroying the Avengers en masse and en force. Zemo had devastated Cap with that assault, and the Avengers as well. They had taken a turn after that, and he, and Peggy and Fabian and all the other support staff were kindly dismissed.

Jameson had wallowed in self-pity for awhile before finally taking the job as head of Security at Ravenscroft. His own history, plus a glowing letter of recommendation from Captain America had secured the position, and here he had been for the past few months, content if not happy.

And now he was about to throw it all away again…

John Jameson stood at the sealed door, looking at the captive held within the room beyond via the wall-mounted monitor. Little had changed since his last rounds of an hour before, or the rounds of the previous hours, or days, or weeks. Eric Payne sat against the far wall, his eyes seemingly vacant as he stared at something far beyond that no one else could see, his upper body wrapped in an industrial canvas/leather and steel straight jacket that was hooked to a recessed joint in the padded wall behind him. His mouth was slack and agape, drool pooling at his lips and trickling down his chin. There were stains in the matted floor beneath him, despite his diaper.

John Jameson leaned back against the wall and took a long, deep breath, which he exhaled slowly. He was not looking forward as to what was to come, but he had given his word. Who could say ‘no’ to the Thing?

He had been floored when Grimm had called, and flabbergasted when he had called in an old marker. The whole world owed Benjamin J. Grimm and the Fantastic Four a thousand times over. Who was he to say no, when Grimm had wanted a ‘friend’ to visit Ravenscroft, and more specifically Eric Payne: Devil Slayer. At risk of his position, after wading through the red tape of bonafides of course, Jameson had agreed.

John Jameson pulled the ID Unit from his belt and scrolled through the In House files seeking the info on Payne. It took a few seconds before the tiny screen on his handheld shimmered, then displayed the pertinent history of the old hero and ex-Defender…

Eric Payne was born in Queenstown, Illinois. He was a member of a demon cult called the Agents of Fortune, who helped him unlock the psionic potential of his brain and gave him a mystically created dimensional cloak. He later turned on the cult and, with the aid of the Defenders, he battled Vera Gemini and the Xenogesis and helped prevent the cult’s mystical plans from being realized.

He assisted the Defenders in confronting a cult leader named David. This man had been granted temporary mystical powers by a coalition of demons known as the Six Fingered Hand. Despite the passing nature of his abilities, Eric’s wife Cory chose to stay with the cult leader.

As the Defenders returned to Doctor Strange’s home after this confrontation, they were called into action again by the Avengers. The town of Citrusville, Florida had vanished, into a gigantic hole resembling a six-fingered hand.

Payne then joined the Defenders. He and the rest of the group confronted a possessed Man-Thing and then traveled through dimensional realms in order to find the source of the problem.

Side: Belathauzar

During Payne’s time with the Defenders, he helped confront a host of demons, including Belathauzar, who had taken over the form of an Air Force commander. The Defenders almost died when Belathauzar convinced innocent Air Force pilots that they were spies. Though his demon compatriots were eventually sucked back to their own realm, Belathauzar somehow stayed on Earth.

Still in the form of the Air Force soldier, he targeted Devil-Slayer personally. Belathauzar tricked Devil-Slayer into a bar full of disguised demons where Payne’s drink was altered, thus removing his psychic powers. Despite this, Devil-Slayer held his own, using his magical accessories to battle the demons successfully. Belathauzar and Payne were drawn into the Borders of the Land of the Dead, where stood many of his Defender allies, now seemingly dead. It was here that Belathauzar was seemingly slain again.

(There are indications he has returned another time but this might be Payne’s mental instability)

Payne questioned his tragic life, and reconciled with wife, then turned himself in for his past crimes. He later helped war-torn Potega, but lost his shadow-cloak, and then rededicated himself as a hero.

Devil-Slayer was later remitted to Ravenscroft, where he remains incarcerated…*

*(The above provided and paraphrased by Wikipedia)

Jameson clicked off the ID Unit and slipped it back into its case on his belt. Payne had been a model prisoner during his time as security chief—AKA, brain dead. But for the occasional screaming rant and rage every full moon, Eric Payne generally sat in the corner of his padded cell, was fed strained vegetables with a plastic spoon and changed several times a day. He babbled gibberish on occasion, but otherwise stared at something beyond the walls of the asylum that no one else could see. What the Thing could want with him, only Grimm would know.

Grimm had said he should make his way to Payne’s cell and wait on his midnight round. He would send someone, an ally. Jameson had agreed. He was Ben Grimm, after all…

Ten minutes later and Jameson was checking his watch again. He was sweating in the stuffy, stale air of the hallway. The old mansion had never had good ventilation, though the heating units kicked ass. Try as they might, Maintenance could never fix the ventilation problems, so one step would lead into an ice box, while the next led into a sauna. At the moment, John Jameson was sweating bullets in the humid extreme of the scale.

He pushed off of the wall as the lights flickered, sputtering as the wind beyond the walls kicked up to a yowling gale force again. They were already running power off of the back up generator, as the electricity had failed just after sundown. Maintenance was working OT trying to rerun the power lines and bypass AP&L so as to stay online with the state’s power grid. Jameson did not even want to imagine what would happen in a black out and the dampening fields in the lower levels failed—

“Yahhh!”

John Jameson screamed and sprang from the wall as he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. He leaped, tumbling to the ground and rolling, his hand slapping his thigh and drawing his SHIELD-issue Needler. He pulled up on one knee, arms extended and locked as he sighted down the barrel at the empty hallway before him.

“Jesus…” he whispered, licking his lips but holding the gun out and steady, sweeping the hall. There was no one there. Nothing…

A black-gloved hand slipped out of the shadows and wrapped about his gun, crumpling the barrel before ripping it from his grip. Jameson relinquished his grasp as he rolled backwards out of range. His sight caught the silhouette of a sleek form dressed in black from head to toe, a cloak draped about his shoulders and wearing a fedora. Weird, definitely, but oddly familiar as well.

Jameson’s hand flew to his communicator, prepared to call for help as he saw the silhouette step out of the shadows. It was a man, and as he thought dressed head to toe in a sleek black body stocking. He was wearing a fedora too, and a cloak- not a cape but a cloak. He stood there unmoving, the cloak lapping at his ankles. Jameson saw him hold out the useless Needler before tossing it aside. John Jameson licked his lips, his thumb on the communicator’s panic button…

“Who… are you?” he asked, feeling just a little like Captain Kirk the way his voice fluctuated. The silhouette said nothing, simply staring for a moment before it raised its right hand. Its fingers flashed in sign.

“Whoa!” Jameson said, raising his hands to ward away the incoming information, too fast for his rusty talents to interpret. “Slow down.”

The silhouette nodded, and complied:

<I am Midnight. I have been thing sent to confront (gibberish)—Devil Slayer. You will allow.>

It had been awhile since Jameson had read sign, and he hoped to hell that he did not have to speak it. He looked at the black-garbed man. “I said I would. Who sent you?” he asked, though the man had said already.

<Thing.>

“What do you… What does Grimm want with Payne?”

<Shadow Cloak.>

“He doesn’t have it. He lost it fighting a demon.”

<He does. Only death separates cloak from slave.>

Jameson was about to ask another question when the black silhouette, Midnight seemed to lose cohesion and shift into a misty form. He watched in awe as the cloud of vapors flowed up against the wall and slowly sifted into the sealed cell. Jameson sprang to his feet and ran to the monitor.

He saw Midnight coalesce inside Payne’s cell, thickening into a shadow again as he stared down at the Devil Slayer. Payne looked up after a moment, his eyes seeming to focus for the first time in months.

“You’ve come for me at last?” Payne said, a beatific smile creasing his lips. The shadow man shook his head from side to side and Payne sagged.

“The cloak then.” Payne sighed, slumping against the wall. “All I’ve done means nothing?” he asked, looking up hopefully. Midnight shrugged. Eric Payne’s face fell, despair overwhelming his features. He sighed.

“Make it quick.”

John Jameson’s eyes grew wide in horror as he watched the shadow man, Midnight swoop forward, his cloak billowing as he leaned in. He heard a ragged hiss as Midnight drove his face into Payne’s throat. He gagged as blood spurted out, Payne’s bound body thrashing as the shadow man enveloped the helpless prisoner. He watched Payne’s legs jerk and spasm, finally kicking their last and falling to the floor thin and pale. The shadow man stood over the lifeless form of Eric Payne, blood smearing his faceless black mask.

Jameson was about to call for back up when a chill wind whipped past. His eyes grew wide as he saw Midnight’s cloak billow and flow, writhing as though caught in a whirlwind. Midnight stood, his body shivering only slightly as the cloak shimmered, then flowed about him, wrapping tightly as though caressing. The wind outside howled and the lights flickered. The halls of Ravenscroft chilled with a biting cold…

And then it was over.

Jameson peered into the monitor. He saw Payne’s body, twisted and wracked with pain, unmoving on the floor of the padded cell. The life gauges on the monitor read flat line on the cell’s sole occupant. Eric Payne was dead.

John Jameson backed away, ready to run for help. He could not believe now that this had anything at all to do with Ben Grimm, the Thing. Grimm was in the league with Captain America as one of America’s most trusted heroes. No way was this his idea. He would get his security forces down here and find the guy, Midnight, and then they would get some answers. Jameson turned, his plan fixed in his head, then yelped as the shadow man stood directly in his path.

It took a moment for Jameson to realize the change in the man. The cloak that he once wore had been replaced by a gray, billowing thing that seemed to writhe and roil about his shoulders. Midnight raised a hand in ‘Halt’, then started to sign.

<There is more.>

Jameson’s hand brushed the empty holster at his belt even as he eyed the crumpled remains of his gun lying on the floor. He wondered if he could call security back up before the man was on him…

Midnight’s hand slipped within the shadow cloak and produced a small red gem dangling from a thick leather thong. John Jameson’s heart froze as his balls shriveled.

“No…” he whispered, backing away and thumping against the oak paneled wall behind him. He stared wide-eyed at the glowing crimson stone dangling like a hypnotist’s watch from its collar. “Where’d you get that? It’s destroyed! I destroyed it!”

The dark man ignored Jameson’s babbling, holding forth the Lunar gem; the Stone of the Star God!

<Grimm requires you.> Midnight signed.

“No!” Jameson shouted, raising his hands dramatically, warding off the stone offering. “I beat that curse! Never again!”

<The choice is not yours, Man-Wolf…>

John Jameson screamed as the dark man, Midnight, slammed the Lunar gemstone into the hollow at the base of his throat…

He screamed even louder as he felt the change rippling and ripping throughout his body…

NEXT: Uh-oh! Just what is the Ever Lovin’ Blue-eyed Thing up to, gathering a group of grimy and mean B-List heroes… to do what? Take on authority? It is to laugh…But then, if you can’t trust ‘Bashful Benjy’, who can you trust? The Gathering continues as the conspiracy grows. Be here next issue to see who else joins the Good Guys…