THE GATHERING STORM

Part I: Cowboy Diplomacy

By George Cameron

Author’s Note: This issue takes place six months after the events in Thunderbolts #75 and before the events in Moon Knight #2.

Gran Canaria, Canary Islands

The Garden of Earthly Delights was a beachside café that was placed on the western side of Gran Canaria, the first and foremost of the Canary Islands. The café was designed in a circular pattern, with almost one hundred tables arranged around a central hub that contained the indoor dining and bar areas. The theme of the café was one of tropical decadence, and was one of many such establishments on the island.

Tonight, the vast majority of the café’s patrons were enjoying the outdoors. The sun was just beginning to set, creating a beautiful horizon full of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and violets. The weather, of course, was still balmy, with a pleasant ocean breeze drifting lazily about. Literally hundreds of people were out and about this evening, enjoying drinks, dancing, and the romance of this island getaway.

At one of the café’s outside bars, Clint Barton was returning to his table with his drinks, and the former Avenger known as Hawkeye couldn’t help but feel a little out of place at this establishment. If it were up to him, he’d have met his guest tonight over a few beers in a bar back in the States, not having some dark European beer on a beachside patio that he’d probably never visit otherwise. But this is where his contact wanted to meet, and he’d be obligating. Hell, he might never get a chance to enjoy this again.

Clint stopped behind his seat, and handed the margarita he’d also ordered to his contact. With a friendly smile, Rachel Leighton, the former villain known as Diamondback, took the drink from him and took a tentative sip, her smile widening in approval. “Thanks, Barton. I know this is a little out of the way for you, but I love coming here when I have the time. There’s nothing quite like it if you’re looking to get away, you know?”

“Yeah,” he replied, taking a swig of his beer. “I just don’t like havin’ to pay so much for a longneck.”

Rachel laughed, a laugh full of good humor. She’d chosen to dye her hair, which fell just past her shoulders, an inconspicuous shade of hazelnut, but it failed to disguise her natural beauty. She wore a bikini top and a skirt that fluttered lazily in the breeze, and she looked very much at ease.

Clint, however, definitely felt out of his element. He wore only a plain tank-top and knee-length shorts, which was certainly appropriate, but he felt a little awkward in such a classy, upscale establishment. He knew that Europe’s elite tended to vacation in the Canaries, and a part of him had appreciated that no one would think to look for him here.

“Next round’s on me,” Rachel said. “I have to admit, I was surprised you were available. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been pretty tied up with the Thunderbolts for months now.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, well, they’re back with Zemo now, and from what I’ve heard, they’ve been playin’ goodwill ambassadors and relief workers all over the world for the last six months.”

Rachel’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Zemo? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Clint shook his head. “Nope. They’ve apparently decided that they’re better off with him leadin’ them than me, and I have to respect that decision.”

Rachel nodded, following his train of thought. “But you don’t trust Zemo.” She took another sip of her margarita. “Who could blame you? I don’t know if anyone’s really buying this ‘new and improved’ thing he’s got going on. I know I certainly don’t.” Rachel remembered what Captain America had told her about the Masters of Evil’s assault on Avengers Mansion, and she inwardly seethed at the personal harm he’d caused Steve during that attack, because she knew how much it had really hurt Steve.

“Well, Karla seems to trust him. As much as she can, anyway,” Clint said. Though he did his best to bury them in his subconscious again, Karla’s face swam into view in Clint’s mind’s eye. He couldn’t help but worry about her, despite the bittersweet goodbye they’d bit each other when the Thunderbolts returned from Counter-Earth.

“No offense, Barton, but Karla Sofen isn’t exactly the poster child for trustworthiness,” Rachel said sardonically. “And if she’s backing Zemo, you have to start asking yourself the hard questions.”

Clint nodded, taking another swig of his beer. He was keenly aware of the implications of Zemo’s leadership of the Thunderbolts being accepted apparently unquestioned by the others, and though he knew that the Thunderbolts weren’t the same team that he’d come to know and trust those long months ago, he also knew that Zemo leading the team again added a new and potentially dangerous element to a critical situation.

“Why did you ask me here, Rachel?” Clint asked, meeting her gaze.

Rachel met Clint’s gaze unflinchingly. “I’ve been hearing some interesting things lately. Things that concern the Thunderbolts, and you.”

“What?” Clint asked, instantly curious. “What do you know?”

“Well,” Rachel said, lowering her voice, “the Masters of Evil have reorganized… under a new Crimson Cowl.”

Clint’s mouth opened in surprise. “That’s all? You coulda gone to Steve if that’s true.” He continued to regard Rachel evenly. “There’s somethin’ else, isn’t there? Somethin’ you wouldn’t want to go to the Avengers for.”

Rachel nodded gravely. “This is bigger than anyone thinks, Barton. I’ve already confirmed over fifty-two known supervillains are now actively associated with the Masters, and that number’s growing.”

“What?!” Clint exclaimed. “Do the Avengers know?” Even Clint was only aware of what the rest of the public knew: the Avengers’ conflict with Noh-Varr, and the engineered escape of dozens, even hundreds of supervillains from several prisons. A part of him had to admit that he wasn’t surprised that a new incarnation of the Masters would find a way to happen.

Rachel shook her head. “Whoever this new Crimson Cowl is, she’s keeping this all very quiet. No one knows where the Masters are hiding, or what they’re planning. I’m pretty sure that the Avengers are at least aware that they’re back, but I don’t think they know much more than that. They’re just going to wait until the Masters make the first move.”

Clint nodded, taking in everything Rachel was telling him. “I wonder if the ‘Bolts know anything about this,” he asked, more to himself than to her. From what he’d been seeing on the news, the Thunderbolts were occupying themselves with helping refugees and other victims of circumstance across the world, rebuilding areas devastated by conflict and natural disasters, and combating “normal” threats such as African warlords and Middle Eastern terrorism. The media was actually beginning to sing the Thunderbolts’ praises these days, which made him both pleased and more than a little wary.

“I can’t imagine that Zemo doesn’t know,” Rachel said. “But they haven’t taken any aggressive actions, at least publicly, and the Avengers pretty much have their hands full with other problems right now. I couldn’t even get a hold of Steve.”

“So why come to me?” Clint asked. “Why not get Asp and Black Mamba together and do what you do best?”

Rachel hesitated for a moment. “Because they’re gone, Barton. Tanya stopped taking my calls. I can’t even find Asp. And I’m pretty sure that these new Masters of Evil are connected to this. I need your help in finding out what’s going on.”

“And you couldn’t trust the Avengers with this,” Clint said, nodding. “You don’t think they’d help you, considerin’ what you’re asking.”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t exactly see them being willing to help track down two women that have been more enemy than ally over the years. And after seeing what you did for the Thunderbolts… well, I thought you would be willing to help me.”

Clint finished off his beer, mentally chewing on Rachel’s situation. Though his first reaction was to go to the Avengers himself and bring the situation to their attention, he came to a rather jarring conclusion: he really had become a different man since leaving their ranks to lead the Thunderbolts, and for better or worse, he was now a Thunderbolt. And being a Thunderbolt meant that, sometimes, unconventional methods were required to handle unconventional problems.

“We can’t do this alone, Rachel,” Clint finally said. “We’re going to need help. And I think I have an idea about that…”

Mediterranean Ocean

Somewhere off the southern coast of France, a large, pristine yacht plied the currently placid waters of the Mediterranean, one of hundreds of such vessels that traveled the length and breadth of the French Riviera. This particular vessel, which had departed Monte Carlo roughly two hours ago, was registered to Jacques Rousseau, a man that was quite well-known throughout Europe. A billionaire playboy and industrialist, most people were not aware that Rousseau was also one of Europe’s most powerful crimelords, a man rumored to have blood on his hands in more than the philosophical sense.

This evening, Rousseau was meeting with three very unique individuals. Batroc, Machete, and Zaran, who together formed the infamous Batroc’s Brigade, sat with Rousseau on the expansive open deck of the yacht, enjoying a rather expensive Merlot as they discussed business. Rousseau was a handsome man, clad in a white Armani suit that flattered his handsome features and well-built physique. Nearly a dozen guards, all heavily-armed, stood watch at various points on the deck, their eyes on the watch for any possible interruption.

“Your offer is certainly… enticing, mon ami,” Batroc said. “One million in American currency to assassinate Interior Minister Sardozy.”

Rousseau nodded. “I am nothing if not generous to my friends, Batroc. And your services have been most helpful over the years. I would not offer this to anyone else.”

“Why so generous?” Machete asked.

“Sardozy has been standing in the way of some very important corporate expansions I am trying to make. The French government is already one of apathy and lethargy, and his loss at a critical moment would prevent any interference in my dealings,” Rousseau replied.

“Very ambitious of you,” Batroc said, twisting his mustachios as he gave the matter more thought.

“Besides,” Rousseau added, “I am certain your current employer isn’t willing to pay you so generously. Or be so generous after she’d taken her own cut.”

Zaran regarded Rousseau evenly. “Our current employer?”

Rousseau smiled blandly. “I am nothing if not well-informed, Zaran. I know that you are now working with the new Masters of Evil organization. Now that is an ambitious undertaking.”

Batroc nodded, his smile just as bland. “Oui. How could we say no?”

Suddenly, Machete stood from his chair, his namesake weapon already drawn from the scabbard he wore strapped to his back. “Something’s wrong.”

Before Batroc or Rousseau could respond, an almost solid gust of air slammed into the table where the four of them sat, knocking over their glasses. Just a meter above the deck itself, topaz energies begin to form, swirling and seething, and forming what appeared to be a portal of some kind. Batroc and Zaran were instantly up and readying for a fight, while Rousseau’s guards all pointed their weapons at the disturbance.

A moment after forming, three individuals emerged from the artificially-created gravity well. The first was a handsome, athletically-built man clad in black and purple, brandishing an almost-archaic sword. His blond hair was worn short but stylish, and his blue eyes were alight with an inner confidence that bordered on arrogance. The second was a woman, clad in an indigo-and-crimson bodysuit and mask, with auburn hair that fell to her shoulders, and who bore an antique saber in her hands. The third, a tall and beautiful woman clad in an indigo-and-gold bodysuit, actually levitated several inches off the deck. Her golden-blonde hair was worn long and unbound, and the expression on her features was one of detached reserve, almost boredom.

Batroc gasped. “Zemo! What do you want?”

“In due time, Batroc,” Baron Helmut Zemo replied, raising his sword into a defensive positioning even as the gravity well behind them swirled into nothingness once again. “For now, I ask that Rousseau’s thugs lower their weapons and make themselves scarce.”

“Baron Zemo,” Rousseau said. “The three of you are on my vessel without invitation. Do not presume to order my men.”

Zemo smiled, a smile that was almost cocky. Then he turned to Moonstone. “If you wouldn’t mind, Karla…?”

Moonstone nodded, and with a gesture, each gun in the guards’ hands began to glow with topaz energy. The guards found themselves at a loss as each weapon was drawn inexorably to the deck, made to weigh several hundred pounds each by increasing gravity’s pull on them. Moonstone then looked to Zemo, her expression still one of boredom. “Done.”

“Sacre bleu!” Batroc exclaimed. “Kill them all!”

Machete raised both of his arms toward Moonstone, and began firing off dozens of small, deadly blades. Zaran, brandishing a wicked mace, lunged toward Vantage. Batroc himself leapt toward Zemo, a blur of lithesome acrobatic skill and grace. Rousseau himself chose that moment to retreat toward the relative safety of the yacht’s interior, using the distraction that the Thunderbolts provided to escape the conflict.

Zemo raised his blade, and the son of the infamous Nazi war criminal Heinrich Zemo took a swipe at Batroc, who nimbly avoided the attack. “So sorry, Zemo,” Batroc goaded as he vaulted over Zemo. But before he could follow up, Zemo quickly spun around and smacked the side of Batroc’s head with the flat of his sword. “That’s Baron Zemo,” he replied with sardonic humor. “Have some respect.”

Zaran swung his mace at Vantage, and the former policewoman met his attack with her own saber, parrying his assault. The two began to circle each other, with Zaran attacking whenever he saw an opening, and Vantage deflecting each of his blows. Dallas Riordan was not only a skilled martial artist and a weapons expert, but the ionic energy that coursed through her body boosted her vitality, giving her an incredible boost in her agility and reflexes.

Machete’s wrist blades tore through the air toward Moonstone, but instead of exploding upon impact with her body, the blades passed harmlessly through as the former psychiatrist phased her body, becoming intangible. Machete blinked in surprise as Moonstone didn’t even flinch at his assault on her, and suddenly began to stride determinedly toward her, brandishing his sword menacingly.

Batroc sent a snap-kick at Zemo’s midsection, but the Thunderbolts’ leader caught Batroc’s ankle in his grip, deftly tossing the man backward. Batroc, however, managed to cartwheel to a perfect on-his-feet landing, and grinned mockingly at Zemo. “I hear you are going by a new name these days, Baron Zemo,” Batroc said.

“You’re right,” Zemo said, offering Batroc a grin of his own. “Nowadays, I’ve decided to be known to the world as Citizen Z. Consider it a nod to… an old friend.”

Moonstone privately considered Zemo’s comment even as Machete closed the distance between them. The man, who looked to Moonstone like a foppish pirate, swung his sword at the left side of her collarbone, hoping to eviscerate her. However, upon connecting with her body, Machete’s blade was shattered, broken beyond repair.

“Wha–?” Machete exclaimed, regarding the now-useless handle of his sword. “My sword was constructed of reinforced omnium steel! Even your invulnerability should not have been a match for it!”

Moonstone’s head tilted to the side slightly, a gesture that was almost alien. “Do your homework, Machete. I’ve absorbed a second moonstone. My powers have been increased exponentially as a result.” She reached out, and secured Machete’s bandolier in her grip. “Think on the consequences of that as you return from your evening swim.” And with that, Moonstone lifted Machete from the deck of the yacht, and used her prodigious strength to toss him nearly a mile out to sea.

Zemo looked over at Vantage, who continued to square off against Zaran, and nodded once to her. And with that, Vantage suddenly vaulted through the air toward Batroc, while Zemo lunged viciously toward Zaran, meeting the larger man’s mace with his elegant blade.

Batroc regarded Vantage, who had traded her saber for an extendable bo-staff, and smiled at her. “Cherie, you are as beautiful as you are deadly. Join the Brigade. We could use your… unique… talents.”

Vantage responded by delivering a sharp kick to Batroc’s jaw, sending him reeling. “A master strategist you may be, Batroc, but you really need to learn how to talk to a woman.” She quickly closed the distance between them before he could recover, and her bo-staff connected solidly with Batroc’s skull. The Frenchman collapsed to the desk, unconscious.

Looking over at Zemo, Vantage noted that he’d not only disarmed Zaran, but he’d engaged in a calculated insult with the assassin by using his sword to cut off Zaran’s topknot. The rage of Zaran’s face was evident as he prepared to renew his assault against Zemo, but suddenly Moonstone hovered behind Zemo, her eyes locked onto Zaran. “You’re done, Zaran. Surrender.”

Though clearly pissed off at Zemo, Zaran reluctantly nodded, and dropped his mace. “Done.”

With that, Zemo turned to regard Moonstone and Vantage. “Riordan, get below deck and bring me Rousseau. Karla, if you’d be so kind as to fetch Machete?”

While Vantage simply nodded and strode off to her task, Moonstone sighed with mock weariness. A moment later, she disappeared in a flash of topaz light. Though to the naked eye she appeared to teleport, Moonstone had actually initiated a gravity shunt, allowing the Earth’s gravitational pull to propel her at incredibly rapid velocities. Moments later she reappeared, bearing a very wet and bedraggled Machete. The man collapsed to his hands and knees, breathing heavily and rapidly.

Zemo stepped over to Machete, and lowered his blade to point directly at the man’s neck even as he raised his head to regard Zemo. “Why were you meeting with Jacques Rousseau?” Zemo asked.

Machete shook his head, which caused Zemo to wrinkle his nose in irritation as water splashed on his clothing. “We… were being hired… for an assassination job.”

“Who were you being hired to assassinate?” Moonstone asked, once again at Zemo’s side, hovering inches off the yacht’s deck.

“French…Interior Minister… Sardozy,” Machete replied.

“And why would Rousseau want Sardozy dead?” Zemo asked.

“I’d say that Rousseau wanted to expand his legitimate interests illegitimately,” Moonstone interjected. “Sardozy has gone on record as being opposed to Rousseau’s entrepreneurial ambitions, on the grounds that Rousseau is all but directly connected to organized crime throughout Europe and parts of Asia. However, he can’t prove it.”

Zemo nodded, taking Moonstone’s explanation as an acceptable answer. If he’d learned anything over the past few months, it was that her advice and counsel was invaluable. He looked from Moonstone to Machete, who simply nodded at her explanation. “He was going to pay us one million American dollars for the job.”

“And what would the Crimson Cowl have to say about you performing such a lucrative side job?” Zemo asked.

Machete shook his head. “She doesn’t know. She takes a fairly hefty cut of all profits, for what she claims is a profit-sharing deal and a pension plan.”

Zemo chuckled contemptuously, while Moonstone merely raised her eyebrows. “Well, isn’t the Cowl the consummate businesswoman, Karla?”

Moonstone’s response was noncolorful, almost bland. “The last Crimson Cowl used similar methods. I think there is something to be said for her approach, don’t you?”

Zemo regarded Karla with slightly narrowed eyes. “Hmph.” At the sound of approaching footsteps, he made a slashing motion across his throat. “She’s back.”

At that moment, Rousseau stepped back out onto the deck, led at swordpoint by Vantage. Zemo and Moonstone left Machete to his recovery as they moved to join Vantage. Zemo crossed his arms over his chest, while Moonstone simply looked on with continued detachment. “One million is quite the fee for the assassination of some mid-level French government official, wouldn’t you say, Jacques?”

Rousseau shrugged, showing no fear before three beings which had already demonstrated their vast superiority and ability to crush him like a bug. “I spare no expense when there is something that I want.”

Zemo smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that.” He looked over at Moonstone, who handed him a small datapad. Zemo took the datapad, and showed it to Rousseau. On the small display screen, Rousseau watched as a re-enactment of his conversation with Batroc’s Brigade played out, complete with sound.

After a few moments, he looked up at Zemo. “I do not understand, Baron.”

“It’s very simply, Rousseau,” Zemo replied. “I have Songbird and the Fixer keeping station over Paris right now, bearing a copy of your conversation with Batroc’s Brigade, which we recorded via one of the Fixer’s hovering spycams. If this were to fall into the hands of the wrong person… say, Sardozy?… you’d be in quite the predicament.”

Rousseau visibly paled at Zemo’s threat. He swallowed once, and then regained his composure. Somewhat. “What do you want, Baron?”

Zemo smiled. “You offered to pay Batroc’s Brigade one million dollars for their services. I think that our services are worth at least… how much would you say, Karla?”

Moonstone matched Zemo’s smile with one of her own. “Twenty million should cover it, I’d say. Fixer has quite the shopping list.”

Zemo pressed a few keys on the datapad before handing it to Rousseau. “I’ve taken the liberty of accessing your primary banking institution’s online facilities. If you wouldn’t mind, please transfer the twenty million using the account information on the upper left portion of the screen.”

Rousseau looked at each of the Thunderbolts in turn, shock and fear evident on his features. “This is blackmail! You cannot do this!”

“We can and we have,” Moonstone stated. Though she and Zemo both looked more than a little smug, Vantage shifted uncomfortably. Dallas Riordan had been many things in her life, from a policewoman to Citizen V, but never had she engaged in such treacherous behavior before. However, despite her moral reservations about employing such methods, she knew that Zemo was serving a greater good… still, she didn’t like it.

Though he was obviously weighing his options, in the end Rousseau knew that he only had one choice. With his disarmed guards and Batroc’s Brigade looking on, he authorized the transfer of twenty million dollars into Zemo’s very private Swiss account. Zemo took the datapad from him, returning it to Moonstone, and nodded to Rousseau. “A pleasure doing business with you, Jacques. Do try to keep your nose clean in the future, won’t you?”

Zemo and the Thunderbolts turned their attention to Batroc’s Brigade. “I’m afraid you three will be coming with us. We would be remiss in our duties as saviors of the world if we just let you go,” Zemo said simply.

Batroc nodded sagely. “I suppose we have no choice, non?”

Zemo shook his head, and then glanced at Moonstone. “Let us return home, Karla.”

Moonstone gestured with her hand, and another artificial gravity well swirled into existence before them. With Zemo and Vantage leading Batroc’s Brigade within the spatial distortion and Moonstone following behind them, the Thunderbolts were gone as quickly as they came.

Stormfront-1, North Sea

“Batroc, Machete, and Zaran are secure in the detention area, Helmut,” Moonstone said as her phased body emerged from one of the walls of the cavernous central control room of Stormfront-1, the Thunderbolts’ island headquarters in the storm-tossed North Sea. Standing with Zemo at the circular, raised-platform control panels and displays were Songbird and the Fixer. Both had recently returned from their mission in Paris, and were currently in discussion with Zemo.

“Twenty million?!” Fixer exclaimed. A roguish, middle-aged man, Paul Norbert Ebersol’s athletic build was contained in a simple blue-and-red bodysuit. However, most people paid more attention to the technology that sprawled across his upper torso, his arms and hands, and even parts of his bald head. The Fixer was an intuitive, if cynical and sarcastic, world-class engineer, who’s vast array of technological wonders were provided by his cybernetic tech-pack that was bonded to his body. “And he agreed to this?”

“He had no choice, Ebersol, thanks to you,” Zemo replied, a touch of smugness in his tone. “I trust you retained a copy of today’s events?”

“Need you even ask?” Fixer responded with a grin. “A back-up copy is even now sitting in our databanks.”

“Good,” Zemo stated. Then, he turned his attention to Moonstone, who had come to hover in the air near the gathered Thunderbolts. “Thank you, Karla. Are you ready?”

Moonstone nodded. “I am if Norbert is.”

Fixer looked to Zemo, who nodded once, and moved to join Moonstone. “Just the two of us?”

“I could do it alone, Norbert,” Moonstone replied. “You’re the one that insisted on accompanying me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s an old friend,” Fixer replied. “How could I say no?”

“If you two are done…?” Zemo said.

Moonstone raised an eyebrow, and another gravity well opened up in the control room before her and Fixer. The yellow-white energies swirled and seethed, and were only audible as a vibratory thrum that ran throughout the room and through the bodies of the Thunderbolts present. Fixer stepped into the spatial distortion first, causing a bright white flash as he disappeared into the gravity well, and after Moonstone followed him, the distortion once again swirled into nothingness.

At that moment, Vantage and Atlas entered through one of the control room’s automated doors, and smiled when they saw Songbird. Atlas was a very tall, very muscular man with auburn hair and rugged features, and a red-and-brown costume that imposed the “A”-logo on both his forehead and on his torso. Vantage had divested herself of her mask, revealing a handsome, elegant face.

Songbird was just as beautiful, and easily the youngest of the Thunderbolts. She bore long white hair with her own natural auburn coloring framing her lovely face, and a dark blue and white bodysuit with a golden carapace, gauntlets, and belt. When she saw Atlas and Vantage, she also smiled. “Hey, guys. What’s up?” she asked.

“Mind grabbing dinner with us, Mel?” Atlas asked.

Songbird nodded. “I’d love to.” Then she looked over at Zemo, who watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. “Unless you need me for something, Zemo…?”

Zemo shook his head. “Not at all. Enjoy yourself, Melissa.”

After the trio had left the control room and the door had clicked shut behind them, Songbird looked at Vantage with an expression of dismay. “What the hell is going on? Zemo is stealing money now? That’s why Fixer and I were in Paris?”

Vantage nodded. “Blackmailed the guy that was meeting with Batroc’s Brigade. And it was all set up very smoothly. Hell, I almost admire his brass ones for it. He really toes the line, doesn’t he?”

“You’re okay with this, Dallas?” Songbird asked. “You used to be a cop… how could you be okay with blackmail?”

“Well, it’s for a good cause, for one thing,” Vantage replied. “Second, the man he stole the money from is not a good man, Melissa. You heard what he was going to do. And from what I’ve been able to determine, his political and economic enemies have a tendency to disappear or find themselves destitute.”

“Yeah, Mel,” Atlas added. “It’s not like he worked for his money, either. I guess we’re just puttin’ it to better use, y’know?”

Songbird shook her head. “I don’t know, guys. Hawkeye wouldn’t steal someone’s money like that.”

Vantage raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this the same guy that blackmailed the government into pardoning all of you?”

Atlas nodded. “She’s got a point, Mel…”

At that moment, the trio stopped before the doors to one of Stormfront-1’s elevators, and when the doors opened with a whoosh, the last of the Thunderbolts stood before them: Blackheath. Samuel Smithers, the man once known as Plantman, had undergone radical changes in the past few months. His body had begun wildly mutating, becoming more flora than fauna, as Blackheath had become more closely attuned to “the green,” as he referred to the Earth’s bio-verdant field.

Now, Blackheath very much appeared to be an animate form of plant life. His body, which he had since ceased to conceal with clothing, now seemed to be comprised of flexible bark. His hair, as well as his once-infamous mustachios, had been replaced by lengthy, resilient green stalks. Bunches of leaves had grown into his shoulders, forming the vegetative equivalent of shoulder pads. Even his ears had elongated, becoming elven in appearance. Of all the Thunderbolts, he had experienced the most obvious transformation.

“You are concerned about Zemo’s actions,” Blackheath said without preamble. “You are concerned about his methods.”

“Y’know, Sam, it’s spooky when you always seem to know what’s going on,” Atlas said.

“Josten, don’t call me that,” Blackheath replied. “Sam Smithers was my name when I was but ignorant… meat.”

“And now?” Vantage asked.

“Now, I am something much, much more,” Blackheath stated resolutely.

“Care to join us for dinner, Blackheath?” Songbird asked. Of all the Thunderbolts, Blackheath perhaps felt closest to Songbird. While the Thunderbolts had been thought dead, trapped on Counter-Earth, he had been a part of her and Hawkeye’s new Thunderbolts team.

“I do not require the same nourishment that you do, Melissa,” Blackheath replied. “In fact, I was just returning to my quarters to rejuvenate. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, he stepped past the three of them into the corridor. Moments later, he was gone.

“Well,” Vantage said as they stepped into the elevator, “never a dull moment with Petunia, is there?”

Location Undisclosed

The room was not a large one; indeed, except for the massive computer console set against the wall opposite the door, it was rather cramped. The lighting in the room was off, the only illumination emanating from the computer’s monitor. The monitor was easily six feet in height, but of more interest were the figures being shown on the monitor.

Some of the world’s most notorious supercriminals were represented on the monitor, all gathered in an equally-anonymous-appearing location. The being of living sound known as Klaw stood with the master of the fundamental force known as Graviton. The massive, muscular, monstrous Abomination accompanied one of the world’s deadliest assassins, Bullseye. And the superhumanly-powered thug known as Sandman stood with the once-human mass of intelligent photons known as the Living Laser. The final figure, the only woman present, was none other than the beautiful, mad, and altogether interstellar pirate queen known as Nebula. Together, these seven individuals formed the latest incarnation of the infamous organization of supercriminals known as the Masters of Evil.

The figure sitting at the massive computer, regarding each of the Masters of Evil in turn, was clad head to toe in crimson. From the crimson bodysuit that revealed a statuesque, athletic female body to the hooded crimson cloak that concealed every facial feature except for a pair of eyes that glowed like the flames of hell. Her posture was a commanding one, for she knew that these seven individuals acted at her whim.

“Cowl,” stated Klaw without preamble. “Batroc’s Brigade has been captured by the Thunderbolts.”

The mysterious Crimson Cowl nodded. “Yes, I know. This is the first move that the Thunderbolts have made against us since I reorganized the Masters.”

“It won’t be the last, either,” Graviton added. “It would be a mistake to underestimate them.”

“The Thunderbolts, or Moonstone?” the Cowl asked pointedly. The expression that very briefly passed over Graviton’s features was answer enough for her. “I do not underestimate any of them, Graviton. But I will not fall prey to rash action. Nor to the desire for revenge.”

“So what exactly is the plan, Cowl?” Nebula asked with just a touch of sedate malice in her voice. “I grow tired of waiting.”

The Cowl leaned forward just noticeably. “I will not ask you to wait much longer, Nebula,” she replied. “Preparations are almost complete. And once we launch our operation, the world will have no choice but to give in to any demands we make. You will all have what you have most desired.”

“For your sake, Red, I hope you’re right,” said Bullseye. The black-and-white-clad assassin toyed offhandedly with a set of playing cards. “You have no idea how hard it is for me to work in a group environment.” That last comment earned him contemptuous glares from his new teammates.

“Just follow my instructions as I’ve laid them out,” the Cowl replied. “Continue coordinating efforts where you are, and continue to keep events from being noticed. I’d rather not attract the attention of the Avengers or the Fantastic Four just yet, if it can be helped. But if the Thunderbolts become a problem…”

“Yeah?” the Abomination asked, his voice betraying his eagerness.

“What then?” Sandman added gruffly.

“Then deal with them,” the Cowl responded ominously. “I don’t really see anyone shedding a tear if they suddenly meet an untimely end, do any of you?”

The seven gathered Masters all chuckled, shaking their heads. “I know I wouldn’t,” Klaw said venomously.

The Cowl nodded. “Very good. I will be in touch.” And with that, she reached forward to press one of the console’s controls, and terminated the communication.

As the screen went dark, the illumination level of the room began to brighten. The Cowl stood from her chair and turned to face the man who’d just entered: Baron Zemo. The Baron, who had chosen not to wear the magenta mask that had become his trademark over the years, smiled at the Cowl.

“An excellent performance, as always,” Zemo said with genuine warmth.

“Thank you, Helmut,” the Cowl said as she reached up to remove her hood, the glow of her eyes fading away rapidly. Tossing the hood onto the back of the chair, Karla Sofen regarded Zemo with the barest hints of a smile playing across her elegant features. “The plan is working faster than anticipated. It seems we’ve made quite an impression on the supervillain community.”

Zemo shrugged. “All the better for us, then.”

Moonstone raised an eyebrow at that. “You have absolutely no doubts about what we’re doing.” It wasn’t a question.

“If we are to save the world, Karla,” Zemo replied, “the Thunderbolts will do far worse before it is over.”

NEXT: As Songbird and Fixer embark on the next phase of Zemo’s ominous plan to save the world, Hawkeye approaches an old ally behind bars! Diamondback’s plan to find her missing friends brings her to Paris, and Vantage helps the Thunderbolts finally come face-to-face with the new Masters of Evil… as THE GATHERING STORM continues!

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Well, this is a bit of a dream come true for me, because the Thunderbolts are probably my favorite team in Marvel today. When the first series ended, and Zemo declared that “in order the save the world, the Thunderbolts will have to rule it,” I was hoping for big things. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. Avengers vs. Thunderbolts was an awesome story, and I think that Fabian Nicieza and Kurt Busiek crafted an amazing conclusion to the story of the original Thunderbolts.

So amazing, in fact, that I decided that the best way to proceed with my series would be to pick up where the original series at Marvel left off. I’m really hoping that no one finds the plots and ideas that I have in mind for my series too terribly unoriginal… I’ve tried to keep things fresh and dynamic, and completely unpredictable. Oh, and to a certain someone who expressed concern that this series would become “The Karla Show,” don’t worry; I’ll give everyone their fair share of airtime… Karla just might get a little more, that’s all. 🙂

I want to thank Dino Pollard for giving me the opportunity to write this series, and for being okay with pretty much every idea I’ve insanely spat at him over the past few months. I also want to thank Ryan Krupienski, for giving the final green light on Thunderbolts. I’ll do you proud, because I know you’re a big T-Bolts fan. Mike Rasbury, I’m eternally grateful for having someone that’s on the same wavelength as me, and who made me realize that it’s okay for me to be as obsessed with Moonstone as I am. And last, but certainly not least, I owe a HUGE thank you to David Ingram, who has become my muse in many, many ways, and without him, I would never have made this particular dream a reality.

– George