A grey sky over grey buildings, towers of concrete and gleaming glass, populated by people who are one step removed from zombies, if only because zombies have better dispositions. This is New York City, and I'm really, really beginning to hate this place.

"Mr. Battle? Mr. Battle?" God, I really hate the press, especially at nine in the morning. I had just left the hotel room and about five of the vultures started to surround me and shout their questions at me..

"What the - oh, just go to Hell..." I mutter.

"Mr. Battle, two weeks ago you fought Mastiff. Any comments on that battle?"

"Yeah. It sucked almost as bad as the last episode of Seinfeld."

"So how come you didn't get the job done?"

"El Nino got in my way."

"Does it bother you that Mastiff's still out there killing people?"

I stop. I don't usually let words bother me - words are just words - but these ones_. I take a deep breath. The reporters sense that I am going to snap, and take several steps back. Another deep breath. Still angry. I begn to yell at the nearest reporter.

"Does it bother you that people made Mastiff, and you self-satisfied little turds were too busy getting drunk in sports bars and chasing Princess Di to cover what the Hell was really going on? This guy was engineered, probably tortured... until he was turned into a psychotic maniac. Now he's gone out on a rampage while you maggots are sitting on the sidelines, waiting for guys like me to get it on with this mother, just so you can then report on it like we're a pair of pro rasslin' pukes? Where were you, when they were making him, huh? How many other Mastiffs are being made right now? Do you know? Do you?"

They're scared I'm going to completely lose it. They have good reason. I'm pretty close to the edge, and the fear in the air doesn't help. I take another deep breath. No, still pissed - I continue my rant.

"And now I'm supposed to have a guilt trip just because I lost? He broke my ribs, shattered my nose, gave me a concussion and twenty-two stitches in my head, and it's my fault? Do any one of you cowards have the balls to look me in the face and tell me directly that I screwed up?"

There is a long pause.

"Mr. Battle," one of them says, very tentatively. He must have been a rookie; the gleam on his skin was sweat, not slime. "Do you think you screwed up?"

I start laughing and watch the look on their faces. Man, it's fun to freak them out. On the other hand, it's a pretty gutsy thing to ask me. I flash a huge psycho grin, then turn serious. "What's your name?"

"Rick Lantern, Brooklyn Observer."

A small weekly paper. I nod. "Lantern, eh? You a superhero, Rick?"

"No_" Lantern answers, a little nervous, looking at the pack around him. "Though I'm kinda green."

The joke plays better than it deserves from the delivery. Even I smile. "Well Rick, either he's a better fighter than me, or I screwed up. To be honest, I think it was a little of both."

"Do you have anything to say to Mastiff's latest victims?" I recognize this newshound as tabloid, pure tabloid. But by this point, I've gone from real pissed down to slightly annoyed.

"They're dead, moron. I don't speak to dead guys. They ain't good listeners. As far their relatives go -- which is what you're really asking -- what they think about me is their business. Go ahead and ask them - I know you will."

"Are you going after Mastiff again?" another asks.

"We're both still breathing, and he's worth twenty Gs." I say, smiling.

"Mr. Battle, what's your reaction to David Spector's comment about you?" This is from a quip from some Rosales guy, a real creep from the Inquisitor. Nobody expects the Inquisitor, that's their motto. And I wasn't expecting this question at all.

"I dunno. What'd he say?"

"That you use a kumquat and steroid wonder diet."

There are a few chuckles and exchanged glances. I put my hands on my hips. "What the Hell does he know? Who the Hell gave him the right to criticize me? I ain't done kumquats in my life."

The press is silent. Nobody who's that full of themselves knows how to appreciate irony.

"I never met the guy, but his rep's impressive. I don't care if he makes jokes about me, it's not like I ain't big enough to be a poster boy for steroid abuse. A few wisecracks won't chafe me. But if I really do piss Spector off -- face, muscle, attitude, whatever - there are plenty of places where a couple of guys like us can go to settle these sorts of problems. You know, like the men you aren't. I wouldn't mind teaching that guy a thing or two about fighting."

Man, the place got quiet. Challenging the local golden boy did not make a favorable impression with the press - big whoop. Rosales, on the other hand, is in tabloid heaven; I can practically see the bulge grow in his crotch. I'm surprised that he didn't race for his laptop right there. BATTLE CHALLENGES SPECTOR TO PRIVATE FIGHT. Saliva at eleven. Should've kept my mouth shut, but a part of me wants to meet with Spector, and not necessarily to knuckledust his face.

My swagger is almost immediately cut short, though not by the media maggots. A new man breaks through the circle of press, better dressed and stiffer than the word processor jockeys. "Mr. Battle, I understand that you're being sued by the people whose property was damaged in your fight with Mastiff. They're seeking $150,000 in damages."

"Where the Hell did you come up with that little factoid?" I snap.

"I'm Will Salmon, representing the firm of Bartleby and Smith." The man says. He walks up to me and hands me some papers and a grin that's even nastier than mine. If this were a movie, the flashbulbs would have started going off. It figures; I stop for one set of parasites, and I get attacked by an even lower lifeform. Give me a psychotic, superpowered serial killer any day.

"Busted..." Tabloid-boy taunts me with a grin as he sees the pissed-off expression on my face get captured for posteriors by the magic of Kodak.

Yeah, that settles it. I hate New York.

It's night back at the place where it all began. Okay, maybe not all; like mom and dad didn't have sex in the Omegacorp parking lot, at least as far as I know.

Actually, it's more like early morning. I'm not expecting to find Mastiff tonight. I don't want to find him. He'd get in the way of my real target - a man who's a lot lower on the human dirt scale than Mastiff because he keeps his crimes hidden.

His name is Dr. Freund. Genetic engineer and (given that I'm still waiting for him to leave the building at three in the morning) night owl.

At 3:18 am, the doors swing open. Two technicians stagger out to a Honda and leave together. It's Wallace and Yardsley - I've cased the place and the personnel files pretty good. Freund will be out within ten minutes...

Freund comes out alone - with his disposition, even genetically engineering friends won't help. He bought a new Acura, same make, year, and color as the one that got trashed in the fight with Mastiff. A creature of habit. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss_ Hey, even I listen to Classic Rock once in awhile.

Well, I won't get fooled again. I don't fly easy with my force fields (one day I will perfect the whole airfoil thing with my force fields, I promise) but I can be a gooney bird and still grab my target. And that's what I do. Like a big, huge, muscle-bound bird of prey, I get into an aerial position, and then sweep down, grab Dr. Goodness and push myself skyward. An opaque force field goes over his head like a hood, keeping him from seeing me. I don't want a positive ID for the cops when he gives his report.

It occurs to me that this would be the absolutely worst time possible for a superhero to show up, and therefore it's the most likely. Especially given how my day has gone. But it's best not to deal with hypotheticals.

"Hiya Doc."

"Jakob?"

What do you know? The son of a bitch thinks I'm sonny-boy!

I grit my teeth and laugh with a low growl. "You been real neglectful lately. And here I thought you had such big plans."

"What do you want..."

"Warm blood on my hands, and a song in my heart." I answer. "One of us is going to spill your guts tonight. You better decide quick who it's gonna be."

Freund spends the next few seconds fighting a compulsion to urinate. It feels good to make someone else feel miserable. Doing it to a complete scumbag like Freund makes it even better .

"I'll tell you anything you need to know. I've never lied to you, Jakob."

"I've never killed you before, but that don't mean I ain't gonna start. What are your plans for me?"

"You - you know what we want with you. The ideal bodyguard, the ideal soldier. Bigger, stronger, faster, deadlier..."

"And real impatient." I want him to be nervous, to keep him off balance. I want him to keep from realizing who's got him. "Who you got watching me?" This was Mastiff's question when I stumbled onto the conversation earlier. It'd add authenticity if I ask it now.

"Jakob, what makes you feel like you're being_"

Time to tighten a grip around his throat. Big hands. I shape my force field to give the impression of big, sharp, fingernails. Something to dig in a little. Have to be careful.

"Don't play me for a fool... dad. I know you been following me. Watching me. Like a test animal."

"What do you mean?"

"You combined my DNA with that of a dog, didn't you?" I snap. "You couldn't even bother making me look human. Feel human!"

"I don't know where you heard that, Jakob." There was a note of sincerity in his voice that wasn't there before. "We haven't been able to isolate the animal traits and graft them to the DNA. But you needn't worry about that..."

"You want to kill me, don't you?" I snap. I was beginning to think like Mastiff, beginning to see things from his perspective. It was absolutely frightening, and at the same time a little sad, to understand what the guy had gone through. "I'm an embarrassment to you, and now you're gonna do away with me. Or try."

"That's not true!" Freund protested. "If only you'd come back with me. We can protect you."

"I ain't bending over for Omegacorp. Or for any of your hired goons. The last one got lucky. From now on, anyone who tries to hunt me dies, you got it?"

"Of... of course..."

"And if I find out Omegacorp's behind this, I'm gonna be looking for a new father. Got it?"

"Yes... But Jakob, we never hired that bounty hunter, I swear!"

I take out some cord, and begin to tie Freund to the edge of the building. "I got something for you to remember, dad. Don't say you never got anywhere in the world."

When I'm positioned behind Freund and clearly out of his line of vision, I drop the force field hood. I immediately hear a loud, ear-piercing scream. He is alone, suspended fifty-two stories above the city, tied to a stone gargoyle on top of one of the city's taller office buildings.

When there's a thunderstorm, lightning will often strike those tall buildings. Hope the weather's clear for a few days, at least until some flyboy vigilante or a police helicopter comes by and finds him. Of course, this is one of those times when bad weather really would be an act of God.

My dealings with Freund qualify as a shameful joy, but I enjoy it way too much to feel much guilt. I really don't care if he lives or dies. I had kept pretty quiet about what I had heard between Freund and Mastiff; I only told the police that Mastiff was threatening Freund, I didn't mention the details. Freund was a scab, but I had a feeling that removing him would not go very far in dealing with the real problem at Omegacorp. And that problem needed fixing, or the actions of people like Mastiff or (worse) whatever they produced next would create a backlash that would give credibility to people like the Sons of Man. Not only was that a threat to me, it threatened my family. And it wouldn't take much for it to spill over and threaten all naturally powered superhumans.

If the vision I received from Marakami was correct, the world was probably going to need all the superhuman help it could get. A backlash against super-soldiers, genetically engineered people, or anyone with naturally acquired powers could prove fatal for all of us in the long term.

The Big Picture scares the Hell out of me; I'd rather deal with the small stuff: bills, taxes, lawsuits, getting laid. I like living alone, and I really hate having to depend on other people to solve my problems. People just ain't very reliable. But now my problems are the world's problems, and you can't ignore something just because it scares you. A lot of plans started going through my head, but they depend on a lot of factors, many of them beyond my control.

Could I find reliable allies? I really hate the idea, I hate the whole dependency thing. I don't trust people and I don't make friends very easy.

Could I learn Omegatech's inner secrets without getting killed? For all I knew, Cronos could be the brains behind their genetic testing; someone who could create Mastiff needed to be that good. Cronos did say we'd meet again. Or maybe it was someone even worse than Cronos.

Could I become good enough, tough enough, to handle the challenges that lay ahead? I need to work on my combat moves. The fight against Mastiff had not only damaged my pretty face, it had taken away some of my cockiness. It's good to get knocked on your ass once in awhile, but lately, it's been happening a little too often to me. I need to get some of my confidence back.

One thing I really need to do is to find Mastiff. Not to fight him this time, though I'm sure that's what it's going to come down to, sooner or later. Big bad Jake and I need to have a little talk about Omegatech, before someone does the inevitable and silences him for good.

But before that happens, I think I'll work out my problems on some unsuspecting sap...

With this in mind, carting a dufflebag. I enter a New York warehouse, wearing a dark green muscle shirt and my typical pair of worn Levis. It smells of sweat, with a hint of left over sawdust. There's a guy with an athletic build wearing a black T-shirt and slacks, fixing tape to the floor. Looks like he's got a bit of Asiatic blood, not that race matters. He reminds me at a distance of Dean Cain. I wonder whatever happened to that guy?

"Hi, Mark!" The guy puts down the tapegun, and comes towards me with a slow run, and sticking out his hand. "Welcome to my martial arts tournament."

"Yours?"

"Actually, I'm not sure whose idea it was, but I organized the whole thing. I'm Jackson Lee.  Heck of a way to find sparring partners, eh?"

"Sure is, Stonewall." I smile and then someone catches my eye. She's doing katas with some sort of energy sword, a tall muscular woman with grey skin and a tail wrapped around her waist. I recognize her immediately from the news reports - a superpowered hitwoman named Kayli. Though I'm out of her line of sight, I straighten up and feel a little warm. Make that a lot warm. I ain't had a hormone attack this bad in a long time...

"We got an interesting crowd." Lee says, and he runs back to finish taping the floor while I stand there like an idiot.

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