7:35 AM -- "Master Steven, the officials are here." Captain America nods to Jarvis and sets down the stylus he was scribbling on. He spends a moment straightening his uniform, a lifetime of soldierly habit, then stands and salutes as the men enter. Raymond Sikorski he recognizes, but the other two he doesn't know; generals both, from the Pentagon no doubt. They exchange introductions, dispense with pleasantries and get down to business. They are all old soldiers, they know their jobs.
    "Saturday morning at 0800 hours the caterers began arriving for a wedding we were to have that afternoon..." The debriefing promises to take a long time, and none of them look forward to it.

8:28 AM -- Sand in his throat, dry, chafing but better than a scream. His throat had been filled with them all night, and now Alex Power is grateful that he is too hoarse to scream anymore as we wakes yet again. This couldn't be happening, but it was. Pulling himself out of bed, Alex staggers into the bathroom and begins washing his face. His reflection in the mirror shows him the toll the last two days have taken, and as he looks he sees the faces of his friends once more as they died. And he slides to the floor, sobbing, unmoving till the sink fills and water begins spilling over the side, unnoticed as his tears.

9:55 AM -- "Right this way, madam." Jarvis escorts the black clad couple into the Avengers  living room. Arrangements of flowers have been placed expertly and mourners are beginning to trickle in. Jarvis has, unfortunately he thinks, done this before. The caterers, ironically the same company that handled the tragic wedding, are even now in the Avengers state of the art kitchen preparing food for after the service. A crack cleaning crew, part of Damage Inc., is already hard at work assessing the destruction in the sub-basement. Invitations have been sent out to all the major super hero organizations, and press releases have been issues to all major media outlets. There is more work to be done, and Jarvis is already thinking about how to accomplish it, but for now his main duty is to escort the bereaved into the living room so they may wait in peace.
    "How dare you?! How dare you wear that to this kind of occasion, after what you and your kind have done?"  Jarvis recognizes the gentleman who has begun shouting; Robbie Baldwin's father. For his part Yellowjacket remains unruffled in the face of such emotion; he too has been here before.
    "It is a sign of respect, Mr. Baldwin. Robbie and the others died protecting this world from..." Mr. Baldwin's stinging slap snaps Hank Pym's head to the side momentarily, but if it causes any pain, Hank doesn't show it. He merely sets himself against the tirade as all in the room turn to watch.
    "You bastard! You freaks have ruined this world, you've destroyed all of our chances at living a normal life! How can you stand there in that thing like some sort of damned clown when my boy is dead? You bastards killed him, you live this life of glamour and every kid wants to be a big hero and then they die trying. You are pathetic...you..." Baldwin is led away by his wife, tears of frustration and rage shimmering in his eyes. Hank Pym doesn't move, doesn't react, but he knows...he knows everyone in the room is looking at him, and he knows they are all thinking the same thing: murderer.

10:51 AM -- She watches from a distance, too distraught to accept the comfort of those who would help her, watches as the priest mumbles worthless words, as the rabbi mouths rote sayings. Vance is dead and nothing anyone could say can change that. Not all the heroes gathered in their costumes, heads bowed, nor the mourners in their Sunday best black or the flowers and prayers and tears. She watches from the trees, thinks nothing, does nothing, sees nothing. Vance is dead.

12:11 PM -- Silhouette stands apart from the others. She wants to hug, to cry and laugh as they remember the good times, but she can't, because every moment she stands there on her strong legs she is reminded that their loss was her gain. They died and she was made whole. And she feels nothing but guilt and hatred for herself -- hatred because it feels so good to stretch and run and walk.
    They would have been so happy for her. In a way that hurt the most, knowing that they wouldn't resent her for being healed, knowing they wouldn't have blamed her. She could almost imagine the smiles, the congratulations from Rage, the hugs from Turbo, the jokes, hard but well meaning from Hindsight Lad. They would have been so happy for her...
    She watches and doesn't see her teammates looking to her, looking to comfort and for comfort. All she knows is the feel of her strong legs beneath her, all she sees is her friends lying dead and all she hears is the whispered voice of John Kowalski like a soft kiss promising more.

1:15 PM -- "We are not done, we're not going out like this. We're the New Warriors." Nova says angrily, slamming his helmet onto the ancient oak table in the Avengers dining room. Most of the others are still too upset, too numbed, but he has pulled Namorita aside to talk about the future; their future.
    "Richard..."
    "No, whatever you're about to say, I don't want to hear it. I can't believe you're going to give up. I know this is hard, but..."
    "They're dead, Richard. Half of us are dead. The others in there, they can't deal with it. Every time we get together all we're going to think of is our friends who died, all we're going to think is that we could be next. It's too dangerous and frankly it's too painful to stay together. We're finished, Richard."
    "Dammit, that's just not true. We can ...look, we can get some recruits, maybe. And we need to find Timeslip...and..."
    Namorita just shook her head.
    "It can't be over. I wont let it."
    "Richard, you don't have a choice. We all need time apart, time to try and deal with this. Maybe some day the Warriors will get together again...but not now. And not for awhile. It's over. It's done, Richard, I'm sorry." A tear on her cheek, Namorita slowly leaves the room, stopping for a moment to clutch Nova's shoulder; then she is gone.
    Nova stands, his scarred helmet turning over and over in his hands, pondering. He doesn't notice when the alien named Century enters the room; he's too engrossed in his thoughts. Doesn't see Century take a seat silently in the shadowed corner.
    "This isn't over..." He finally says, jamming the helmet onto his head. "Starhawk will pay for what he did. I'll see to it that he does." Angrily he stalks from the room, and a moment later his blast signature can be faintly heard. And Century nods. Nova is a true warrior. And there shall be a reckoning indeed.

2:05 PM -- The others are still gathered, still mourning, unable to move on, not wanting to leave the embrace of their friends, the little comfort they have found. In the control room, one screen shows them, and in a way the Vision is with them; and in a way he is apart. While the others deal with their grief, try to help those hardest hit through, Vision watches the monitors, scans for trouble. He fancies that he watches over them all so that they might have the freedom to mourn. And part of him knows that he has taken this on so that he wont have to face his own emotions; but if this is a type of cowardice, it is a type he is well familiar with. So he chooses to believe he is helping them all in his way and he watches the monitors.
    It has not been a busy day, or rather, the press wouldn't think so. They only notice when Egghead blasts a city away with a death ray from the sky, or the Baxter Building is sucked into space. Its the little things, the moments in between, that take up the Avengers time, that fill their moments. The saying has it that a soldiers life is one of sheer boredom punctuated by moments of absolute terror. The terror is right, Vision thinks, but there is never boredom for an Avenger, even in the days and weeks between super villain activity.
    There had been nothing of the sort today. No villains struck during the funeral. During the wake there was no bank robbery or strike at the UN or scheme to destroy the moon. And so another day passes. But in the moments in between...
    While the caterers were moving into the kitchen at nine in the morning, one of them thought he saw the Vision flying away, but dismissed it. Five minutes later the Vision arrived in Brooklyn, flew through the wall of a 1930's brownstone that was engulfed in flame and rescued two children and a dog, depositing them on the street and staying long enough to receive thanks; then he was on his way back to Avengers Mansion. While the parents of Robbie Baldwin shouted at the stoic Hank Pym in the living room, the Vision received a distress call from a police officer in Newark and ten minutes later he was dismantling a wrecked car and flying the injured driver to a local hospital, where three hours later surgery would end successfully. At noon, as Silhouette wondered about her future, the Vision stood in a stream in Missouri, just a few minutes flight by Quinjet, and held a rickety bridge together while the last of the flood victims evacuated to safety.
    It wasn't the Dr. Dooms that the citizens of New York and the rest of the country cared about; thats not what they remembered. It's not the time that the Avengers saved the Earth from the Skrulls that they talked about on Avengers Day. It was that once, in 1989, the Vision had appeared just in time and carried their sick grandmother out of a ruined apartment slum. That once they had seen Captain America stop to help get a kitten out of a tree. That their nephew would have been shot in a gang fight if the Wasp hadn't shown up and driven them off. The little things.
    And so the Vision watches the mourners with one eye. And with the other he sees a call coming in and at 3:31, while Marcus Immortus speaks with his mother in the garden, the Vision is at a high school on Long Island, telling a group of special needs students about the dangers of illegal drugs. And he's not there for those in mourning, but maybe he's right after all when he thinks that in a way he helps them still.

3:31 PM -- In the garden behind Avengers Mansion, Carol Danvers looks into the eyes of her son and wonders what she should feel. Part of her hoped to never see him again, and part of her simply thought "He is my son." And so she looks at him, and walks beside him, and says nothing because she doesn't know if there was anything to say.
    The two of them walk around the garden, neither of them knowing what to say, if there is anything to say. The breeze picks up then dies down. Nothing is said.
    Finally. "I must leave now." She nods at his words and they walk more, back to the front gate.
    And then, as he fades, back to limbo: "I'm so sorry."
    And she cries for a long time, wondering why she didn't say all the things she suddenly needs to.

5:35 PM -- "I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality, sir." Alex Power says, pulling his coat close around him as he stands in the foyer. Captain America nods, mouths some words of praise, of comfort, words that a week ago would have meant a great deal to Alex. But now he didn't know what to do, what to think. His friends were dead, he had failed, it was all over.
    "Thanks again sir, I...thanks." Cap tries to say more, but Alex turns and leaves and a moment later Cap sighs and closes the door to Avengers Mansion. Alex walks the long walk to the front gate and leaves, closing it behind him, then starts down the street. His mind is empty and he likes it that way for their is nothing in him worth filling it with now.
    It takes him awhile to realize that someone is walking with him, but he finally does, and turns to see an older man, strong, wearing a uniform. He was at the funeral, Alex realizes.
    "Can I help you?" Alex says, his natural politeness coming through though he really wants to tell this man to go to hell, this isn't the time.
    "You may be able to. We may be able to help each other. I know this isn't the right time, you have a lot to think about, but when you work through your problems, give us a call. Or before. Maybe we can help you work things through, okay son?" And he clasps Alex's shoulder and presses a card into his hand, then leaves. And Alex is grateful, happy to be alone. And finally he looks down at the card in his hand, a card with the Pentagon's phone number on the back and the words "Freedom Force" printed on the front. And he pockets it. Maybe later. Maybe.

7:08 PM -- Jarvis stands in the high security vault. He looks around him, though he doesn't need to; he knows what each drawer contains. weapons, armor, artifacts and circuits from a dozen missions, collected here in the safest part of the Mansion against the possibility of theft or discovery. Remnants of untold heroes and villains who had fallen, failed, succeeded, retired, died. He knew them all, dreaded coming in this room now, for each time it meant adding another name, another bauble of a wasted life. Two chambers stand open this time, and he looks into them.
    He hadn't known either Darkhawk or Turbo well, though he was of course familiar with them. In a way that described his relationship with everyone; it's not his place to get personally involved, not his place to become a friend or companion. He was here to serve, to make their lives easier. While they still had them. At times like this he wondered if he had made the right choice. Times when he realized that someone he had kept a distance to by choice was gone and now that choice had been taken from his hands. he would never know them now, could never. At least this time he wouldn't have to deal with the fact that he should have; the hardest duty he had ever done for the Avengers was cleaning out the Swordsman's room and realizing that he had consciously denied the Swordsman the only thing he rally needed, a friend. Had done it in the name of duty, of what was proper -- but in the end were even those excuses reasonable?
    In one drawer, the amulet of Darkhawk. In the other, the torn, bloodied armor of Turbo, which had seen now four heroes die wearing it. A push, a click, and they are sealed away. Jarvis turns, darkens the room, secures the vault and leaves, two more closed away, locked in his mind along with the others who have fallen while he looked on.

9:20 PM -- They have all gone, the mourners, the survivors, by ones and twos, together but alone. Finally the Mansion is empty again. In the communications room Captain America, Yellowjacket and Vision sit, each occupied with his own thoughts. There is no need for talk; each has too much to say to ever begin so they sit, close together without touching and night slides towards a conclusion.
    A buzz; incoming message on the Avengers private frequency. Cap blinks, then stands, pushing his thoughts aside and readying himself for business. A moment later the screen lights up, the smiling face of Hawkeye filling it.
    "Clint, good to see you, how is everything?" Hawkeye senses the mood in the room, from across the nation; he heard the news. Putting on his biggest smile, he waxes poetic about the beauty of the West Coast for awhile, till even Cap has to smile at him.
    "Ah, anyway Steve, things are going great, I've got a number of candidates for the new west coast team, and I'm planning one of my famous barbecues for tomorrow. I've invited everyone who was ever a whacko or worked with us to come out for the big shindig and I was hoping I could convince you three lollygaggers to plant your booty in a Quinjet and make the trip. Whaddya say?"
    "Ah, I don't know Clint, things are pretty tight out here, I've got a lot of paperwork and some training schedules need to be..."
    "Steve," Hawkeye says, interrupting, "None of the crap needs to be done tomorrow. I think the only thing that needs to be done tomorrow is a great chili eating contest. C'mon. I really think you guys need a break."
    Cap looks around the room, to Vision and Yellowjacket, both striking nearly identical poses, neither answering. Cap wonders for a moment if they realize how similar they look, are, then turns back to Clint and smiles. "I think maybe you're right. A little sun could do us all some good." They finalize times, say goodbyes. Cap nods, then sits back down. Looks at the others, who glance back, then away. They sit again, shoulder to shoulder without looking, touching. Then:
     "Bucky...Buchanan Barnes was born in 1924. When I met him, he was 16 but he looked younger, freckles, always a grin on his face and a scheme rolling around in his head. He loved life and he had a knack for knowing how to live it. Let me tell you about him."

Next Issue: You've been waiting for it; wait no longer. The Shi'Ar vs. the Spaceknights with Galador as the prize and the Avengers caught in between. Don't miss this one.