Year Four, August
WAR MACHINE #24
COLLAPSING CIRCLE
Written by Tom Lynch

Reaching the leader, he clamped his hand over his head. "OK," he said. "Looks like your boys ain't too keen on backing you up, boy. Not good for a leader, that. But listen..." He upped the volume on his armour speakers.

"I can crush your skull, spray your brain through my fingers, without raising a sweat. I can make your head vaporise just by turning up the power on my gauntlet. And that still leaves me with three weapons to cover your squad. I am not an Avenger. I quit all that. I am War Machine. I do what I choose to do. And you will not screw with me, because I do not have a problem with killing if it's needed. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

The man nodded; Rhodey felt the movement distantly through his gauntlet. "Good. Now, you wanna tell me who paid you? Who I can go to to deal with that building?"

"Uh-"

"I want compensation," War Machine said. "Hey, you know what? We can do this real simple. It worked once already. Ten seconds..."

Three seconds later, for precisely one and one-half seconds, the sudden silence was rent by automatic rifle fire. Rhodey was perhaps too shocked to respond before the fire died away, but by the time it had, he found himself holding the intact head to a decimated and thoroughly deceased body.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, helmet scanning around the squad. Looked like two of the remaining four had been responsible; one on either side of him. Which rather ruled out the easy solution.

“…Right,” he said, slowly. “You really don’t want anyone to talk. I see… You’re a bunch of fucking muppets really, aren’t you?”

Releasing the corpse’s head, War Machine’s hand swept out to the right. His railgun, by contrast, banked left. The two who’d killed their sergeant went down, one to a burst of gunfire through the heart, the other found his vital organs dry-roasted with a single withering blast of energy.

The other two soldiers looked at each other. The one on the left turned to run. Rhodey favoured him with two rounds from the railgun, one neatly through each knee. The one to the right was suddenly minus a head.

Rhodey brought his foot down on the surviving soldier’s rifle. It buckled and snapped, metal shearing, as he increased the force on it. A metal-gauntleted hand reached down, plucked the trooper painfully from the floor, held him high, dripping blood. “No one remains to collapse the circle for you, my friend,” he said, softly. “Tell me the name on your paychecks.”

“Spectrum,” the man said, and coughed. Phlegmy blood splashed on the armour’s Uni-Beam. “Spectrum Dynamics Corp.”

“I can’t believe you did that! Tank’s search had you as one of the good guys-“

“Out of date,” War Machine’s speakers thundered. His hand – spattered red decorating the black and white – plucked the man from his car. Behind the mask he hit his chin toggle. HUD down. Store Visual Input. Access Avengers Database. Run comparisons.

“Coldblood-7,” he said. “What the hell made you come here?”

“I needed help,” the cyborg said, simply. “Looks like I got myself in deep. Had Tank run a search for the nearest ultrahuman. You came top of the list.”

“As a result of which,” Rhodey growled, “my business is wrecked. And it was out of fucking date, as well! When was the last time you heard about War Machine on the news?”

“Well, I must have missed the story where you turned into a psycho killer!”

War Machine’s head shook, slowly, Rhodey taking his time to make it as ominous as possible. “Uh-uh, my friend. You got here just in time for ringside seats.”

The cyborg suddenly got the distinct impression that the War Machine was… grinning, despite being a solid metal facemask.

“How are you at Go Fish?”

Coldblood blinked. “Wha-“

War Machine’s arm pivoted neatly, sending his companion arcing neatly out into the harbour, some twenty yards from land.

Tank – Coldblood-7’s car – deployed it’s heavy weaponry. The missile rack on the armour swung to face the bonnet.

“Shootout?” Rhodey asked softly. “Thought not.”

His foot, resting under the car, lifted, and tank flipped up slightly. High enough, at any rate, that War Machine’s free hands could snatch it up and send it sailing out through the air after it’s owner.

Once more Rhodey toggled the speaker volume upward. “AND STAY OUT!” he roared.

Duncan hauled himself out of the water, looked back at the Chief and his shiny new toy. Wondered what to say.

There wasn’t really a good conversation starter in this situation, when you thought about it.

Oh, crap.

The sunglasses had come off.

Operator Ted Russell hated it when his boss took those stupid sunglasses off. It meant he wanted you to know he was serious, and since he was generally serious enough to fire you anyway…

“What happened?”

“The operation is, uh… well, I think ‘up shit creek’ is how my dad always referred to this kind of botch job. We just lost the last guy’s gun-cam feed, and the other four aren’t pointing at anything useful, so, uh…”

“Fucking hell…”

Russell shrugged. “On the positive side, sir, we can update the War Machine file…”

“You all right, sir?”

Duncan smiled. “I’m fine, Chief.”

War Machine paused, then shrugged. The faceplate flipped up, and James Rhodes exhaled slowly. “Man, I love that first hit of unfiltered air. Guess it was pretty obvious, huh?”

“I’d be glad the hit came at night, Jim. At least most of the wharf don’t know. So, uh… you the original?”

Rhodey grinned. “Yeah, I am, and yeah, conversation gets a bit tricky with this kind of elephant in the corner, don’t it?” He clapped Rhodes Recovery’s mechanic on the shoulder. “Fuck it, Dunc. Go home, dry off. Call Serena for me and tell her we’re looking for new premises, yeah? Take the week off…”

The faceplate snapped back into place with cold metal precision. “I’m going to see about compensation.”

“I don’t do this shit, man. I need some pointers.”

The man who could not see inclined his head, studied the… thing of metal and oil, static and sweat, cologne and ozone, through his other senses.

“On detective work?”

“What I said. Normally I just point the guns at people.”

“Ye-es…” Daredevil shook his head slightly. “I don’t much like that approach to our calling.”

“Ah, come on man. I ain’t the fucking Punisher. Besides, if I can detect my way through to the big bad I don’t have to just shoot my way up the food chain.”

Daredevil plucked his billy club out of his holster, pointed, and clicked. “I suppose I ought to,” he said. “Walk with me.”

And so the two travelled across New York City, SCN helicopters following the surprising return of the War Machine at a respectful distance.

“Tell me,” Daredevil said. Rhodey panned his gaze around the room carefully first; this was somewhere the Devil knew, he realised, but even with those super-senses he didn’t have the same bug detection capacity Stark had packed into his suit. And it was possible they hadn’t actually eluded the choppers…

But the scan came up with nothing, and he nodded to himself.

“Tell you what, what sort of thing I think I need help with? Man, start from the beginning. I got nothin’.”

“No,” Daredevil said, in that quiet voice that, in another life, made Matt Murdock the scourge of the deposition. “Tell me your story. Then I’ll tell you what I can ‘detect’.”

War Machine sighed. “See, that’s the thing. It ain’t my story, and the guy whose story it is… well, he’s not on speaking terms with me.”

“Why not?”

“I threw him and his Knight Rider-knockoff car into the sea.”

Daredevil tilted his head; Rhodey got the distinct impression the blind superhero was looking at him pityingly. He shrugged.

“I got an anger-management problem.”

Without breaking ‘gaze’ the red-garbed hero pulled open a drawer, extracted pad and pencil. “Let’s start from the earliest point you know about.”

“Goddamn it… Tank?”

“>klik< Receiving.”

“How you feeling, buddy?”

“>klik< Mobility impaired, effectively zero. Weaponry status: unfunctional due to environment. Require aid.”

“Yeah, well…” Coldblood-7 shook his head and, treading water, drew in another deep breath. “Nearest point of useful re-entry is Venice Beach. Give me a minute and I’ll fish you out, pump the water clear…”

“Spectrum Dynamics Corporation,” Daredevil said, “appears to have very little in the way of actual physical assets. I checked the incorporation documents, did a little cross-referencing to get myself up to date.”

“And?”

“…And the SDC appears to exist chiefly to make ice-cream vans.”

Murdock paused to let that little tidbit settle in.

“Do fuckin’ what?” Rhodey asked, eventually.

“Ice cream vans,” Murdock said. “Captain Kone and so forth. Rather impressive ones, judging by the cost per unit.”

“What, in real life you’re an economist or something?”

Daredevil’s lips twitched. “No, I just don’t let money matters pass me by. You’d be surprised how much it helps with the Kingpin. However, that appears to be the occupation of your current nemeses.”

“So… what are they doing with Apaches and mercenaries?”

Matt Murdock shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I suggest that the ice cream business is just a front, but you’d have to find that out for yourself.”

“How?”

Daredevil cocked his head idly to one side. “See, this was the part I didn’t get in the first place,” he announced casually. “You must have watched crime flicks. They didn’t help, read a couple Ed McBain books. 87th Precinct. Sherlock Holmes stuff, too. Detective work – at this level, at any rate – is not in fact difficult. Go kick some ass.”

War Machine nodded ponderously. “Point taken. Thanks, I guess. Don’t worry, D, I won’t bother you again.”

Boot jets flared, and the armoured avenger rocketed into the sky and outbound, headed back to his LA base of operations.

Cars drive onto Venice Beach. While it’s not the way everyone on the beach gets there, it’s familiar enough that most people don’t really look twice.

But it’s a rare vehicle arrives from inside the sea. Last time it happened…

Well, hell. Anderson, the lifeguard, wasn’t sure. It was a couple years ago, anyhow. Either the last invasion Attuma had launched or that time the AWC had been called in to stop… Doom, wasn’t it?… monkeying around with the tectonics in the area.

The local shops still carried the action figures from that. Scuba Doom. Yeah.

Good job he’d never found out; Anderson figured he probably wouldn’t stop with suing the store for the use of his likeness.

“Russ!”

Anderson stopped watching the car, turned to his colleague. “What’s up, Mitzi?”

“What the hell’s going on?”

He looked back at the car. A red light pulsed beneath it’s radiator grille. “Reckon we’re under attack by Glen A. Larson.”

Mitzi blinked. “What?”

“Or was that a Belisario thing? I forget.”

“Russ, what are you fucking talking about?”

“Well, look at it.” He waved his hand at the sleek black thing. “Ain’t a TransAm no more, but if that ain’t KITT it can only be from the lame spinoff they tried to pull couple years back…” Seeing Mitzi’s still-bewildered face, he relented and told her.

Nearly the end of the working shift.

War Machine stood above the SDC factory, about five hundred feet above the scope of their security cameras, and looked down thoughtfully.

“Captain Kone,” he said, slowly. “Talk about yer fuckin’ feet of clay. Used to enjoy a good bomb-pop of an evening…”

He folded his arms, settled down for a midair wait. Come clockoff, he was going in. Get the records, find out who owned this joint. Go visit, get the money to rebuild Rhodes Recovery. Kick some serious ass for the disturbance, and then finally explain to Tony that just because he put the damn thing on did NOT mean that War Machine was back. But definitely pay a house call to the guy who’d blown up his business first.

Fuck ‘em if they couldn’t take a joke.