The location is unknown. The time is sometime in the wee hours of the morning. The temperature is too cold, even inside this huge building that, perhaps, functioned as an air hangar in a previous life. But the purpose... Some can only guess, some would rather not. All feel, however, that a monumental occasion is about to take place.
The people gathered here are many. And they all come in different varieties, that exceed the standard fare of old, young, tall, short and so on. There are some who dress like they escaped from 1930's America, smartly-dressed with tuxedo's and trilbies that wouldn't look out of place in the Godfather. Some have more elaborate costume, skull masks hidden beneath cowled hoods and heavy robes fit for a funeral procession. Yet others dress as though a science laboratory gave up on them, white coats stained with blood and other unmentionable substances. It is a mixed bag that comes today.
And each group of men, arranged in military formation, is headed by an individual who seems to represent whatever their group stands for. A young boy, glasses slipping down his face, fidgets uncomfortably in front of the scientists. The masked figures are headed by a brute of a man with red armour, a scythe slung across one shoulder. And the gangsters are lead by a young woman in an outfit that seems as though Vaudeville threw it up, complete with patriotic colours. Were Ash and Christine here, they would even recognize Ivan Vanko in his silvery armour, leading a group of what appear to be military shoulders
These are the Magpies. The criminal lords of this world, the men and women who are feared and respected across the globe. There should be seven here tonight, but a cursory glance counts only six of the infamous Ubermen present - Dallas Cohen, the Mirthful Lord, is not among them. This, however, is an uncomfortable and touchy detail for all present, a detail most of the assembled try to ignore.
For the cowled figure, emerging from a double-doorway onto the iron balcony in front, would make those who noticed pay dearly.
There is a long, uncomfortable pause as the figure walks forward, slowly and deliberately, taking it's time. The doors are set in a large alcove, the balcony itself jutting out a little way forward, and it takes a little while for the newcomer to reach the end. But when it does, all the hushed talk falls away as all eyes present turn towards this hooded apparition and the darkness that follows it like a malignant, living block of shadows.
Another pause as it surveys the crowd. Expectation hangs in the iron air like butchered pigs in a freezer - heavy and cold.
"Gentlemen," it begins, and the voice is like ice down the back of the shirt. The assembled men fidget uncomfortably, but keep their eyes on the balcony in front of them, refusing to drop their unending loyalty for a second. And those who do look away are dissuaded from it by glares from their commanding officers, Mr. Silver in particular.
"I would like to announce, firstly," continues the figure, "that Operation: Dawn's Light has been a resounding success. Nicodemus, the Destined Hero, has been confirmed as being trapped in another dimension, with no known way of returning and little motivation to do so. This gives us all the time we need to move forward with our future plans, without fear of hindrance or complications. And whilst we have had, unfortunately, to dismiss one of our own as a result of recent events, I am fully confident we are now best prepared to deliver our little...
"...surprise."
A murmur ripples through the assembled throngs of men, but dies down like a wave crashing against a beach. Where it possible to be seen, the figure seems to be grinning underneath the heavy, ornate cowl that covers most of its face. The mention of Dallas causes one or two of the Magpies to shuffle their feet, knowing full well what events their leader refers to but inwardly pretending otherwise, for their own sakes.
"However," continues the stranger, "before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a... rumor... that has been floating around the organization as of late." As it speaks, hands grip the railing in front of it as it leans forward, scrutinizing the men below it. "Some of you have, quite reasonably, come to believe that I, your Godfather... like war. I wish to dash these insane accusations to the ground like the fine china they are made from. I do not like war - on the contrary!"
"My friends...
"I... love... war!"
"I... love... war!"
