It was a chilly day in Washington DC, mid-February if I can recall. The Capital City, once a place where anyone could come and live prosperously has now become a secure stronghold where the President, Oscar Booth, governs his nation from the White House. The city looks straight out of 1984. Security cameras and propaganda everywhere on the streets, increasing in quantity as you move closer to the border wall.
The horns of taxis sound as the citizens walk through the city.
Like sheep... all of them... shuffling along to their deaths. Or their families... but I don't see the difference. Bank City's got nothing on any other city in the world. Besides the fact that John Davison started his empire here, and that the dude who died on Mars lived here. But my target here is not for money, not for any relics. It's for the vengeance. Melvyn Graves, the man I'm here for. Graves is my second stop on my rampage across the world looking for The Russian, the man who had my wife killed. I came close to him looking for Lao, but I never got the chance to strike. Never even saw his face. But that voice. I'll never forget it. That deep Russian accent. If only my recorder still worked. I could have The Russian's real name in minutes. But I have to do this the hard way. My way.
Along with Bank City's ever growing scientific community, there is still a large portion of people who still believe in the mystic arts. Theses people are the strongest of will, and the purest of heart. Even the crooked and evil. After all, being pure of heart doesn't mean pure evil.
Shanghai, China. Beautiful city during both day and night, but what's under the city is the part they'd prefer to keep hidden. Drug runners, human trafficking, every crime you could possibly think of. There's petty crime, sure, but what's that compared to the stuff I'm contracted to do. Knocking off kingpins, executing cops threatening to tell. It's a wonder I can still sleep at night. I guess I've just gotten used to it.
This story connects to a series of comic books soon to be released onto Comixology.com
Roman shoots up with a gasp, sweating. He looks around the room in shock, trying to figure out where he is.
"Sir. Sir! Professor Davison! Wake up!"
What happened? Where am I? Why am I so hot? Oh, jeez, why am I so cold now?!
"John! Wake up!" J.E.S.T.E.R. shouts. John snaps his eyes open and sits up. The room is filled with smoke, light barely peeking through the thick cloud. The sphere still stands there, shattered in half. The metal lining is still there, and is sparking, but there's something wrong with the sparks. They're slow. Slow forming, slow dissipating.