The Fighting Yank bowed his head and pulled his cloak around him. He did this not because it was snowing and he was cold (it was and he wasn't) but out of a desire not to be seen. Though it was hardly likely anyone would even look in his direction on a rooftop. He watched the man that he had been following meet another several stories below him in an alleyway. The two traded some words and entered the building across from him.

He only had to wait a few minutes as men came out of the building and started unloading the truck that he had tailed here. The crates were heavy, often taking two men per crate. The Fighting Yank easily counted 12 different men unloading the truck. Four separate trips were made, 48 crates. Each one full of the guns nicknamed "hero-killers." Guns capable of extremely rapid fire of armor piercing bullets. Bullets that could cleave their way through engine blocks much less bullet-proof vests. The FBI had been tracking this particular shipment, but had been unable to find out the buyer. After the disappearance of two teams of agents, they reluctantly decided on calling in super-powered help.

"No, the Government won't send me overseas, but they're more than willing for me to clean up their messes," he thought.

SEVERAL MONTHS AGO.

"What do you mean Liberty Company's not being re-enlisted…Not heading overseas?"

The man yelling was one Doc Strange. Six foot-two of solid super-strong muscle. At the moment he was waving those tree-trunk arms of his. The athletic trim Black Terror was sitting, frowning on one side. The Fighting Yank sat on the other, ducking Strange's arms. The general on the other side of the desk sat completely impassive. They had been chosen to represent all their comrades in arms from over half a century ago. To volunteer their services once again to the service of their country…even though they had only arrived back to reality just a few short months before…before those awful events.

But, they encountered resistance. At one time, the Fighting Yank only had to ask in order to be granted an audience with the President, now they were spending weeks on a wild goose chase from one official to another in DC.

"We're experienced soldiers and could clean up this mess in no time. Whereas this army of button-pushers are hardly old enough to wipe their…"

"That's enough Mister Strange."

The general was actually scowling. The Fighting Yank glanced over at the Terror who was barely suppressing a smirk.

"You 'heroes' just got back a couple of months ago. You don't know the score here. Sure you were big shots in your day but war is different now. Our 'button pushers' can do more damage in a day than you guys could in a month. The pea-shooters you faced back then are just that compared to what we have now. Plus, the public perception has changed…the real heroes are the guys without powers and that's who are going to win this war. It's important to the American people as well as the countries abroad that they see what us normal Americans can do.

"Besides we already have super-ops in place should we need them. Young guys, up to date with the technology and times…not a bunch of dinosaurs as yourselves. Do yourselves a favor, go home and rebuild your lives. You've been gone fifty years and fought the good fight. Find your families and take a break. If we need you, we'll call."

And, with that, the general started shuffling through some papers and memos. The message was clear: meeting over.

Outside as they walked across the Mall of the Americas, Strange turned his arguing against his comrades.

"That was a royal waste of time. And you two were no help whatsoever…Mr. Silent over there," he said hooking a thumb towards the Black Terror. "And you in that outfit."

The Fighting Yank stopped. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

Doc Strange snorted. "Hardly exudes confidence and respect. What happened to that patriotic tight shirt? That plain white shirt looks like something you sleep in…and a powdered wig? Give me a break. Trust me, not very inspiring…"

"Says the man whose costume is a red t-shirt, pants and boots," said the Black Terror.

"NOW, he speaks."

"I changed outfits after the War. You know that," said the Fighting Yank. "I was tired of fighting, of blind patriotism. I think the general was right…not all of us are so gung ho about going back to war. I was there for WWII, I went to Korea. And, God help me, I probably would have gone to Vietnam had we been around. Some of us do have families and lives to rebuild."

"Hmmmph. What life? Your life is the Fighting Yank. What were you before... a bored playboy playing at being a man. As the Yank, you accomplished things. As Bruce Carter you were just a continuance of a family line, the third in between Jr. and the fourth."

"I was married."

Both Strange and the Terror looked at the Fighting Yank who met their gaze.

"Before we got shunted through time…I was married and we were expecting our first child. Don't pretend you know everything about me, Strange."

Doc Strange actually looked a bit uncomfortable and it was the Black Terror who spoke first.

"Um, how did your wife take you suddenly reappearing? And, the age difference…she must be in her seventies now."

"She died. 1967. My own son is older than me now, with a family of his own. So, you see, Strange, I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to go off on another war."

"And what about you?" said Doc Strange turning to the Black Terror. "Back in the big one, you were every bit as gung ho as myself. Don't pretend you weren't. I saw you in action many times. What changed about you?"

"You know it was the drugs," the Terror responded softly. "You, me, a couple of the others…who came about our abilities through science."

He sighed and shook his head sadly. "A different concoction with slightly different results for each and we were super-men. It changes personalities as well as bodies, Doc. You know that, I've told you that. Don't you remember how meek and shy the Liberator was when his stuff wore out? Yet, powered up he was unstoppable, confident and sure. It was changing me too. I thought my way through problems less and less…and, my God, the bloodlust. All that power, and so little control."

"I remember a little village in France. We rolled in with that infantry unit. I was powered up, but the Germans had left before we arrived. People were cheering us, gals kissing us, it was unreal but I felt like a hero. Then I came saw a crowd shaving this woman. A "horizontal collaborator" they called her. I cheered them on."

"She collaborated with the enemy. She got off lucky if you ask me," said Doc Strange.

"Maybe. But the next day when I was my nomal self again, all I could think of was the pleading sad look in her eyes and my own behavior. I was horrified. I destroyed all of my stuff."

The Black Terror bit his lip at the memory, and after a pause, continued.

"The shakes were awful. I couldn't hold a rifle. Alcohol took a bit of the edge off, but I was glad to get back to the states. To work on a new formula."

"And, that's what you use now," asked Doc Strange.

"No. I tried some different things, but they didn't work. They were all addictive to a degree. Then I discovered I didn't need the stuff anyway. The changes that they made to my body were permenant to a degree. I'm not as strong as I was and sure as Hell not bulletproof but I could take on three heavyweights with one hand behind my back. And, I use my head more."

The trio started their way down the stairway leading to the Metro.

"I'm still an addict. Always will be. If they want us for war…I'll be there Doc. But, I'd rather explore all the advances in technology and science. They've done a lot in the last forty some years. If I'm going to pick up my old job as a pharmacist, I'm going to have to go back to school."

Doc Strange smiled. "The world has changed quite a bit, that's for sure. I remember Captain Future working on a computer that was almost the size of a warehouse. Now, it seems every house has one that is more powerful than what he had."

And with that, the trio spent the Metro ride and walk to their hotel amicably chatting on the changes the world had gone through…many of them quite shocking and unexpected. It wasn't til they were at their doors that the mood changed again.

"You're wrong, Terror," said Doc Strange. "I know myself…and I'm no different than I've always been. I think what happened was the war just got to you. You couldn't take it anymore. But instead of having the guts of accepting the responsibility you came up with the excuse of the drugs. That way you no longer have to shoulder the responsibilities of the power. And, if you fail, you have an excuse…you're only half the man you always were."

"You sonova…" exclaimed the Black Terror. He turned and slammed Doc Strange into the wall. "You know that is not true. No one, not even you can question my motives, my courage. I've faced every obstacle and opponent set in front of me. I didn't hesitate a second to go on the mission that resulted us being brought here, did I? Nor did I ever give an inch to the enemy."

With the Black Terror's fist poised just inches from his face, Doc Strange grinned.

"There's the passion and anger I remember. I knew you still had it in you. So, you two, what do we do tomorrow? What do we tell our comrades?"

"Home," responded the Fighting Yank. "We go home. We tell our friends that as a unit, we are not being called upon. Let each decide his and her own course from that."

Doc Strange looked at the Black Terror who nodded in agreement. Strange clenched his jaw as if he was about to argue and then just let out a sigh. "Fine" was all he said as he turned and went into his room.

"It is sometimes hard to believe he is one of the smartest men on the planet," said the Black Terror.

"Tell me about it…why couldn't Captain Future have been picked for this?"

The two laughed and with a "see you in the morning" each retired to their rooms. The Fighting Yank turned on the light and took off his uniform. As he laid it out on his bed, he looked at it.

"Maybe Doc had a point after all. The people are hurting right now. They could use the old Fighting Yank now…the patriotic, super heroic one. What else am I good for?"

He put his suit away, turned out the lights, and stared at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts.

A slight sound on the roof shook him out of his reverie. Seven tall Asian men stood facing him, how they had gotten there without his noticing took him aback. Almost lyrically they began to spread out, to surround him. Each had a different weapon associated with the Far East though to no common region, their bodies were heavily scarred and cut and covered by wrappings more akin to rags than sheets. Their bare feet barely made sounds as they lightly stepped across the snow covered roof. The blindfolded man with the bow and arrow said in a flat emotionless voice, "We are the Scarred Brotherhood." He then notched an arrow in his bow and brought it up.

The Fighting Yank was suddenly alarmed and leapt backwards the same time the blind bowman let loose with an arrow. Only the arrow did not go where the Fighting Yank had been standing but into the path of his leap. It struck him hard in the shoulder and over the edge of the roof he disappeared.

He landed in the alley and converted his landing into a roll, his booted feet slightly skidding across salted ice. Two men carrying a crate of weapons dropped the crate to reach for their own guns. The Fighting Yank's fists flashed out sending both men flying across the ice. He noticed that his foes from the roof were following him down. The swordsman was charging out of a cloud of smoke, the weaponless one, his skin a metallic bronze, had jumped down like him, landing heavily. One with mauled ears and split lips floated down, his mouth open in a high pitched scream. The one-handed one drifted down on strong winds, snow swirling madly about his mutilated form. Another with knives came racing down the rusted fire escape. The two blindfolded ones stayed on the rooftop, the one firing arrows without ever directing his blindfolded face towards his target.

The Yank's cloak had been draped his shoulders and prevented the first from doing any more harm than bouncing off and bruising his shoulder. He grabbed the crate of weapons and swung, knocking a racing arrow out of the air and released the crate towards the sky. One of the blindfolded ones let out a cry and ducked, but the bowman was not as fast and the crate struck him solidly front on and he fell back. The Yank barely had time to register his victory as the swordsman was upon him.

The alleyway prevented his foes from effectively surrounding him, though the power of flight gave some of them the advantage. He ducked the swing of the swordsman, losing his hat in the process. The swordsman barely missed a beat and back swung with a lower slash. The Fighting Yank, grasping the edge of his cloak brought it up as if to deflect the blow but instead caught the sword in the folds of the cloak and his arm. He twisted and with a cry the swordsman released his weapon, and the Fighting Yank slammed his fist against the man's jaw.

And the biggest one was on him. A metal fist as strong as steel struck the Yank hard, and his feet slid out from under him on the ice. He managed to turn his head, the next blow striking ice and concrete instead of flesh and bone. He grappled with the large man and they rolled across the alley way. He felt blows across his back, his cape absorbing most of the damage. The big man kicked him off and into his two fellows. One screamed, the sound sending vertigo through the Fighting Yank. Even as he stumbled and fell to his knees he struck out blindly and felt something solid crumple under his fist.

Almost as soon as his knees hit the snow, he lunged himself forward, lurching back to his feet and spinning around with his cloak up to ward off an attack. Only he was alone again, his foes had retreated as silently as they had arrived. Of course the truck with the remaining illegal guns was gone. And a quick search said that whoever had been in the warehouse was also gone. With as much shipment as could be carried. The Scarred Brotherhood had done their job in delaying him, that was for sure. And next time they'd be better prepared.

He rubbed his sore shoulder, trying to decide what his next move should be.

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