Sebastian Shaw mindlessly moved his hand from his cup of coffee to the buttons on the videophone. He had a very busy day ahead at Shaw Industries, and had come to work early this morning. He had hoped to get a brief glance at the Wall Street Journal, before a meeting with officials at the Brand Corporation about a joint venture in Malaysia.

"Sebastian Shaw here," said Sebastian, not even taking the time to lift his eyes from the paper. He figured it was someone from Fujikawa Corporation, as they had been trying to repurchase stock from him he had bought cheap during the Nikkei plunge several years ago. He had no interest in the company, in actuality, but knew that the company had initiated a buyback, and had retrieved almost all their outstanding stock. Except his, of course.

"Hello, father."

As the word father registered in his mind, Sebastian's attention was finally turned towards the videophone. There, complete with smug smile, was the image of Shaw's only son, Shinobi. Sebastian groaned with displeasure. The pup had been born to a fling with a geisha girl on a drunken night twenty years ago. Instead of fading into obscurity, the boy had learned of his heritage. Sebastian wouldn't have even known of the child, except for a letter sent to him upon the mother's death from cancer, when the boy was barely in his teens. Sebastian had tried to keep himself disassociated from the boy, save for a stipend to take care of his education. Now the boy, grown-up, had become quite bitter and a troublemaker, hell bent on either proving his worth, or superiority, to Sebastian.

"Shinobi, I'll assume you are aware it is the start of a business day. What is it you want?"

Shinobi laughed coldly. "Well, old man, since you seem to have forgotten your dearest and only son's birthday, I figured I would take care of my own presents this year . . . "

Sebastian snickered, "Restarting the Silicon Dragons? I heard your venture with them was a rousing success."*

*(see Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. #6 & 7 for the story)

Shinobi rolled his eyes. "Hardly, old man. The Dragons were a play toy I quickly grew bored with. I have much bigger fish to fry now. I would suggest you keep your eyes on the news coming out of Tokyo this week, dear old dad. Tokyo is in for big changes, and when I am done here, who knows, maybe I'll come over and see what I can do in your neck of the woods."

With the last words, Shinobi smiled, and the screen went blank. The connection severed. Sebastian flung the phone across the room in annoyance. He wasn't sure he like it. Every time he spoke with the insolent pup, he grew more bold and arrogant. He was unsure rather he was proud that his loins had spurned such a fine example of Shaw genetics, or angered because the boy, in his anger, would soon become a threat that Sebastian would be forced to deal with.

The news had started filtering in to him around a week ago. Matsuo Tasurayaba, a pawn of the secret organization known as the Hand, had been thrown out a twenty-story window, splattering onto the street below. He had been the Tokyo Black Rook. Machiko Shimura, a Black Castle, had lost control of his car and ran straight off a cliff, exploding into the rocks below. Shinobi Shaw, a Black Knight, had been attacked by a troop of ninjas, had barely escaped a local nightclub with his life.

Someone was out to kill the "Black" faction of the Hellfire Club, and Takashi was taking no chances.

It wasn't as if Takashi, and his clan, didn't have enemies. Many of the other clans of the Yakuza coveted Clan Tatsuo's prostitution and white slavery trade. If a pretty white girl was being peddled or sold in Japan, there was a ninety percent chance that Clan Tatsuo had a hand in it somewhere. It was good money. The government, in their urge to scourge the country of such criminal elements, wanted the whole Yakuza gone. Takashi knew that would be difficult, considering a third of the police and government agents are on the parole, and another third are clients with their own dirty hands.

Takashi pulled himself from his thoughts to take another slurp of his noodles. His paranoia pulled his eyes to scan the restaurant for suspicious inhabitants. All but one of the tables was filled with unspectacular and unsuspicious folk-mostly elderly slurping their own bowl of noodles. That one table did catch his eye though. Two women sat at that table, one Caucasian and one Oriental. Both were stunningly beautiful, and Takashi figured them for models. Both had long, unusual hair color - the Caucasian had silver hair and the Oriental a dark purple. Takashi thought both would make for excellent profit in his organization and pondered plans of how he could capture them and take them home.

Much to Takashi's amazement, the women seemed to notice the attention Takashi was paying them. The Oriental girl whispered in the silver-haired one's ear, and made her giggle. Takashi was even more shocked when both ladies stood, and started to walk towards his both. Takashi notice his closest personal guard, Jingo, tense up, but he put a hand on the man's arm, and gave him a wink, and Jingo relaxed, understanding his master's plan.

It was little more than a minute of the eye before Takashi realized his mistake. From somewhere, both women pulled out weapons. The Oriental woman pulled out a pair of short swords, and with blinding speed and accuracy, cut through the necks of two of Takashi's bodyguards. The silver-haired Caucasian pulled out two pistols and with deadly accuracy placed bullets into the heads of both Jingo and another of Takashi's personal guards. The two remaining guards could hardly manage to comprehend what had occurred as they two were upon the ground in pools of their own blood.

Suddenly, Takashi watched as the silver-haired woman hurled two smoke bombs towards the front of the building, and the remaining customers and staff went scrambling for the exit. Takashi himself, tried to get up, sensing his impending own self-doom, but suddenly found a small dart implanted in his chest. It must have contained a powerful toxin, because almost instantly, he found himself unable to move, paralyzed.

"Hello Takashi Tatsuo, head of Clan Tatsuo," said the Oriental woman, smiling. "This is a very ironic situation you are, isn't it? Here you are. The great exploiter of women, a man who has controlled and abused women your entire life. Prostituting them. Selling them into slavery. Now, thanks to myself, Kwannon, and, my partner here, Blood Rose, women will at least get a small measure of payback. Know that I was payed for my services Takashi, but I have never taken more pleasure in a kill.

Kwannon started to walk away, and for a moment Takashi thought they might just be scaring him. Instead, Blood Rose walked close, her guns pointed straight at Takashi's chest.

"Shinobi Shaw says goodbye, and thanks for vacating position as Black King," Blood Rose said with a smirk.

Takashi closed his eyes, and felt only the first of the blasts as they entered his chest.

"Dark times are ahead," commented Shingen, waiting for his son to lift his attention from paper to the conversation.

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Shingen, curiously.

"I have received word from the others that tonight, at a special meeting of the council, Shinobi Shaw will announce his attentions to become the Black King."

Shingen could barely controlled the fury and disgust that was beginning to consume him, "You can not be serious. He is a madman. It wasn't a month ago he tried to murder Kathryn and your grandchild.* The fact that he was the only one to survive the attacks on all of the ‘Black' only raises suspicions in my mind that he was probably behind the entire assassinations in the first place . . . "

*(last issue)

Shingen held up his hand to calm his son, then continued his own conversation, "We have no proof as to any of the accusations that Shinobi was responsible for any of the deaths. He has alibis on every occasion, and he was attacked himself. I am not naïve son. I am aware that he is likely the killer, but he wields considerable wealth and influence. More importantly, I believe, at this time, it is better to keep such an enemy as close as possible. He is a viper, and I fear that all these strikes are but a beginning."

"Hey Cassie, what the heck are you doing?" bellowed Juan Marquez as he opened the door to Cassandra Queen's dorm room and let himself in. It wasn't as if he needed to knock. He never knocked. Cassie had been one of his closest friends since they had been smaller than he could remember.

Juan looked around her dorm room with concern. Cassie had missed Anatomy this morning. Cassie never missed classes, she was the kind of person who had perfect attendance in high school; always showing up for class early and prepared. She had a huge thirst for knowledge. The only time Juan could remember her missing school was a nasty bout of the chicken pox in junior high, and the day she broke her leg during a morning kung fu lesson in high school.

Juan heard noise coming from the bathroom, and made his way in that direction. When he was close enough, he recognized the sound, and the person making it. It was Cassie, and she was vomiting.

Juan knocked on the door, worried. Cassie never drank alcohol, so it was no college party binge. She must be really sick. Juan heard her continue to vomit, and decided to check the door to see if it was unlocked. When he discovered it was, he decided to enter the room. He hoped Cassie wouldn't mind. He had been in there, with her, plenty of times before. Being gay, and a best friend, had afforded him the freedom to share bathroom time with her without awkwardness, on so many occasions, that it had become second nature for both.

Juan saw Cassie lying on the floor, her head propped up against the seat of the toilet bowl. She looked bad.

Juan decided to go for the obvious. "Cassie, baby, what is wrong? You got the flu? You need to go to the hospital?"

Juan watched as Cassie began to cry, trying to express herself between sobs, "No . . . Juan . . . it is . . . worse . . . than the flu . . . "

Juan thought for a moment. "Worse? On no, honey, you don't mean . . . " "Yes . . . I am pregnant!"

A young woman stands outside of a desolate cabin, around her for miles, nothing but trees and wild animals, and the sounds and smells of the forest. She stands there calmly. Next she closes her eyes, and lets her other senses compensate for the loss of sight. She feels the light mountain breeze prickle across her skin. She hears the sounds of a woodpecker in the tree to her left, and squirrels playing across the ground to her right. She smells the scent of the trees, and of the fire, which she had set in her home to heat the cold air.

Slowly, the woman pulls a shaft from the quiver on her back. Never opening her eyes, or changing her level of concentration, she places the arrow in the string of her bow, pulls back slowly, and fires. Three more times she fires arrows blindly. After all four arrows are fired, the young woman opens her eyes, and inspects her shots. Much to her satisfaction, all four arrows have struck their target, all in the center. A masterful series of shots, especially blinded, by anybody's standards.

The young woman smiles. Satisfied, she picks up her supplies, and prepares to return to her home. To pack. To leave the woods.

As she walks inside, she mumbles to herself, "Oliver Queen, I am ready now. Here I come . . . "