[identity profile] marvel-citizens.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] elseworldexiles
It's been said there are eight million stories in the Big Apple. Modern New Yorkers scorn this as an underestimate, though the more cynical ones will hold forth on the topic of how many stories are the same old, same old. Others will argue that every story is different, because New York makes them so. This surging, seething city: the hot spot of the American melting pot, where so many first set foot on American shores, where so many come seeking fame and fortune, where so many find only disappointment or despair or even death, where a few manage to hitch their dreams to that morning star.

"Every person on the streets of New York is a type. The city is one big theater where everyone is on display," said Jerry Rubin. All the world may be a stage, and all the men and women merely players, but who plays what? Who gets the leading role, and who will forever be stuck in the chorus line? Who will remain a stage-door Johnny, and who will be able to move from lead actor to director ... or the even more powerful position of producer?

Cast, crew, backers, and audience ... each one brings their own meaning to that granite beehive where people jostle and whir like molecules in an overheated jar.

New York City. Center of the universe.

If you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere.

Date: 2007-05-17 03:23 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] exiles-2h.livejournal.com
Kat Farrell stops to take a look over the latest edition on her way out of the Daily Bugle Building. The main headline screams at her in the usual oversized font, but what holds her attention is the black-bordered photo of a man with a camera slung around his neck. The caption reads, "346 days and still no arrest." On the editorial page, she knows, Jameson will have managed to connect the news of the day to the murder of his late investigative photojournalist.

You should've left a message, Peter, she thinks, and not for the first time. You should've let us know what you were working on. Parker's beat had been New York's Mafia, which meant the list of suspects was at least as long as Kat's arm.

As she heads through the lobby, like so many other staffers, she pauses for a moment in front of the memorial plaque, where the larger version of his picture is displayed, along with a small brass card engraved with his name and dates. At the dedication ceremony, his aunt had thanked everyone for their condolences ... and those who hadn't already contributed to the memorial fund had written checks that day.

No more time for nostalgia. Time to hit the street, and maybe today she'd get lucky with a solid lead on who killed Peter Parker.

Date: 2007-05-18 09:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jonahjameson.livejournal.com
For his part, the Editor-in-Chief and Publisher of The Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson, has taken a moment to breathe.

It's pungent cigar smoke, but it's still a moment to breathe.

Glaring out the window of his ramshackle office, he looks down at the city.

A city that gave up on the notion of justice years ago. Now just a bunch of squirrels trying to get their nuts.

They won't get his.

Parker was a great kid, prime of his life, hell of a nose for news. The kinda nose that puts other people's noses out of joint. Important people. Nasty people. Murdering that young man might've postponed the revelation of the truth about what's become of the Big Apple, but come hell or high water, it won't be held off for long.

Not while the Daily Bugle can still report the truth.

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From: [identity profile] aunt-mae.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-23 09:57 pm (UTC) - Expand

Excerpt from an article in the New York Times

Date: 2007-05-17 03:36 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] exiles-media.livejournal.com
... was the keynote speaker today, and emphasized that her family's wealth has not blinded her to the realities of today's working mothers.

"I have been blessed," said Ms. Lensherr, "thanks to my family's hard work, with the opportunity to be a full-time mother. But I am the daughter of a woman who worked hard to keep her family together while her husband was overseas, and after my mother died, our foster parents worked just as hard to keep us fed, clothed, and sheltered until our father was able to bring us to this great country. Today's working mothers do not seek outside employment because they hate their children. Today's working mothers seek outside employment because they love their children. Any loving mother wants to provide for her children. Such love should not be penalized or ignored by employers who are unwilling to recognize the sacrifices their employees make."

Her remarks were met with great applause, and....
From: [identity profile] canadiansixpack.livejournal.com
The paper is tossed into the mesh trash basket with an accompanying growl of irritation as Logan gets up from his desk. He paces the small office for a moment before stopping at the grimy third-storey window that looks out onto the damp street below; his minimalist, outdated surroundings in stark contrast to the smooth, elegant Studebakers and Lincolns gliding past under colorful billboards advertising the latest hit musical on Broadway.

His thoughts trail to the bottle of Jack sitting on his filing cabinet, but he's kept in check by the promise he made to his daughter that he wouldn't drink while she was in the office.

And there's nothing here to take his frustration out on. Logan draws a hand over his face, then reaches for the metal cigar case on his desk.

Date: 2007-05-17 06:44 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] wanda-maximoff.livejournal.com
The limo pulls up at 42nd and Madison, in front of the family entrance of this 35-story building native New Yorkers still refer to as the Baxter. The doorman does not to hurry to open the door. Only rookies hurry! he's told the younger staff members. If you know your job, you'll be where you need to be when you need to be there.

He opens the door and touches the brim of his cap to the curly-haired woman inside. "Miz Wanda. Hello, Master William and Master Thomas."

"Hello, Isaac." She smiles warmly at him as she unbuckles her seat belt and slips out of the limo, holding out her hands for her sons to take. "How is Miriam? I hope she's gotten over that cold. This time of year can be so bad for those."

He beams happily. "She's much better, Miz Wanda. You know she wouldn't let a little thing like a cold stop her."

"Definitely not," Wanda agrees, automatically straightening the lapels of Tommy's school jacket. "Does my father know we're home?"

"Yes, ma'am. I let him know myself, soon as we spotted you."

"Thank you, Isaac. Boys, what do we say?"

"Thank you, Isaac," chimes in Billy on cue.

Date: 2007-05-17 07:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tommyshepherd.livejournal.com
Tommy stares at Billy first, incredulously. He's such a little Eema's boy that it makes Tommy just a little bit sick. Billy is one of the city's most influential, powerful children, and to see him being so...dimunitive...Tommy doesn't understand that.

He looks up at Isaac then, raising an eyebrow, before turning back to his mother.

"He's doing his job, Eema. I don't see why we must thank him for it," he says huffily as he gets out of their limo. He watches as a little dark-haired girl walks past and gives her a somewhat haughty look before looking back at his mom. "You don't say thank you when we get good grades."

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Date: 2007-05-17 07:43 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] old-one-eye.livejournal.com
Scott Summers stands on his balcony, looking out at the city. His city, for all intents and purposes. The newspaper lies thrown to the side of the table, as some servant or other scrambles to clean it up and put it neatly back together.

"It doesn't matter," he says to no one in particular. The staff have mastered the art of "paying attention -- but not too close attention -- to his brooding. And it's hard to say exactly what he's talking about. His hands are tight on the balcony's railing. His eyes flash red behind his glasses.

Thunder cracks in the distance, and clouds edge the skyline. But even the first drops of rain fail to dissuade him from his perch. Instead, he lets the storm brew around him.

Date: 2007-05-17 10:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] red-telepath.livejournal.com
Behind him, in the shadows, masked by them as much as her telepathy, she watches her father. Long moments pass before her mental voice preceeds her.

Everything matters. It's all in how you look at it.

As always, she wears a grim expression with just a touch of amusement in her green eyes.

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Date: 2007-05-17 08:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lehnsherr-erik.livejournal.com
Their magnetic signatures would have told him they were home even if Isaac did not. The empire can wait for a moment while he welcomes his daughter and her children home.

He had smiled to himself a little when he'd heard the story about Tommy not apologizing to Isaac immediately. He is too much like the grandfather he resembles so closely. Erik had to learn these lessons himself over the years, Tommy would learn once the natural arrogance of his talents was cracked a bit.

He kisses Wanda's cheek. She still has the flush of the fight with her son evident there.

"Grüße meine Tochter. I enjoyed your speech it was very much from the heart."

Date: 2007-05-17 08:30 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] wanda-maximoff.livejournal.com
"Thank you, Father." She hugs him briefly. "I'm ashamed he has been such a poor student."

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Date: 2007-05-17 10:21 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] magneticmiss.livejournal.com
The front door opened and closed briskly, then the click of her high heels can be heard crossing the foyer.

In one hand she grasps the handles of a few shopping bags while her free hand pushes her hair back out of her face.

She's moving quickly for the staircase. Just once she'd like to get up to her room without running into any of her immediate family, nephews excluded of course.

Date: 2007-05-20 01:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] billy-be-a-hero.livejournal.com
Far be it from Billy to disappoint.

"Aunt Lorna!" His snack from Aggie is left sitting on the table as he runs to greet her. The cleaning staff knows to give him some time before cleaning up after him, as more often than not he'll remember it and come back to finish eating.

"We had a spelling quiz in Hebrew today, and I only made one wrong! See?" He pulls out the folded paper from his pocket and proudly displays it to his aunt.

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The Golden Court

Date: 2007-05-17 11:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] wong-fu.livejournal.com
Wong, the Yellow Claw of Kamar Taj, scourge of Lassa and Lord of the Golden Triad sat upon his opulent throne as he contemplated the news brought to him by his lackeys.

*We are displeased.* he spoke in his native tongue. The Mandarin knew many languages, but he would deign to speak only in his own.

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Re: The Golden Court

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Date: 2007-05-18 02:36 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ms-tique.livejournal.com
Ramon Darkholme isn't happy to be in New York. It's been over twenty years, but there are still too many bad memories for him here.

A man can't turn down that kind of money. His wife would kill him. His son would help her. His thriving Brotherhood is eager to expand their territory outside Europe. If this goes smoothly, there may be more contracts with the Lensherr's in the future. And if not, well, he's fled New York once. He can do it again.

Date: 2007-05-18 03:07 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fuzzyblue-elf.livejournal.com
"Erklären Sie mir, meinem Vater..."

He steps from the shadows of an alley, yellow eyes focused directly on his father.

"...exactly why you hate it here. I see nothing but opportunity."

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Date: 2007-05-18 04:24 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] avengingarrows.livejournal.com
Across the city, as evening falls, a small group of men cluster around a table in what used to be a Chinese restaurant; long since commandeered for the operations of the group called the Avengers. The roof leaks, and the furniture's lacking in any pizzaz, but it's theirs.

Their numbers are few, but their determination, despite their lack of resources, is unfettered. There's a mild buzz of anticipation tonight, which is a stark contrast to their usual lackluster atmosphere, as one of the Avengers known as Clint "Hawkeye" Barton unrolls a map. Three spots in close proximity to each other are circled, and he pores over them with great interest.

"If this opium shipment tip pays off tonight," he says, "it'll be a big dent in the Lensherr's street wallet. What's the game plan, Steve?"

For years they've been reduced to little more than petty burglary busts and nabbing the odd dealer from the street, only to see them walk free days, sometimes hours later. This could be the break that marks them as a major thorn in the crime family's side.

Date: 2007-05-18 02:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cap-a.livejournal.com
Steve glances at Clint. "Unless we get airtight evidence, and make no mistakes anywhere, whoever we nab here is just going to go free. We all know it." He scowls. "But if we disrupt the opium... perhaps even destroy it... we'll have made Lensherr mad." He smirks. "And an angry Lensherr is a Lensherr who makes mistakes."

The others at the table know just how much Steve wants Lensherr taken down. It was one of Lensherr's men, of course, who was responsible for the death of Steve's first partner.

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Date: 2007-05-18 07:30 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hulksmashed.livejournal.com
A back alley in the middle of the night.

Some schmoe's whining about more time, more money, swimmin' in apologies. Same shit they always spout. They always think they're gonna find an angle.

Trouble is, when they call Mr. Fixit to solve a problem, the problem is solved. No two ways around it.

This time, the size of his mitt manages to muffle the crack of the limbs, so just maybe the six-year-old up on the fifth floor won't wake up to a sound he won't never forget.

The cigar burns out of the corner of his mouth, and the night casts shadows on his features, so the sap that tried to outfox Lensherr can't even see the face of his tormentor.

It must be a good hour or so that the man's just gotta lay there on the pavement, bleeding out with no functional limbs - with something else getting broken every time he tries to make a deal, to find some way out of it.

Eventually, the bulky mountain of a man grows tired, and picks his victim up and tosses him in a dumpster for the rats to finish off.

When you need somethin' broken beyond repair, Mr. Fixit's the man you call.

Date: 2007-05-18 07:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] wadewilson.livejournal.com
You don't put your feet up on a poker table. It's just not done.

Unless, that is, you happen to be the best hitman in the country, and you're spinning your favorite sidearm on your finger.

"I'm not making you nervous, am I, Roachie?"

Date: 2007-05-18 07:44 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hellhouse-inc.livejournal.com
"NO," comes the immediate protest.

"Just play yer cards, will you?"

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A Wonderful World

Date: 2007-05-19 07:53 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mutant-science.livejournal.com
"I see trees of green........ red roses too
I see em bloom..... for me and for you
And I think to myself.... what a wonderful world."


The music sounds tinny and the scratches in the aged vinyl are apparent. He doesn't care though. The record player reminds him of something.

What that something is, he can't quite remember... but all the same, he liked it.



Balancing a sandwich on a soda in one hand and in the other bearing a tray of assorted medical instruments, The Maker backed his way into the room. Devices and machines in the room began to come to life as he entered.

Setting his cargo down on a nearby table, he selects a cigarette and lights it off the near invisible one inch cutting flame emitting from his chromed pinkie. Exhaling a thick cloud of turkish smoke he surveys the room. The noxious smog is quickly sucked into vents along his collar bone and the air is left with a brisk 'disinfected' scent. His eyes click like camera shutters as they blink in calculated timing. A 'tch' escapes past the brown cigarette and over the silvered lips as he casually saunters to a bank of medical displays. A flashing red indicator gets a few swift raps until it changes to green.

Satisfied he nods cheerily as he takes another drag. Turning, a faint squeal of servos can be heard and he flashes his patient a smile.


"Hey, how you doing?
Ready to get crackin?"

He loves his job.

Re: A Wonderful World

Date: 2007-05-19 08:25 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] warrenworthaton.livejournal.com
"Uh... actually, no," says his patient, entirely immobilized, but completely coherent and awake.

"I-I'm really thinking that this isn't a good i-idea."

Re: A Wonderful World

From: [identity profile] mutant-science.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-20 01:52 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A Wonderful World

From: [identity profile] warrenworthaton.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-20 02:11 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A Wonderful World

From: [identity profile] mutant-science.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-20 02:22 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A Wonderful World

From: [identity profile] warrenworthaton.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-20 02:33 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A Wonderful World

From: [identity profile] mutant-science.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-20 02:40 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2007-05-19 04:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sandman-baker.livejournal.com
Flint Marko looks down into the pit at his victim. "Look, you might as well stop screaming, man. I toldja no one's gonna be around to hear ya."

He takes a last drag off his cigarette and tosses it down into the pit. "You shouldn't'a crossed the Summers, man. I gave ya plenty a' warning, didn't I? You didn't take the busted ribs or the broken legs as enough. You hadda come back and screw around in their business." He shakes his head. "But their business is my business. And you disrespected me by ignoring my warnings."

He shakes his head as he lowers the concrete truck's gutter. Liquid concrete begins pouring into the pit, over the immobile and screaming man. He's not just screaming for help, of course. Marko had to break both his legs and arms before he tossed him into the pit. "You did this to yourself, Jones."

He watches as the young man begins to be covered in concrete. In another few months, when construction is complete, Rick Jones will be part of the foundation of the new Summers Planetarium.

Date: 2007-05-22 04:39 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bouncywarrior.livejournal.com
"Extra! Extra! Fire claims three lives in Queens! FDNY suspect arson!" shouts newsboy Robbie Baldwin.

Date: 2007-05-23 11:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] canadiansixpack.livejournal.com
A familiar shadow, outlined by a dark trenchcoat and battered fedora, falls across his face. "Try shoutin' a little louder. Don't think they heard ya in Nebraska."

(no subject)

From: [identity profile] bouncywarrior.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-24 02:34 am (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From: [identity profile] canadiansixpack.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-24 02:47 am (UTC) - Expand

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From: [identity profile] bouncywarrior.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-24 03:10 am (UTC) - Expand

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From: [identity profile] canadiansixpack.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-05-24 03:24 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2007-06-07 03:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] stark-inc.livejournal.com
Tony Stark hasn't traveled much. Why should he when everything he'll ever need is right here? They all come to New York, the poor, the wretched, the beautiful, the wealthy, the corrupt, the powerful. All make up his sizable business and it's booming. Oh, it is so booming.

Someone has to keep the peace. It's not the cops. Their just serving the Summers and the Lensherrs or some up-and-commer who will get chopped down next month.

He's the gatekeeper of peace in this city and that's because he's given up on peace. Both sides have the weapons he sells them. He cuts out any competition and he sells at a rate that assures both sides have enough to destroy the city in moments, but knows they won't do that. Mutually assured destruction had made his father rich. Now it's making him even more rich. More famous. He could snap his fingers and get any girl he wanted from any side of the street - and he's perfectly safe.

So why is he one his 6th whiskey neat looking out over the city and aching for something more? What do you get the man who has it all?

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