4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1
Post by Uatu the Watcher on Jun 10, 2008 19:46:53 GMT -5
[Jenkins, Paul (w), Ramon Bachs (p), and John Lucas (i)] “Embedded Part One.” Civil War: Front Line, #1, (Aug.-Dec. 2006), Marvel Publishing: [1-2]
Adapted By: The Punisher
Down on the damp grassy fields of Queens’ very own Calvary Cemetery, a small gathering of the mourning living displaced themselves around one of the vast memorial headstones that blanketed the landscape. The assembly was nothing special, or out of the ordinary, than that which would normally occur at Calvary Cemetery—or any cemetery for that matter. Even though each grave site within the grounds had its very own story, beginning, middle, and ending, the attendants would always still experience the emotions as if the tragedy had happened to them for the very first time. The weather brought no comfort for the morning party as heavy drops of rain descended sideways from the dark sky above—accompanied by a stale and lifeless wind that left a modest chill across the present company’s skin.
There was a theme to the burial service, which would have gone unnoticed to any ordinary man, woman, or child that would pass by. All anyone would see was a group of saddened individual’s seeking peace with the deceased and shelter from the rain. Big black umbrella’s hung over their heads while they circled the gravesite; a fresh memorial reef was placed at the base of its support. All seemed standard and mandatory from the outside, but each mourning individual had a unique tie with the departed and the remaining.
Underneath a thick pair of prescription glasses, Ben Urich tilted his head up and swayed his umbrella to the side as he looked up into the sky—catching the feint sounds of thunder in the distance. His face held no excitement or bliss apart from the normal apathetic, sleuth, and sly demeanor that normally accompanied his matching personality. Yet today, Ben wore a frown on his face along with the rest of the staff from the Daily Bugle—who attended the funeral not as the press, but as the bereaved. Behind him, back a few feet on his right, Sally Floyd kept her arms crossed her chest as the rain took complete advantage of her preferred predicament of lacking an umbrella. Her hair clung to her face as she kept the same gloomed expression as most everyone else about her—her eyes on Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson who took a step forward to say his peace on the recently departed.
“John Fernandez was one of us. A newsman.” Rain fell down his face as he kept a somber tone. His head slouched forward in reminiscence and potency of the topic’s relevance. “Maybe a cut above, I don’t know. All I know is that the last time I saw Johnny was eight days ago, coming out of the back of O’Flanagan’s, maybe about nine or ten at night. He was pretty giddy. Knowing him, that was probably due to the Guinness. He told me he’d just gotten full-time work with the New Warriors reality show. I wished him luck and told him to be careful. Johnny had been on at least four tours of Bosnia, three to Afghanistan and maybe eight or nine to Baghdad with CNN. Last year, he won an Emmy nomination for his bit on the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln. And from there, he graduated to this assignment. This was his big break. He used to say all the times he’d been bombed or shot at were just practice runs for the real thing. But he always was careful. And he always figured he’d see it coming. The truth is, you never see it coming.”
Robbie steadily approached the side of the casket as he let out a lengthy yet suppressed sigh through the forlorn features of his face—before saying his last goodbyes. “Rest easy, Johnny.”
Fernandez’s death was just one of over six hundred civilians that lost their lives at Stamford. It wasn’t a natural disaster. It wasn’t terrorists. It was a massive body count produced by those caught in the crossfire of a superhuman brawl gone horribly wrong. The Bugle and press alike made their living out of covering incidents such as these. But this time, it had hit more close to home than they could stomach. They all knew this was only the beginning, but the outcome of the madness that would ensue would be narrated by their own words—which would define history for years to come.
Adapted By: The Punisher
Down on the damp grassy fields of Queens’ very own Calvary Cemetery, a small gathering of the mourning living displaced themselves around one of the vast memorial headstones that blanketed the landscape. The assembly was nothing special, or out of the ordinary, than that which would normally occur at Calvary Cemetery—or any cemetery for that matter. Even though each grave site within the grounds had its very own story, beginning, middle, and ending, the attendants would always still experience the emotions as if the tragedy had happened to them for the very first time. The weather brought no comfort for the morning party as heavy drops of rain descended sideways from the dark sky above—accompanied by a stale and lifeless wind that left a modest chill across the present company’s skin.
There was a theme to the burial service, which would have gone unnoticed to any ordinary man, woman, or child that would pass by. All anyone would see was a group of saddened individual’s seeking peace with the deceased and shelter from the rain. Big black umbrella’s hung over their heads while they circled the gravesite; a fresh memorial reef was placed at the base of its support. All seemed standard and mandatory from the outside, but each mourning individual had a unique tie with the departed and the remaining.
Underneath a thick pair of prescription glasses, Ben Urich tilted his head up and swayed his umbrella to the side as he looked up into the sky—catching the feint sounds of thunder in the distance. His face held no excitement or bliss apart from the normal apathetic, sleuth, and sly demeanor that normally accompanied his matching personality. Yet today, Ben wore a frown on his face along with the rest of the staff from the Daily Bugle—who attended the funeral not as the press, but as the bereaved. Behind him, back a few feet on his right, Sally Floyd kept her arms crossed her chest as the rain took complete advantage of her preferred predicament of lacking an umbrella. Her hair clung to her face as she kept the same gloomed expression as most everyone else about her—her eyes on Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson who took a step forward to say his peace on the recently departed.
“John Fernandez was one of us. A newsman.” Rain fell down his face as he kept a somber tone. His head slouched forward in reminiscence and potency of the topic’s relevance. “Maybe a cut above, I don’t know. All I know is that the last time I saw Johnny was eight days ago, coming out of the back of O’Flanagan’s, maybe about nine or ten at night. He was pretty giddy. Knowing him, that was probably due to the Guinness. He told me he’d just gotten full-time work with the New Warriors reality show. I wished him luck and told him to be careful. Johnny had been on at least four tours of Bosnia, three to Afghanistan and maybe eight or nine to Baghdad with CNN. Last year, he won an Emmy nomination for his bit on the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln. And from there, he graduated to this assignment. This was his big break. He used to say all the times he’d been bombed or shot at were just practice runs for the real thing. But he always was careful. And he always figured he’d see it coming. The truth is, you never see it coming.”
Robbie steadily approached the side of the casket as he let out a lengthy yet suppressed sigh through the forlorn features of his face—before saying his last goodbyes. “Rest easy, Johnny.”
Fernandez’s death was just one of over six hundred civilians that lost their lives at Stamford. It wasn’t a natural disaster. It wasn’t terrorists. It was a massive body count produced by those caught in the crossfire of a superhuman brawl gone horribly wrong. The Bugle and press alike made their living out of covering incidents such as these. But this time, it had hit more close to home than they could stomach. They all knew this was only the beginning, but the outcome of the madness that would ensue would be narrated by their own words—which would define history for years to come.