4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1
Post by Uatu the Watcher on Jun 10, 2008 19:49:01 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: [3-4]
Adapted By: The Punisher
The scenario at O’Flanagan’s Irish pub held a relatively somber yet calm atmosphere as the majority of the customers inside dealt with the passing of a close friend and coworker in their own unique demeanor. They celebrated the life and legacy of John Fernandez—whose untimely death was not masked with sadness and despair but instead was met with the privilege just to have known their dearly beloved colleague. They honored Johnny the way he would have wanted them too. Members of the local press, including the Daily Bugle, conversed about discussing fond memories of John with drinks in hand and party hats atop their head. While some fiddled with the multicolored paper cones atop their scalps or the uncomfortable elastic strap that secured it to their frame, certain others spouted few to no comments as they kept their eyes fastened on the news coverage on the bar’s television set. It was hard to find a channel that wasn’t completely showcasing the most recent developments of the New Warriors incident at Stamford. Yet two individuals had other thoughts on their mind.
Sealed off to the side of the pub, Ben Urich sat inside a booth with his raincoat tossed over the seat behind him. The yellow hat seemed crooked atop his thinning hairstyle yet complemented by his thick glasses. “How’s the wrist healing?” He spoke to the woman across from him.
“Better than the ribs. It’s like they never go away.” Sally Floyd remarked sarcastically and sardonically. She rested her chin the palm of her hand as both herself and Ben poised themselves to face the inside of the bar—making little to no eye contact with each other.
Ben cupped his hand around the bottle of ale before him. “Oh, yeah… I broke a couple once: you moan about them for, like, a year… you never sleep right. And suddenly, you wake up one day and realize the pain went away.”
“I’m still waiting. How’s work?” Sally said before scratching her scalp underneath the itchy green hat she wore for festivity reasons only.
“Worse than broken ribs.” The warm temperature inside O’Flanagan’s made Ben’s neck and armpits perspire beyond comfort. He loosened his tie and collar before noticing just how damp Sally was before him—remembering how only a few hours ago they all had convened at the funeral in the pouring rain. “Forget your umbrella?”
“Don’t own one. I like getting wet.” Sally’s brown eyes drifted about the miscellaneous chatter about the room.
By now, both had grown accustomed to each others cynical commenting—neither no longer amused or entertained by how creative or farfetched their sayings were. “Mm-hmm… That’s pretty typical. Still going to your AA Meetings?”
“Oh, God… you sound like Neil. Haven’t you noticed I’m drinking coke?” The short glass of cola before Sally remained barely touched as condensation formed on its outer surface.
“I can never tell with you, Sally. You don’t need booze to be morbid.” Ben shifted in his seat as he looked outward at the rest of his coworkers. “God you gotta love this though, don’t you? The only time we ever get together like this is when someone dies.”
“At least we got to wear funny hats. Johnny Fernandez would’ve liked that.” Sally spoke as she tilted her head to the side, gazing off nondescriptly just as Ben had done as well. The conversation trickled down to an awkward silence as the small talk had run aground. Sally’s fingers traced the outer edge of her diet coke as Ben took a swig of the ale in hand. Yet naturally, the subject on both their minds made it’s way to the surface—as Ben broke the ice.
“You know this thing with the Superhuman Registration Act is going to happen, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to believe it just yet, Ben. But I don’t think anyone at the white house could have scripted this Nitro thing any better.” Sally twisted back into the booth as she reclined against the seat; resting her left arm up on the ledge. “A school full of kids wiped out in a punch-up involving untrained, unsupervised, underaged super heroes.” She rolled up the sleeves on her blue collared shirt. “How’s Jonah taking it?”
“Like he won the lottery.”
“Oh, God… I can just imagine: ‘Laydeez and gentlemen… In the red corner, the united states constitution.” Sally’s announcer impression needed drastic improvement but her point was clear. “In the blue corner, the unstoppable tag-team of disinformation and paranoia, winner by two falls and a submission.’”
“Hehh… That’s the Bugle, all right. What did they give you at the Alternative?”
“Carte Blanche to write about the erosion of civil liberties in America. And can I link it to the wiretapping thing, if I would be so kind? You?”
“Jonah said, and I quote: ‘Let’s shove this so far up the liberals’ keisters they think the Wednesday sports page is the Sunday edition.’”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“I have no idea. He was on a roll.”
“Well, then… To battle, and may the best hack win. I like my chances, No one wants the government to institute a draft.” Sally lifted her diet coke for a celebratory toast, yet Ben heisted to return the gesture.
“This is different, Sally--just for a change, I think Jonah may be right. The timing is perfect to push for super-hero federalization. This registration act is going to meet little or no opposition after the disaster in Stamford.” Ben brought the tip of the bottle just below his lips before remarking bitterly with despair in his eyes. “If it passes, everything changes.”
Adapted By: The Punisher
The scenario at O’Flanagan’s Irish pub held a relatively somber yet calm atmosphere as the majority of the customers inside dealt with the passing of a close friend and coworker in their own unique demeanor. They celebrated the life and legacy of John Fernandez—whose untimely death was not masked with sadness and despair but instead was met with the privilege just to have known their dearly beloved colleague. They honored Johnny the way he would have wanted them too. Members of the local press, including the Daily Bugle, conversed about discussing fond memories of John with drinks in hand and party hats atop their head. While some fiddled with the multicolored paper cones atop their scalps or the uncomfortable elastic strap that secured it to their frame, certain others spouted few to no comments as they kept their eyes fastened on the news coverage on the bar’s television set. It was hard to find a channel that wasn’t completely showcasing the most recent developments of the New Warriors incident at Stamford. Yet two individuals had other thoughts on their mind.
Sealed off to the side of the pub, Ben Urich sat inside a booth with his raincoat tossed over the seat behind him. The yellow hat seemed crooked atop his thinning hairstyle yet complemented by his thick glasses. “How’s the wrist healing?” He spoke to the woman across from him.
“Better than the ribs. It’s like they never go away.” Sally Floyd remarked sarcastically and sardonically. She rested her chin the palm of her hand as both herself and Ben poised themselves to face the inside of the bar—making little to no eye contact with each other.
Ben cupped his hand around the bottle of ale before him. “Oh, yeah… I broke a couple once: you moan about them for, like, a year… you never sleep right. And suddenly, you wake up one day and realize the pain went away.”
“I’m still waiting. How’s work?” Sally said before scratching her scalp underneath the itchy green hat she wore for festivity reasons only.
“Worse than broken ribs.” The warm temperature inside O’Flanagan’s made Ben’s neck and armpits perspire beyond comfort. He loosened his tie and collar before noticing just how damp Sally was before him—remembering how only a few hours ago they all had convened at the funeral in the pouring rain. “Forget your umbrella?”
“Don’t own one. I like getting wet.” Sally’s brown eyes drifted about the miscellaneous chatter about the room.
By now, both had grown accustomed to each others cynical commenting—neither no longer amused or entertained by how creative or farfetched their sayings were. “Mm-hmm… That’s pretty typical. Still going to your AA Meetings?”
“Oh, God… you sound like Neil. Haven’t you noticed I’m drinking coke?” The short glass of cola before Sally remained barely touched as condensation formed on its outer surface.
“I can never tell with you, Sally. You don’t need booze to be morbid.” Ben shifted in his seat as he looked outward at the rest of his coworkers. “God you gotta love this though, don’t you? The only time we ever get together like this is when someone dies.”
“At least we got to wear funny hats. Johnny Fernandez would’ve liked that.” Sally spoke as she tilted her head to the side, gazing off nondescriptly just as Ben had done as well. The conversation trickled down to an awkward silence as the small talk had run aground. Sally’s fingers traced the outer edge of her diet coke as Ben took a swig of the ale in hand. Yet naturally, the subject on both their minds made it’s way to the surface—as Ben broke the ice.
“You know this thing with the Superhuman Registration Act is going to happen, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to believe it just yet, Ben. But I don’t think anyone at the white house could have scripted this Nitro thing any better.” Sally twisted back into the booth as she reclined against the seat; resting her left arm up on the ledge. “A school full of kids wiped out in a punch-up involving untrained, unsupervised, underaged super heroes.” She rolled up the sleeves on her blue collared shirt. “How’s Jonah taking it?”
“Like he won the lottery.”
“Oh, God… I can just imagine: ‘Laydeez and gentlemen… In the red corner, the united states constitution.” Sally’s announcer impression needed drastic improvement but her point was clear. “In the blue corner, the unstoppable tag-team of disinformation and paranoia, winner by two falls and a submission.’”
“Hehh… That’s the Bugle, all right. What did they give you at the Alternative?”
“Carte Blanche to write about the erosion of civil liberties in America. And can I link it to the wiretapping thing, if I would be so kind? You?”
“Jonah said, and I quote: ‘Let’s shove this so far up the liberals’ keisters they think the Wednesday sports page is the Sunday edition.’”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“I have no idea. He was on a roll.”
“Well, then… To battle, and may the best hack win. I like my chances, No one wants the government to institute a draft.” Sally lifted her diet coke for a celebratory toast, yet Ben heisted to return the gesture.
“This is different, Sally--just for a change, I think Jonah may be right. The timing is perfect to push for super-hero federalization. This registration act is going to meet little or no opposition after the disaster in Stamford.” Ben brought the tip of the bottle just below his lips before remarking bitterly with despair in his eyes. “If it passes, everything changes.”