4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1
Post by Uatu the Watcher on Apr 23, 2007 3:48:21 GMT -5
[Miller, Mark (w), Steve McNiven (p), and Dexter Vines (i)] “Civil War.” Civil War., #1, (Jul. 2006), Marvel Entertainment: [13-15]
Adapted By: The Punisher
The cloudy and bleak skies of Stamford remained a somber grey; a fresh reminder of events from earlier. The smoke and ash from the blast still kept its presence known in the air. It reflected its aura down onto its inhabitants below. The mood was only matched by its lack of any visible sunlight. The wind was silent, as if it was a conscious entity that remained speechless from the disaster. All around, the whole city seemed to take an extended moment of silent for those six hundred that were lost to them. All throughout Stamford, into the early afternoon, the dismal attitude took on a life of its own. Everywhere, but nowhere. It hung around the local bars and pubs, as citizens drank and cursed their problems away. It lingered in the hospitals as families and victims alike struggled through pain and grief; anger and frustration. It toyed with the minds of local law officials and public servicemen, from town councilmen to fireman to even police officers. It was at their jobs. On the street. In their homes. But most of important of all, it was spreading; nationwide.
At one of Stamford’s extravagant catholic churches, the Stamford memorial service had just been dismissed after several long, heart-filled, and tear-driven testimonies of clergymen and local civilians. Inside, pictures and messages left to those that had fallen were pinned up on a memorial wall near the exit. Families walked out in packs, hanging their heads low as they were dressed in mournful black. Some wept, some repressed anger, and everyone in-between kept their feelings inside; still unsure about which direction to turn. All marched down the cathedral’s steps, including one among them that was no native to the town of Stamford; Tony Stark. Like the rest, dressed in black, he walked out from the church with everyone else; stepping into masked sunlight. His personal security waited beside him, escorting him along the way, just as he heard an inquisitive women’s voice off to his side.
“Tony Stark?” The tone was delicately fragile, yet disturbed; suppressing tears and anger with each letter that left her lips. Each syllable trembled like a ticking time bomb of emotion. Tony’s name became tainted with a bitter and rancorous aspect as it rolled of her tongue. He had not yet seen who had just proclaimed such an ireful remark, but all he could get a glimpse of, as he turned his head, was airborne saliva; spewing out from the mouth of a middle-aged brunette woman. She spat in his face with angst, looking at him dead in the eye before she began screaming and yelling; her mascara ran down her cheek from her tear-filled eyes.“You filthy piece of crap!”
“Ma’am, please. We’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” From the side, Tony’s personal bodyguard intercepted the conflict, inserting himself between the hostile woman and his employer; the spit remained fresh on Mr. Stark’s face.
“Leave what? My own son’s funeral?” She replied, raising her hand and pointing at the object of her hate. ”Stark’s the one you should be dragging away.”
Withdrawing the silk handkerchief from his jacket’s front pocket, Tony Stark calmly proceeded to wipe away the spewed saliva running down his face; before politely addressing the woman before him. “Ma’am, I appreciate that you’re upset, but the New Warriors’ recklessness had nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, yeah?” She snapped back. “And who finances the Avengers? Who’s been telling kids for years that they can live outside the law as long as they’re wearing tights?” She began to advance herself aggressively in Tony’s direction; the bodyguard already did his best to restrain the agitated and mourning mother with as little hostile force as he could muster. “Cops have to train and carry badges, but that’s too boring for Tony Stark. Nah, Joe Billionaire here says all you need are some powers and a badass attitude, and you can have a place in his private super-gang.”
“Somebody get her outta here…” The bodyguard radioed in to reinforcements with the white earpiece he wore.
“You fund this sickness, Stark, with your dirty billions.” She pushed the bodyguard off of her, screaming at Tony who remained speechless. Silent. Holding his tongue. “The blood of my little Damien is on your hands right now.” Storming away from the two, a disturbing scene was inevitably created among the spectators, the crowd parted a path as the woman walked away, hands clenched, with tears falling down her face. Her hate, her loss, and her sorrow remained unsettled. Her attitude expressed itself brighter within her spirit more than anyone else present at the memorial service, but all who attended harbored the same interest; yet only she decided to make it known. But she would not be the last.
Stark still kept his mouth closed; his eyes seemingly grew weary behind his professional facade he presented to the world around him. He only wished he could truly express his actual concern and loss towards the mother’s child. If she could only know the truth of why he was drawn to the memorial that very day. If he could just explain why he felt so disheartened at her words. His mouth spoke what his mind knew to be false. Everything she said, he knew in his heart, was justified. She was right; every last word of it. Even out of disguise, he hid behind a mask. Wanting. Hoping. Even with all his intelligence and experience, there was no scientific method to easing that woman’s pain. Leaving Tony with nothing more to do but stand silently, repressing his inner thoughts and feelings, as the crowd looked upon his troubled face.
Among the onlookers, an out-of-town freelance photographer flashed the shutter on his camera; taking pictures of the entire drama that had unfolded on the church’s steps. Yet his fingers didn’t snap the shots with the usual anticipation as always. A sense of sorrow and guilt clouded his mind as he looked at Tony Stark’s concerned face through the lens. Yet he knew, as it was his job, he couldn’t explain his exact relation to Mr. Stark to his head publisher, John Jonah Jameson, that stood beside him and whispered into his ear as he took snapshots. “I hope you’re getting all this, Parker.”
Adapted By: The Punisher
The cloudy and bleak skies of Stamford remained a somber grey; a fresh reminder of events from earlier. The smoke and ash from the blast still kept its presence known in the air. It reflected its aura down onto its inhabitants below. The mood was only matched by its lack of any visible sunlight. The wind was silent, as if it was a conscious entity that remained speechless from the disaster. All around, the whole city seemed to take an extended moment of silent for those six hundred that were lost to them. All throughout Stamford, into the early afternoon, the dismal attitude took on a life of its own. Everywhere, but nowhere. It hung around the local bars and pubs, as citizens drank and cursed their problems away. It lingered in the hospitals as families and victims alike struggled through pain and grief; anger and frustration. It toyed with the minds of local law officials and public servicemen, from town councilmen to fireman to even police officers. It was at their jobs. On the street. In their homes. But most of important of all, it was spreading; nationwide.
At one of Stamford’s extravagant catholic churches, the Stamford memorial service had just been dismissed after several long, heart-filled, and tear-driven testimonies of clergymen and local civilians. Inside, pictures and messages left to those that had fallen were pinned up on a memorial wall near the exit. Families walked out in packs, hanging their heads low as they were dressed in mournful black. Some wept, some repressed anger, and everyone in-between kept their feelings inside; still unsure about which direction to turn. All marched down the cathedral’s steps, including one among them that was no native to the town of Stamford; Tony Stark. Like the rest, dressed in black, he walked out from the church with everyone else; stepping into masked sunlight. His personal security waited beside him, escorting him along the way, just as he heard an inquisitive women’s voice off to his side.
“Tony Stark?” The tone was delicately fragile, yet disturbed; suppressing tears and anger with each letter that left her lips. Each syllable trembled like a ticking time bomb of emotion. Tony’s name became tainted with a bitter and rancorous aspect as it rolled of her tongue. He had not yet seen who had just proclaimed such an ireful remark, but all he could get a glimpse of, as he turned his head, was airborne saliva; spewing out from the mouth of a middle-aged brunette woman. She spat in his face with angst, looking at him dead in the eye before she began screaming and yelling; her mascara ran down her cheek from her tear-filled eyes.“You filthy piece of crap!”
“Ma’am, please. We’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” From the side, Tony’s personal bodyguard intercepted the conflict, inserting himself between the hostile woman and his employer; the spit remained fresh on Mr. Stark’s face.
“Leave what? My own son’s funeral?” She replied, raising her hand and pointing at the object of her hate. ”Stark’s the one you should be dragging away.”
Withdrawing the silk handkerchief from his jacket’s front pocket, Tony Stark calmly proceeded to wipe away the spewed saliva running down his face; before politely addressing the woman before him. “Ma’am, I appreciate that you’re upset, but the New Warriors’ recklessness had nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, yeah?” She snapped back. “And who finances the Avengers? Who’s been telling kids for years that they can live outside the law as long as they’re wearing tights?” She began to advance herself aggressively in Tony’s direction; the bodyguard already did his best to restrain the agitated and mourning mother with as little hostile force as he could muster. “Cops have to train and carry badges, but that’s too boring for Tony Stark. Nah, Joe Billionaire here says all you need are some powers and a badass attitude, and you can have a place in his private super-gang.”
“Somebody get her outta here…” The bodyguard radioed in to reinforcements with the white earpiece he wore.
“You fund this sickness, Stark, with your dirty billions.” She pushed the bodyguard off of her, screaming at Tony who remained speechless. Silent. Holding his tongue. “The blood of my little Damien is on your hands right now.” Storming away from the two, a disturbing scene was inevitably created among the spectators, the crowd parted a path as the woman walked away, hands clenched, with tears falling down her face. Her hate, her loss, and her sorrow remained unsettled. Her attitude expressed itself brighter within her spirit more than anyone else present at the memorial service, but all who attended harbored the same interest; yet only she decided to make it known. But she would not be the last.
Stark still kept his mouth closed; his eyes seemingly grew weary behind his professional facade he presented to the world around him. He only wished he could truly express his actual concern and loss towards the mother’s child. If she could only know the truth of why he was drawn to the memorial that very day. If he could just explain why he felt so disheartened at her words. His mouth spoke what his mind knew to be false. Everything she said, he knew in his heart, was justified. She was right; every last word of it. Even out of disguise, he hid behind a mask. Wanting. Hoping. Even with all his intelligence and experience, there was no scientific method to easing that woman’s pain. Leaving Tony with nothing more to do but stand silently, repressing his inner thoughts and feelings, as the crowd looked upon his troubled face.
Among the onlookers, an out-of-town freelance photographer flashed the shutter on his camera; taking pictures of the entire drama that had unfolded on the church’s steps. Yet his fingers didn’t snap the shots with the usual anticipation as always. A sense of sorrow and guilt clouded his mind as he looked at Tony Stark’s concerned face through the lens. Yet he knew, as it was his job, he couldn’t explain his exact relation to Mr. Stark to his head publisher, John Jonah Jameson, that stood beside him and whispered into his ear as he took snapshots. “I hope you’re getting all this, Parker.”