Hawkshade returned from Venezuela at nine PM on a Friday afternoon. His left arm was broken in two places. All of the fingers of his right hand were fractured, he had multiple third degree burns, seventeen stab wounds and nine gunshot wounds as well as a large assortment of contusions, cuts and a concussion.

Another man would have died but Richard connected himself to an IV to provide nutrients and fluids, lay upon the bed of the medical bay and closed his eyes.

Powers of concentration honed to a steel edge in the halls of the Strigidae Temple cut through the fog of pain and the Son of the Shogun entered into a recuperative trance.

For three days he slept like the dead. On the third day he awoke. His wounds were not completely healed but the infections that had wracked his body with fever had been vanquished and he was no longer in danger of death from blood loss.

He climbed out of the bed, removed his IV and limped to the main computer. He set and opened his diary.

My mother is in the hands of the Huntington Dynasty which currently controls Venezuela. I must recover, study their weaknesses, assemble a team and free her.

The letters flickered, digital green on a black screen. He looked at them for a long time, then stood up and walked to the edge of the platform. There he crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared out into the darkness for a long time. His wounds caused him great pain but he paid them no attention.

Eventually he returned to the desk.

Even as I typed those words I could see how impractical they were. The Huntingtons are composed entirely of mutants with powers classified at the Omega level. I could not resist Valerie's psychic powers for even a second and she showed no signs of strain. No team I could assemble could defeat the entire family. It is impossible. Men cannot fight gods.

But there is another way.

He saved the document to his journal and logged off.