"You!" Kiskilillia annonuced in the closest form of greeting less powerful beings that she knew whom she needed a favor from.

And thus began a new chapter in the ballad of Bob the vampire. Bob the vampire wa sin no way connected to Bob from Hydra. Bob from Hydra had ambition, pride, would gladly work with Deadpool, and had a strong desire to stay alive. Bob the vampire had no ambition, most of his pride went into that, he had no knowedge of Deadpool save from what he heard from ranting sof the more powerful vampires when he couldn't avoid them, and he was already dead.

Bob looked around, hoping he couls pass her attention on to someone more capable of solving her problems. Or at least someone who could delay the inevitable destruction of the hallway when she got mad.

Unfortunately there was no one else around.

"You with that strange glowing metal slab. Does it teach you as much about the world as your collection of scrolls did?"

"Sorta," he answered as she leaned over him. He had been looking at pictures of cats for the last hour.

Her hair floated wildly, viciously mocking the rules of physics while kindly keeping itself from falling in his face. Her face peered over him and her bosom was posed close to his shoulder. She wore extremely little, as he noticed most females capable tossing heavy artillery with one hand could.

"Ma'am, I'm gay. Could you please move those?"

Undaunted, she sat next to him, refusing to allow him to appease his desire to ignore her and enjoy a video of a kitten fighting a cactus. "I have need of someone who knows of how the world works in the ways without magic."

"You're probably going to need money for whatever it is you want, then," he said, hoping that would driver her to someone else before the magic lasers or grenades hidden who-knows-where -given-her-tight-bodysuit were brought out.

"Is that all?" she asked, put off at his asumtion of how large the task was. She reached towards the hole of her suit to the spot just between her collarbones and pressed her long fingernails into her skin. There was no blood, merely a hold that became larger and larger as she pushed her hand further into her own anatomy. She showed no pain as her entire hand pas her wrist pushed into the widening chasm. There was a pause for a brief moment before har hand began to retreat, pulling out a handful of metal objects as the hole sealed itself up without a trace that it had ever existed.

"It wasn't much back then, and worth much less when Atlantis sank," she said, dropping the objects in his lap. They were coins. Ancient ones. Ones that wre ancient when normal ancient ones were new. "I have heard, though, that there are those who pay much for old relics."

Bob couldn't argue with her logic. For someone ignorant of the ways of the modern world, she paid attention to what she did know.

"We'd need to get a letter of authenticity for these in order to sell them. I don't know how to find someone who can do that."

"This person can be found without disturbing mortal or magical authorities?" she asked. "I do not wish to be interfered with. I have known even the most trifling of mortals to be overly bothersome."

"Technically, sure," Bob saidtapping his phone. It'd be hard to find the right person. We'd need someone legal, someone with credentials, and someone we can trust."

"What does that metal slab do?"

"You tap it here and then you can type in words.," he said, showing her before handing it to her. "You have to use your fingertips, not those long nails. See if you can find someone to prove those are real."

Kiskililia took the phone and experimented with tapping. Bob moved on from kittens to ferrets.

"Do you mean this person?" she asked, handing the phone back.

"How did you do that?" he asked taking his phone back.

"Minor sorcery. Even if someone might notice the use of magics, it would be too paltry for them to care. I used it often before I had to be rescued from the Shadowside by your master. None of my enemies ever cared."

Bob had very little clue what she was talking about, but he got the gist.

"Yeah, we just send these to him—her, and then we can auction these off for a lt of money. Uh, who are you again?"

The more powerful the less they were interested in giving introductions.

She stood up, waving one arm and holding the other close to her chest. "I am the sorceress who splled the doom for Atlantis. I am the fear of many civilizations past. I am the mother of all Monsters. I am the force that makes those of nightmares bow in my presence."

"Yeah...you're going to need some ID. And a real name."

"What is ID?" she asked, forgetting her atempt at intimidation.

"This," Bob said, taking his wallet out of his bag and pulling out his ID. Evenryone called it a purse and made fun of it. "You're also going to need one of these." He pulled his passport out and handed both of them to her. He hoped he'd get them back. Being forced to be subject to the DMV and the Post Office'd rules wand waits? That would be demonic.

"This is not your age. It is incorrect," she said, reading the two side by side.

"True, but immortality confuses mortals. I think they can only fit so many numbers there too. You just need to tell people what age you look like and keep it consistent when you-"

She turned her hands to cover the main information on both items. From her hands, a disgusting green and blak auroa began to form, flowing around the ID and passport and griwng in size. The aura burst like a bubble and she dropped the items in his lap again, having duplicated both.

Bob picked them and discovere she had created one each for herself. "Bat Zuge?" he asked, reading off the name.

"It is one of my many names," she said proudly. "I am tired of being mistake for your master's daughter and I do not want to risk my learning of these."

"I think you should be more worried about someone finding out you have a fake ID and passport," Bob said, handing them to her. "You need to get real ones. Nice attention to detail, though."

"They are as real as yours. This is magic even novices learn to tune out spells of adding truth o record keeping."

"I'm tempted to ask a favor next time one of mine expires," Bob said. "Alright, it looks like we just fill out a form and send these off and we'll get them back with certificates in a few weeks. After that, we'll see if anyone is interested in buying them and you can travel wherever you want legally."

And so, it came to pass that Bob became very, very rich. No one made fun of his bag or called it a purse anymore.

He did, however, forget his kindle after deciding to join her on her journey.

"Yes? Oh, right," Michael said, answering the knock at the door. It was Linda, one minute late for their mandatory meetings. They had both agreed it would be easier and more comfortable for Michael if the meetings were held at his new apartment.

She was ushered in quickly and the door was closed immediately and locked.

"Michael, if you need to explain why I'm here so requently, you don't have to call me your therapist. You can refer to me as your doctor, medical assistant, coach, you can be cague and say I'm conencted with Horizon. I've even been called a new-age spiritualist. You don't have to be—"

Linda forced herself not to wince upon seeing how much 'comfort' had been stretched. The apartment had only come semi-furnished and Michael had only moved in two days ago. In bright, sunny, barely foggy May.

Fancy christmas gift-wrap had been taped over the windows. There was a pile of magazines on the floor she noticed she had interrupted while Michael was reading through them. The only thing else on the floor was a pillow with a rainbow on it and he number '86. The placement of the pillow meant he had brought it in for her to sit on.

Tehre was a plate of cookies in front of it.

"Please tell me you at least have a bed."

"I have some blankets." He inferred it was best not to mention it said 'DOG' and that he only used it as a pillow.

"Whatever makes you comfortable is just fine." Max told her everything he knew about Michael's accomodations, from whre he slept in Horiszon's old building, to sleeping in a closet or in an empty room for patients at a free clinic he ran, to a refugee camp, to abandom buildings and when he was lucky hanging out with the homeless who couldnt' find shelters. She had read about reports where he'd stayed in sewers or had been locked in basements or cages. Even after staying in a hotel for week,s a real bed of his own was probably a huge transition for him. Here, he at least had privacy, a clean place to live, running potable water, and the gift-wrap kept the intense sunlight out while lighitng the room. Safety and hygiene he controlled by himself was probably a big step. "I'v brought some tpapers for you to look at today. May I set up or did you want anything before we begin?"

"Go right ahead. I'll be fine."

Michael sat on the floor and shoved the open magazine away. Linda sat on the pillow and set up a small camera on top of a short tripod. "I'll be recording our sessions, but they'll be confidential."

"Then why?"

"In case I or any other therapist needs to look back on these." she sexplained. "It's just like recording medical appointments. They aren't videos to go showing to many others or to be looked at often." She was finished in a matter of seconds. She had done this before, and quite often. If she posed any danger of giving information to high bidders or using them for her own ulterior motives, someone would have found out by now. "Shall we start?"

""You might as well," Michael said, looking at the camera. It was watching him. He didn't know if he cared for that.

"First of all, how are you feeling Michael?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry if tha'ts what you mean," he said seriously.

"I meant how are you feeling in general. A lot has happened and changed. What do you think abot all of them?"

"Underwhelmed" he said after a moment's thought. "I haven't gone to work yet and this place is boring. There's not really anything to do even if I left. Max wil be worried if I do."

Linda sighed. "What do you really think about Max?"

"I don't understand. Did...did I do something wrong?"

"Michael, this isn't about blame, it's about your feelings. And Max's. He's worried about you. You spent a year in prison because he wanted you at Horizon Labs. He was the one you were crying about before you took off out a window yet you were perfectly calm when he fired you. You didn't protest once when he gave you a trial, a new home, an a new job, but you don't want to tell him why you were so distraught or what your diagnosis is. You didn't even want to meet him at first."

"I just...Everything I have now is because of him. I want to pay him back for it. I don't want him to think I'm pathertic or I'm even more of a leech than everyone else thinks I am. Am I doing something wrong?" He spoke honestly and pleadingly. He never really knew what to do. He had never been able to ask for help beyond saving his life—and that was always risky, even with those he thought he could trust. Repaying debt and running away were all he knew beyond ad-libbing. If those were all wrong, did that mean he'd hurt Max? For that matter, who else had he hurt trying to help?

"Only if you only think of Max as someone you're indebted to," Linda said. "But I don't think he is. You didn't have a panic attack because youthought you were dangerus in genreal, you did it because you thought you were dangerous to him specifically. But you still keep that a secret—Hector told me not to tell Max. You were convinced he hated you, yet you agreed to talk to me for his sake. He could have asked S.H.I.E.L.D. toput you to work while incarcerated, but he wanted you here. Are you afraid of him or just scared to lose him?"

"I've lost too many friends," Michael answered. "I don't want him to leave, but...I'd rather he was a live and left me. I just don't know how to protect him." He wasn't begging. He didn't want to beg. He knew it wasn't right to beg a doctor. It wouldn't do anything anyway.

"From you?" Linda sked.

"From anything. Me, my enemies, one good friend of mine has ALS. I don't know what to do for him."

"Do you want an answer?" Lind asked. "If you're not ready, I can understand." She was downplaying the situation and she knew it. Everythign was solved by running away and taking the blame and trying to fix someone else's mess by himself. Everythign except regret and loss could be solved that way. Those just turned into more fear and more desperation.

"Yes, please." Now he was begging.

"I want you to write down exactly how you felt toward these people. Next, I want you to turn those into letters to send to them. I'll mail them, so communication goes through me; I'll even tell Max to talk to me if first if he feels the need to. You need the closure of telling them how you feel at least. Moreso, you need to understand a friendship is stronger when you express yourself completely, even in disagreement or feeling slighted. You need people Michael; people whom you can trust. You're never going to know if you can trust them if you hide everything important from them."

"Max doesn't want that, does he?" It was all about Max because that was all he had left. He hadn't been exxagerating.

"He was prepared for you to never want to see him again for failing you when he first came to get you from the mental hospital. He needs this, Michael. So do you."

"Is that what you've brought for me to do?"

"No, these are statements I need you to sign so I can send them to USCIS. They're so you can get a temporary green card for medical aid you can't get anywhere else. In three months, you should apply for a permanent one for work, and then you can even gain citizenship in the United States."

"Do I have to?" he asked, his voice heavy with reluctance toward her offer.

"You don't have to sign if you don't want to or you don't feel it's right," she apologized. "I thought you wanted legal status, though. Right now you're an illegal alien and the city is paying for -"

"I meant as a citizen," Michael interrupted. "I honestly don't want to be a citizen here. I know I haven't been there in ages and I probably will never go back, but I love my home country. I want to stay Greek."

"Michael, I'm not a U.S. citizen myself. I'm applying for it in the spring. I don't have much of an accent, but I'm from Australia. Are most of your friends overseas? You didn't come to this country until after the accident, correct?"

"Correct," he said. "I studied in Amsterdam and met most of my friends from here. Hans moved here for work. Jacob's parents were immigrants fleeing the from East Germany. Max's family were citizens for generations. In fact, my parents didn't like the fact that my college roommate was an American." A light hint of a smile crept upwards as Michael spoke about his friend. "This country wasn't very popular in the 70's and my parents took a long time to grow out of it."

"What about you? What are your views?"

"I think this country could use some work."

"Have you gone back to work yet?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not yet. Max wanted me to wait until he got back from New York. I think he returns tomorrow."

"That explains a lot," Linda mumbled.

"What does that mean?"

Linda winced, embarassed hse had forgotten about his acute hearing. "I'll talk to you about that next time. Where did these come from?" she asked, nodding at the plate of cookies.

"A neighbor. Miss Rosenburg. She gave me most of these magazines and paper to cover the windows."

"That sounds kind of her. What did you tell her?"

"Not much. She was in the apartment complex that Jack was in when the Weast Coast Avengers came by, so she's not worried about me. She's more worried about Max or he current political situation. Espeically when her grandchildren visit."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd help her with the children if she ever needed."

"Have you cared for kids before?"

"Yes, while I was—never mind." He looked at the camera as silence began to take over the conversation. Now he was sure he didn't like it watching him. "Are you done yet?"

"Michael, is this about your past?" Linda asked, a mix of polite coaxing and chiding him. "I'm not going to tell anyone else about what you tell me unless I think someone is in danger."

"What if someone innocent died?"

"How innocent?" she asked, letting her doubt of the incident creep into her words.

"He was torturing a prostitute. It was an illegal business for that," he said carefully, almost whispering.

"That has already ben excused by the New York Police Department. It's already on record that you won't be charged with anything, ever."

"It turned out he used to watch over several children in his apartment complex," Michael said, almost smiling. "They all seemed to enjoy it when I came to cheer them up while they were in the waiting room. I didn't even know why they were there at first."

"Michael, someone who tortures another person—really tortures them—is not someone who shouldn't be around children. He shouldn't be around anyone.'

Michael grit his teeth in silence. He had metaphorically stepped in something bad and it was written all over his face. He wanted to smash the camera and threaten Linda—anything to avoid getting into trouble now—but he just watched her. Maybe she had a way out he could beg for.

"Michael, did you hurt someone?" Linda asked. She was worried. She was mostly worried she didn't know who to be worried about.

"Myself." He didn't count, right?

"I committed suicide. I tried. Something went wrong and—it's complicated."

"I read about that," Linda said. "Was it entirely about that man?"

"Not...exactly," Michael said. He was sure Linda wouldn't side with him at all in this. "It was about someone I rescued. She hated me for it. She said I had no right to kill him and choose who lies or who dies. She was right."

"She was wrong, Michael," Linda said firmly, as if squeezing his arm to force in to sit in place with her words. "You were acting in defense of another. I've seen footage of you fight. Unless you've blacked out, you don't attempt to kill unless you think it's nessecary."

"I didn't have to," he whispered.

"You didn't, but you stil saved her. It doens't sound like she'd last much longer without you,' Linda said. "I want you to focus on that, Michael. Think about what you can accomplish by helping, not leaving. Know you've been through a lot more than what I've read, but you've done a great deal of good for many people."

"Do I have to?" he asked with biting honesty. "I-I'm grateful for what I have now, but...it's almost always been so much pressure. Just because of what happened, does it mean I have to always fight something?"

"You're already a hero to thousands thanks to your medical acheivements, Michael. That's far more altruism than even some people in costumes even think about. You're a compasionate person, Michael. There's no fault in enjoying being compassionate if that''s something you find pride in after fighitng or feel hurt about when you don't have it. You can still be compassionate about your friends without hiding things from them, Michael."

"I can't protect them without fighitng, though. And...I'm not good at it, either. I'm just lucky sometimes."

"Michael, protection isn't just physical fighitng. Protection is letting them know aout problems, even little ones, while letting them kno whow much you care. The need to know these things. If they don't want to listen to you, then they're prepared to defend themselves. Real friends know the value of trusting each other, especially when it comes to each others vulnerabilities. I want you to focus on that kind of strength and protection. Especially with Max."