Avengers Draft


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The stench of burning flesh didn't necessarily offend him. He'd smelled worse. It was being robbed of dispensing justice that pissed him off, and this son of a bitch immolated himself rather than face his wrath.

"I can honestly say that's a first," he said to no one in particular. He sighed and looked around. The place was all peeled paint and stained carpet. "Crack house chic."

The victim, on his knees, began to crumble to ash before him, so he picked up his trident and turned to walk out.

At that moment, his skin bristled and ran cold. He felt a presence, supernatural.

"Come," a disembodied voice said.

The sound was in his head and not the room; that much was certain. Whatever it was, it was supernatural, and that merited him looking into it.

Daimon Hellstrom, the Son of Satan walked towards the door when a circle of flame enclosed him on the floor and he disappeared.


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The private plane sliced through the air silently. It was far more expensive than the two men on board were entirely comfortable with. Nearer the cabin, a handsome man sat. Blonde Hair, blue eyes, wiry muscle rippling under his t-shirt and Army surplus pants. A pair of purple tinted sunglasses sat on his face, just above his broad smile. Clint “Hawkeye” Barton was in love with his surroundings.

Further from the cabin across a table, a human rockslide sulked, looking over the menu in front of him. An over sized Hawaiian shirt hung loosely over his broad orange chest. Ben “The Thing” Grimm was not pleased with the beer selection on this flight.

Thing: Y'know, I get that they're tryin' to impress me, but is it so hard to have on freakin' American Lager on the menu?

Barton grinned.

Hawkeye: Try something new, expand your mind.

Thing: Thanks, Reed.

Hawkeye: ...Now that hurts. Just get a Carlsburg. You'll like it.

Grimm drummed his thick fingers on the table.

Thing: Is it so hard to just have some Bud on the plane? You'd think if Fury wants us to do him some favor, he'd try and take care of us.

Hawkeye: You and I both know Nick better than that. He's...

A high pitched whine cut through the air, drowning our the sounds of rushing wind. Barton instinctively reached for a large duffel placed on his floor.

Hawkeye: What the hell is tha--

With a slight pop, Clint Barton disappeared into thin air.

Thing: ...Oh, son of a bi--

Grim popped and faded as well.



Benjamin Grimm is one of the most experienced heroes in the Marvel Universe. A former Marine, and astronaut, Grimm became a stone skinned, muscle bound hulk when exposed to Cosmic Radiation. Since then, Grimm has become the idol of millions and one of the bravest, toughest ever lovin' men to walk the Earth.


Clint Barton has been many things; circus performer, criminal, hero, G-Man, but above all, Hawkeye is an Avenger. Armed with an array of arrows at his disposal, Barton may seem like a one trick pony, but don't be fooled, thanks to training from Captain America and the Black Knight, Barton is one of the deadliest hand to hand combatants around, and is more than proficient with almost any bladed weapon. Aside from that, the only things quicker than his bow are his temper and his mouth.

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"Mom, I don't wanna go to the Castro District," the dark haired teenager said, eyeing everyplace as somewhere he could duck away.

His mother shook her head. As she cleaned her glasses, "Honestly honey, I'm sure you'll want to get an idea of your culture."

"We already looked at Berkly. I'm just going to be happy picking up a souvenir for Teddy then getting back to the airport," Billy said. A nearby storefront exploded as a group of robotic AIM agents shambled forward. Billy gestured at them, "YoushouldblowupnowYoushouldblowupnowYoushouldblowupnow"

As the robots blew up, Billy picked up one of their heads and handed it to his mother. She kissed him on the cheek, "Be careful Honey, okay?"

Wiccan nodded, "ChangeintocostumeChangeintocostumeChangeintocostume."



Wiccan is a powerful sorcerer and also has some latent powers to warp reality. He also has two sets of biological parents. Its complicated.

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The massive man rolled out of bed, planting his foot solidly on the floor so that he didn't fall to the floor. Whatever it was he drank last night, he was sure he drank all of it. The knocking at his hotel room door reverberated in his head as he collected his wits.

"Come," the voice continued. It pounded like somebody else, a man with a different accent.

"Go away," he said forcefully.

"Sir, it ees time to turn the room down. You have to check out."

"Goddammit! I just got up! Come back in an hour."

"Sir, it ees two o'clock, if you plan to stay another night, you must contact the front desk. Until then, I must turn down this room."


"Fuckin' foreigners..." he muttered, picking up a large helmet and placing it on his head. "Even if I explained it ta them, they wouldn't have a clue who they're messin' with. Friggin' spic broad brought her dumbass Russian manager..."

Walking to the door he held his palm out in front of him. The door popped off of its hinges as he never lost stride. The heavy door fell to the side and landed hard on the thin carpet of the hotel hallway.

"Who do you think choo are?" she asked. He looked at her, seeing the tiny elderly hispanic woman, and chuckled. Seemingly forgetting the other voice he heard, he responded:


"Me? I'm the Juggernaut, bitch!"

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