Standing outside his apartment holding a bag of groceries in his right hand and his keys in the other, the man formerly known as Carl Lucas had been without a care in the world.

Before, his thoughts had been focused on getting inside to drop off his groceries so that he could make his way back out and through the Harlem neighbourhoods. His current project was to encourage the youth by visibly being seen helping out their friends and family so that they would feel encouraged to talk to him about their hopes and dreams.

He would stroll through the neighbourhood. He would engage with whoever came his way and he would listen to their stories. He would stop for photos, go where he was perhaps needed, and he would take in the sights, smells and sounds of his kingdom.

This was so he visibly stood in the way of any crime or unsociable activities. He would be that presence that said that it was not acceptable. He would be the unflinching wall against the darkness, the cancer, that sought to seep its way in. He directed those in the direction of faith

This was how he retained his status as the symbol of hope.

Truthfully, he felt like he’d been doing a pretty good job.

People spoke to him with respect and squabbles and disagreements were resolved with his arrival and those that went too far could be deescalated before they went even further.

His afternoon was pretty much sorted, and on top of everything else he also wanted to try and make a new dish for Claire before she got home-

But as he was lost in thought, he was interrupted.

Entering his peripheral was the sudden appearance of a microphone and a mumbled voice made a demanding inquiry. It wasn’t caught due to the music in his ears, though it did catch his attention.

Luke placed his keys in the door, pulled down his hood with his now free hand and withdrew a single earphone as he took in what he could see.

Several reporters, each paired with a photographer, who must have been scoping out the area and waiting for his return precisely for this moment stared at him excitedly.

He wondered if he had done something wrong that he was only now about to be made aware of, feeling rarely vulnerable.

He didn’t like being put on the back foot.

“Mr Cage!” Another reported said, speaking out over a chorus of his own name; “What are your opinions on the once again brutal killing spree that has occurred at Camp Crystal Lake?”

Of course.

It was something Luke had heard about. He’d seen it pop up on his phone early that morning but had only skimmed the surface. Staring at the microphone he had remembered letting Claire know when she had woken up in a very apathetic fashion.

She had said in response; “Jesus, that’s horrible…”

Then, they had both begun there day.

It happened so often it was hard to be completely shocked. Especially as it had been happening for years.

But to give an opinion wasn’t something he had been expected to do when he left the house that morning. The only thing on his agenda at that point had been buying lunch, dinner and some laundry detergent.

These weren’t the things the news wanted to know about, he assumed.

“What’s this about?” He asked, turning on the spot as the cameras began to snap photos; “Did one of the kids come from here?”

“No,” The interviewer that had the microphone in his face replied, followed by a second holding a camera; “it’s just customary to get reactions from famous people in the neighbourhood when a tragedy like this happens. So? Your thoughts?”

My thoughts?

At this question a million thoughts ran through his head. A black man in his situation with his level of notoriety and public approval being interviewed had the potential to be risky at the best of times. But now?

Say the wrong thing on the local news and suddenly he was the subject of a witch hunt. Or he would be turned into a meme and nobody would want to take him seriously ever again.

Then there was the consideration that he would say the right thing and suddenly he’d be relied on for future interviews. This ran the gambit of losing the respect of the people for being a sell-out.

It was a hard line to walk, so he opted to keep it basic, and said;

“… It…  sounds like a tragedy and I hope the families of the victims are being taken care of by the people who love them the most. If you’ll excuse me.”

Simple.

Basic.

And actually quite boring.

It couldn’t in any way be used as a main story and would likely be saved to jazz up any additional commentary.

And with that, he turned the key and went upstairs to the frustrated sighs and last minute comments of the journalists.

It was a national tragedy and it was sad for the families involved but he honestly didn’t have enough to work with to make an informed political opinion. He knew what they wanted him to say, that it was wrong and awful and should be stopped, but how did you… do that?

The reality was that after street crime, after gun violence, knife crime, domestic abuse and then the drug trade, there were some parts of the United States where teenagers just… died.

Murdered, Luke corrected in his mind.

He put the groceries away and got to work on lunch. Claire wouldn’t be home until the evening as she was working at the hospital which gave him plenty of time before he returned to the streets, but as he finished his food soon his thoughts returned to the news as fresh alerts erupted on his screen and his eyes met with fresh interviews with the victims’ families.

“We had no idea they were even going-”

“They were our only child-”

“Why does this keep happening?”

“Cries for help as police and government fail once again-”

“Why are we so weak?”

Luke closed his phone.

He sighed, loudly and to the open space and with a feeling he couldn’t quite describe. It was the same as when he was in prison, that sense of powerlessness and yet also… a desire?

His fingers tapped against the kitchen counter. His eyes focused at empty space as his mind raced with consideration.

Something was sparking that seemed ridiculous if you tried to say it out loud.

And then, another nagging voice interrupted him.

It was the voice that prevented him when he became overly excited, a voice that was his better nature.

A voice that had been strangely quiet in recent years as he waged his war against crime and yet in this moment, here and now, was actually suggesting that maybe this was the step too far.

What can you do, Luke? The voice of his doubt asked.

He knew his own limitations. He accepted them, and he walked away from the counter and towards the couch to watch some TV. This was the way, right? This was how things like this were handled, because what was the alternative?

What can you do, Power Man?

Who are you if you stand up to this?

If you defy this?

When others have tried, when others have failed, what does it mean when you even bother to try again?

What can you do? Really? What can you do, Luke Cage?

And then it was challenged by a second voice, a defiant voice.

Well…

This was the voice of his hope.

This was the voice of rebellion.

This was the voice that fought against status quo.

This sounded more like him.

And it said;

Everything.

Immediately, as soon as he sat on the couch, he leapt back up. Without hesitation he made his way over to the computer and slammed it open (taking just enough care to not break it).

Since getting out of prison and the events of Midland Circus, Luke had some downtime to grow re-accustomed to normal life. Claire had kept him grounded and he’d had a few odd jobs here and there but then, like a summons, he was called forth by the community.

The Hero of Harlem had friends and all of them were willing to let him work for his keep and despite how often Claire said that it sometimes interfered with her own work (sometimes by making more of it), Luke had gradually found that he could live and provide for both his community and his girlfriend.

Sometimes people joked he was a Hero for Hire, but the emphasis was on Hero first.

He opened a fresh tab on Claire’s browser for the news and, sure enough to no surprise, the headline that reached his eyes seemed to be one he had been reading some variation of for most of his life.

It was one of those headlines that had a habit of recurring and the people would grow angry about it, then forget about it, until it happened all over again.

Comments in the article were… varied.

“This happens near enough every 6 months and the government has done nothing to stop it? Insane!”

“Oh, right. We’re supposed to believe this nonsense... Next, you’ll be telling me that the Hulk is real. #FAKENEWS!”

“So sad, but then it is God’s punishment for our sin, so they deserve it I guess... #prayingforthevictims”

“Why doesn’t Captain America or Iron Man do something? Surely it would take them like… two seconds.”

That last one resonated with Luke.

There was a series of ongoing murders that were occurring in a part of America. They occurred frequently enough that it was almost a running joke at this point. Yet, despite knowing who it was and where they were located, nobody was really doing anything?

The Avengers could definitely deal with it, he was certain, but from what Luke understood they worked on a different scale. Their actions seemed more focused on large scale immediate life and death concerns rather than on the day to day affairs of general society.

At least as far as he knew.

Truth be told he wasn’t one to really follow what Tony Stark was up to since… one annoying billionaire was enough for him. It had also been a while since anyone had heard from Captain America or Thor.

Couldn’t they be more like that Spider guy that hung around Queens and helped the little guy out every once and a while?

He took some time, taking on board all the information that was available, and after a few hours of intense research Luke leaned back in his chair and finally closed the laptop lid.

An idea was… slowly formulating in his mind.

To work on it further, he went for a walk around the neighbourhood.

He ignored the reporters that tried to get a second statement from him as he exited Claire’s apartment and instead walked with his hood up and the music in his ears. He blindly followed a route that could be somewhat considered a patrol as he checked in on areas that were at risk and also checking in on those that he had helped out in the last few months.

Occasionally people stopped him to talk. Some wanted reassurance, some wanted advice, most went away with something they hadn’t considered before from an alternative perspective.

He walked for a good couple of hours and let the thoughts roll through his head as he pieced together the story that had been reported in its now complete state.

According to the report, under the impression that Camp Crystal Lake was no longer a threat to life, a tourist trap had been set up by a small start-up company to provide cheap thrills.

The campsite was completely rebuilt in its classic eighties style to let people tour around.

The tourists could then investigate the space where gruesome murders had taken place for the last few decades at their leisure.

Meals were provided along with places to sleep and, after a few hours, a person would dress up as Jason and give the “Voorhees Treatment” to the fans.

This included jumping out at them and chasing them through the woods whilst wielding a (fake) machete.

Good times.

Except naturally, the real Jason had turned up and had made the experience a bit more authentic than, until finally one of the visitors had apparently escaped and killed(?) Jason by using his own machete against him.

That would have been the end of the story forever, if not for the fact that this had happened before.

But the thing that was making Luke pause for thought was where his brain went next.

In a world where he had been shot at, stabbed at, and at least a few times punched with a glowing fist, there was something very important when taking into account the murder spree at Camp Crystal Lake.

Luke was… pretty much impervious to injury.

And he was super strong.

The idea of getting attacked by a hockey mask wearing psychopath didn’t concern him. He was fairly certain it was something he could deal with. He had been through a lot worse, it felt.

There had been the beatings in prison.

The transformation from Carl into Luke.

The bazookas, the shotguns and the Iron Fists.

But even with all that, he still had this inane childlike fear of Jason Voorhees that tickled the fear centre in the back of his brain. It stemmed from the stories he had heard over the decades; it was like being asked to step into the ring and fight the bogeyman.

He could probably do it but man the guy had had a lot of build-up.

As the son of a Reverend he had been kept away from such horrors in the news for longer than most, and when he had learned of the true evil that existed in the world it was only in the context of faith and as a lesson to not engage in the same lifestyles as those sinners.

Even though he knew he would logically be fine, the nine-year-old Luke Cage that still lived in his heart was somewhat concerned that he wouldn’t be.

Plus, if he did somehow decide that he was going to go alone and deal with Jason Voorhees, Claire would absolutely without question kill him if he made it back.

So that was that.

Nothing he could do.

As he walked back to his apartment, still thinking over the potential of this lone forest dwelling figure, he decided that it would be too much to handle alone. The sheer scope and size of a man like Jason Voorhees, with a legacy and body count behind him, was so much bigger than he had ever considered dealing with in the past.

Standing at his kitchen counter once again, he felt himself weighed down as if chains around his arms and legs were holding him in place. He considered for a moment moving on and letting someone else deal with this terror.

The government would eventually do something, right?

Or the Avengers?-

He knew it was his fear talking and holding him back, but he felt like he had a limit.

He couldn’t deal with this by himself. It was just too crazy. How could you even start to handle something like this that was so big and had lasted for so long?

How did you end a force of nature?

You can’t just stop Jason Voorhees.

Can you?

…

… But…

…

… Maybe…

…

If he didn’t go alone…

He had a thought.

A crazy thought…

And before he knew it, he had picked up his phone and was scrolling through his contacts.

How crazy was it really?

Claire would think it was insane and most people would find it reckless, but if he knew Danny Rand like he think he knew Danny Rand, the kid was likely going to be excited at the prospect.

But it was crazy.

Definitely crazy.

He heard the click of someone answering the phone on the other end, and said;

“Danny? It’s Luke.”

Claire was going to be so pissed.