One Way, or Another.
There were two kinds of searches. The ones where you hoped you'd find someone. And the ones where you had to.
Corporal Eugene Thompson crouched on the edge of a rooftop, staring down at the abandoned warehouse below. No lights. No cars. No movement. Nothing.
Except the faintest trace of something that shouldn't have been there. Flash lowered his binoculars, and whispers, “Got you.”
Anti-Venom crawled across his shoulders, tendrils slipping beneath his armor as his senses expanded. Heat. Chemicals. Sweat. Blood. The microscopic traces most people would never notice.
Flash noticed. The military had taught him patience. Venom had taught him instinct. The symbiotes had taught him how to hunt.
He checked the photograph in his hand one last time before folding it away.
“Alive if possible,” he muttered.
A white tendril curled around his wrist.
“But one way or another…”
His eyes narrowed behind the mask.
“…I'm bringing them home.”
Then Flash stepped off the roof.
He fell, crashing through the roof of the warehouse, shooting multiple guns at the gang of thugs inside.
The Inner Demons Gang. The very gang who’s leader made Anti-Venom, who gave Flash this second chance at being a hero.