New York. Avengers Tower.
Moonstone and Noh-Varr.
This is how it starts.
She catches him as he's on his way back to his suite from the shower. Why Tony Stark didn't put WCs in individual suites is beyond capacity for rational thought—much like Tony himself.
She flings the door open just as he walks past and she says, "Hey."
He turns around looking a little timid at the custom—is this how human women present?. And she asks, "What are you doing now?" He says "Nothing." She says, "Come in here, then." The implication of course is that in about four minutes—maybe less, if his alien physiology jumps the gun—he's going to be doing her.
And he just kinda strolls into her room when she makes the request. The door closes softly behind him.
From me spot at the end of the hall, I saw it all.
Not that I'd want to see more, mind you.
I'd much rather be thinking about Elektra. Come to think of it...
Bullseye pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and smiles and makes for his own suite.
Karla Sofen presses her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Her back arches and she runs her hands through her hair. The mouth hangs open slightly, caught between a scowl and a smile. So he must be doing something right.
And then she falls slowly, laying her head on his chest for a moment before shifting and laying next to him on this thing she calls a 'bed'. As she does, he sneaks in a leer at the curvature of her body. It's not perfect and not even really shapely. But she makes up for unseemliness in other ways. She's voracious, and spry. And fast.
He respects that.
The ritual of course is different on this planet than on his own, but there exist certain similarities. Those are too—he prefers not to think too greatly about them except to say there are similarities.
She seems luxurious, despite the flaws he notices and catalogues away in his mind. And while he's doing this and pretending to relish in the smell of bergamot on her skin, she does most of the work.
He likes that not.
Noh Varr is no one's servant.
But she does seem to enjoy the ritual.
Enjoy him.
There follows an interminable silence after the ritual ends. It's Noh Varr who speaks up first. "You're the first human girl I've ever—"
"Yeah?"
She can't even let him finish a sentence.
He's torn.
Between wanting to take her again and wanting to throw her through a wall.
A minute passes and he says he also dislikes the human mating ritual. And he gets the sense that it's not so much a ritual for practicality's sake so much as for amusement. As if she has nothing better to do.
And then she wonders aloud how Norman Osborn will propagate the idea that his Avengers are psychopaths and criminals.
"He put together what?" Noh Varr asks.
She shushes him.
"You're all criminals? I thought—"
Another interruption: "Just like you, right?"
His Kree heart skips a beat.
The televised program she watches gets pre-empted.
He stands up and throws the sheet back to the bed. Strolls across the bedroom in his naked imperial majesty. Retrieves his pants with similar majesty and hurries out of Karla Sofen's bedroom with perfect posture, perfectly messy hair and perfect snobbery.
He has the good sense to close the door after himself, and softly too, and she sits there for a second beaming in her own magnificence.
Once he's gone, she laughs aloud and flops herself back on the bed.
Another world conquered for Dr Karla Sofen.
Antarctica.
—138° Fahrenheit.
The Sentry and The Void.
Well. Another one off the list, Sentry. I owe you a Coke. You can survive in the heart of the Sun, you can survive here too. Way to prove me wrong.
(Was there any doubt that I wouldn't?)
No.
(Then why are you here?)
You want to clear your head and you want to know if you died in Latveria. Died saving a man that probably didn't deserve saving. Well.
(Well what?)
You didn't die. Trust me.
(Then what did I do?)
You went and got yourself blown to hell by Arthur's guttersnipe of a sorceress. She did with you what she was going to do with Victor von Doom. She travelled into your distant past—'cause that's what she does—and killed you. Before you even became the Sentry. If you like, before you even hit puberty.
(What?)
The age of ten. You were on the swingset.
(If that were really true...I wouldn't have come back. I wouldn't be here)
True.
(Then how am I here?)
You wanted to live. Which is also the explanation for how the Professor's formula didn't give you horrible leukemia or kill you on the spot during your younger and, eh, more foolish days.
(You're lying)
Possibly. Could be she killed you and you reconstituted yourself by sheer force of will. Could be that she just put some stupid ineffectuality spell on you that went away once the good Doctor Doom sent her to her death. Could just be that it was all an illusion.
(Set up by you)
Possibly.
(God damn you)
Why did you come out here, Sentry?
(I...needed to clear my head)
You want to know if what Clint Barton said is true. Don't you? You want to know what Norman Osborn did.
(Yes)
Well, 'Murderer' is such an ugly word. And when we're talking about Norman 'bottom of the food chain' Osborn, few come closer.
(It is true then?)
Spare me the whole 'dios mio!' bit, Sentry; it is irrelevant. As are these earthly notions you have about right and wrong. Come on, Sentry. The universe's more interesting than that. More interesting than you letting Norman Osborn think you're remotely troubled by me. Letting him think he has the power to stop you.
(Doesn't he)
He's only human. What does he know?
(And what are you?)
Better than him. And so are you. You only, as they say, lack the light to see the way.
(Why are you here?)
We are here...because you smell a rat. Bob Reynolds smells a rat.
The ash-black form of the Void materializes in front of the Sentry. Unmarred by the snowstorm raging around them. Its blood-red eyes bolden for a moment and it smiles. Robert Reynolds hears the voice of death in his head. The ash-black corpse reaches an ethereal and spade-black tendril towards the Sentry. The infini-tendrils of The Void.
The ones that show past, present and future—courtesy of Robert Reynolds' abysmal nemesis.
The tendril wraps around the Sentry's neck and constricts. The Sentry doesn't feel the cold of the snowstorm. But he feels the crushing pressure and infinite cold of the Void.
And then it shows him Norman Osborn.
Past.
Present.
And future.
The Astral Plane.
The Cabal.
"It is of no concern." The Lord of Latveria stood unmoving, his arms folded confidently over his chest; the cold steel mask was in the shape of a scowl by happenstance.
"Agreed," Loki said. She focused weight on one leg, and gathered the ermine stole close, covering herself against a cold that wasn't there. Making herself look regal.
"Agreed," Namor said. His posture matched that of Dr Doom's, except he hovered in the air.
"Agreed," Emma Frost said. She looked gaunt compared to the rest. Her figure was slim, and the white cape around her shoulders fluttered in the ethereal breeze.
Osborn rolled his eyes. "I'm so pleased you all think this way."
It entered his mind and left as quickly that the Hood was not here.
Osborn didn't miss him, and doubted anyone else did. This was not a conversation for his interests...
Frost spoke first. "You went on television, bloody gave them what they wanted. Now they have their explanation. Let Clint Barton rot."
"Aye!" Namor interjected.
"The concern," Osborn said, "is the same it always is. Someone's not going to believe it."
"That someone," Emma Frost corrected, "is probably some twenty-six-year-old virgin who lacks familiarity with the fairer sex."
Namor chuckled.
"Why do you care, Osborn?" The Goddess of Mischief had been intent to show up, but looked greatly bored the whole time. Checking her nails with inquisitiveness, as if they'd never been there before. As if they were foreign. Disgusting. Like she missed her former shell. When she asked the question she finally took the effort to look Osborn in the face. "These people are not to be trusted."
"It's not a matter of trust, Loki," Osborn said and his face contorted. He was annoyed.
"Is it a matter of ego?" Namor asked. "Can you not accept that someone doesn't like you?"
Osborn threw an accusatory finger at the King of Atlantis. "Don't you start!"
The Goddess of Mischief was closer to Osborn now. She touched a gloved-hand to his chin and brought his view back to look at her squarely. "Norman," she said. "Why does it matter?"
"Loki is right," the Lord of Latveria said. Under the faceplate his eyes narrowed and he added, as he condescended, "You have your power base. May death come quickly to your enemies."
"It's not that simple," Osborn said and looked at the floor. He was getting irritated when he wasn't making eye contact. That's how it started for him. Then his shoulders tensed—which they were—and he started grinding his teeth. "These people expect a bunch of crocodile tears. That I can do, but its your word, all of yours, and your actions. Our actions. It's all of that that makes this legitimate."
Emma Frost rolled her eyes. "You worry too much."
"Huh?" Osborn grunted.
Her eyes narrowed. "You've thrown together the world's worst cricket game, Norman. You've made a career and a reputation out of your distinct lack of care for things like this, and now you're, how they say, a worrywart. If you choose to indulge this frankly churlish emotional response—"
"The mutant is right," the Lord of Latveria said. "It is no concern of ours that a rogue Avenger—has challenged you. The idiom in your land, Osborn, might be, 'so what?'"
Osborn gave the Lord of Latveria a serious look. Said, "No one says no to me. Especially not some two-bit nutjob in a ninja suit whose trying to recapture the glory days."
Loki rolled her eyes.
Namor's eyes narrowed and went from Emma Frost to Doom, and then to Osborn. The King of Atlantis, for a moment, thought that Osborn's televised reply—his owning up to what the Daily Bugle and the one called Urich called a 'legacy of evil'—was touching in its pharisaic way. Probably, somewhere, even Spider-Man shivered and felt sorry for Osborn. And then probably shook himself out of it.
Doom and Osborn were a foot away from each other now. And...Doom seemed...so much taller, Namor thought. So much greater. Magisterial in his presence. Namor smiled thinly and let out a cool breath.
"Have you something to say," Doom asked. "'Lord of America?'"
"If I were you," Osborn said, "I would stand back. You know what I can do to you?"
Under the cold steel faceplate, Victor von Doom raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what I can do to you?" he asked, inflecting all the right syllables to emphasise a challenge.
"Try it," Osborn said.
Under the faceplate, Doom scowled. As before, he emphasised all the right words and his anger grew as he spoke. "I invented time travel, you supercilious fraud. I can destroy your cities yesterday. I can prevent your dead wife from ever meeting you. I can prevent Mendel Stromm from ever existing and ever creating that opprobrious 'Goblin Formula', and I can render that waste of space you call a son into a foot-sucking halfwit. I can do the same for Spider-Man. And for you. And you know this.
Osborn kept his gaze on the Lord of Latveria. Neither flinched.
Emma Frost rolled her eyes and started pacing, bored.
Loki smiled thinly.
"I allowed you here as a courtesy," Osborn said. "Not to trade insults for the sake of ego."
Doom was an inch from Osborn's nose.
"You are not and never shall be in a position to allow me anything. I allow you to exist. Speck. Have a care and be grateful that Doom is so merciful."
Namor's eyes darted between the two. He felt awkward for only a moment, then cracked a thin smile. Osborn would not win this one.
Doom went on. "As Ms Frost so eloquently put it, Osborn...the only one here who lacks powers of any definitive type is you. Your rise to power rested on subterfuge and cowardice. Your reputation is built on murdering a defenceless girl. And your mental state...is highly suspect."
The Goddess of Mischief's eyes were locked on Doom. Magnificent, she thought. Purely magnificent.
"Deal with your so-called 'bad press', Osborn," the Lord of Latveria said. "As we all have and all shall. Or someone else will do it for you. As we speak, someone in your program means to exploit you."
"He's right," Emma Frost said. "You don't even need a superpower to see it, Norman."
"Heavy lies the crown," The Goddess of Mischief murmured. She glanced at Namor with an imperceptible smile, and he mirrored her expression.
"If the bitter misgivings of a manic-depressive ex-convict bother you so...run back to your little sphere of influence, and see for yourself," Doom said. "Leave Clint Barton to us."
"You?" Osborn said.
"My agents," Doom said and looked off into the aether, painfully smiling under the cold steel facemask, "will...take care of him."
Namor growled a minor disapproval and rolled his eyes. He went to Emma Frost's side and threw an uncaring arm around her waist. Their twin gaze locked on Osborn.
The Goddess of Mischief cocked an eye at Osborn and wrapped crimson bands around herself as she departed.
"I do enjoy your, how you say, 'pissing matches', Norman. They sustain me."
Her ruby lips smiled again, briefly, and she was gone.
Osborn looked around. Then at the Lord of Latveria.
"Your arrogance blinds you, Victor. Threaten me again—"
"When I threaten you, Osborn...insect...you will know it."
And the Lord of Latveria was gone, consumed by a flash of green where he had stood a moment previous.
Osborn looked at Emma. "What?!"
"You might be interested to know something right now. The one you call 'Moonstone' just let your cat out of the bag. Cheerio."
With that, Frost took Namor, Osborn and herself off the Astral Plane.
Osborn she put in the conference room in Avengers Tower.
Namor she took with her to San Francisco. To the penthouse she shared with Scott Summers. To the bed they shared.
That she was about to share with the King of Atlantis.
Avengers Tower.
Noh-Varr and The Sentry and Norman Osborn.
Robert Reynolds was in plainclothes—denims and a blue Oxford and morbidly expensive Italian ankle-boots—hunched over the kitchen bar island. Balancing a Kennedy half dollar on its side on the granite countertop and looking greatly interested in it. Greatly worried. His hair hung in tight strands all over and he wiped them back over his ears every few minutes. He was frowning but his brow didn't have the downturned lines on it. His eyebrows were angled sharply and the muscles doing the contraction ached. And he was starting to get a headache from clenching his teeth.
He flipped the half-dollar on the countertop and a moment later, he slapped his hand on it before it could come to a full stop.
The door from the hallway creaked open off to his right. He spun the half dollar again.
Bob looked up when the light from the hallway illuminated part of the kitchen.
Noh Varr rushed in. Naked. He was carrying lounge pants or something over a crooked forearm.
Cusght really rather offguard, Bob spun the half-dollar over the counter's edge and into the sink on the other side. He said, "oh shit," and leant over and fished it out.
By the time he had the half dollar back on its edge and rolling it back and listening to the grinding sound it made on the granite, Noh Varr had his pants on. Thankfully.
Bob pocketed the half dollar and turned the stool around. He sat hunched still, his shoulders low and his hands clasped together lazily in the gap between bowed legs.
"Noh, is it?"
"Yes," Noh Varr said and fetched a VitaminWater from the refrigerator, on the other side of the island counter. He opened it greedily and guzzled half the bottle before setting it back on the counter in a swift and harried way and letting out the Coca-Cola 'ahhh'.
Bob cocked a quick eyebrow at that and changed gears. He said, "You okay?"
"No," the Kree said. He turned around so he could face Bob. He leaned against the counter on his side and Bob momentarily checked out Noh's abs.
Oh hell's bells, jealous, Sentry?
(Shut up)
He pulled the half-dollar from his pocket and started balancing it on the counter again.
"What's bothering you?" Bob asked. He wanted it to sound distant. He wasn't a people person.
Noh Varr, with his messy platinum hair and vaguely harried demeanour and .02% perspiration dermal perspiration quotient...he looked a mess. Bob didn't even need his enhanced senses to see it.
Noh Varr flexed his arms to propel himself up onto the counter to sit. When he spoke, finally, he did so staring at the floor.
"I was just uh, talking to Karla? Moonstone?"
Bob nodded, "yeah."
Noh Varr hesitated for a moment beyond that. His mouth hung open by an inch. He was choosing his words.
"What if," Noh said carefully. "What if...the man leading us. Leading this team. What if he's not who he says he is?"
Bob did a minor eye-roll at that. "I don't know, I encountered the Chameleon once, a long time ago. Generally it's a pretty easy spot once you watch them—"
"It's not that," Noh Varr insisted. "Moonstone said...that Norman created a team of—"
"Assassins and murderers?"
Osborn was leaning against the hallway doorjamb. In a dark green suit. Green tie. The hair was the same as it had been for him since his first birthday back in 51. The face was creased. Old. The eyes were deep, like they always were, and they were full of authority. Pride. Hatred.
Bob shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. Noh Varr ran a nervous hand through his hair.
"Well—" Bob eked out.
Noh Varr interrupted him, "Is this true? Are you a criminal?"
"Okay," Osborn said and sounded reasonable. He went for the empty barstool next to Bob and eased into it. Propped his elbows on it and steepled his fingers in front of his face and looked at Noh Varr with now inquisitive eyes. "Talk to me. Where's this coming from?"
Noh repeated. "Is this true?"
"Yes," Osborn said. Sadly.
Bob took a deep and quiet breath.
He heard the Void in his head again. Ask him about Gwen Stacy, Sentry...
"And Spider-Man?" Noh Varr added.
Osborn sighed. "You saw the interview. Yes. I was the Green Goblin. In another life."
Bob waited a moment. Then, carefully: "What about this life?"
Osborn looked at Bob but did not move his head. He looked worried. Maybe...just thoughtful.
"Yes," Osborn said. "It was a dark time for me. Luke Cage assaulted me in public. Trashed my office. Got some trumped-up evidence that I'd killed a Daily Bugle reporter for the hell of it. Ben Urich wrote a book about it." Pause. "And...now, I'm better."
The way he just recounted it, Sentry. How...unnerving...
"How?" Noh Varr said. He hadn't looked away from Osborn.
"During the superhuman civil war, agents of SHIELD apprehended me. Forced me into therapy. Gave me prescriptions."
"Forced?" Noh asked.
Osborn smiled. "I was not a well-man. And even the mentally ill are loath to admit they need help."
So he got help.
"So that's it, then?" Bob asked.
"Yes," Osborn said and made it sound apprehensive. Like it was a war story he wasn't particularly proud of recounting.
And yet...think about it Sentry.
Osborn stood and straightened his jacket. "Is that all, gentlemen?" he asked and was already heading for the hallway door.
Quickly, Noh Varr said, "No."
Bob eyes widened and his gaze went from Noh to Osborn.
Osborn didn't stop.
Noh was on his feet now. Just a level below enraged.
"You stop right there, Osborn!"
A strong and curved arm shot out from a strong and curved body. Face full and red, his jaw turned down, locked into a motionless scowl. The light in the kitchen was dim and made Noh Varr look...
Look what, Sentry? Like me?
He looked...
Ripped.
What an odd thought, Sentry.
Norman's eyes burned for a moment and narrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground.
Noh Varr spoke quietly and slowly and deliberately.
"You will answer me when I speak to you."
Osborn cocked his head and one half of his mouth bent into a smile.
"You don't have to get sore all the time. Now what's wrong?"
"Clint Barton was once a man of respect on these Avengers. I have spent enough time here to know this. And the rest of them. Men of honor. Men and women who defended this planet of yours when it needed them most. Men and women who would not speak ill for no reason."
Osborn gave a muted sigh.
"They are honourable," Noh Varr said. "Or else your would be on a pike in Dorrek's throne room!"
Bob had taken to the half dollar again, holding it and rolling it back and forth between his thumb and index finger. He looked worried.
Noh Varr went on. And Osborn seemed to be patient.
"My people have been fighting those dishonourable shape-shifters since time began. Again and again we have fallen short of full victory, and yet you delivered it in a single day. With a single shot. I want to know how."
Osborn raised an eyebrow at that and felt the anger starting up again.
Osborn thought, Do you want to know about Deadpool's role in how I killed the Skrull queen, Noh Varr? Would you prefer I talk about how much of a charlatan and a coward Nick Fury is? Or how many laws he continues to break? Do you want to know about how this world has gone to asolute hell and how all the wrong people were in charge and how you're all so goddman myopic that it boggles my mind and the mind of every other rational human being on this little suckling mudball you call a goddamn home?
After a moment, Osborn spoke. And got increasingly irritated: "There's a lot at stake here, Noh Varr. More than you realize, I think. This is a world that allows Reed Richards to go back and forth into another universe like some people get their mail. This is a world that's tacitly allowed an irradiated scientist with daddy issues to continue existing out of sheer pity! The same irradiated monster that blew into town some months ago and blew this building half to hell! There's a Master of Magnetism out there that wants to kill all us normal people all so he can revenge himself against a bunch of Nazis that've been dead for sixty-four years!! Now you want to talk about saving the world?! I'm out there doing it! Me! I'm the one! The one they all have to look up to!! The only one that saved the day when your Avengers and Captain America and Tony Stark couldn't even find their own goddamn feet! I saved the day!"
Osborn's face was flushed with rage. Conquered by pride.
Noh Varr was silent. He and Bob kept their eyes on Osborn.
"And now you're crucifying me for it," he said. Quietly. Totally differently. "Right or wrong doesn't figure into it. Those people--those Skrulls--wanted to strip-mine this planet. I stopped them. And you--this team--we're meant to defend ourselves against those kind of people. The ones that want to kill us and not look back. If you want to make a judgment call about what I've done with my life, Noh Varr, then that's prerogative. Think about your own life first. Your life was forfeit in your own dimension and it's forfeit here. You should thank whatever gods you Kree worship that I saved your ass when I did. Else you'd still be rotting in the middle of the Nevada Desert."
Noh Varr's arm flashed out again.
Throttled Osborn.
"Do not," Noh said, "Test me."
Bob said, quietly, "Noh."
The Kree looked over at him slowly.
"Let him go," Bob said and didn't sound pleased with himself.
Noh released Osborn, who coughed once and straightened his tie.
"We're all trying to make up for our lives, Noh." Osborn was frank. But he sounded severe. "And I'm trying to save this world from itself. I need your help. I'm just one man. I don't have any powers and that's for the best. This world needs an honest human to see it through. One without a ruby quartz visor or gamma-radiation or, God forbid, spider-webs coming out of his wrists."
Bob slumped a little bit.
"And," Osborn finished, "if you can't or won't be a part of that. Then you can leave. No one will stop you."
Bob didn't move. Neither did Noh Varr.
Bob guessed it wasn't because of loyalty, either.
"Good," Osborn said and turned to leave. Before sliding into the hallway fully, he looked back at Bob and Noh Varr. Both seemed...stunned. Motionless. "Your counterparts that continue to break the law? Luke Cage and Barton. And Spider-Man. Especially Spider-Man...you're better men than they are. You're not afraid to face the world. Good night, gentlemen."
Noh Varr sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. He ambled slowly out of the kitchen and waved lazily to Bob, murmuring "see you tomorrow" as he went.
Bob lingered for a moment and pocketed the half-dollar. Then the kitchen was a bright flash of light, but only for a moment. When the light dissipated, Bob Reynolds was gone.
Gone to the middle of the Sun. About 63,000 degrees Kelvin, if he remembered correctly.
He didn't care about putting the aura up. The star wouldn't kill him. Wouldn't burn him. The only thing he felt was warm, and slightly more so since his clothes had atomized on arrival, leaving him naked and quiet amidst the unending fury of nuclear fusion in every direction. Like a tanning bed, even though that was a piss-poor analogy.
What he really felt, though, was miserable.
He wondered what else he could survive. A supernova? Black hole?
(Norman killed Gwen Stacy. Didn't he?)
You already know the answer.
(Why are you doing this?)
Because Norman Osborn thinks he runs the world, and I dare to think otherwise. You tried to tell him, when he came to exorcise me the first time: he has no idea what's going on here. Not with you and not with anything else. He's never tasted apocalypse. He's never destroyed creation for the hell of it. Never blown up a country. Never forsaken the love of his life for a fraction more magical knowledge. He's not your Thanos. Or Ultron. And he's certainly not the great Doctor Doom. And he knows it.
(What does he know, then?)
How to harass a thirtysomething loser in a red and blue onesie for ten years. And he was barely proficient in that.
(You don't think much of him)
He's a man. Trying to be a god. Trying to be the greatest of his kind when he doesn't realize that the spot's been filled for years.
(By who. You?)
Oh please. And not even you.
(Someone)
Yes. Someone far greater. Far more...interesting.
Castle Doom.
Victor von Doom fraternized with the Goddess of Mischief that night, after the ego contest on the Astral Plane. She seemed to enjoy the ritual for sport and for the fact that in another life (and another physical avatar) the Lord of Latveria would not, as they say, 'have gone for it'. And because her partially-carefully-laid plans concerning the gradual debilitation of Norman Osborn's mind were coming along faster than even she anticipated. So the tryst with the Lord of Latveria was in celebration of this, and of greater besides.
Doom's master stroke was now in motion.
His hammer would strike hardest at Osborn.
And the irony was not lost on Loki.
She slept calmly that night, the first such night in a thousand moons, cozened in the strong and cold arms of Victor von Doom.
San Francisco.
The same could be said for Emma Frost, deep in the throes of an adulterous frenzy with the King of Atlantis. Namor gave a charming and utterly handsome smile as the White Queen sidled up next to him and gave a contented sigh. And he still thought Scott Summers was a waste of her time.
Avengers Tower.
Karla Sofen slept badly that night. Noh Varr hadn't returned like she thought he would. It was two hours after he'd left in a naked hurry that she stirred awake again. The room was pitch-black except for the thin stripes distorted over the bed and wall and floor, from the moonlight streaking through the shades.
When she woke, and her vision cleared, Norman Osborn was standing at the foot of her bed.
Watching her.
Perfectly expressionless.
She gathered the sheets about her instinctively. Admittedly scared.
"Slander me again," Osborn said. "And I'll kill you."
Continued...