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Chapter 1: An Incident on 87th Street
New York
Dr. Donald Blake, one of New York's most accomplished cardiologists, hobbled down 87th on his bum leg, leaning as he went on a walking stick striking in its ugliness and simplicity. Because of his limp, he moved slower than the rest of the pedestrian traffic. People bumped him as they passed, and if they'd cared to notice, they might have wondered why a man who gave every other appearance of sophistication – well-dressed, well-groomed, intelligent face – would use such a staff.
If they only knew.
But Blake paid them no mind. He was too busy reflecting on the incredible events of the past few weeks. His bizarre introduction to the famous Tony Stark – the only patient ever to present at Blake's practice with microbots in his chest. Stark's role in Blake's own unbelievable journey to Norway, to the cave where he found this staff. And everything else that followed. Then their battle with the scientist Henry Pym, the man who'd discovered those amazing particles. And their rescue by the remarkable Janet van Dyne, who risked – and lost – everything in her brave bid to save Pym.
Then their conference on the ship. The Avengers. And the start of something . . . what? Heroic? Ridiculous? Arrogant? Were they fools to think four people could really pull off what they'd set out to do? For all their collective brilliance – just the two, Stark and Pym, were responsible for more scientific advances than any ten research institutions in the world – were they really just children, playing at something far larger than themselves?
Blake wondered. In the past few days especially, he'd come to realize he still had very little idea what powers he really possessed. Unlike the others, Blake still had his cardiology practice to run. Stark, Pym and Janet had spent most of their days since the ship holed up in a research facility Stark had thrown together at his corporate campus in Queens. They'd already taken to calling it "Avengers Headquarters." There they worked, testing and refining their discoveries.
But Blake didn't have that luxury. Until he had proof otherwise, cardiology was still his greatest outlet for performing great deeds, and it left him little spare time for transforming into . . . what was it Janet called him? That Thor character.
And Blake really didn't know what he would do in that other form anyway. Swoop down out of the sky and stop muggers? That'd be like using a tank to kill a gnat.
Maybe I'll fly to North Korea and destroy all their nukes.
Hmm. He hadn't actually thought of that before. He probably coulddo it. So . . . should he?
He had just started seriously considering the merits of the idea when he heard a cry coming from down the alley he was passing.
"Help me! I need a doctor down here!"
Blake snapped out of his reverie and stopped.
"Help me please! I need a doctor! PLEASE!"
Out from a shadow further down the alley he saw what looked like the figure of a man, stooped and frail. He was staggering in Blake's direction, waving his arms weakly.
"Sir! Please! Can you get us a doctor?"
Blake immediately took off down the alley, scampering forward as best he could on the cane. "I'm a doctor! What's going on?"
"It's my kid sir! Something's wrong with him! I don't know what it is! Please, hurry!" The man looked down toward a spot behind some trash cans that Blake couldn't see. Blake hurried along, his dress shoes scraping loudly across the rocky alley pavement.
"Please! Hurry!" The man was almost jumping in place now, though he was so skinny he looked like his frame might shatter under the strain. Blake at last reached the spot and looked down.
What? No one there.
Just then, he felt a thunderous blow to his head. The whole alley rocked, and he fell to his knees. The he felt his staff get whisked out of his grip.
"Ah ha!" The voice was suddenly transformed – not the thin cry of the old man, but a sinister, nasally tone. "Now how about I have a try at this power."
Blake slumped on his knees, staring down at the grungy pavement, his head ringing from the blow, white spots scattering across his vision. But he managed to turn his head to see that, whatever it was about the voice, it was still the wiry old man standing there. He held Blake's staff in his hand.
Then he did something that made Blake's stomach sink. He got to one knee, held the staff perpendicular to the ground, raised it high, and smacked the butt end straight down onto the pavement as hard as he could.
Through his groggy, pain-numbed thoughts, Blake realized one thing with crystal clarity in that instant:
He knows!
Dear God, how was this possible?
Thankfully, nothing happened when the man drove the staff into the pavement. He raised it up and drove it down again.
Still nothing.
He started pounding it into the pavement, over and over. Still nothing happened. He whacked harder and faster. Finally, he let out a cry of frustration.
"What is it!? What's the secret!?"
Blake shook his head and tried to speak. "Who . . . are you?"
The man looked up. But something was different about him. He looked younger. Or was it just Blake's still-rattling eyeballs playing tricks on him?
"You moron!" The man brought a swift kick up into Blake's abdomen. "How do you do it?"
Blake rolled under the impact of the kick and fell onto his side. He thought he felt a rib break.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The man scowled with a ferocity that made his eyes seem to glow. He reached down, grabbed Blake by the collar, and thrust a narrow, angular face close to Blake's. There was no mistaking it now: despite the pain roiling his mind, Blake could clearly see the man was getting younger. De-aging before Blake's eyes.
"I will have your power." The man held up Blake's staff in his other hand. "It's only a matter of time. Tell me how you do it!"
Blake shook his head. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about. That's just my cane. What do you want with my cane?"
The man spat in Blake's face, gurgling hate seething from his lips.
"Don't play dumb with me! You either cooperate and I let you live – if you call your pathetic existence in this flimsy shell living. Or I'll kill you and figure out how to harness this thing another way." The man hissed his next words. "But I've dreamed about killing you for a long, long time. So either way is fine with me!"
The man's hatred burned like fire around the edges of his eyes. Blake couldn't understand it. Dreamed about killing me for a long time? He doesn't even . . . .
Then it hit him. Blake stared into his attacker's coal-black eyes and, even in that terrible moment, his medically trained mind started sorting through evidence. He recognized the look. It embodied both hatred . . . and recognition.
He knows me!
"So what'll it be, cripple! You gonna tell me how to use this thing?" He held up the staff again, then clamped a vise grip onto Blake's throat. "Or am I going to kill you?"
The staff! Suddenly through his stabs of pain and whirling thoughts, Blake realized the obvious . . . the staff! He was helpless without it!
He glanced over at it. Mistake. He grabbed for it desperately, but the man, seeing in Blake's eyes what was coming, yanked it away easily. He let Blake fall.
"Don't be a fool! You're helpless against me in this puny husk of flesh." The man fired another kick into Blake's side. Blake winced as his lungs emptied. "So tell me how to use this staff, and we can stop this needless brutality!" He kicked Blake again.
The man moved toward Blake, death smoldering in his face. Blake could see the man was transforming entirely now – he was taller, stronger, and decades younger-looking. He hefted Blake's staff up in his hand and looked at it.
"Now here's a touch of irony." He brought the stick down into the palm of his other hand a couple of times. "What if I beat the information out of you with your very . . . own . . . staff!"
With that, he brought the stick down in a searing arc onto Blake's shoulder. A bolt of pain shot across Blake's back. He brought the staff down in another blow. Then another. And another. For the first time, Blake felt the real and terrible fear that he might die. In that moment of blank, helpless terror, he finally realized he had to stop worrying about who this man was or why he was doing this. He had to get away.
"Help!" His cry came out weakly the first time, but he called again, louder.
"Help!" He tried to start crawling back down the alley.
Another blow careened down on him. Another.
"HELP!" Blake looked up through eyes half-blinded by pain to see people on the sidewalk in the distance, back in the direction he'd come. They were stopping and looking down the alley.
"HELP ME! PLEASE!"
Another blow, this time on the head. The hard wooden staff cracked against his skull like a mace made of bone itself. He couldn't believe the pain.
But people were racing down the alley toward him now. He could hear them yelling at his attacker. Someone cried "Call the police!" Vaguely, on the fringes of his sight, Blake saw the man raise the staff once more over his head. Then he stopped. Suddenly the man's mouth was at Blake's ear.
"Don't kid yourself. This isn't over. You will see me again!"
Then the man took off running the other direction. Blake felt himself fall forward onto his elbows, still crawling toward his rescuers. Pain throbbed at a half-dozen points on his body. Then the people were all around him – submerging him in supporting hands – comforting words – urges to lie down – "help is on the way."
Blake shook his head to clear the pain and confusion.
"No!" He tried to stagger to his feet.
"Sir, just lie still. Help is on the way."
"No! Get me to a taxi! I have to get a taxi!"
"Sir, you're hurt. You need a doctor."
"I am a doctor! I just need a taxi! I can get help where I'm going!"
Slowly, reluctantly, the people helped him to his feet. An arm around his shoulders, another at his elbow. He hobbled along on one foot, his bum leg dangling completely lifeless. It must have taken a direct hit.
But Blake couldn't worry about that now. As he hobbled up the alley, he saw one of his rescuers hailing a taxi. Then he felt himself slip briefly out of, then back into consciousness. He tried to stay awake by focusing his fading mind on a series of rigid thoughts. Two of which terrified him:
He knows me! He has my staff!
And one that drove him forward on a sliver of hope.
I have to get to Avengers Headquarters!
