The face of Manhattan Bay was tinged gray with moonlight, splashed by the yellow of streetlamps, and still—disturbed only by Namor's smooth surfacing. He appeared—head first, then shoulders, then bare chest—as if the waters were carrying him upward. As his winged feet left the surface, he leapt up, pushing off of it—the water was already ringless and clam again.
The power of that jump sent him up over concrete, over railings, and unto the street, from where—moving steadily from the glare of streetlamps to the shadows they could not penetrate, and back into the light again—he began his investigations.
He marched as a solider, but where to he could not say. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary, and the farther he progressed the more his ears burned with the gasps, the sighs, the disappointments, and the detestations expressed by the humans whom he passed. Their continuous judgments and deprecations only pressed the question "Why?" harder into his thoughts—Why had he come here? Why visit again these animals? Why had he assumed the responsibility of this one-man war?
He gave no outward sign that his spirit was flagging as he moved around one corner, then another. His course was always onward—marching—never slacking, but feeling as though the concrete of the sidewalk was miring him.
His mind vacillated with the thought of returning to his kingdom and the thought of trudging forward, with the former motivating the latter. The human world continued on as the backdrop to his wanderings, but it became less and less important to him, until it was almost out of his mind.
During this fading, Namor saw two figures on the sidewalk ahead of him involved in a drama. There was no one else in audience. This filled Namor with a sense of duty, thus he strove to interfere. His steps grew louder. His heart beat faster. He clinched his teeth. But as he came close enough to discern the personae for who they were, he paused. There was not a defeated woman kneeling upon the ground, cowering before a male tormentor—the roles, instead, were reversed from Namor's expectations. The ruling woman, then, fled from her victim with, Namor swore, a smile on her face, although her eyes were sealed closed as if crying. The scene augmented the gossamer already veiling Namor's thoughts. The only weak conclusion he kept coming to and departing from, for this conclusion was far from satisfying, was that the doings of the surface-dwellers could never be fully comprehended.
Anything coming around the next corner would have knocked Namor down in his wondering state. The thing that he met with around the next corner, though, was a sedan, its grill seen only for a second at eye level, and the force behind it enough to send Namor flying backward through a brick wall of a brownstone. He rose to his feet again, but never to his full height—he remained sturdy, with his knees locked, his shoulders spread, his fists out-flung, and his eyes squinting, searching.
Thus he dodged the next car flung his way with ease, making progress to the middle of the block where he saw, but could not believe what he saw, the Avenger known as the Scarlet Witch. Her cape fluttered behind her as she floated just above the ground, floated as if disdainful of the earth. She twirled in one direction then another, targeting a growing number of on-lookers. Seeing this superior stance of hers affected Namor, who, momentarily, checked his battle-ready posture. But that which paralyzed him completely with curiosity, wonder, and a vague dread were her glowing-green eyes.
"You!" the Witch called out, extending a finger to a man who, being spoken to by the Witch's unearthly voice, which seemed to be glowing and superior as well, froze him where he stood. "You, mortal! You dare look your better in the eye?" The man backed away, shaking his head, but, with his eyes well rounded thanks to a survival reflex, still did not take his gaze away. "You stare, but you will not challenge me? You insult me further with your cowardice!" Advancing, the Witch now corralled her quarry to a spot directly beneath a restaurant's neon sign. "Then, mortal, have at thee!" She shot a hex blast from her hands which hit, with bulls-eye accuracy, the sign's supports, without which it toppled over toward the pavement where the frightened man still stood.
The sign, though, never reached the ground, for Namor caught it mid-air, tossing it aggressively aside into the vacant street.
The Scarlet Witch studied him, grinning.
In that silent second, Namor heard, wishing he could have blocked out such cries, the anger of motorists now trapped because of the fight, and, seeing only Namor and the Scarlet Witch squaring off without the events that brought them to this stand-still, blamed Namor for the impeding chaos and destruction.
Namor broke the silence first: "I do not care to fight a girl—"
"Arrogant male!" the Witch replied, doubling her ferocity. "You will not be spared!"
The Scarlet Witch served two hex blasts in rapid-fire succession, which Namor dexterously evaded. Doing so saved Namor the ignominy of laying violent hands on a woman, which his fierce sense of honor would not yet allow—but such an evasion gave the Witch an opportunity to move in closer to her opponent, close enough to land a magic-insisted uppercut, one that sent the Atlantean king crashing through a storefront window.
He flew to his feet again, pulling, as he faced the Witch, a parking meter from the concrete with which a batted away three more blasts, all while keeping his eyes murderously locked on hers. Pursuing her as she inched backwards, Namor sensed a new threat from behind. Turning to it with the parking meter, he found his weapon useless, for what flew at him from behind was yet another vehicle. He quickly flung away the meter, grasping the car in two widely-stretched arms. He slowed its movements, and set it down again to follow the Witch. The second he met her eyes she brought around him another device she had at the ready there in the city. The cold, rusted iron of a fire-escape coiled snake-like around Namor, pinning, first, his arms to his side, then, as the iron continued to wound round him like a mechanical cocoon, pinned him bodily and helplessly to the ground.
"Where is your chauvinism now?" said the Scarlet Witch, standing grandly over her captive. "All of your so-called superior strength, and here you are, trapped. This is your exemplar, male-kind," she now said in a raised voice, addressing all who could listen. "Your inevitable end is in chains."
Working speedily but silently, Namor, slipping out one then another appendage, freed himself. He burst from the Witch's cage, flying toward her with his teeth grinding, his fist pulled back, and hell in his eyes. The Scarlet Witch, turning from her jibs smirking, was about to be taken by surprise. Namor saw as much: he saw her come into range; he saw the smirk twitch; he saw himself reflected in her eyes. But as soon as he saw all this, time froze. The scene faded away into black, leaving Namor conscious of his suspended state in a void. There was nothing—no thing and no one—to which he could direct his hate, no target his revenge-seeking hands could hit. He was truly alone with his own thinking—and felt, for this first and only time in his existence, terror.
This nascent feeling ended when a vaporous mass thickened before him. Through it, a face soon came into relief, looking out. Before Namor could distinguish a single feature, though, he thrust out his animosity at it like one would a hand at a stranger. The vapors continued to swirl, then part, curtain-like, slowly, revealing the elegant, aging feature of Doctor Strange. For a pregnant second, the haunted eyes of the Sorcerer Supreme stared dreamily at Namor, who, not knowing whether he was alive or dead, calculated a plan of attack against the bodiless entity before him, if the void which suspended him were to ever relinquish its hold.
"Namor, the Submariner, this is Stephen Strange. I mean no disrespect for the situation I've put you in. It's actually out of my respect that I'm warning you…you won't be able to hurt Wanda…I mean, the Scarlett Witch."
"I," said Namor, "will decide that."
"No," said Doctor Strange sadly, "I mean, I'm working a protection spell in her favor, your attacks will go right through her."
"Why are you two doing this?"
"I can't answer for her. I'm blocks away in the Village, where I felt the tremors of…some kind of other worldly anguish. I tried to enter the mind of the tortured person, when I felt Wanda's presence. She was a…student of mine, a long time ago now, so I know her presence well. As I said, I felt it, but I couldn't communicate with it. It was as though she was slipping further and further away, while the anguish grew in intensity."
Impatiently, Namor asked: "What does this all mean?"
To which Strange replied, pensively: "I still don't know. I'm trying to find a way into her mind, maybe then I can sedate her."
"Why have you not done so yet?"
"I'm spreading myself too thin, trying to protect her, the by-standers, and breach this… usurping presence. If you could draw her fire—"
"I am to suffer this indignation, then you ask a favor?"
"You don't understand Wanda's powers. She could work untold destruction here…and in your kingdom. Luckily for us—"
"Us?"
"Yes…luckily for us, this usurper doesn't know who it's manipulating, or there would be millions dead in the blink of an eye!"
"Very well. For the sake of my kingdom, I deign to shoulder this responsibility. Release me, and I will defend your race."
"Well…thank you, your majesty!"
As the floating face once again dissipating into a wavering abstraction, Namor's indignation rose, considering only whether or not Doctor Strange was being sincere when speaking to him, or sarcastic.
The scene before Narom was changing again—black was giving way to gray. His mind refocused on the battle at hand, soon to recommence—but never did he forget an insult, every one of which he kept close by, always within reach of his consciousness—he would deal with Doctor Strange, in time. The reality of the New York street and the Scarlet Witch and the many bystanders he was now resigned to protect, meanwhile, gradually appeared, as if Namor were waking. Before it was set again in motion, Namor noticed that around his fists an aura shined, the same yellow vapors that Strange's face bore. He had mere seconds to reflect upon this before gravity pulled at him again, the street sounds and gasping voices pricked his pointed ears again, and the slightly bitter taste of air slapped his palate again. His fight resumed.
His aim was true when he leapt for the Witch, breaking free of the twisted iron prison she hoped to enslave him in. Minutes and variegated thoughts had passed—but these were solely his. Now, he was poised and again heading straight for his target, his fist steady. The blow would have knocked her unconscious had it connected, which it should have. Instead, Namor passed through the Witch, and the ground, never in his sights though all he could see now, dealt the blow. Smarting, he stood, swinging left and right—his fists as good as ghosts.
"Men and their…machismo!" said the Witch, who then turned away from Namor, her arms raised, ready to cast a hex blast at whatever man she happened to spy.
Just then, over her, so that it was seen only by Namor, the astral form of Doctor Strange swam out from a portal of yellow and black swirls. Namor looked it in the eye, an eye that pleaded with him tacitly to carry out his part in the sorcerer's plan. Then, without another shared look, the form brought its legs in under itself, and the Doctor—his thumbs and forefingers together, his wrists resting lightly atop his knees, his lips working mutely—began his spell.
Namor charged with a burning speed even he didn't think he was capable of, racing to carry away two bystanders trembling in the hex blast's course. Once they were safe, he looked to the Scarlet Witch. He followed her gaze as she hunted another potential victim. Again, Namor pushed himself until his muscles were ablaze to save the next innocent the Witch threatened. This time, however, his goal was too far away for him to reach in time. He was forced to change his plan, and all that came to him was to take the brunt of the blast himself, which he did, sinking to a knee as his skin smoked and he shook all over with pain. "Damn you, Strange…hurry!" he thought, his eyes returning to the delighted Witch.
Neither did she remove her demented look from his eyes, as she stalked closer and closer to him. She grinned, raising her arms.
Namor rose, tense. He braced himself however he could: his nails cut into his palms; his toes dug into the pavement; his gums bled from the aggressive meeting of tooth on tooth. His eyelids fell heavily, weighted with the thought that the king of Atlantis was making his last stand. As black blocked out Namor's sight, a yellow smoke was enveloping the Scarlet Witch.
For an eternity within a second all was uncomfortably still.