Author's Note: we're getting closer to an event horizon, if not already dancing gleefully as it passes us by, so here are a few notations. We managed our millionth reference—that of the Mindless Ones and Doom's magical bargain—to Mark Waid's 'Unthinkable' story arc that ran in the main FF book during 2003. Dr Doom's breakdown of The Perfect Trap comes straight from the novelisation of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (by Matt Stover, and totally worth the USD7.50 paperback ticket price). The aside about Stonehenge's mystical properties comes from the 2008 miniseries Iron Man: Legacy of Doom, which pitted the armoured Avenger against the Lord of Latveria at the site. A reference to Osborn kidnapping Peter Parker occurred in Amazing Spider-Man vol. 2 #25 (by Howard Mackie and John Romita Jr); and we even threw in a nod to the controversial 'Sins Past' storyline that occurred in Amazing Spider-Man #509-514 (by JM Straczynski and Mike Deodato Jr). Concerning Loki, once more at least, the idea is that sort of like The Octopus in Will Eisner's The Spirit, our God of Mischief never wears the same armour twice; there's always some minor adjustment that reflects both snobbery and unfamiliarity. Also, I have no idea if Ultron and Dr Doom were even in the same panel during Secret Wars, but I figured it would have been inevitable at some point.
Manhattan. Avengers Tower.
Norman Osborn.
Osborn was the first out of the Quinjet. Bounding up the steps, he pushed Ben Urich aside. Then Sally Floyd, who was waving a cassette player in his face begging for a statement.
The lobby was empty.
The elevator ride up to the occupational levels had been tense and quiet, too. No 'Girl from Ipanema'. No other passengers.
Just Norman Osborn in a shredded remnant of his Iron Patriot armour.
The lift slowed. Polished aluminium doors slid open as the display dinged. The conference room lay ahead of Osborn.
For the second time this week, he found himself confronted by a group of people with unhappy, dour looks in their faces.
Reed Richards and the rest of the Fantastic Four.
The new Captain America. Clint Barton in that ridiculous ninja suit.
And Spider-Man.
Always Spider-Man.
Reed Richards stepped forward and threw the manila folder on the floor, in the meter-wide expanse between himself and Osborn.
"It's over, Norman."
The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.
Victor von Doom.
The army was vast. Sprawling. Numerous. Every word in the book that connotated both strength and number.
Several years ago, the Lord of Latveria had employed the Mindless Ones in a gambit against the Fantastic Four. They had served their purpose, to wear down the endlessly proud Benjamin Grimm's unique and quite sturdy physiology, and now Doom called upon their services again. By simply using them at all, Doom had proved his mystical acumen to Reed Richards in ways 'Mister Fantastic' hadn't been able to adequately rationalise.
Doom might have won that day, until the intervention of Stephen Strange portended his defeat.
Doom had spent the next eighteen months in Hell. Tortured by the demonic trifecta the Haazareth Three and their cruel master, Mephisto.
The same such demon that had enslaved and tortured Cynthia von Doom, mother of the Master, for decades. The years young Victor spent maturing. And when he ahd reached majority and returned Latveria to its rightful ruler—naturally, none other than himself—he had saved her.
With the help of Stephen Strange.
So the Sorcerer Supreme had been both blessing and bane. It was the nature of the world, and hardly a surprise to Victor von Doom, who sees much and does more.
Nothing fazed him anymore.
Nothing could.
And Strange was no longer the Sorcerer Supreme.
This made Doom's plan simpler in its achievement.
He had already won.
For his goal was not simply conquest, but misdirection. And not even misdirection in the sense of throwing poor Richards off his trail until it was too late. No.
This misdirection was aimed at Norman Osborn.
In league with a willing and sufficiently jaundiced third party, Dr Harvey Rupert Elder, Doom and the God of Mischief had set up both Elder and Osborn to be the recipients of the double-standard of America's iron-clad, yet fickle 'system'.
It was quite naturally flawless. Doom's oeuvre. It was also the perfect trap for the Superhuman Community. Particularly for Richards.
The standard superhuman trap contained five parts.
One. An irresistible bait. Additional interest could be warranted if the subject in question happened to rule his own nation and had a tendency, nay a history, toward destructive personal issues with the self-styled Mister Fantastic and his equally trite 'First Family of Super-heroes'. The role of bait, Doom played himself. The mere thought of Doom was enough to disquiet Richards during the day; the thought of Doom with an army at his back and a glint in his eye that meant 'I'm coming for you, and for your children'. That was infinitely better.
Two. A remote location, perhaps inaccessible by normal modes of travel. Perhaps one could only get there through proprietary technology that was at once expensive and inherently dangerous. A location easily defended, with a narrow field of action. Extra merit could be had if the location carried some significant emotional value. The Baxter Building itself, for instance, had been a reliable fallback, but anything could do in a pinch. The beech forests of Doomstadt, citadel of the enemy. The mystical hills around Stonehenge, conduit for Britain's magicians, mystics and madmen. America's overpopulated, underevolved national capital which glorified itself by monuments to dead men. Even Stamford Connecticut might have served the purpose. The location should also, preferably, belong to someone else. Perhaps an old enemy, long forgotten. And it should be virtually inescapable; if attainable only by dimensional travel, it behoved the executor of a given trap to destroy the only means of conveyance. Because once the user has Reed Richards where he wants him, Reed Richards doesn't leave.
The third part consisted of having a massive and deadly effective military force, entirely willing to reduce an entire world to protoplasm, themselves included, to prevent failure or escape.
There had been a fourth part to the plan. Once upon a time. It involved plausible deniability, and the wherewithal to stand by with forebearance while a proxy committed the deed for which the trap existed. But Doom's own magnificent sense of self had put a moratorium on it.
The pleasure of crushing Richards beneath his boots. Belonged to hatred. And to Doom.
At any rate.
The perfect superhero trap was the one being conducted in front of the Lord of Latveria's very eyes. This very moment. Calculated in victory out to the tenth decimal point.
The final element to the perfect trap was a certain elusiveness in execution. A detachment that could accept and live with success, certainly, and failure, if it had to. There would always be time to rebuild, which had the added factor of there always being time to grow in vengeance. The win-win situation was thus a first principle.
And it involved a situation where, by entering the trap at all—into negotiations, battle, mere fisticuffs, or even line of sight—the hero in question would have already lost.
This was as much an essay on ethics as anything else. By fighting at all, the essentially right-minded and pacifistic hero loses. By indulging his own churlish emotions, rooted in an outmoded and therefore counterintuitive sense of justice and democracy, the hero loses.
The equation was simple. For twenty years it had been simple. A stochastic differential masquerading under ease of access.
Doom had been willing and had devoted twenty years of his life to simply wishing Reed Richards dead. Gone. Forgotten.
Now the equation was altered slightly. Improved.
He wanted to prove Reed Richards wrong. Useless. Inert.
Then and only then.
Would he kill him.
A quintet of Mindless Ones lumbered in the recessed arena before him, hunching in their glorious lack of intelligence, their rocky hides glinting in the light. Behind the Mindless Ones were a battalion of Doombots. Five hundred man-shaped robots in the style of Doom himself, with adamantium-vibranium shells and logic units wired throughout the body so as to allow continued functioning in the event of decapitation. In the aftermath of the acquisition and subsequent loss of The Beyonder's powers several years ago, Doom had gotten his hands on one of the Ultron chassis and the lessons were great indeed. Henry Pym's failures as a human were legion, but his science was not in question; the full-body logic net had come from the so-called 'Secret Wars' Ultron, and Doom had appropriated the quality into his own troops.
Behind the Doombots were larger model Servo-Guards, five hundred in number as well. These were taller than man-size, encase in rounded and anodized vibranium plating—a process which had cost an entire year's Gross Domestic Product. They were thus more heavily-armoured, if slower, with greater armaments to boot. If needed, their kinetic processors could be amplified to allow faster movement; as it was they maintained a low frequency as a means of energy conservation.
Namor had supplied his personal guard, a small force comparatively, but a dedicated one no less. Thirty Atlanteans with sky-blue skin and severe features, armed with vibro-pikes and carbonadium curved-blade swords.
Emma Frost had spirited her Stepford Cuckoos away from San Francisco. She claimed they were support enough, and Doom did not question it.
Loki had entered with Balder tracking alongside him, and a decet of Asgardians. Carrying battle-axes. Doom did not question that either.
Standing on the dais, looking out in a dazed and vaguely uninterested way at his own assembly, the Lord of Latveria craned his head to one side. To Loki.
Loki nodded. Then smiled. As usual. Not the smile of a Man, of a God of Mischief. But the starry-eyed smile of a boy finding his favourite toy, and going out to play with it. To his heart's content.
Avengers Tower.
Norman Osborn.
Spider-Man had been hanging upside down from the ceiling, so his view of Osborn was different from everyone else's.
They were content to stand on their boring old two feet and stare at him like that NBC fellow that Caught Predators every Thursday night at 9. 8 central.
Spidey flipped down and around, his body twisted in an unnatural way. He tucked one leg in close and straightened the other one out.
It landed right where Norman's cruciform scar was on his chest, and sent him to the floor.
Spider-Man landed in a low crouch. Behind the form-fitting red facemask, Peter Parker's eyes were intense and he watched Osborn cough and hack and groan from the backflip-kick. Waited for him to get to one knee.
When Osborn did, Spidey put out his arms again. Twin strings of webbing flew out and connected to Osborn's knees.
Spidey brought his arms back.
Osborn went to the floor again, this time on his face.
He took a longer moment getting up.
No one was saying a damn word.
Osborn was on his hands and knees now, and brought his head up so he could look at Spidey squarely.
Slowly.
The eyes were savage and wide, the crow's feet around them smooth like the rest of his face. Like it was barely containing the wrath underneath. Like it was going to explode.
It was also the case that Osborn had just returned from utter near-death. His hair was matted to his head, even more so than usual, in ovate bloody swaths. What Spidey guessed was transmission fluid or possibly fuel streamed from the hairline to the chin in irregular places and followed the contours of his skin, tanned and old and wrinkled as it was.
He'd never looked so old before.
The Iron Patriot armour was shredded. The chest-piece, formerly red with a star in the centre, was gone, as were the arm-platings, the rounded steel epaulettes, one of the leg assemblies from thigh to ankle. And the helmet.
The Mole Man's legions had done a number on him.
Osborn stood. Slowly. And put out his hands, palms facing Spidey and the group. Weak. Pleading.
"Now wait," he said in the same harried voice he had to Namor and Dr Doom three days ago in this very room. "Wait a damn minute."
Osborn turned around, hobbling on one leg, hoping to get to the elevator.
As soon as he turned, the doors slid open.
The Sentry and Noh Varr walked out, blocking Osborn's way. Bob hovered a foot in the air. Noh Varr pulled a pistol of Kree design from his waist and held it loosely. Osborn turned back to face Spidey and the rest.
Barton spoke first, throwing the finger of accusation out: "No. No more waiting, Norman. You killed Gwen Stacy and now we can prove it."
Johnny Storm: "And Ben Reilly. And Terri Kidder."
Ben Grimm: "You tried to set off some kind of DNA bomb a few years ago."
Susan Storm: "You kidnapped and tortured Spider-Man trying to make him your heir. You nearly crippled Flash Thompson."
Ben Urich: "During the Civil War, you tried to kill the Atlantean delegate."
"On orders from Tony Stark!" Osborn was hoarse with rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he barked it out. The eyes kept their wide, wild look.
Reed Richards stepped forward.
Spidey stayed in the crouch Watching Osborn's every move.
"This is all old hat for you, though, isn't it, Norman?" Reed said. "The records in that folder are from your computers. Twelve years of cover-ups. Every punchchard, every saved document, every hard drive made into paper copies and verified. They go back to the Oscorp days, and they don't lie. There's nothing left for you to hide behind."
This in itself was a remarkable showing for Reed Richards. A nominally quiet man who ordinarily expressed opinions only when asked? This was a step forward as much as it was a dog and pony show.
When he wanted to be, Reed was all bluster.
But he was also quite skilled at making sure Osborn couldn't figure that out.
Osborn's face went blank for a moment. He glanced at the folder and then at Reed. Then he scowled. It went something like this: because of a slight overbite, his incisors clamped on each other instead of the molars. His face sort of angled out because the jaw starting creeping out to form a vastly annoyed grimace. On his brow and streaming down his face, strands of sweat mixed with the grime and blood and made him look.
Sick.
Then Osborn started shaking.
"You framed Mendell Stromm," Richards said. "Took the Goblin formula and left him to die."
Johnny again: "And you sat by and watched while your son got lost in a damn drug dependency."
"Stop it!" Osborn yelled it at the top of his lungs. His voice cracked, and he was still shaking.
Johnny Storm: "You kidnapped May Parker and buried her alive."
Barton again: "Spider-Man even told us about this Gabriel Stacy. About how you manipulated him into hating Spider-Man. About how you took advantage of Gwen Stacy."
Reed: "Come on, Norman, admit it!"
"ENOUGH!"
Osborn yelled it. Bellowed it. His Adam's Apple sunk as the words thundered out, his neck musculature sticking out like a bunch of tight wires underneath red and leathery skin. And he was still shaking. His breath, when it came, did so in short and empty wisps.
He spoke. A cobbled assortment of rage and desperation. "Is this what you want, you smarmy little bastards?! You want me to admit it all? Based on some files you lifted from my private servers? How wildly illegal of you, Dr Richards. I should have shut you down and sent you Mexico when I had the chance!"
Barton stepped forward. "Shut up, Norman! Just shut up! Admit it!"
"I admit nothing! And here you all stand ready to throw me into the Raft for a bunch of lies."
"They're not lies." Barton was doing his best to compose himself. Hands inside black leather gloves tightened around his buckled nunchuks. And squeezed.
"Then prove it!" Osborn shouted. "And find out, Barton!"
Spider-Man stood from the crouch. And got in Norman's face.
"The fact that you're still here means something," Spidey said in his most pathological. "If you were guilty, sure, you would've bolted for the door or even taken a flying leap out the window. Maybe your glider's out there waiting to catch you. It's pretty clever PR. Thinking you can still get out of this. Am I right?"
Osborn looked over Spider-Man's shoulder, shooting Reed Richards a death glare. Then he whispered in Spidey's ear, "You go right to Hell, Parker." Louder, and with more hate going into it, he belted, "And you stay there!"
And punched Spider-Man in the chest.
The webslinger tottered backwards, caught by Susan Storm.
Johnny Storm flamed on and hovered a foot in the air.
Osborn stood there, unmoving, his hands balled into fists. His mouth in a stone-set scowl. Blood and sweat were still coursing down his forehead.
"You want to arrest me?" he said. "Do it. You think I'm the Green Goblin? Yes, I was! WAS! I'm not in that goddamn suit anymore and there are files in there that prove that too. But you didn't bother to read those did you, Richards? You saw a conspiracy, probably because our mutual friend Mr Parker here told you there was one, and you ran with it."
"Osborn—"
"Shoot me!" Osborn said and offered his hands out again. "Do it! If you're so desperate to have that class-act Nick Fury back controlling you all! Shoot me! See what happens."
Then none of them did anything.
Noh Varr and the Sentry had moved to join Reed and the rest, facing Osborn.
They were all to focused on what was going on behind Osborn.
The elevator doors were.
Bubbling.
Two broad and reflexive horns slid out from the doors. Followed by a golden helm, sitting on a bowed head.
Loki. In a gilded hauberk with a green armour-plated cuirass covering that. Broad spaulders, also gilded, with runes running along the edges. Bronze plate faulds at his waist. And a brass scabbard hanging loosely at his waist.
He had apparated from nowhere. Using the elevator door as a gateway.
Osborn turned around. And his heart sunk. His head lolled to one side.
Loki's gilded gauntlet wrapped around Osborn's throat.
And lifted him.
"Poor Norman," he said in a simple and attractive and pathological tone. "My dear Norman. You've been misused. And now your crimes have been laid bare. Ironic isn't it? In the end, poor defenceless Peter Parker didn't have to defeat you. It was I."
Osborn was still shaking. His eyes grew wide.
And he tried to grab at Loki, but the God of Mischief stopped it.
He simply let go. And Osborn fell to his knees like a limp rag.
A yoke apparated from nothingness around Osborn's shoulders. Chains crept out from the wood and wrapped themselves around his wrists. Tightened them up to the beam. Osborn's head bowed under the weight, and he did not move.
Then Loki pulled Tyrfing from its scabbard and pointed the razor edge at the base of Osborn's skull.
"Now then. Earth's Mightiest Heroes." Loki said. "Where have I seen this before?"
Reed Richards stepped forward. "Let him go. He's ours."
"Really?" Loki cocked his head and pressed Tyrfing closer in on Osborn's carotid artery. "Then why have you failed to kill him? Why does this man, this duplicitous monster continue to plague your every waking moment, Spider-Man?"
"We don't decide who lives and dies," Richards said. "And he's not one of your Asgardians. I say you can't have him."
"Oh, Dr Richards. Victor was right about you. The vainglorious 'Mister Fantastic' who sees much and covets all and credits none. Who covers his mistakes with arrogance and a profundity of ego unmatched in this or any other reality." Loki frowned, empathizing with all the heavy-handedness he could muster. "You are not in a position to demand things from the God of Mischief, Reed Richards."
At that, Bucky Barnes let loose. "That's it," he said, and flung his shield at Loki.
It passed right through Osborn. Right through the God of Mischief.
Slammed into the brick wall and stayed there.
Loki rematerialized and watched it with detached amusement. Then he turned back to the heroes. Osborn was on his knees still, chained to the yoke. Silent.
"Spider-Man," Loki said. "For some reason I cannot fathom, you have a strong presence in the ethereal vapours; your willpower is known to the Ancients as much as to the Asgardians. This burden shall be yours to bear."
Under the form-fitting facemask, Peter Parker was confused and a made a face to reflect it. "Huh?"
Then Loki's face was suddenly severe. The eyes sunken and the brow drawn tight under the golden helm. In thunderous simplicity, he merely said. "Kill Norman Osborn!"
Spider-Man's heart sunk at that.
"Is this some joke?"
"No." It wasn't. "Choose. Choose and suffer."
A moment later: "I...can't." It was a quiet response, desperate and sad. "It's. It's not what I do."
Loki was unamused. "This man will kill your friends. And your family. He has terrorized you for a decade and he will terrorize you for years to come. You know this. You will fight him without end. You will chase him to the ends of the earth and around the rocks of Jötunheim. Again and again and AGAIN until you're both dead. Is that what you want?"
"Dude," Spidey said. "Are you talking about me and Osborn or you and Thor?"
Another gesture.
The yoke tightened.
Osborn screamed. As his shoulders broke.
"Now." Loki asked. "Tell me, Spider-Man, is it a question of ethics? Do you believe you can save Norman Osborn? Do you believe this cycle of violence can ever end? So long as he lives?"
Bucky pulled the gun from his waist-holster and levelled it at Loki's forehead. It was a perfectly slow, perfectly calm action. And still, none of them stopped him.
For some reason, they were all holding back.
Probably because Spider-Man was, too.
"Make your choice, Peter Parker," Loki said. "Life or death. There is no other. You know he has no honour. That is why Noh Varr and Robert Reynolds have not acted on his behalf yet, because they know his treachery. Robert has seen it. In the ashen eternity which The Void provides, he has seen Norman Osborn as he is. Not as he wishes to be. No one in this room will save him, or condemn him. That stays with you, Peter Parker, the condensation of all your rage, the sum of all your hate. Made material, in this man."
"You're wrong," Spidey says. "This is a trick. I know what you're doing. You're trying to call my bluff."
"Your world is awash with theft and deceit, Spider-Man. This one is no different. Kill him." Loki's eyes were clam and yet burning. Locked on Spider-Man's own. Going through to Peter Parker's soul. "Kill your hated enemy. Spare the world this obscene human parasite...and give yourself a long earned respite."
Spider-Man waited a moment longer.
You can't, Parker.
You just can't.
He's a guilty man. He did all of those things and you know it. And this will be the only chance anyone gets to getting him on it, and you know that. And he's going to walk away, and you know that, too.
God.
Loki's right.
But it's not in you, Peter.
This is now how we solve things.
You just. Don't. Have. It.
Killing is never the way out.
You can't.
Because.
You're better than Norman Osborn.
You were raised too well, Peter.
You can't kill.
Not even.
Him.
Everything the same.
You can't kill him.
Spider-Man looked at Loki.
And said, "No."
And Loki said, "Very well."
And started to disappear in a flash of green energy.
Seeing it in slow motion, Spider-Man dove into the breach. The light was blinding. Hot. Lunch was on its way up as gravity inverted itself. And he kept reaching for Loki. And Osborn.
You can't kill him.
Because then he wins.
And Gwen loses.
All the rest is darkness.
Continued...