Part 16
by DarkMark
The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, the Inhumans, and the Asgardians barely had time for an hour meeting. Everyone seemed to be tired and tense.
Nonetheless, the Inhumans were grateful for the chance to meet the Avengers again, after the part the latter had played in liberating the Great Refuge from Maximus in the recent Kree-Skrull War. Both the Attilans and the exiled Asgardians seemed curious about the other, since both seemed out of the norm for each other and for the humans they had encountered. But they saved the socializing for later.
For now, they had business to do.
"This isn't just the usual super-villain gang fighting," stated Reed Richards, in the FF's Baxter Building rec room. (It was one of the few there big enough to accommodate everybody.) "All of the ones we've encountered have been broken from Ryker's Island. All of them are striking too close together, too far from their usual haunts."
"And none of what they're doing seems to make any sense," muttered Iron Man, his voice a bit distorted by the mechanism in his mouthpiece.
Hogun spoke up. "Only if one looks at it not as a warrior," he said. "To us, their actions are transparent."
Johnny Storm, his arms folded as he sat on a long couch, quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? Okay, Mr. Mustache, what do you think they're trying to do?"
The grim Asgardian gave the youth a stony and steady look. Mr. Fantastic stretched out one elongated arm towards Hogun. "On behalf of my team, Hogun, I'd like to apologize for that. Johnny didn't mean anything, he just shoots his mouth off sometimes."
The Thing was already watching in case a brawl would break out, not an unheard-of thing in super-hero gatherings. Sue Richards had secretly shielded her brother with an invisible force field. Black Bolt also gave Hogun the eye. But, for his part, Hogun only said, "Have care, young one."
Johnny sighed and put his hands on his knees. "All right, I'm sorry. It's just...this thing is getting in the way of other things I should be doing. No offense intended, Mr. Hogun."
"Accepted," Hogun said. "But once again, take care. In my own realm, we would even now be at battle."
Thor stood up and went to Hogun's side. "Be at peace, grim one. Thor has known the Human Torch for years, e'en fought beside him on many occasions. He may be a stripling, but he is a worthy warrior. Now, your thoughts?"
"Stripling?" asked Johnny.
"Shut up, Johnny," advised Sue.
Hogun continued, "If an attacking army doth strike on many fronts, it can be seen as a feint to divide the defenders. Or, mayhap, to distract them from the place whereupon the enemy seeks to make true battle...swift, unexpected, and deadly in its stroke."
"The one known as Hogun speaks wisely," noted Karnak. "Also, such actions wear the defending army down, so that when a fatal blow is prepared, the defender is much less able to deflect it."
Captain America nodded. "So that the real prime mover of this thing can achieve an objective we haven't yet figured out. The trouble the X-Men are facing now would fit into that, too."
Hawkeye shifted his feet. "What about that one, Cap? Should we go help those newbies, or leave them on their own?"
His voice resounding through the room, the Vision said, "Perhaps we should simply monitor the situation for now. SHIELD has just been stricken, and we may be needed there. Also, neither our enemies nor the Fantastic Four's have yet been captured."
The Scarlet Witch spoke up. "But Magneto is one of the strongest players in this game, as both my brother and I well know. When combined with the power of the Juggernaut, he might be a challenge not only to the X-Men, but to all of us, as well."
Volstagg hefted a mug of beer, wrathfully. "I say, bring them on! Mortal, mutant, or troll from Travasaak, all take to their heels when valorous Volstagg doth take the battlefield."
"Message noted, Volstagg," said Reed. "But for now, we're agreed there has to be a prime mover behind all this. Somebody who hasn't yet shown his hand. Correct?"
"I'd tend to agree," said Ant-Man. "But who? Magneto's already emerged. We haven't seen the likes of Dr. Doom, or the Mandarin, or the Red Skull, or any of the other heavy hitters."
"This overwhelming maleness depresses me," remarked the Wasp. "Do you realize there's not one single super-villainess that ranks with those guys? It's time women's lib hit the bad guy brigade."
"Why?" asked Hildegarde. "Is not Amora the Enchantress enough? Also, in Asgard, we have the likes of Karnilla the Norn Queen. Surely they be opponents worthy."
Sif smiled. "The Wasp was merely making a jest, Hildegarde. Midgard women as yet rarely command troops of super-mortals."
"Ah," said the Valkyrie, nodding sagely. "My apologies, friend Wasp. When I learn more of mortal humor, I will laugh twice as much at your next jest."
The Wasp smiled. "I think I like this gal."
Medusa said, "Perhaps there will be a need for our Lady Liberators again," and smiled. She, the Wasp, the Scarlet Witch, and the Black Widow had once been entranced by the Enchantress, in the guise of the Valkyrie, into joining a female super-team hostile to males.
"So what is our course of action now?" asked Quicksilver. "Divide our forces and search out the possible prime movers? Go to the aid of the X-Men? Help SHIELD?"
"None of the above, just yet, I think," sighed Captain America. "We get what information we can from here, for now. And we sit and wait."
After a moment, Mr. Fantastic nodded. "I suppose that's just about all we can do. SHIELD may be able to help us, if their branch offices are still intact."
Black Bolt gave his sign of assent with both arms flung wide. The Inhumans were staying at the Baxter Building for the duration. Thor said, "My Asgardian brethren and sistren will be prepared, as usual. But I concur with Wanda and Pietro. The X-Men are in dire peril, and must be aided, if need be."
"Well," rumbled Ben Grimm, "at least there's one good thing about it."
"What would that be?" asked Gorgon, who had been silent, mostly, till then.
The Thing looked at him. "So far, nobody's seen the Hulk."
-M-
Nobody could blame people in the Midwest for being suspicious of people in purple pants. But the trucker who picked up the guy thumbing a ride outside of Albuquerque saw clearly that the guy, who was no hippie, had on a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved blue shirt, with a canvas bag by his feet. Jerry Kostin had never passed by a man who needed a lift, if he didn't look like the kind of guy who would give you trouble. This guy was probably about 165 pounds dripping wet. Jerry was over 250, and had boxed in high school. He didn't expect trouble.
The hell with the No Riders sign. Jerry slowed to a stop not far from the man and threw the passenger door open. "Where to, neighbor?"
The guy, sunburned, sweaty, and out of breath, gasped, "'Bout as close to the desert as you can get me. The way you're headed, looks like. All right?"
"Okay, but I ain't goin' in that far," said Jerry. "You want to ride on with me and get off where you need to, that's fine. 'Zat okay?"
"Perfectly fair," said the man. "Thank you." He stepped up the silver step and plunked himself in the right-hand seat, settling the bag at his feet. "I really do appreciate this."
"Good Lord said to watch out for other people in need," said Jerry. "My name's Jerry. Jerry Kostin." He revved the engine again and stuck out a hand to the hitchhiker. The guy took it. "What's yours?"
"Roberts," said the man. "Bruce Roberts. Glad to see a man so generous this far along. It's been hours I've been on the road."
The big rig started up again. Jerry was hauling steel this trip, and knew damned well he had time to make up for. "Where from?"
"The northeast."
The guy looked a bit hungry, too. "Slim Jims in the glove compartment. Look like you need 'em worse 'n' I do."
"Thanks again." The guy opened the glove box, took out several packages of Slim Jims, tore them open with his teeth, and began wolfing them. To himself, Jerry smiled.
For the next couple of hours, they made small talk. Jerry couldn't get much out of the man, really. He said he was a salesman, but Jerry doubted it. However, the guy didn't look to be packing anything, unless he had a gun stashed in that bag. From the looks of him, the guy didn't appear to be a bad 'un. Anyway, he looked like he was just about to drift off to sleep, and that was fine by Jerry. Once they got to the point where Roberts wanted to leave, he'd wake him up, let him off, and that'd be the end of it.
Then the guy sat up straight, so fast he had to put his hands on the dashboard. He looked tense, almost scared. Jerry's eyes shifted from the man to the road to the man again.
Trouble.
"Strange," said the man. "What do you want with me, Strange? What the devil do you need?"
Just great. The guy was either having a nightmare with open eyes, or he was on drugs. Time to stop the truck and shove him out. Jerry began to hit the air brakes. Luckily enough, there was plenty of shoulder to park on.
"Look, mister, I don't know what's coming over you, but I can't afford that kind of grief," said Jerry. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to let you go."
The guy didn't even look like he took notice of Jerry. Well, maybe that shouldn't be surprising. But he was still raving, and it began to scare the trucker.
"Strange, I can't help you. This is my life! I need to see Betty. I need to get my life back in order. I don't care about Namor. I don't...I..."
Jerry reached out an arm to grab the guy by the shoulder.
The shoulder began to grow.
The trucker snatched his hand back as if he'd touched a flaming meteorite. He crammed himself against the left door of the truck cab. But he didn't seem able to find the door handle, because he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man beside him.
The man who was changing color and shape.
The small man was putting on mass at an incredible rate. So quickly did he grow that his shirt popped all the buttons, then ripped apart at the back and around the shoulders. The man's shoes almost exploded from his expanding feet. Luckily, his pants seemed to stretch enough, but the knees popped out, and somehow, their color changed from brown to purple.
The man's color was changing from normal Caucasian flesh-tone to...God help him...green.
He was turning green and bulking up so fast that his shoulders and head abutted the roof of the cab and then, impossibly, burst through it. His mighty jade-colored arms tore a hole through the roof big enough to admit his body. Thankfully, Jerry had shrunk far enough against the side door that he wasn't touching his transformed hitchhiker.
Said hitchhiker was somehow gathering himself in the seat, then thrusting himself up, impossibly, from a sitting position by the power of his legs. The truck gave a mighty lurch under him. Restraints on the load in back shattered and steel went clanking all over the road shoulder. From the feel of things, the shocks were long gone, too.
The green man sprang upward as if shot from a vertical cannon.
Jerry, gasping, leaned over and looked through the hole in the cab, half expecting the horrific face in green to lean back and leer at him. But no, all he saw was the huge figure, hurtling into the sky, arcing away in a huge leap that took him beyond the horizon. A few seconds later, he heard a great THOOM.
He didn't see the man again, and was thanking the Lord for it.
And when he could manage to think about it, he knew he had another problem.
How do you convince your boss that your load of steel was upset because you picked up the Hulk?
-M-
Prince Namor wasn't sure how his enemies had all gotten together for a sortie against Atlantis, but that didn't matter just then. What mattered was trying to protect the Realm from the warships of Attuma, joined with what appeared to be a collection of his more recent foes. It was hard to make all of them out...not all were attacking him directly...but Orka, the human killer whale, was so large it was hard to miss him.
One of the ships, its guns blasting havoc, scattering warriors and civilians alike, was flying the banner of Byrrah. Damn him. The traitor had been Namor's enemy since childhood, and had never ceased trying to usurp the throne, even if he had to conquer Atlantis to do it.
And, if he didn't mistake things, there was a sub-ship with an air-filled dome atop it. The thing had some sort of force-beam projecting from its underside, like a huge energy knife, bisecting whatever it contacted. Warships, buildings, and sometimes, regrettably, people. Who in the name of Hades' Depths was commanding that ship? The Sub-Mariner had made many enemies on land, to be sure. But putting a name to the one in that craft would have to come later, after he stopped it.
Beside him, a slim form in a green swimsuit shot past. He grabbed her, just in time, by the winged ankle. "No, Namorita," he barked.
The girl thrashed in the water. "Leggo, cousin! This is my fight, too!"
"Not against that ship, it is not," said Namor, dragging her back. "This is the province of Namor alone. You have strength, girl, but not to compare with mine own."
She kicked at him with a bare foot. "I'm an Atlantean, too, even if I haven't been here very long. I'm going to fight for the Realm."
"You are going to wait here voluntarily, or unconscious," the prince retorted, evenly. "Make your decision now."
The blonde teenage hybrid girl fumed. "You..."
Namor raised his hand.
"All right," she said. "All right!"
The Sub-Mariner let go of her and pushed himself forward in a stroke so powerful it made Namorita gape. The soldiers of Atlantis were manning defense guns, engaging enemy soldiers in battle, propelling warships against the foe. All too often, clouds of blood were enmurking the waters about them.
She watched her mighty cousin streak forward to the ship with the mighty knife. It was turning its blade-projector upward, trying to catch him in its deadly stream. Namor flitted about it, no matter which way the deadly ray turned, and sent his powerful body against the craft, fists first.
A painful, mighty energy coursed through the hull. Namor merely gritted his teeth and smashed through it. Metal flew everywhere. For an instant, he flashed back on the many times he did this over thirty years ago, against Nazi U-Boats. The shape of the craft changed, but the result was still the same.
There was only one occupant of the ship. A surface man in a diving suit of his own design, cowering at the controls, brandishing a hand-weapon of some kind. Namor recognized the bearded face within the helmet.
"Dorcas," he snarled. "Doctor Dorcas!"
He had encountered the surface-man savant several times. It was Dorcas, the renegade scientist, who had modified man and Atlantean into two of his direst foes, Tiger Shark and Orka. He owed the man much vengeance already. And if he were allied with the likes of Attuma...
Dorcas fired. The Sub-Mariner dodged the deadly stream with ease, grabbed the weapon, and crushed its barrel in one hand. With his other, he slammed a great open-handed blow to Dorcas's chest. The surface-man caromed off the inner wall of his ship, hit the floor, and lay there stunned. Namor went to the ship's control panel and ripped it out of its housing, throwing it to the floor and stepping on it. The knife-ray ceased, even though the ship blundered on.
Namor gathered himself, thrust his feet against the floor of the chamber, and leapt upward through the hole he had made in the ship. It was headed for some outlying buildings of Atlantis. With a few quick strokes, he put himself at the tail section of the craft. The Sub-Mariner grasped the side of the ship's rear compartment, dug his very fingers into the metal, and pushed. His powerful legs and ankle wings worked against the water. He strove to turn the thing, but it was resistant.
A second pair of hands, some feet distant from his, contacted the metal and pushed in the same direction.
"Namorita!" he cried.
Nita looked at him, grinning wickedly. "You didn't say I couldn't help," she said.
"Your punishment will be decided later," he grunted.
"What about now?"
"Be silent and push!"
The Dorcas ship began to turn, ever so slightly. Namor hoped his younger cousin would follow his lead perfectly, as he had a definite target to aim for. He glanced at the girl. Her face was showing the strain. Evidently she hadn't bargained on this being such a hard task. But if she wanted to aid the warriors of Atlantis, she must needs get accustomed to such things.
"Pull Dorcas from the ship," he grated.
"What?"
"There is a surface man within. Pull him free and guard him. We must question him later. Go!"
His tone brooked no argument. The girl pulled herself up along the hull of the craft, guiding herself by placing palms and bare footsoles against it, until she clambered through the hole Namor had made in it. There was, indeed, a surface man within, and he looked dead to the world. She grabbed him under the arms and swam backwards out through the hole, taking him down to the ocean floor, where she left him. Then she started back towards the ship.
In mid-swim, she stopped. Namor had said to guard him. Even if he just meant it to get him out of his close-clipped hair, that was an order from a prince of the blood. She jackknifed in the water, headed back to the fallen scientist in the diving suit, and stood over him.
The Sub-Mariner himself gave one last mighty shove, and Dorcas's ship sped in the direction he had turned it. Its course bisected that of one of Attuma's warships, colliding with it. The enemy craft was partially demolished, its fragments wrecking another warship it was escorting. Another blow for the Empire, thought Namor with grim satisfaction. But many more such blows had to be struck, before the day was one.
How many times had Atlantis been thus besieged? How many times had its people suffered attack from Attuma's barbarians, or would-be conquerors from the surface? It was a miracle that the population of the city stood as strong as it did. Things would have to change. Even if alliances had to be made with the surface men, something needs must be done. The Atlantean people deserved a future without war, if such were possible.
Several seconds later, Namor regretted his reverie. But that was only after he felt the impact of a fist crashing into his neck and head from behind.
His forward flight wasn't stopped until he hit the hardness of the ocean floor, actually cracking part of it with his impact. The pain was palpable. Lifting himself up from the rocky sub-sea plain, Namor tried to banish the stars from his vision and, turning his head, wondered which one of his enemies had struck him.
The assailant was heading for him with swimming strokes as powerful as his own. He wore a costume of orange and grey stripes, with a grey mask and a huge artificial fin protruding from his back and the back of his mask. The man's open mouth revealed two rows of pointed teeth.
"Hi, there, Subby," said Tiger Shark. "Just like old home week, ain't it?"
He plowed into Namor with the force of a comet. The fight, vicious in its intensity, began in earnest.
-M-
Peter Parker turned off the TV. Gwen, in a red shirt, faded blue jeans, and an apron, stood in the doorway to the dining room and waited for him to say something.
"So that's where SHIELD had its ground base," Peter said. "I must've swung over it a million times, and never suspected. Guess my spider sense just wasn't looking for it."
Gwen crossed her arms and took a deep breath. "Peter. I want you to promise me something."
"What, Gwen?"
"I want you to keep out of this thing, whatever it is."
He stood up and faced her. "That's not in the cards, Gwen. I'm not directly involved, but if all hell breaks loose in this city—"
"If it does, they've got the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and God knows who all to take care of it. But I've only got one of you!"
"Well, all right! The city's only got one of me, too, and I've got a responsibility to help protect it. That's what I do, Gwen. You've known that for some time, now."
"Oh, I know about it, Peter. I can't even sleep with Sominex when I know Doc Ock's on the loose and you're after him. How long do you think I can stand this? You're a father, Peter, for God's sake. You're my husband. You're not just Spider-Man anymore!"
Peter sighed. "All right. All right, Gwen. What do you want me to do? If Ock and his pals are tearing hell out of Manhattan, screaming for Spider-Man to come, what do you expect me to do? If they're threatening lives..."
"Leave it to the police."
"The cops can't always handle it."
"Leave it to the other heroes."
"They're not always around."
"Then why should you be?"
"Because I'm you're friendly, neighborhood..."
She slapped him.
Pete looked at her, dumbfounded. His hand went to his cheek, touching the stinging surface. Certainly, he'd taken blows that would dwarf that many times over, in impact. But somehow, none of them hurt quite so much as that one.
"Gwen," he said, quietly.
Her voice was trembling. "Peter," she said. "Come here. Come with me." She took his arm and guided him to a back room.
It was the room they'd fixed up for the baby. There, within the confines of a crib, lay May Juliet Parker, not very large, not very old, and not very awake. She was in a pink jumper, covered partly by a blue blanket, and a thumb was crammed in her mouth. She looked very peaceful. That, by contrast, was a relief.
"That's what you'll be leaving behind if you get killed, Peter," said Gwen, shakily. "That's what I'll have to raise on my own, if you die. And I don't want her to not have a daddy. Or me not..."
Peter Parker took her up in his arms. "Gwen. Gwen, it's okay. Just hold onto me. It's all okay. Everything will be all right."
"Not if one of those idiots in a costume murders you."
He said nothing.
"You've talked about power, and great responsibility," she said. "Well, what about the responsibility you have towards May and me? Don't we matter as much as a stranger, Peter? Don't we?"
"You matter more than any other people in the world," he replied. "You know that."
"Then don't we matter enough for you to take that stupid red and blue suit and store it away forever?"
He didn't say anything.
"Well?"
"All right, Gwen," he said.
"All right, what?"
"Once this present mess is over with, if you still want me to give it up, I'll consider it. That's what."
"That's not good enough, Peter."
"Well, what the heck do you want me to say?"
"You don't already know?"
He tried to speak. There were words he could form, words that would please her, words that might even save their marriage. Lord knew, he could never face life without Gwen. Not after what they'd been to each other for the past couple of years.
Peter Parker remembered the time that, in order to reach a vial of medicine needed to save Aunt May's life, he had to lift an industrial unit the size of a locomotive off his back. Compared to what he had to do now, that seemed like lifting a Dixie cup.
The phone rang.
It rang three times. Finally, on the fourth ring, Peter said, "Would you get that, Gwen?"
She looked at him. "Peter."
"Gwen, would you please, please get that?"
She looked at him in frustration and walked out of the room. The phone was in the living room. Gwen went to it, pulled the receiver off the cradle, and tried to put the pain out of her voice. "Hello?"
"Gwen?" A familiar voice on the other end of the line. Despite herself, Gwen smiled.
"Mary Jane," she said. "How are you, Red?"
"Wish I could say still scootin' and shootin' for the stars, honey," said the girl who had once been her rival for Peter. "But that ain't exactly the way I'm feelin'. You got a minute?"
"What's the problem?"
"It's Harry's dad," said MJ. Gwen raised her eyebrows. Harry Osborn had been seeing MJ a long time now, probably living with her, for all Gwen knew. She'd met Harry's father more than a few times. He seemed like a regular guy, as much as any chemical company CEO could be.
MJ was still speaking. "It's like, he's been gone for a couple of days now. Missed all his meetings, isn't at his home, not at the other places he keeps. He's a missing person, Gwen. You and Peter haven't seen him lately, have you?"
"No," said Gwen. "No, I haven't, MJ. Do you think he's in danger?"
"Don't know," said Mary Jane Watson. "But Gwen...I'm more worried about Harry now. You know?"
"He isn't..."
"No," said MJ. "Not as far as I can tell, and I think I'd be able to tell." Both knew what Gwen had implied. Recently, Harry Osborn had experimented with uppers and downers. He'd possibly even dropped acid. The man had straightened out after an unexplained incident, but all of them had worried about him as a result of it.
"Well, that's good," was all Gwen was able to say. "You want us to do anything?"
"Not much you can, I guess," MJ responded. "Just...well, if I need somebody to talk to, would it be okay if I called you or even Pete? You've always been friends, you know."
"Oh, yeah. Sure."
"How's that little girl of yours? She still a darling?"
"Oh, definitely. In a year or so, you'll be able to teach her go-go dancing."
"There ya go. But Gwen...you got any prayers left lying around, save one of 'em for me, Harry, and Norm, wouldja? We could sure use it."
"I will, MJ. Count on it. You need anything else?"
"If I do, Gwenny, I'll tell you. How's Pete?"
"Oh, you know. Same old same old."
"That's good. He's the best guy for same old I know of. Hey, Gwen. Thanks a bunch, okay? I really appreciate it."
"It's okay, girlfriend. Just keep me posted on the Norman situation, will you? I know Peter would want to know, too. Harry's his friend."
"Will do. Over and out, gal."
"Goodbye." Gwen hung up the phone, turned towards the back room. "Peter? That was MJ. She said that Harry's dad's missing. Peter?"
No answer.
She rushed to the back room. Only May was there, still half-asleep.
Gwen rushed upstairs to the attic. The window facing the alley was shut.
Webbed shut.
She went to her knees and began to cry.
-M-
Matt Murdock was finding life more to his liking in San Francisco than in New York City. True, he'd lost a lover in Karen Page. But he'd found another one, much more suited to his lifestyle, in Natasha Romanoff.
She was a Russian super-spy who'd been trained to be a costumed heroine before she defected to the West. He was a lawyer who, blinded by a radioactive canister that fell across his eyes when he was a boy, had been endowed with compensating super-senses, a radar sense, highly developed normal strength, and a sense of balance and agility second to none. They had fallen together some months back while fighting the machinations of the mysterious Mr. Kline. Both of them had left long-time lovers, and both were ready for a change of life.
So they both packed up and went to San Francisco, where the cover story was that Madame Natasha, whose identity as the Widow was publicly known, was living with both lawyer Matt Murdock and superhero Daredevil, on separate floors of a two-story home. It had worked out excellently for both of them, or all three of them, depending on how you wanted to see it. Natasha's guardian, chauffeur, and crime-fighting aide, Ivan Petrovitch, had come with them to keep an eye on his charge, as he had been doing since her childhood. That was the way things stood.
It felt good to be out of New York, anyway. No super-heroes to trip over (except for the Inhumans, who had a short stint in the Bay Area, though DD and the Widow hadn't met them), a more laid-back atmosphere, fog and chilly temps, streets that canted up so high you practically had to be a super-hero to walk them, Fisherman's Wharf, the Golden Gate Bridge...
...well, it was a package both of them liked.
Since moving out West, they'd had to deal with Electro, Killgrave, a third Mr. Fear (who'd promptly died on them), and, most recently, Stilt-Man. So the two of them figured that they'd still keep busy, albeit much less busy than they were in the Big Apple. Super-heroes were like a magnet to super-villains. In between there, Matt had flown out to Las Vegas to defend the Hulk, of all people. The trial didn't settle much, but he figured it'd look good on his resume.
It was early afternoon and Matt was pounding a Braille typewriter at a wpm rate so fast that Natasha swore she couldn't hear a pause between the keystrokes. The Widow was walking through the opened glass door adjoining the pool area, dressed only in a dark blue bikini, toweling herself off as rapidly as she could. He turned her way and smiled.
"Matt," she asked, "does it make any difference to you whether I'm clothed or half-naked?"
"Oh, yes," he assured her, grinning fiendishly.
"Well, how?" She draped the towel across her shoulders. "It's not as though you could..."
He leaned back in his office chair, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching. "'Tasha, it has to do with the difference in the way you smell, the way you sound, the water droplets sliding off your skin and your suit...and that's your blue one, isn't it?"
She did a slight double-take. "How did you know?"
"It smells different than your red one," he said. "Also, the pattern of your bare feet when they hit the concrete or the carpet. They sound much different wet than dry. And..."
"I give up." Natasha went over to him and embraced him from behind. "Come on. Let's go upstairs."
"But DD lives upstairs."
"Yes, but Ivan is downstairs and therefore we want to be upstairs."
"You're so noisy, what difference does it make, 'Tasha?"
"Because I'm only noisy to you. A turtle would be noisy to you. Come, Matt."
He stood and grabbed the Widow in both arms, raising her so she was parallel to the floor. She giggled. "You're getting your shirt wet," she said.
"Who cares? I'm about to do Clark Gable's scene from Gone With the Wind. You turned Hawkeye on, now you're about to turn me on."
She was about to ask him how he knew what the movie scene looked like as he headed for the stairway.
"Matt," said a heavily accented voice.
He stopped, still holding Natasha. Both of them turned their heads towards Ivan Petrovitch.
The big Russian, six feet seven inches in height, stood there in grey pants and a blue checked shirt, open at the collar. For all that, you could see the Cossack in him. He was a massive man, the kind that had withstood Hitler's legions at Stalingrad, and there was always an edge of threat about him. It would be unleashed against anyone who threatened the Widow. Matt Murdock was glad Ivan was on his side.
"What's up, Ivan?" asked Murdock.
"A lot of hell," said Ivan. "Down at Golden Gate Park. From what I hear, the Owl's back, and he's brought help with him."
Natasha extricated herself from Matt's arms and stepped to the floor. "What kind of help?"
"From what I could see on the TV, lots of guys with costumes. One big hairy idiot with horns."
Murdock's lips tightened. "Man-Bull," he said. His old foe was far from his usual haunts.
"If you say so," said Ivan. "They're holding off the cops down there, but they've got some hostages. Guess who they wanted to see?"
Murdock and Natasha were sprinting for the upstairs bedroom. Ivan knew what they'd be wearing once they came down. He went to his room to check his shoulder holster and .357 Magnum. For an American gun, he didn't mind it at all.
This time, he figured he'd better be packing.
-M-
"I just wanna know one thing," groused the Blob as he turned a cop car on its side, placing it between two others for a fortification.
"Given your scope, Blob, that's not surprising," said Mastermind, smoothly. "But what is it, specifically?"
"We're here for the X-Men. Right?"
"Ostensibly."
"And the X-Men are in New York. Right?"
"Arguably."
"So why in the hell are we here in Dallas? Huh?"
Mastermind had already shed his operatic cape and rolled up his sleeves, due to the Texas heat. "Very simple. Think of all the heroes in New York as part of one vast army. If all of us engage them there, mutants and normals as well, we'd end up with one tremendous battle. But there'd still be a chance we could lose it."
"Not with me on your side!" The Blob pointed a meaty thumb at his own chest. "I can do more than make people see things, wise guy."
The mustached illusionist hid his wrath behind a smile. "But for all that, both you and I have lost to Xavier's men before. However, if our troops separate, and force the foe to meet us on different fronts, that divides their forces as well. We outnumber them. There are many more super-villains than there are super-heroes. It's just that we've never been so organized before."
"Like a war," said the Blob.
"Precisely, Blob," said Mastermind. "Precisely."
Unus walked up behind them. "Only problem is, most of us don't give a damn about the new crop of X-Men. It won't be as much fun stomping them as it would be doing the old team."
"As a popular song recently had it, 'You can't always get what you want–'" Mastermind began.
"'But if ya try sometime, you might find you get what ya need!'" finished the Juggernaut, who had just arrived. "Yeah, I'm an old Stones fan, too."
Mastermind quietly hoped that, after the battle was done, he could retire to some proper villa and never have to associate with these people again, mutant or not. But he held his peace, and kept smiling.
The Vanisher appeared, with not so much as a pop of sound. "I'm getting antsy," he proclaimed. "When are those brats going to get here?"
"I don't know," Mastermind spat. "Why don't you call up Charles Xavier and ask him? I'll give you the number if you want it."
The Blob smacked his huge hands together. "Maybe the brats won't come. Maybe they're just too damn scared. If I was them, I would be. They ain't never faced the likes of us before. No way."
"Fred's got a point," said Unus. "We might be expecting too much. Xavier might not want to risk his team on us. Let's face it, we're out of their home court, we've got a lot more firepower than they do, and..."
A second afterward, Unus was holding his ears in pain from the effect of a terrific sonic boom. The rest of them fared much the same. Then fireballs rained among them, impacting on the ground, splattering napalm-like fire, and forcing the lot of them to scatter painfully.
A terrific plasma burst smashed into the Blob and Juggernaut, crunching them into the ground. Following that, the Juggernaut felt himself picked up by his helmet, almost by magic, lifted off the ground, and driven head-first into the soil. Then he was spun around like a top, drilling himself headfirst into the turf. He swore, put out his arms, and managed to lever himself back on his feet.
When he stood upright again, he saw five figures heading for them at full throttle. He didn't know a one of them, but he knew who they were.
The X-Men had arrived.
-M-
Nick Fury scratched his forehead with one thumbnail as he sat at the bedside of Clay Quatermain in the SHIELD heli-carrier. Thankfully, the kid seemed to have stabilized. But it was doubtful Clay would ever be fit for field ops again. He still might end up losing an arm.
That was better than losing his life.
They'd tried to interrogate the punk who shot him. The guy had died of a cerebral hemmorhage about as soon as they'd gotten him into custody. A medical exam hadn't turned up enough of a cause. On a hunch, Fury had SHIELD's ESP division do a quick scan. They told him that the guy had apparently been prepped by a telepath, and killed when his job was done. Nick didn't have to think to hard to figure out who it had been, most likely.
Mentallo. The renegade esper who had darn near shut down SHIELD with only one ally, the Fixer. They'd had him under wraps, but he'd been broken out of his cell in some way that nobody, not even the ESP boys, could figure. The three telepaths on SHIELD's side told him that Mentallo couldn't do that to anybody, just somebody who he'd personally prepped. But that didn't cheer Fury up much.
Clay was still out, thanks to the drugs they were pumping through his system, and he had tubes up every which way into his body. Anything that medical science could do for him was being done. But it still reminded Fury of the MASH units he'd been to in the Big One, and he knew how seldom soldiers who went into one came out to do any more fighting.
The million-dollar wound. That's what they used to call it, and Clay had gotten his.
Fury sensed the door opening almost before it threw a sliver of light into the room.
"Nick," said the Oriental standing there. "It's me."
"H'lo, Woo," said Fury, his five-o'-clock shadow showing as much as it ever did on any battlefield.
Jimmy Woo walked closer. "I'm sorry," he said. "He was a good man."
"Still is," said Nick. "He ain't dead. But that's more'n I'll say for the guy who's behind this, once I find him."
"So you know who it was?"
"Not a clue," said Fury. "It was an AIM weapon, so they're connected. But AIM sells to a lot of people. The guy was a radical, not an enemy agent. But...hell."
Jimmy lay a hand on Nick's shoulder. He'd been in the FBI in the 1950's, and had joined SHIELD as a result of a battle which pitted Fury against Woo's personal nemesis. "We'll find out," said Jimmy. "If anybody can learn who it was, SHIELD can."
"What'd you find out, Woo?"
"Some," admitted Jimmy. "Apparently the Claw, the real Claw, had some sort of meeting with an unidentified individual, somebody strong enough to call him out."
"Doom?"
"Don't know. Most likely, the Mandarin. The Si-Fan don't operate in Communist China much anymore. As far as I know, he's still there. But that proves he's in this thing, if only peripherally."
"If only," said Fury. Jimmy had fought the Yellow Claw when he first threatened America, way back when. In 1967, Fury, Woo, and SHIELD had battled what appeared to be the Yellow Claw, but it was only a robot. Since then, Jimmy had learned that the Claw was still in China, which is what Fury had sent him to find out. Apparently Woo's love, Suwaan, who was the Claw's daughter, was also alive. But she was still with the Claw.
"AIM's got a hand in this too," said Fury, as much to himself as to Jimmy Woo. "Mentallo's left his prints on it. It's all hooked into this hell that's breakin' loose all over the country. But we're just seein' the branches. Who's got the tap root?"
Jimmy shook his head. "I wish I knew, Nick. I only wish I knew."
"We've got to know, dammit!" Fury grabbed Woo by the shoulders. "Our ground installation's been exposed. We're hauling stuff out of there in guarded trucks from Stark. This is happenin' to SHIELD, Woo. To SHIELD!"
Gently, Jimmy took Fury's hands off his shoulders. "I know it, Nick. But...this won't help the situation. And it won't help Clay."
"Yeah," said Fury, turning away. "Yeah." He went to the wall and faced it, taking a cheroot from his belt pack and lighting it. He puffed on it a couple of times. "Did I ever tell you about a guy named Junior Juniper, Woo?"
"Don't think so, Nick."
"He was the first casualty we had in the Howling Commandoes. He caught a Kraut round in the chest. He was the youngest kid we ever had on the squad, and he looked up to me like I was his daddy. Maybe I thought I was, too, in a way. Maybe that's why he got it. I dunno.
"I've seen a lot more men die, since then. A lot nastier ways, too. I even had a woman I love die on me. Pam Hawley. I'll never forget her. But you never forget the first of your men to die. You never forgive it, either."
He turned to face Jimmy Woo, and the Asian didn't like a bit of what he saw in Fury's eyes.
"I want the man who did this to Clay Quatermain, Woo. I want him brought to me. And you're gonna help find him. Understood?"
"Understood, Colonel," said Woo, quietly.
"Go see Sitwell. He'll bring you up to date. We ain't got much time, from what I figure. But this sonofabitch is gonna learn what it means to have SHIELD's foot on his slimy little neck.
"I'll show him, Woo. I'll really, really show him."
-M-
PARKER
All right, kids, I'll admit it. I was a rat. But sometimes you find that you have to be, even if you've got spider's blood mixed in your veins.
Or maybe that's just me rationalizing. I know it happened twenty-eight years ago, but I still can't stop making excuses for it. I just didn't want to stop being Spider-Man. Not just because there was a lot of my old sparring partners loose out there, but because I liked it. At least I did back then.
But I didn't love it as much as I loved Gwen. I knew what I'd have to say to her if I stayed there. That's why I cut out. As it happened, well, it had other implications. I'll tell you about it pretty soon. That's later on in the story.
I knew what was going on was a lot bigger than me. And who could I turn to for help, or to give a hand to myself? Daredevil was the guy I trusted most of all. But he was out there in San Francisco. The FF and Avengers were busy as blazes, and they weren't around the Baxter Building or Avengers Mansion when I went calling. Didn't have any idea where to find the X-Men, and there weren't that many independent heroes back then. Me and a few others, that was it.
But there was one bunch still in New York. Or at least above it.
It wasn't the first time I'd swung into J. Jonah's office window. I did that so often he put a sticker in it reading, OFF-LIMITS TO WEB-HEADED FREAKS. I never paid much mind to it and he knew I wouldn't. So when I swung in and paid my respects, I knew I'd have to wait five minutes before he stopped yelling at me long enough to be heard. When he paused for breath, I told him, "I need a favor from you, Jonah."
He told me exactly where I could expect a favor from him, and to go there.
I just told him, "Fine. I'll take it to Barney Bushkin." I made like I was going out the window.
Jonah darned near grabbed me by the foot. Bushkin was his main competitor, down at the New York GLOBE. If there was anybody he hated more than me, it was Bushkin. If I had something, no matter how bad ol' prune-face had it in for Spidey, he knew the value of a scoop.
So I told him that I needed to get hold of Nick Fury at SHIELD, and that what had happened to them was probably linked to what was happening all over the country. Even to that run-in I had with Ock and his boys. I furthermore told Jameson that, if I found anything out about the cause of what was going down, I'd give him exclusive rights to what I knew. Pinky square.
He was looking thoughtful. When Jameson was out of rant mode, he was a pretty darned good newspaperman. He said, "For sure?"
I told him, "For sure."
"You don't go to Bushkin under any circumstances?", he said.
I said, "Why would I deal with the competition? We're such good pals, after all."
After a long pause, he went to his typewriter, right there in the office, and said, "Give it to me straight. If you're lying, what I've printed in the past about you will look like a McGuffey's Reader compared to what I'll do."
But I wasn't lying. He took my statement, and he printed it.
A good thing he did, too.
None of us were very far away from the Fire.
To be continued...