By DarkMark
Part 21
Lt. Ironguts O'Hara scowled at Daredevil and the Black Widow in his office.
"I let you guys have your turn, and you blew it," he said. "Completely. My niece Shanna could have done a better job than you."
The Widow was about to speak up angrily, but a gesture from her partner made her hold her peace. DD had long known about keeping on the good side of the police.
"That's entirely true so far, Lieutenant," admitted Daredevil. "But, given that point, we want one more try at cracking this case."
"No," said O'Hara.
Natasha was on her feet. "See here, Lieutenant. Daredevil and I have fought many battles, and won each one of them. But hardly any of them was won with one fight. We have had initial skirmishes, been repelled, assessed our failures, and went back in armed with new knowledge. That is how we win."
The paunchy cop ground out his cigar in his amber crystal ashtray. "Irrelevant. You see that sign on the wall? It says 'To Preserve and Protect.' That's for cops to do, not just any mook that puts on an idiot suit."
"Also granted," said Daredevil. "Which is why I say, if we lose this one—"
"No," said O'Hara.
"–if we lose it, we'll step out of the picture. You and your officers can have the field to yourselves. But just think of this: Killgrave has complete control over several hundred innocent bystanders, and he'll be on the march before long. How do you propose to keep your men out of his sway, when he can turn them with a single word?"
"The same way you describe," said O'Hara. "Engage. If repulsed, fall back. Find a new method of attack. I was in Korea, Hornhead. I know what I'm doing."
"And so do we," said Natasha. "What we are talking about is nothing less than the lives of your officers and those who you are sworn, quote, 'to preserve and protect'. If you send in your men, there will be death. Count on it. Some of your policemen will die, some civilians will die, because Killgrave will send them against you, and do you think, Lieutenant, that he will order them not to kill?"
O'Hara was silent.
"Lieutenant," said Daredevil earnestly, "we have a plan. Let us actuate it."
As O'Hara opened his mouth to answer, the intercom on his desk buzzed. "Lootenant, uh...people here to see you."
"Make 'em wait," barked the lieutenant.
"Uh...I don't think that's an option, sir..."
A second later, the door seemed to be pulled inward from the middle with a huge crunching sound. That was quite accurate, as the door was devoured in three big munches by an incredibly huge brown dog that stood outside. At least, for a moment.
There was a delegation of strange-looking persons behind the colossal mutt. One was black-clad and silent, another had swirling red hair in torrents, one had green, scaly skin, and the other two, one large, one short, were equally impressive. Neither DD nor the Widow had met them before, but they quickly guessed who the interlopers were.
"The Inhumans," exclaimed Natasha.
"Awww, no," said O'Hara, in disgust and despair. "No, no, not more of 'em, not with a...a dog...!"
"Greetings to you, Lieutenant, Daredevil, and Widow," said Medusa, stepping alongside the dog's side to be the first in the room. "May I apologize for Lockjaw's manners. We will replace your door. But we need to be of service in this matter."
Triton spoke up. "In New York, we saw coverage of the event befalling you. Since you were only two, and we have spent time in this city recently, we decided to offer help."
DD smiled. "I've heard of your powers. This may even the odds quite a bit."
Black Bolt stepped towards Daredevil and extended his hand. For a moment, Daredevil felt a thrill of empathy. He had heard the Inhumans' monarch was mute. Could Black Bolt know, or suspect, that the man he faced was blind?
Without speaking, Daredevil took Black Bolt's hand. The king of the Inhumans extended his other hand to the Widow, and she took it respectfully.
"Good to have you along," said Daredevil. "Now, here's my plan."
-M-
The brownstone with the strange circular window with cross-hatchings on top had been blasted to dust and rubble. It was not the only building to suffer such treatment in Greenwich Village.
Nobody knew which rioter had thrown the bomb or placed it on the structure's doorstep. It didn't seem to matter. The havoc had spread from several blocks away like a rolling tidal wave...somewhat of a shopworn image, but it still served...and engulfed the part of the Village that Stephen Strange had called home.
Some of the mob had held back for a few moments, seeing the likes of Dr. Octopus, the Vulture, and the Sandman fleeing from the brownstone's front door. But those behind them pushed forward, and soon the super-villains some had seen were forgotten. What mattered was their work of destruction, their art of ruin.
Was it politics, nihilism, or just new-fashioned hell-raising? Not too many in the throng could have told you, and fewer still might have cared. It was a Happening.
And it was happening all over the place.
Some of them smashed in windows with bricks. Others rode motorcycles through storefronts. Others threw bags of scat or urine in whichever direction they cared. There was screaming, there was shouting, there was burning, there was bombing. But there weren't too many signs being waved. The crowd had other things to do with their arms.
New York's Finest, those which were already on the scene, were trying and failing to impose order on the mob. They knew, in their hearts, that they would never sneer at the Chicago cops from '68 again. They also hoped that the National Guard would be quick enough on the scene to help relieve them.
A few slogans were being shouted, among them "Free the New York Three!" and "Free Huey!", neither of which had any relevance now, but both were well-remembered. There were some other things being screamed, few of which were printable. Both sides had heard and seen it all before.
Almost.
A few of the rioters had strange weaponry in hand, guns which overturned or exploded cars at the touch of a beam. Luckily, none were in the affected vehicles. A police marksman took aim and shot down one of the weapons' wielders. He went down, taking his device with him. But he was too far within the throng for the cops to recover the weapon, as yet.
Then someone pointed in the direction of the blasted brownstone and shouted. The dust was beginning to clear, and something was visible within it.
Something shiny.
When enough visibility was had, those looking towards the site saw what it was: a shimmering silvery sphere, reflecting the afternoon light brilliantly enough to blind someone who stared at it too long.
A few more bricks fell upon it, bouncing off harmlessly. Then the sphere began to dissipate, from the top up, folding into itself at the bottom, exposing the figures within it. Some were upright, others were prone on the portion of floor still preserved below them.
Many would recognize the figures of Sub-Mariner and the Silver Surfer. Even more would know the form of Spider-Man. But that wasn't what drew the crowd's attention. Nobody knew if it was cop or carnage-maker who shouted it, but everybody seemed to hear his words:
"Holy cripes, it's THE HULK!"
Later on, everybody would agree that it was the quickest end to a riot in recent memory. Cops, revolutionaries, and hangers-on found streets beckoning to them in all directions but one. For once, both sides were united.
Terror had a way of doing that.
-M-
Miranda Slade knew that, sooner or later, somebody was going to show up at her door when she least expected it, and she intended to be ready. But she had always expected it to be The Man.
Not Gary Gilbert.
He looked like hell, true enough. His eyes were bloodshot (she didn't think it was from weed, as he rarely indulged), the stubble on his face had gone way past five o'clock, and she'd been in enough bust-ups with the police to know what kind of stains those were on his clothes.
Gary Gilbert was standing outside the door of her Motel 6 room and she was in a robe, pointing a gun at him in her pocket.
"Let me in," he said, tightly.
She stepped to the side and admitted him. Gary staggered in pancaked back-first on the bed, getting it dirty. Miranda locked the door behind him but held onto her gun.
"Gary," she said, "what the hell is going on?"
His eyes were closed. "You've got to drive me out of here."
"What are you into?"
"Tell you on the way," he said. "I'll tell you on the way."
"Gary, I hate to repeat myself," she said, standing near the bed, "but WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"
"Shut UP!" he hissed, sitting bolt upright and giving her a look that terrified her. "We're going to the Adirondacks. In your car. Right now."
Miranda sat down on the bed. "You're gonna tell me what's coming down before I move off this mattress. I don't care if you are the Director."
Gilbert gave her a look of fury, breathing hard through his open mouth. She shrank back. But, in another moment, he seemed to pull back into himself. Stabilizing a bit. Even for him, this was weird.
"You been watching the news?"
"A little," she admitted. "Not today."
"Good," he said. "We got to get up to the Adirondacks, and we got to get up there now."
"Gary. Is somebody following you?"
"No. Not yet."
"Then what—"
"Listen, bitch, do I have to listen to you do a Joe Friday? Haven't you learned to trust me? Haven't you learned anything about the revolution?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then get dressed and get ready to move! Now!"
"Listen to me! I have given my life, my blood, my existence for the ******* revolution, and for my ******* sisterhood, and I am damned well not gonna be treated like some skag you picked up off the street, or a ******* taxi driver, or a—"
Gary Gilbert clapped a strong hand over her mouth and another one onto her shoulder. "Listen. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth in a minute. But I want you to use your nose. Now. What do you smell? What do you smell on me, Randa?"
He waited only about two seconds before taking his hand off. She took a deep breath and said, "Blood."
He nodded.
Several minutes later, they proceeded from the motel room, both of them fully dressed, both carrying suitcases. They got into her car and stopped only to pay the bill. Then they were on the road.
"There'll be a few toll booths before we get there," he said. "Pray before every one of them."
Miranda snorted. "You want me to pray?"
"Like never before, Randa. Believe in God just this one day. Then go back to whatever you want."
"Gary," she said. "One more time. I'm not going to stop driving, I swear. But clue me. What in the name of hell is going on?"
He started to answer. Then, without a whole hell of a lot of warning, he burst into tears.
"What?", she said. "What?"
"Drive," he answered. "Just...drive."
-M-
Reed Richards and Captain America had called a war council. The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and the Asgardians were in attendance. The Inhumans were already in San Francisco, so there was at least standing room for everyone in the Avengers Mansion.
"All right," said Reed, opening the discussion. "Is any hell not breaking loose anywhere?"
"I think Hank found a few anthills that haven't been disturbed yet," said Hawkeye, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. "Other than that, I dunno."
"Clint, shut up," snapped the Scarlet Witch.
"So far, we've got the X-Men still finishing up in Dallas," said Ant-Man, at full size, "Black Bolt and company going to help Daredevil and the Black Widow down in San Francisco, reports of the Sinister Six or whatever they call themselves sighted with Spider-Man, the Masters of Evil still at large, an incident in which the SHIELD ground installation was exposed and an agent wounded. That's not even counting the regular riots, protests, arsons, and even murders around the country."
"Provided you can call any of that 'regular'," noted the Wasp, somberly.
Fandral, for once, didn't have his gay Errol Flynn mien. "Verily, Thor," he said, "are affairs ever so confounded in the realm of Midgard?"
"Often," Thor acknowledged. "But not often as chaos-strewn as this."
Captain America looked at them. "This isn't chaos, Thor. It's war. Someone is attacking on multiple fronts, like a general deploying troops. But we still don't know who."
Iron Man, his metal sheath gleaming in the overhead lights, had his red gloves clasped together before him on the table. "The Gilbert murder is what makes me curious," he admitted. "It has to be tied into this, but I'm blamed if I know how."
"Okay, Shellhead...no offense," amended the Human Torch. "How does it read to you?"
"I knew Gilbert when both of us were Stark employees," said the armored Avenger. "He went into business with his son, some time ago. Now Gilbert turns up dead, shot in the back of the head, at his son's house, along with a radical named David Graine. But young Gilbert isn't there. Why?"
"Perhaps young Gilbert is the perpetrator," said Quicksilver. "His absence would indicate such, would it not?"
The Vision said, "Innocence is assumed until proven guilty in this country, Pietro. Yet...he may be culprit or victim, but it defies logic to think he is not involved."
The Thing almost banged his fist on the Avengers' meeting table, but caught himself at the last minute. "Blast it ta hell!" he shouted. "We know somethin's goin' on, but instead 'a goin' after somebody, here we sit shootin' the bull about stuff we already know! If all of us was in Frisco, we'd stomp those cruds flatter'n the top of the Torch's head, inside of an hour!"
"Oh, thanks, Ben," noted Johnny Storm, drily.
"And while we were in San Francisco, who'd turn up in New York?" asked Reed Richards, confronting his teammate. "Or Denver? Or Washington, D. C.? Or Seattle? Or any number of other places they could strike?"
"Nuts!" The Thing cracked his huge six knuckles with a sound like limbs being ripped from a tree. "How about we go to Latveria, shake down Doom, and see what he's got to do with this?"
"Maybe not a bad idea," said Sue Storm. "But without anything definitely pointing in Doom's direction, Ben, I'm not sure it's the right idea."
The Black Panther noted, "I've crossed swords with Doom, too, not long ago. He could mastermind something on this scale. But it's hard to believe he could command this much loyalty from such a large, diverse group of villains on such short notice."
Sif rose from her seat. "I would make a proposal, gentlefolk of Midgard."
"Go ahead, Sif," said Cap, gesturing to her.
Thor's beloved towered over all three women sitting next to her, and over many of the men as well. "Thor has spoken unto me of this Doom, whom he has battled as well in recent memory. It does seem that we of Asgard might seek him out in his homeland, learn what we can of his involvement or innocence in this regard, and return. This would leave you mortals free to face your customary foes, should they appear. Agreed?"
The god of thunder turned towards her in concern. "Fair Sif, none shall blackguard thy prowess and strength, least among them Thor himself. But be forewarned that Doctor Doom is, indeed, one of the few mortals who can even challenge a god."
Hogun said, "Then let him challenge seven gods, and see which prevails. Let us borrow a Quinjet, and away."
"So say we all," said Hildegarde, drawing her sword as Sif did hers, and clashing them together.
Cap stood up. "Wait," he said. "I appreciate your offer, Sif, but we need Thor with us. We can't afford to have the Avengers at half-strength, especially if the Executioner and Enchantress pop up again. They're still out there, and I have a feeling they'll be coming back stronger. They always do."
Balder broke into the conversation. "Then, Captain America, Thor and Sif shall stay with thee, while the rest of our company seek out the mortal called Doom. Hogun, Hildegarde, Fandral, Volstagg, and I shall go forthwith."
Rising too quickly from his seat, holding a drumstick in one hand and his sword in the other, Volstagg proclaimed, "And let the foul Doom beware, for armor alone is no protection against the steel of Vol—"
Having mistaken the difficulty of maintaining his balance in the position he found himself in, Volstagg found himself falling back into the chair, and breaking it. He looked up, unspeaking, from the floor.
"You said it, Volsy," Hawkeye mused, quietly. "You might fall on him."
"That will be enough, masked one." Fandral stared coldly at Hawkeye. The archer guessed that, despite Volstagg's clumsiness, the Asgardians stood up for their own. He admired that.
The seven of them stood up from the table and went into an adjoining room to say their farewells. A couple of minutes later, Thor and Sif returned. Seeing them, Clint wondered if it was such a great idea to send the five of them up against a powerful foe whom none of them had faced. Then again, if anybody could face Dr. Doom and come back unscathed, he'd put the Warriors Three, Balder, and Hildegarde high on the list.
"There's another little matter I'd like to look into," said Captain America, when the Asgardian pair had sat down. "I've been trying to contact the Falcon since yesterday, but he's been missing. As far as I know, nobody's seen him, either as himself or in his secret identity, since he was at the last of our meetings which he attended. I'd like to call it coincidental, but in this atmosphere, nothing's coincidental."
The Thing nodded. "I hear ya, Cap. Harlem ain't exactly my beat, but if ya need some help, holler loud."
"Thanks, Ben, but I might be of more help on this one," said the Panther. "I've worked with Cap before, and I've got a secret identity that works down there."
Ben Grimm flexed a muscle. "Fair enough, T'Challa. But I still got a few advantages on my side, if you need 'em."
"Point taken," said Cap. He didn't tell them of his other concern: that Sharon Carter was missing, as well.
"Here's another point to take," said Iron Man. "We've been sitting at the Round Table for about an hour now, and we haven't decided a blamed thing. The whole country's falling apart, the radicals are pulling riots everywhere, Harlem's just about in flames, in case you haven't noticed, and the president may be on the verge of declaring martial law. So where does that put us?"
Silence for a long moment.
"Well?" Iron Man continued.
Reed Richards spoke up. "Where should it put us, Iron Man? You know about the political directive the same as everyone else at this table."
"The political directive doesn't stop us from saving lives," the Golden Avenger pointed out. "It also doesn't stop us from keeping order."
"That's the cops' job," said Johnny Storm. "We're not the police, Shellhead. We fight super-villains and save the world."
"Seems as though we aren't saving the most important part of it right now, Torch," said Iron Man, standing up. "What happens to America while we're all looking for big, bad super-villains to fight?"
Sue Storm said, "We don't know. None of us know. Isn't it up to America to save itself?"
"We are America," said Cap, decisively. "Every last one of us, from the weakest kid on life-support in a hospital to the strongest one of us in this room." He made a quiet gesture to Thor, who said nothing. "And, so help me, America will not die in this conflagration. If it does, I'll die with her. But we need to know the source of this chaos. We're not an army, not even with our numbers. We're more like commando squads, and we need to know our target."
"Which we haven't figured out yet," Iron Man said glumly. "But Gilbert may be the key. We need to investigate his death. He was on the outs with Stark, and I hate to think that could have caused him to turn against America."
"So," said Reed Richards, "you think it might have been a case of thieves falling out?"
"It's a place to start," said Iron Man. "I vote we investigate the thing immediately."
"SHIELD is already doing that, from what I hear," the Panther put in.
"SHIELD isn't us," Iron Man retorted.
Captain America regarded his old friend. True, Iron Man was the most conservative of them all, possibly. But Cap had rarely seen him this grim, this troubled. The current crisis was enough to cause that, theoretically. Yet, he'd seen the man in the armor go up against threats to the entire world, even the Skrull Armada in space, and seem cooler under the metal collar than this. There had to be something else causing his tension. And God only knew what it was.
Before he could form a reply, the door opened and Edwin Jarvis, the Avengers' butler, burst in. "Pardon me," said Jarvis, with some gravity, "but, ah, a party outside requests the presence of Mr. Iron Man."
"What?" It wasn't always easy to see Iron Man's eyes within his metallic mask, but they were visible now, and showing surprise.
"Jarvis, this is important," said Cap. "We're formulating strategy."
"The party outside insisted that, ah, her business was related to the current crisis."
"All right, Jarvis," said Iron Man, settling himself back in his seat laconically. "Who is this party?"
"Ah...I believe you know her, sir."
Curious, the armored titan stood up from his seat. "Carry on, guys. I'll be right back, I hope." He followed Jarvis out of the meeting room, down the hall with its hidden defenses, past a couple of metallic doors, and into the Avengers' drawing room. Someone was waiting for him on the sofa.
She had on a black catsuit and a gold-colored metal mask, behind which her luxurious black hair flowed like that of a fashion model.
Iron Man stood still in the doorway. "Madame Masque," he said.
She nodded. "Nice to see you again, Iron Man."
He came to sit beside her on the couch. "We always seem to meet in these sort of circumstances." He knew that she was actually Whitney Frost, the daughter of former Maggia lord Count Nefaria, and the former lord of the Maggia herself. That had been before a chemical accident which had horribly scarred her face, and forced her to wear the mask she wore today. As Madame Masque, she had worked for the plutocratic criminal Midas, before Tony Stark won her over at least to a lighter side of grey, if not totally in the heroic camp. Most recently, she had fought side-by-side with him, Daredevil, and Nick Fury against the Zodiac.
She had also lay claim to both the heart of Jasper Sitwell and, if he dared acknowledge it, perhaps his own as well.
"In our line, we tend to attract these sort of circumstances," she said. "But that's not important now. I have something you need to know."
Within his mask, Tony Stark drew a deep breath. "And that is?"
"You need to know about the Fire."
-M-
Zebediah Killgrave looked upon his work and found it good.
From one side of the spacious park to the other, his subjects awaited his call. Male, female, young, mature, elderly, black, white, Asian, Indian, Hispanic, hippie, straight, all of them united in submission. Which, of course, was the only way they could be united. Under him.
He was sitting in what passed for a throne, which he'd had his subjects construct from parts of their own cars. It was fairly comfortable, for metal overlaid with seat padding. Well, he told himself, it was the thought that counted. The only minds not overlain by his own in the throng were the rest of the Emissaries of Evil. That could be changed at his whim, and they knew it. But so far, the cooperation had been good. Lucky for them.
Looking upon the fellow villains who flanked him, the Owl, Cat-Man, Ape Man, Bird Man, Frog Man, Leap Frog, Suprema, Scarbo, and Man-Bull, he realized how proper everything was. They were the smallest aggregation of villains in the entire project (it pleased him to think of it that way: as a project) and yet they had yielded the greatest results. Who would have thought that a motley crew of independents like most of them could have worked so well together, and without any of them being under Killgrave's direct control?
Of course, that was only the beginning. He had been promised control of California. But how could you keep down a man who could control all human behavior within the range of his voice? California was one of the great centers of national communications...movies, radio, local TV. It wouldn't be that hard to gather sway over more and more, and then expand to New York City, where the great mouths of CBS, ABC, and NBC served the nation and, to a smaller extent, the world.
He'd allowed his fellows a bit of freedom. That, of course, would have to be planed back in the weeks to come. Nobody could trust their fellow revolutionaries that much. After all, they knew how to make one revolution, and they could make one against you if you weren't careful. That much history, he knew.
Killgrave had expanded his control base by having his slaves set up PA equipment near the edge of the park. Wherever his voice reached, he induced people on the perimeter to leave their homes, their cars, or their place of business and join in his impromptu commune. The cops had sharpshooters take out a few of the amps, but after Killgrave had stationed people directly in front of them, there had been no more amp-shooting.
Right now, the scene in the park was not unlike Woodstock. Tents had been set up, impromptu kitchens had been organized, fast food vendors in the area provided meals for all those in hunger, and, yes, the toilet facilities were being strained. But that would change. Very quickly.
Bird Man was saying something. Killgrave looked at him, annoyedly. "What?"
"I was saying, how much longer are we gonna wait here?" The beak-nosed man in the red plastic helmet glared at him. "Doin' nothin' but watching these John Q's get back to nature."
"Never fear, friend Bird Man," said Killgrave, smoothly. "We're about to go on the march." He grasped a microphone at his chair arm, which was tied into the public address system. "My followers! Hear me!"
He paused, just for effect, as the echoes of his voice resounded all over the park.
"From this point on, we will march to the city, adding more souls to our community," Killgrave continued. "We will make our way to the communications centers, the radio and television stations, and at each place you will take control, allowing me access to the broadcast facilities. From there, we will prosper, with great numbers joining us by the second. We will be as One. United, indivisible, with true liberty and justice for all. Agreed?"
A chorus of words, all in the affirmative, came up from everybody but the super-villains. Most of them were getting uneasy, as well. They had a right to be.
"Very well, then, begin the march," said Killgrave. "Proceed through all exits of the park. But especially towards the Bridge, over which you will carry me. Quickly, now."
"It better be quick," said Man-Bull. "I'm itchin' for action."
"With that skin of yours, looks like you'd be itchin' anyway," commented Ape Man. The bull faced him off for a second, then both backed off. Cat Man looked on in amusement.
Across the bridge, Daredevil and his allies looked on at the mob which was beginning to cross. "Doesn't look good," said DD. "Then again, it hasn't since they arrived."
Ivan, standing near Karnak, muttered, "You guys better be able to pull this one off. That's all I can say."
"He has done it once," said Karnak. "Though difficult, he can do it again."
The Widow nodded towards Black Bolt. "Then what is he waiting for?"
"The proper moment," said Medusa. "Black Bolt, now!"
The masked monarch of the Inhumans turned his face towards the skies. True, he had done this before, but it was very difficult. His voice was so incredibly powerful that it could shatter almost anything within a large radius. Thus had he liberated the Inhumans from their Great Refuge when Maximus had placed a Negative Zone dome over their city. Thus had he accidentally destroyed a ship at dock in the harbor of this very city.
That was why, from his earliest days on, he had to be silent.
But, during the recent Kree / Skrull War, when Maximus had gained mental control over the Inhuman population for his Kree masters, Black Bolt had tried a new task. He bounced his voice off the ionosphere, with a command to his people to throw off Maximus's dominance. It had worked. It had to be precisely calibrated, or the vibratory force might rebound too strongly and destroy all in its path. He might just as easily have been a mass murderer that day.
If unsuccessful, he might become one now.
But it had to be attempted.
Quite deliberately, Black Bolt spoke.
It took several seconds to reverbrate back to Earth, but all could hear it clearly. Not only in the park, but in the entire city, and for many miles around.
"HEAR ME, O PEOPLE OF THE CITY. YOU ARE FREE NOW AND FOREVER OF THE PURPLE MAN'S CONTROL. HE WILL HAVE NO MORE COMMAND OF YOUR MINDS. TAKE YOURSELVES TO SAFETY, AT ONCE."
All over the park, hundreds of people began to wake up.
Even Killgrave was struck with the force of the words. It took him a few seconds to recover. When he did, the word he said wasn't printable, but it went out through all the speakers of the park.
Luckily, nobody was obliged to do what he told them to anymore.
The Owl took in the situation in a heartbeat. "We have problems," he noted.
"Problems?" said Killgrave. "Problems? Have a little faith, Owl! Listen to me, my children...stand where you are immediately! There is no danger! Repeat...there is no danger!"
One of the proles within earshot gave him a two-word reply, and kept running.
"Owl," said Killgrave. "We have to stand together in this crisis. We can still triumph...Owl? OWL!"
He looked up in time to see a cloaked figure gliding high overhead on the wings of the breeze. Numbly, he wondered for the nine hundredth time how the Owl was able to do that. But, of course, that didn't matter anymore.
What did matter was the strange glowing hole that was opening in the air and some very odd-looking figures that were seen within it. None of them was Daredevil, but Killgrave knew a super-hero when he saw one.
Even if one of them was an unbelievably huge dog.
"KILL THEM!" he shouted, pointing at Black Bolt, the Black Widow, Karnak, Medusa, Gorgon, Triton, and Lockjaw. He wasn't using Command Power, but he didn't have to. The Emissaries of Evil were smart enough to know that the seven interlopers stood between them and freedom. Ergo, a fight.
The villains weren't exactly lightweights, but they were more used to the likes of Daredevil and, in Suprema and Scarbo's case, Captain America. They hadn't weighed in against really super-powered opponents yet. To them, it didn't matter. Especially to Man-Bull, it didn't matter. The horned horror pawed the ground with his foot, snorted, put his head down, and charged at the lot of them. Gorgon met his charge by simply standing there, raising one foot, and stamping it on the ground.
A small crevasse radiated from before the point of impact and widened, just as he estimated it would. Before the Man-Bull could get much further, his body slipped into the crack and only the horns on his head, abutting the walls of the mini-ravine, held him up. He howled in fury and frustration.
Almost idly, Gorgon ambled over and stamped on both Man-Bull's horns. Screaming in pain, the villain fell all the way to the bottom.
The objective conditions had changed.
Ape Man, powered by a gorilla-styled exoskeleton covered with fur, chose the shortest opponent he could find: a large-domed, slight-looking character in green and white. He charged, ready to bear-hug the shrimp into oblivion and then take off for whatever tall timber could be found. Monk Keefer's huge arms spread wide—the suit hardly added anything to his bulk—and then tried to contract around his prey.
Said prey wasn't there.
A brief noise from behind caused Ape Man to turn around. The strange, short, masked man with the metal bands about his hands stood there like a statue. Monk's response was a brutish roar (he liked to get in character while in uniform) and a leap at his foe. This time, he'd crush the dwarf under his two feet.
But the dwarf wasn't there when he came down, and all he did was hurt his ankles.
The little man was standing to the side of him. "Dammit, will you stay still for a minute! I'm tryin' to hit ya!" Ape Man yelled, not unreasonably.
Monk's opponent seemed to oblige. Cautiously, Ape Man turned himself to face the unspeaking man, then went at him like a late subway train trying to make up for time. This time, the short man didn't move.
That is, until Ape Man got within range of him, whereupon Karnak stepped deftly inside Monk's reach and brought his arm down in a flat-handed blow against the center of the ape mask. A small THAK was the only sign of impact, for an instant.
That, and the fact that Ape Man went over backward, falling on his spine, the mask and then the costume splitting evenly down the front where there had been no seam before, its occupant very unconscious.
Karnak, taking no notice of his opponent after the deed was done, turned away to see if more work remained for him.
Cat Man might have come to his partner's aid, except for the fact that he was in full flight from Lockjaw, who didn't seem to much care whether the inhabitant was really human under the cat suit or not. The Tribune was getting whirligigged by Medusa's tornado-activity hair. The Leap Frog and Frog Man were trying to make two giant leaps for crookkind, but both were caught by an ankle apiece in Triton's hands, after which they were slammed to the earth and denuded of consciousness.
Altogether, the tide of battle had become one even King Canute couldn't
turn.
Suprema, wondering which way to turn, found the black-suited Widow swinging down from a tree to confront her. "Party's not over yet, darling," Natasha reminded her.
The villainess in green fell into a defensive karate stance. "Just give me thirty seconds, and it will be," she promised.
She feinted. They circled. Suprema thought she saw a space where Natasha's defense was open. With her best kiiaii yell, she thrust forth fingers that should have torn into the Black Widow's interior and withdrawn something vital.
Instead, she found her arm pinned between the Widow's own arm and her side, and a fierce elbow coming her way, just under her chin. One WHAM! later, accompanied by a flash of black and white, and Suprema became collapsible.
"You were off by five seconds," noted Natasha, proudly.
Scarbo, who had stayed aloof from the battle, made ready to attack the Widow from behind with his nigh-inhuman strength. At that point, he felt something cold and cylindrical by his right ear. "I wouldn't," said a heavily accented voice. "She's got a partner, too."
The villain tried to straighten up, carefully. When the pressure beside his ear went away, he tried a rapid turn. He managed to see the big man with the mustache standing before him just an instant before the guy brought the pistol barrel down over his bald head. It produced in him a state of consciousness similar to what his sister was experiencing.
"Thanks," said Ivan Petrov. "I was beginning to think I'd miss out on all the fun."
Elsewhere, Killgrave tugged his broad purple hat lower over his eyes and wished he hadn't chosen a garb that monochromatically shouted his presence. Could he help it if he liked clothes that were his same color? Except that it'd be very hard to shake the cops now, provided that stupid competitor in black's voice-blast kept them from falling prey to his command voice. Maybe it was only good over a short radius, or only lasted for a brief interval. He could hope for the best.
In the meantime, he was legging it out of the park as fast as he possibly could. The idiots in the costumes were busy with the others in his employ, and that suited Killgrave fine.
He didn't anticipate the red-clad form swinging out of the trees by the wire of a billy-club, catching him in a body scissors, and flinging him back on his kiester on the grass. Daredevil disengaged his club and lit on the ground before him, nimbly. "You didn't think I'd forget you after all this, Killgrave? I thought you'd appreciate the ceremony."
"You...you horn-headed, interfering, resistant, insufferable..." Killgrave, trying to stumble to his feet and recover his hat, ran out of coherent insults. He spluttered, "It took those six freaks for you to beat us!"
"Oh, I'll admit, the Inhumans were a great help," said Daredevil, holstering his billy club. "But I would have come up with a great plan even if they hadn't. Trust me on that."
"What?"
"Come on. After all we've been through, you don't have confidence enough in me to know I'd beat you anyway?"
Killgrave knew it was the endgame. There was no way left to turn, no place he could run where Daredevil would be unable to catch him. No minions were available whom he could control. Also, he was hardly a master of hand-to-hand combat.
Still, he decided he'd give it one damned good try.
Screaming, the Purple Man came at Daredevil swinging both fists, teeth bared, veins standing even more purply at the side of his neck. DD sidestepped him and gave him a backhand blow that sent him flying, leaving his hat behind him. Killgrave groaned, got to his hands and knees, then managed to stand up and turned, seeing Daredevil standing behind him.
"I could run you down," said DD. "You might as well try a second time."
"No," said Killgrave. "No. It can't end this way. He said it was the perfect plan. He said..."
The Man Without Fear strode closer to the Purple Man. "Who said it, Killgrave? Who's behind this?"
"I...I can't say. I mean, nobody's behind this! Do you think I can't control an operation of this size? Do you think..."
"Oh, nuts," said Daredevil. "Guess we'll just have to sweat it out of you down at headquarters."
A red-gloved fist came up and Killgrave saw no more.
Daredevil stood over his crumpled foe for a long moment. Then he rolled up his right glove a bit to expose a wrist-radio. "Devil to Ironside. Mission accomplished. Do you copy?"
"Copy, Devil," came a tinny voice from the speaker. "We've been watching on the tube. Coming in to relieve you. What do you suggest re: Mr. Rage?"
"Suggest we gag him, until we can use truth serum," said Daredevil. "If we can keep him from using his command voice—he's got something we all need to hear."
-M-
Nick Fury was pacing what amounted to the bridge area of the Heli-Carrier. Dum Dum, Val, Gabe, Jimmy Woo, Jasper Sitwell, and the Gaff, SHIELD's techno supreme, were also on hand. Several large monitors showed the scene below: Greenwich Village, and smoke coming from a particular bombing site.
"Good god,"said Dum Dum, softly. He'd seen plenty of similar sights during several wars, but seeing it within New York hit him harder than he'd have expected.
"Nick," said Val, pointing tentatively at the place from whence the smoke and dust was arising. "Is that where this Dr. Strange was based?"
"Eminently," Sitwell put in on his boss's behalf. "The alleged sorcerer lived in a brownstone building erected during the Depression by the William Colt company, on behalf of..."
"Sitwell," said Fury, looking at the building site, "shut up."
"Yessir," Sitwell answered, and fell silent.
Jimmy Woo's eyes narrowed as he examined one of the monitors. "Guy, block up 100x on number three. Now."
The image, caught by one of SHIELD's spy cameras underneath, expanded and narrowed its field until a glimpse of a bright color could be seen in the wreckage and dust. The color was green.
"I think," said Jimmy, slowly, "we've got an unexpected factor."
"Oy," said the Gaff, adjusting his glasses. "Pardon me, Colonel, but isn't that, uh, identifiably..."
Nick Fury was struck dumb himself for an instant. But he had seen the being in question up close and personal several times himself. "The Hulk," he said.
The Hulk wasn't alone. Sunlight gleamed off another figure beside him, one whom the men of SHIELD had occasion to battle only a year or two back. "It's the Silver Surfer," said Dum Dum. "He's back with the Greenskin already?"
Sitwell ventured, "We know the two of them worked with the Sub-Mariner once, in that incident in San Pablo. But they were with the Sub-Mariner then. One wouldn't expect to see them with this Dr. Strange, offhand."
"Well, it looks like they aren't alone," said Val. "I see one guy standing there in shorts, and that must be the Sub-Mariner. Looks like another man and a woman with them. But...Nick, do you see it? That's Spider-Man!"
"Yep," said Nick, and thumbed a communicator button. "Kid. Can you hear me? Are you there?"
An instant later, Spider-Man's voice came through. "Colonel. I'm...we're...we made it. I can see your ship."
"That's what I like about you, kid. You're observant. Tell me you're not standing beside the Hulk."
"Uh, I'm afraid I am, Colonel. Can you see him, already?"
"He kind of stands out in a crowd. We've also tentatively i.d.'ed the Silver Surfer and Sub-Mariner. What are they doing there?"
"Well, they were here when I came in," said Spider-Man. "Hold on, I think Dr. Strange would like to say something."
"Put him on."
A much wearier voice came on the line. "Good afternoon, Colonel."
"Strange. What in Sam Hill's going on down there?"
"I was bombed. My house was bombed. We escaped behind a shield. I wish to consult with you."
"Hate to say it, Strange, but there ain't no way I'm lettin' the Hulk, the Surfer, and Buster Crabbe there on board my ship."
"We will keep the Hulk under control. As for Namor and the Surfer, you need have no fear of them. In this, we must act together. If America is to be spared...then SHIELD, sorcery, and superhuman power must work as one today."
Fury was silent for a long moment, contemplating it. Dum Dum looked at him, eyes ablaze. "Nick! Are you crazy? They'd tear through the Heli-Carrier like a Messerschmitt through a blamed hot-air balloon!"
The man in the eye-patch roved the gaze of his one good eye over his staff. Then he said, into his device, "Strange. Can you guarantee...can you swear to me...that you'll keep the rest of that crew under wraps? I've got over 500 men in this tub. I'm not about to lose a one of them today. Is that clear?"
"Absolutely, Colonel Fury. We will attend to the Hulk."
"All right," said Nick Fury, stoically. "We'll lower a transport disk. Stand by."
"One thing remains first," said Dr. Strange. "Hold, please. Surfer, if you would..."
"What?" Nick Fury paused, then repeated, "What?"
"Uh, Colonel? This is Spider-Man again."
"What's going on?"
"It looks like Doc Strange and his girlfriend and the Surfer are lining up in front of where his house used to be. They're raising their arms...I think two of 'em are chanting...WOW!"
The monitors recorded a burst of white light that blanked the cameras for a second. The agents of SHIELD on the bridge had to shield their eyes from the glare.
When their vision returned, they saw an impossibility.
Where rubble, dust, and smoke had been only seconds beforehand, there now stood once again the brownstone home of Doctor Strange.
"Colonel...how..." said Jasper Sitwell, finally at a loss for words.
"I dunno," said Fury. "But after that, they damn well better be on our side. Lower a disk."
-M-
Miranda Slade was standing in something straight out of a James Bond or Our Man Flint movie. It was a secret hangar, right in the midst of the Adirondack Mountains. Gary had told her that an old castle formerly used by Dr. Doom was in the area. That was just before he left her alone there, saying he had something to attend to. She wondered if she should have gone with him, despite his instructions. But, the way he was acting, even she didn't dare.
She stood on the concrete flooring and looked up at the aircraft the hangar housed. It looked recognizably enough like a regular airplane, a bit more teched-up, perhaps, and yellow in color. Gary had absolutely forbid her to go near it. He said, flat out, that he'd kill her if she touched it. She wouldn't have taken that from a cop, or anybody in the Movement.
From Gary she took it.
It was a bit cold and, fleetingly, she wondered if this was the kind of place wherein those super-heroes and super-villains you saw in news clips from New York staged their battles. Gary called those fights "entertainment". It probably wasn't too entertaining if you were near Ground Zero. At that, her thoughts flashed on real Grounds Zero, like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She wondered why she'd connected that way, and then decided she didn't want to know.
Not too much.
She spun quickly around at the sound of approaching feet. Feet which echoed off the concrete floor as if they were shod in metal.
Miranda, opening her mouth in shock, realized that was precisely the case.
The man that stood not far away from her was clad in a strange, form-fitting armor of red and gold, its design seeming to suggest flames, almost the way they'd be painted on a racing car. The eyes were hidden behind opaque lenses. But the contours of the face within, hardly hidden by the mask the man wore, proclaimed his identity to her.
The person who wore the armor was Gary Gilbert.
"Miranda," he said, quietly. "I'm going to give you a gift. You have to use it wisely. Will you promise me that? Will you swear to it? Absolutely?"
She didn't seem able to answer.
"Miranda," he said, and one of his hands, impossibly, seemed to burst into flame.
"Yes!" she screamed, putting one hand before her eyes, going to one knee. "Yes, yes, yes! Oh, God, yes!"
She saw, behind her shielding hand, the glow of the fire go out.
"That's good, Miranda. That's very wise. Now, listen closely. The gift I am about to give you is your life. You have to use it wisely, Miranda. You have to keep what we have done here, what you have seen here, a secret. A very big secret, Miranda. Because, if you tell anybody, even the others on the Council, even anybody, I will know of it, Miranda. And I will have to take back the gift I have given you. Immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said, barely audibly.
"Very good, Miranda," said Gary. "Very wise. Go back to your car, Miranda. Drive back to town. Resume your life. This is the end of our work together. I value very much what you have done for me, Miranda. That is why I give you this gift. It was more..." His voice started to break, then he continued. "It was more than I could even give to my father. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND, Miranda?"
"YES!"
"Then go, Miranda. Whether you believe or not...go with God."
Gary Gilbert pointed an armored hand and a garage door-like section of the hangar rose and retracted into an overhead bay. Miranda saw light pour in from outside. Yes. There was an outside. Her car was outside. She could go to it. She could drive away from this strange world, and return to what she knew. It might be the Underground, it might be fraught with secrecy, danger, and destruction, but at least it was the sort of danger she was familiar with.
One foot. Then the other. Then a succession of steps, leading her ever more quickly to the light from outside, through the door, to the car which she had parked not far away. Unlike Lot's wife, she did not look back. She thanked God, in Whom she had decided to believe on a trial basis, that she still had a purse and the keys were within it and she could fumble one into the ignition and the motor turned over as it should, oh, praise Jesus, as it should.
Miranda backed the car dangerously close to a rock wall abutment, turned the wheels to point the car in the right direction, and started down the trail much more rapidly than she should. At that point, she really didn't give a damn. Just getting away from that secret place...and from Gary...was more than enough.
The door stayed open beside her. Gary Gilbert, in his metal uniform, watched her go.
He watched her drive down several turns and twists of the mountain road, more than half a mile from the hidden hangar in distance.
Finally, he pointed his arm, all five fingers pressed together.
From his fingertips, a bolt of flame shot straight and true and accurately. His aim was never better. Her car intersected the space where his blast was directed at just the precise time.
There was a hellish blast and fury and sound and rubber and metal and plastic flung high in the air and set tumbling down the mountainside, thankfully not igniting too much brush along the mountainside as it fell.
Gary Gilbert watched, saying nothing. He didn't like doing that. He really didn't like doing that.
But some things you really can't leave to chance. He was sure that Miranda, in his position, really would have understood that.
For a long while, Gary Gilbert stood, and watched the fire.
To be continued...