Chapter 15: The End is Nigh
Fixer's Pig Sty
Norbert Ebersol enjoys Ames, Iowa. It is a quiet place relative to often raucous New York City or even St. Louis. Often, Avengers and such harass Fixer horribly in the big city. By contrast, Ames is a staid, mid-sized college town. A supervillain feels safe here on the campus of "Moo U". And, the clandestine AIM agents around him feel safe and secure too. Since the 1940s, the federal government and other fine folks have secreted certain sensitive operations here. So, Fixer figures that he can relax and relish his adjunct AIM assignment analyzing Argon, Element of Doom. Iowa may border Missouri, but that recent Missouri misery is behind Bert.
But, directly behind Bert Ebersol, Dr. Bruce Banner stands this day. The original Avenger steps into the den of evildoers. And, some AIM operatives go wide-eyed and antsy. They recognize who just walked-in; they expediently exit without relaying a warning to Fixer. Foreboding Banner beelines for their new colleague.
Bruce cracks his knuckles near Bert's ears. Banner's hands—and whole physique—have expanded somewhat. At Bert's back, half-Hulk huffs, "Hey, egghead, turn around."
Bald Ebersol advises, "I'm not Elihas Starr. He's at lunch."
"Oh, excuse me then," baritone Banner biffs Ebersol alongside the head. The tap rings Bert's bell.
Blinking rapidly, the bothered rogue announces, "I am the Fixer actually. And, I am about to fix you."
Techno turns tersely. Truculent, he quickdraws a blaster. A burgeoning brute bats it easily aside. A puny poindexter's dress shirt and slacks pop-off and rip-away as a green beast grows. Abruptly, Fixer's jaw drops. Instantly, the old villain activates some armor about his person. Nanotech nicely ensheathes him.
But, the Incredible Hulk simply sees a bulwark encasing a bauble that he can bash around for a bit. Bellowing, the Green Goliath seizes Fixer and slings him through the ceiling. Savagely, Hulk pursues. A commotion follows throughout the university's Physics Hall before a great green fist punches Fixer through the building's façade.
Fixer flies all the way to the campus clock tower. His carcass cracks it when he crashes off, and he falls thirty feet flat upon the quad. Crumbling brick cascades down upon him. Immediately, a very cross Hulk leaps the distance to the dinged dastard. He lands by the cringing, semi-conscious criminal. Hulk clocks Fixer around some more. . . . .
Soon, local cops take a supervillain into custody.
Not so Sly, Marv
Elsewhere, on another day, Mentallo's limo passes through Wentzville, Missouri. From I-70, Flumm can eye beautiful Lake St. Louis shimmering in the September sun. Mentallo thinks to himself that he sure is glad to soon get the hell out of the Show Me State. "Show me the stage right" is his escapist notion.
Semi-mangled Marv Flumm shifts restlessly in his comfy seat within the luxury auto. Awful pain still accompanies him a month after Speed callously dropped him from a damn rail trestle. Turning his tuchus tenderly, Think Tank rues the rods rubbing his flesh within and the braces bothering his body without. Granted, injured mutants mend swiftly and mend well like superhumans. Mentallo is a supervillain who should count his blessings. But, the trip from Kansas City has been a long one. It has been three freakin' hours of full annoyance across the entirety of Mizzou-ri.
And, Mentallo has an "interminable" flight ahead of him too. It pisses off Marv that he will soon endure ten hours from St. Louis to London only to then "hop" from England to Edinburgh, Scotland, only to then take a private plane to remote Raasay Island in the UK's far north. There, Dr. Eve Necker at least promises to treat Mr. Flumm well. The good, but deviant, doctor invites Mentallo into Project: Death's Head, whatever the hell that is. Apparently, ol' Eve requires a psychic to delve into the mind of some "minion" (that was the term used) while she deconstructs and remakes the poor duffer.
Whatever. Marv merely hopes that he finds some Scottish whiskey at Lambert International once the limo reaches St. Louis' airport. He could use some libation with his pain meds.
Within, Marv muses, "What the f*** do they call a tincture of opium? Laudanum. Yeah, the barkeep at the airport lodge can lay one of those on me. Mentallo merely must become more blotto than he already is." Mentallo wants to be sedated.
Currently, the (normally) keen clairvoyant—thanks to painkillers—cannot even clearly psychically surveil David Cannon, his driver. David Cannon is both the Master of Evil Whirlwind and a licensed chauffeur. How he passes the background check for a cdl, who knows?
From the front seat, chauffeur Cannon makes conversation, "I sure am glad that I was visiting my hometown of Kansas City when you needed help."
"Hooray for that serendipity," Flumm fidgets in discomfort, "What brought you back to KC? Visiting family?"
"Oh no. Nothing so wholesome," Dave grins, "I am always stalking some bitch—like Jan van Dyne or whoever. In this case, old flame Bonnie Kaye [see Power Man and Iron Fist #106] caught my attention. I spy on her social media, so I knew that she visits a seriously sick sibling. But, she would sometimes be alone too."
Marv scowls, "You want to spread your mutant seed, do you?"
"Whirlwind romance!" Cannon pumps his fist and cackles.
Sometimes, Mentallo hates his deviant associates with a real passion. "Let's change the subject," responds the Resistant.
"To what?" wonders Whirlwind.
"Why, to something nice such as how you sprang me from the hospital," says Flumm, "Many thanks."
"It was my pleasure," Cannon assures, "I liked whupping the g-men guarding a criminal colleague and then just whisking you out the window like what-for."
"Yeah, I have to wonder why SHIELD wasn't guarding me, but I'll take some soft FBI special agents and some sheriff's deputies any day," Marvin gazes out the window at St. Peters golf course in St. Peters, Missouri. The auto keeps advancing eastbound.
"Heck, I see a smokey now," driver David mentions dutiful deputies, "I reckon that we better run the route to the airport right quick before that radar ranger ropes us wanteds in."
"Yeah right," Mentallo amiably agrees. But, within, he notes that the hack's vulgar phrasing and voice sound familiar. The experienced intelligencer strokes his goatee.
Guffawing, Cannon acknowledges, "Of course, speeding would actually more likely get us pulled over. But, rushing is Whirlwind's way. I'm Whirlwind, of course."
"Hmph," the psychic studies his subject empirically and telepathically. But, recent patient Mentallo is zonked. His powers of observation ail awfully. His mind probe is meager. He damn near dozes despite possible danger directly ahead in the driver's seat.
Silence follows in the fast sedan, and fifteen minutes flit by. Then, the limo overshoots the expected exit to Lambert International Airport. The passenger purses his lips. He considers his options for overpowering Whirlwind, or whoever has him. From I-70, the car's path curves to the I-170 entrance ramp, and the vehicle's vector veers Marv toward Berkeley—where he has been before. A month previous, he fleetly fled from here. Flumm's lids flutter, for, through the windshield, he sees the Shaw facility in the distance. Secretly, Shaw Industries manufactures Sentinels in Missouri, and mastermind Mentallo knows such fully.
So, Marvin sighs. A trained dark op, he considers killing the driver carrying him toward the sinister site. Mentallo cogitates. Either "fellow" mutant Whirlwind has went turncoat and deserves to die as a race traitor. Or, some repugnant regular racist relays powerful Mentallo to Project: Wideawake when he is wounded and vulnerable so that sordid scientists can distress him.
Muddled Mentallo prepares a desperate mind blast. But, he fails to deliver it, for the limousine turns again. It takes the Airport Road exit and heads into a familiar Roxxon gas station that Flumm has seen before. Plainsman and he stopped here after the row at the Rowen.
"Remember when we were here before?" the passenger queries his driver. The duped deduces this and that.
"I can't say that I remember," Cannon comments.
"Well, that would be true," Mentallo thinks to himself, "You can't say. That would blow your cover."
"Cannon" conveys the car to the petroleum pumps, "Say, I forgot to f***ing fuel this motherf***** before escaping Kansas City. We're out of gas."
Marvin Flumm feels like a teenaged girl out on a date with a creep. He questions the driver, "So, you didn't top-off our get-away vehicle before taking it? Well, that's not very f***ing professional, pardner."
Mentallo pronounces it "pardner" instead of "partner", for he will eat his Psycho-Helmet if this pathetic putz is not the Plainsman.
"Well, um, she's a real gas-guzzler," the poser puts it in park.
Mentallo just gets to the point., "So, Plainsman, what now?" Persistent pain perhaps pinches one's patience for pretentious ploys thin.
The chauffeur pauses. He peers at his perilous passenger who apparently remains passive. Flumm does not appear about to pull anything. "Cannon" clutches his face and pulls his mask off. Plainsman's long locks and beard fall forward. Mentallo made him.
"The Whirlwind disguise was supposed to fool you so fast that it'd make your head spin," the imposter jokes.
"Your prosthetics worked pretty well," the conned criminal comments, "Your cybernetics suckered me too—especially in my present condition. I could not just mind probe you and confirm that you were comrade Cannon."
"When the CSA assigned me to kidnap you, the commission thought that a cyborg might have such advantage," the actor informs.
"Congratulations on your advantage, a******," the rogue rider retorts, "Your bionic brain would even allow you to act if I overtook the rest of your cerebrum."
"Sure. Correct," Plainsman confirms.
Chafed Marv chews his lip, "Why drive me to St. Louis? The feds had me held totally fine in KC."
"A lot of Avengers are in the Berkeley area right now," Plainsman replies, "They wish to apprehend you after they confront Dallas Riordan over yon." Plainsman points to the Shaw campus.
Mentallo manages surprise, "Are you saying that your CSA boss Riordan did not dispatch you? That you don't work for her?"
The Missourian Marvel affirms, "Director Dallas did not direct me. There is a squabble within the Commission on Superhuman Activities, so someone else entreated me to act like a gallant good guy. The Avengers' Arachne convinced me that her CSA ally was right. Sometimes, you need to be on the side of the angels."
Peace and quiet abruptly follow. Mentallo re-considers resisting and, hopefully, killing his kidnapper. The car's tinted glass would even conceal things from the passing public. The famed fiend feels so humiliated. However, his fractured body and fragmented mind feel crappy. Thus, Mentallo murmurs "Okay. It would have been a lousy trip to England, anyway."
"Oh good," the duplicitous delivery driver declares, "Avengers associate Doc Samson predicted passivity due to your degradation and injuries."
Schmuck Mentallo shakes his head. Someday, he shall get horrible revenge on Speed and Plainsman for this situation. For now, Flumm suggests, "Fine, we should get snacks while waiting on renegade Dallas Riordan's denouement."
No Alibi
Eight hundred miles east of Berkeley, the J. Edgar Hoover Building stands before Dallas Riordan. The CSA chair chats with two fellows flanking her as she enters FBI headquarters.
On Riordan's right, Erik "Atlas" Josten escorts her. Thunderbolt Atlas is her doting beau and dutiful bodyguard. He gets the door for her and announces her at the security checkpoint. Chuckling, the ex-supervillain mentions that he is ever amused that he can simply sashay into FBI HQ these days. Dallas assures Erik that it is her pleasure to empower him. They playfully pucker-up and peck.
To Dallas' left, Barney Fiddler futzes with his uniform. A formal meeting means that he has shaven and fixed his fatigues' insignia just right. He tugs his jacket and trousers into place. Even his sidearm hangs very straight at his hip. Fiddler is every bit the good soldier shepherding Riordan when the Commission on Superhuman Activities meets with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Barney even gets the up button at the elevator bank.
Ascending, Dallas and her dear discuss their coming meeting with Orville Sanderson, FBI director.
"Why do you suppose Sanderson summoned you?" Erik asks.
"I do not quite know," Riordan replies, "Why do you suppose we meet at his office on his turf instead of he at mine in the Pentagon?"
"Don't know," Atlas shrugs, "He could have a surprise for you here that he didn't want to spring across the way." The Hoover Building and the Pentagon are on opposite sides of the Potomac.
"Or, it could just be a power thing," Fiddler suggests, "Sanderson sits upon the Commission, but he is not the head. Therefore, he summons his boss this September day because he wants to switch the established social dynamics. In his office, he has the helm and you have a humbler seat. He asks the questions, and, ideally, you expediently answer. Sanderson does know some things about interrogation."
"Interrogation? About what? What may Orv plan to ask?" detective Dallas canvasses comrades.
"Maybe, he doesn't like you associating with criminals in both Missouri and D.C.," Barney boldly thinks, within without Riordan knowing.
The elevator dings. Doors open. An administrative assistant directs the trio toward another set of twin doors. The name plate says "Orville Sanderson". Like a Thunderbolt, Atlas strides for the suite. He wishes to chivalrously escort and safeguard his sweetheart at this meeting. But, Barney Fiddler steps lively past Erik Josten, and he actually enters the office ahead of his two colleagues. A good soldier takes point, and he takes it away from pretenders.
Curiously, the door slams shut right when Fiddler steps past it. The trailers pause. Perhaps, Barney slammed the door behind him. But, why would he do that? Perhaps, someone shut the soldier in. But, why would anyone do that?
"Aw s***!" Fiddler's voice sounds through the pine.
Atlas advances immediately on the entrance. Josten knocks on wood and jostles the pine. He barks, "Hey, what's going on in there?"
Along the jambs, ebon spheres subtly circulate as though something (or someone) weird were present. Occupied Atlas takes no notice. However, sharp-eyed Vantage, a.k.a. Det. Dallas Riordan, does, and she scrutinizes the small shadows with suspicion.
Suddenly, the office ingress eerily opens as though on its own. "Please excuse my automatic entrance," Orville Sanderson announces from behind his desk, "It may have surprised you."
"It is okay," Chair Riordan replies, "Security is of utmost importance for spymasters like us." [Bespectacled] Dallas studies the frame further, for she would hate for the frame—or anything else about—to be a trap. Something seems fishy here at the Federal Bureau today.
Then again, if you cannot trust a g-man, then gee, who can you? Riordan walks warily toward Sanderson, and Josten alertly leads the way.
Suddenly, the doors slam swiftly shut again—separating Dallas and Erik. And, another escort and bodyguard disappears into the director's den. Befuddled, the CSA boss staggers back. Then, before her, Doorman appears. From around the doorframe, his fluid form fixes into sapien shape. Surprised, Dallas stares at the black body blocking her way. Abruptly, white gloves grab the girl's arms and wrench resisting Riordan through the interdimensional Avenger's abdominal aperture. The abducted jerk (and jerked abductee) goes instantly elsewhere.
Behind Doorman and deadbolted doors, a baffled Atlas examines Sanderson's office. It doesn't quite look right. For one thing, the whole sight (before Josten) has wavy lines and popping pixels like a failing hologram. Pivoting, the duped dope doubles-back to destroy the dual doors, but Doorman is before Erik before Atlas obliterates the entrance. Darkforce abruptly encases a surprised sap from the Adam's apple down.
"Don't enlarge yourself," the wraith warns, "You are actually inside FBI HQ. The location's lawmen would resent the wreckage."
Great Goliath wrestles with the perdurable darkforce, "Well, you're the one who ought to be arrested, Avenger. You just kidnapped the chair of the CSA."
"So what? She endangered St. Louis this summer," the shade states with swagger, "Some friends presently help her see the error of her ways."
"I'll show you the error of yours, you second-rate Blackout!" angry Atlas strains against the stalwart, stiff darkforce shell.
Amused, the Angel of Death queries, "Blackout was your buddy in the Masters of Evil, wasn't he?" The obscure reference rings a bell.
Grouchy Goliath growls, "Yeah, Blackout's darkforce devices dominated the Avengers—until Dr. Druid killed him like I'm going to. . . . ."
"What the?! Dr. Druid?! You're kidding me!" Doorman cracks-up. A titter turns to a roar. The specter starts splitting his sides with laughter. Seemingly, other voices join him in the jocular moment.
Josten scans the room for other occupants jeering him. He sees only pseudo-Sanderson—degrading to static. Promptly, the whole room's peters out. And, the Great Lakes Avengers around Atlas become apparent. Mr. Immortal, Big Bertha, and Flatman encircle around the Thunderbolt, their consistent rival.
Immortal chortles, "Well, we win this round—even if Val's video tech died like Blackout dueling Dr. Druid!" Big Bertha laughs like a large bowl full of jelly in Flatman's face.
Good-naturedly, Val "Flatman" Ventura admits, "I am no Reed Richards. The optical illusion equipment took a s***. I should have accepted Dr. Pym's help."
"What? Dr. Pym?" Atlas grinds teeth, "Are you working with the other Goliath?"
"Yes," Mr. Immortal affirms, "The Avengers wanted Riordan attained and detained."
"But, relax," Big Bertha pats the perturbed paramour's pate, "People simply want to talk to her."
Eight hundred miles west, Dallas Riordan studies Orville Sanderson across a cinderblock room. Suspended fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead. A single desk lamp delineates Director Sanderson's features at a worn metal desk. He turns the glaring gooseneck upward into the visitor's visage as though capturing her in a spotlight.
"Why don't you set yourself down," Orville indicates a steel stool standing before his stuffed swivel chair.
Dallas' sneakers squeak on this place's plain cement floor. It is not the carpet of a government administrator's comfortable office. Despite herself, Dallas feels a chill in this chamber that resembles an interrogation room. Riordan really shivers when inverted Spider-Woman slides from the eerie ceiling shadows. The snatched sucker stays stoically silent, but she wonders within "are you going to say some crap about stepping into your web?". One strong woman stares down the other.
Finally, Julia smirks, "Have a seat, sweetie." Arachne indicates the stool.
The CSA chair parks her posterior. Chin defiantly raised, she warns, "I know the Thunderbolts."
"You know the Masters of Evil? I'm duly impressed," the Avenger yawns. Staid Sanderson grins just a grain.
"I know Baron Zemo!" Dallas announces, although she has never liked Helmut.
"Baron Zemo has never scared us Avengers, and he never will," Wasp manifests from nowhere. Restless Riordan startles.
Instantly, Hank Pym appears as well, growing man-sized from the ground. In his grasp, Hank has a jar. And, in the jar, fussing Barney Fiddler stands about the size of an action figure. Pym particles must have been applied before the Avenger scooped the scamp into the shatterproof pot.
Dallas sniffs, snorts, sighs, scowls with ire. She spits on the ground. Sneering, she says, "So, where the hell am I? To where the f*** did you kidnap me?"
"You are in Berkeley, Missouri, at the same Shaw site that you thought that you controlled," Sanderson informs.
"And, what do you want?" the interview subject asks.
"Ms. Riordan, I have encouraged higher-ups to initiate an ethics investigation," FBI Director Orville Sanderson leans ominously forward.