.

Chapter 24

Reciprocity

Avengers Mansion

Hank Pym read the data on his computer screen with a disquieted expression. From time to time he picked up a stack of files, rifling them for some bit of information, before turning his attention back to the computer. Steve sat watching this play out from an exam table off to the side. On video-conference were Reed Richards, Henry McCoy, current member of the mutant team X-Men, and former Avenger, and Tony Stark, the Avenger known as Iron Man. Henry McCoy broke the silence.

"The final call rests with you, Hank. What do you think?"

"I just don't like these numbers," Hank said. "The toxicity levels are staggering. Given Cap's weakened immune system, I'm afraid this cure might be worse than the disease."

"I concur," Reed said. "We need to look at the specific trigger level necessary to effect the change in Cap's DNA matrix. These figures from the CIA lab are simply overkill." Reed quailed, looking at Cap. "Sorry. Poor choice of words."

"But your point is valid, Reed," said McCoy. "It appears they were planning to flood his system with this 'antidote', counting on his amazing recuperative powers to keep him alive. We need to find the exact level necessary to do the job. We also need to isolate the key active ingredients, as opposed to the stabilizing and catalyzing agents. Their formula is vague on that."

Hank Pym nodded. "Reed, the nanites you've been developing…could they be adapted to serve as a delivery system? Perhaps we can use them to introduce thousands of microscopic doses of the antidote, on the cellular level. This might allow us to use much lower levels yet achieve the same results. I can shrink the dosage. They'll be able to carry as much as needed."

"It's possible. I'd need at least eighteen hours to make the design changes and incubate a new batch," Reed said, scribbling a design on a scrap of paper. After a minute, a pleased look spread over his face. "Yes, it can be done. That's a brilliant idea."

"Good work, Hank," Henry McCoy said. A former student of Hank's, he was a mutant, a fact which often hindered his career. Even in academia, anti-mutant prejudice was not uncommon. Unlike many other mutants, Henry could not hide his heritage. He was covered in blue fur, and had a bestial appearance, ironic, given his great intellect.

"Thank you Henry," Hank answered. "If you'll work on identifying the stabilizers and catalyzing agents, I'll handle the dosing levels. Let's conference again tonight. Say nine o'clock?"

The others agreed, except for Stark. "I'll try, but I don't know if I can make it. Got a board meeting in a few hours and it looks like an all-nighter. But I'm just window dressing here anyway. I'm in over my head when it comes to keeping up with you guys on biochemistry. Reed, my people in Long Island are standing by with any assistance you might need with your nanites. Killer design, by the way."

"Thank you, Tony. And let me remind you, it's all been patented."

Stark smiled. "Of course. And I know that Bromley-Storm will do a very…adequate job manufacturing them. When you want to step up to the big time, give me a call."

The others ended their video feeds, except for Stark.

"Hank, could I have a minute with Cap?"

"Sure," Hank said. He turned to Steve. "Stop by the lab later, okay?"

Gathering his papers, Hank bustled from the room. Steve got up. "What can I do for you, Tony?"

"This is the first we've spoken since last month. You still pissed off?"

"That depends," he said, slipping on his tunic and adjusting his body armor. "You still backing the Registration Act?"

"I have problems with the M.R.A. I want to see changes in it—and to the greater Superhero Registration Act as well. But the best way to do that is from the inside, while the law is being debated."

"I disagree. When something is this wrong, you oppose it, you don't look for ways to make it less wrong."

"That's very idealistic. But I'm talking about the real world."

"If you want a world without idealism, then count me out. Freedom is an ideal, Tony. How does that fit into the real world? When do we compromise on that?"

"Society makes compromises on personal freedoms all the time. People aren't free to shout 'fire' in a crowded theater. We license the right of people to drive and hold passports, even to vote."

"But we don't license the right of people to exist," Steve said, pulling his mask on. "That's the most basic of freedoms. And it's under siege."

The fulcrum point of the conversation shifted, subtly, but demonstrably. A moment ago Tony Stark, one of the wealthiest and most brilliant men on the planet, was speaking with a man. Now he was speaking with an Icon, Captain America. The moral weight of Steve's words took on new meaning.

"I've seen this kind of thing before. It starts with people being put on lists, people who are different, people on the fringe. Undesirables. That's a first step in striping away the rights of such people. Next you give them labels; nigger, Jew, queer…mutant. Ultimately, they hardly seem like people at all anymore. And where it can go from there is a very dark place. I know. I've seen it with my own eyes."

"Steve, we don't always see eye to eye, but you can't think I would ever support something like that?"

"No, of course not," Cap said. "You're a good man, Tony...but this idea isn't good. It sets machinery in place, machinery that might seem perfectly reasonable and necessary today, but tomorrow, in the hands of the wrong people? I'm asking you to consider what comes next."

For a long time, there was quiet. Cap looked unblinkingly at his teammate over the video monitor. Finally, Stark spoke.

"The M.R.A. sucks, pure and simple—I've found the whole thing odious from the start. I'm working to shut it down, from the inside. But Superhero Registration is another matter. Mutants are a race, superheroes aren't. There's nothing in the constitution about having the right to wear a mask."

"So you want to punish people for trying to help?"

"No, damn it! I want to protect them! Registration protects our people from political backlash."

"We need autonomy. That's how we can best serve the public interest, by being free to do the job at hand, without political considerations getting in the way."

"It's the public that's pushing for Registration. Check the polling—nearly seventy-percent approval."

"That just means we need to do a better job getting the facts out. I get thousands of letters every week urging me to keep up the fight against Registration."

Tony sighed. "Steve, you could go on national television tonight and kick a sack of puppies, and you'd still get fan mail. Not everyone who wears a mask enjoys your popularity. Did you see this morning's Bugle?"

Tony brought up an image on the screen; a copy of today's edition of The Daily Bugle. There was a photograph of Spider-Man, lurking in the shadows. The headline read:

Caught at the scene of the crime!
What is Spider-Man's connection to Hydra?

"Under Registration, the web-head wouldn't have to deal with this garbage. Registration is confidential, it's a tool for our side, a benefit."

"Tony…you're a billionaire, a man of enormous resources. When you went public as Iron Man, it didn't end up costing you what it might cost others in our profession. There might be any number of reasons why Spider-Man chooses to hide his true identity. Registration could end up driving Spidey—and others—into retirement. Think of all the good he's done for the city, and what a loss that would be. Also, and be honest Tony, have you ever known anything to be truly confidential? As in foolproof? All it takes is one leak, and people's lives could be ruined."

Stark shook his head and laughed. "You're one stubborn son-of-a bitch, anyone ever tell you that? You must have tore it up on the high school debate team."

"Does that mean I've changed your mind?"

"It means you've given me food for thought. I'll consider your points, with an open mind."

Cap smiled. "Good. The real problems start when people stop talking. If we keep an open dialogue, hopefully things won't get out of hand. No one wants a conflict."

"That's a little pessimistic," Stark replied. "I know tensions are high, but come on. We're not going to have some kind of superhero Civil War."

"I hope you're right," Cap said, his look serious. "There's a dividing line forming in the hero community. They're looking for leadership, Tony. For better or worse, they're looking to us to give it. You and I have a responsibility to keep the peace."

"Agreed," Stark said, nodding. "That's just one of the reasons you have to get well. We can't afford to lose you. And I can't afford to lose a friend."

"Who can?" Cap replied, picking up his shield.

"I've instructed my legal division to be available for you. Murdoch and Nelson are fine attorneys, but going after the CIA is the Big Leagues. My people know their way around Washington politics."

"My guys did fine when we took Holder to the Supreme Court. I think I'll stick with them. But thanks for the offer, Tony. You're a good friend."

Cap ended the call, and headed to the lab, seeing Hank at work, programming his electron microscope. Cap rapped his knuckles against the wall. Hank looked up.

"Steve, I wanted to apologize for this latest delay…but it looks like you're heading somewhere?"

"I am. A little personal business to attend to."

Hank frowned. "I wish you'd put it off, and stay around the mansion. The interval between attacks has been growing smaller. I don't like you being too far away or out of touch."

"Hank, we've been through this. I appreciate everything you're doing for me, but I won't be a prisoner to a sickbed. I'm going to live my life. If I die while doing it…well, the choice is mine and so is the risk."

"Okay, I know better than to argue with you. But keep your activity light. At the first sign of trouble, call." Hank held up his Avenger's com-unit. "We're almost at the finish line. Don't do anything risky."

"Me, do something risky? Hank, you know what a cautious fellow I am."

With a cheeky smile, Captain America was gone.

. . .

Getting out of the mansion unseen was tricky, but Cap pulled it off with a little help from Jarvis, who made a timely diversion. He was able to reach the east exit unnoticed by any fellow Avenger. He knew that he couldn't put off meeting with his teammates forever, but today he felt good, and he hated to waste it. He left his Harley parked in the garage, instead choosing a sky-cycle. He really didn't like the damned things, convenient though they were. He always felt vaguely elitist using them. He preferred traveling on ground level, where he could see people eye to eye. It seemed to him there were too many heroes 'up there', away from the world of everyday people. Ever since the press conference and the massive public interest it engendered, ground travel really wasn't practical, so Cap swallowed his misgivings and took to the sky in a low hum of repulsor powered engines.

His first stop was his apartment. He parked the cycle on the roof and used the skylight to enter unseen. He packed a small bag of personal items. It might be a few days before he got home again. Or maybe never, he acknowledged. In any case, there were things he needed. He also wanted to get his current journal to Ben Urich. He had intended to send it UPS, as he had his other journals and notes, but a better idea came to him, a chance to kill two birds with one stone. Cap grabbed his belongings and got back onto the sky-cycle, flying across town. . . .

J. Jonah Jameson was meeting with his editorial staff, working on the layout of the Sunday edition when Betty Brant knocked on the door.

"Mr. Jameson, you have a visitor waiting in your office."

Jonah looked up, doing a slow burn. "I'm busy, if you can't see. Who is it anyway? I don't recall any appointments."

"He doesn't have an appointment."

"Then tell him to get one or get lost! What do I pay you for, Brant?"

"Mr. Jameson, you really need to see him."

Jonah slammed his hands to the table, making his people jump. "I don't care if it's the President of the United States…I'm busy!"

"It's not the President," Betty answered. "He's bigger than that."

Jonah pushed his way through the crowd of employees thronging around the doors to his office. He straightened his tie and pulled open the door. And standing there was Captain America, big as life. Jonah screwed on his best smile and walked in.

"Cap! this is a real honor," he said, extending his hand. Cap took it. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?" Jonah asked, motioning for Cap to sit. Cap declined, and remained standing. Jonah walked behind his desk, but chose to stand as well. The normal din of the Bugle office was absent; it was almost possible to hear the sound of people straining to listen in on the conversation. "Well. What brings you to the Bugle today Cap?"

"I thought I might help you clear up a mistake in today's paper." Cap laid a copy of the morning edition on Jonah's desk. "Spider-Man had nothing to do with the events on that rooftop. As you may recall, I was there."

"Yes," Jonah said with a small nervous laugh. "But so was Spider-Man. I have the photos to prove it."

"Daredevil was there too. Yet he only gets one line of mention—on page nine. And he gets none of the accusations Spider-man does. Why?"

"That's different. We have no reason to suspect Daredevil of wrongdoing."

"You have no reason to suspect Spider-Man, either, as far as I can tell. I didn't read any hard evidence against him, just innuendo and speculation."

"I resent that. Spider-Man is wanted for questioning on several criminal matters. He's a vigilante. That's not speculation, that's fact."

"Yes, it is. If that's your beef with the wall-crawler, so be it. Make that case and stick to it. But this," Cap said, pointing at the headline "is bunk, pure and simple. I've worked with Spider-Man on three separate occasions. He's a little…unorthodox, granted. But I've found him to be honest, sincere, and trustworthy. And any notion that he is affiliated in any way with Hydra is absurd."

"We never said that."

"No, you just imply it. For six pages. I'd like you to print a retraction."

"With all due respect Cap, this is my paper. I call 'em like I see 'em. You say the web-head is honest and trustworthy. I say he's shady and questionable—at best. As long as my name's on that door, I'll print the stories as I see them. That's called freedom of the press."

"I respect that. Freedom of the press is the bedrock of our democracy. But as a loyal reader of your paper, I'm asking you to print a retraction of this article. If not, you'll leave me little choice. I'll have to cancel my subscription. Of course, I'll grant the New York Times—and every other paper in town—an exclusive interview as to why I'm doing so. That's called freedom of the consumer."

Jonah flopped back in his chair. After a halting few seconds, he pressed the intercom switch on his desk. "Robbie, come in here please."

Almost instantly, Robbie poked his head inside. "Leeds is working on the retraction," he said. He smiled at Cap. "It's an honor to meet you. We're all praying for you, Cap."

The door closed. Outside, the office noise slowly returned. Jameson looked up at his guest, shaking his head and chuckling. "You're a tough man to bargain with. Must play a mean hand of poker."

"Poker? What is that, a card game?"

"You must not think too much of me, as a newspaper man. But I honestly think the web-head is bad for this city. I won't promise not to go after him again, if I think he merits it."

"I wouldn't expect you to. And you're wrong. I think you and your paper do a fine job, usually. Take your exposé on the Kingpin. That's excellent reporting. Most of the media in this town avoid Wilson Fisk like the plague. Not the Bugle."

"That fat s.o.b. 's overdue to take a fall. The Bugle doesn't run from a fight."

Cap nodded. "I hear it's caused some labor problems with your printing and distribution—and some serious threats against you, personally."

"Ha! In my line of work, if they aren't threatening to kill you, you're not doing your job."

"Mine too."

"How's my son? Haven't talked with him since…well, since before your news conference."

"John's fine. You raised a good man there, Jonah."

Jameson nodded, beaming with quiet pride. "He thinks the world of you, Cap. So do I. What Robbie said earlier goes for everyone in this building. We're all pulling for you."

"Thank you."

"When you were playing hardball earlier, why didn't you just threaten to pull your interview with Urich? I was sure that's what you were aiming at."

"Because I gave him my word."

"You're one hell of a man," Jonah said. "If someone like you puts his trust in someone like Spider-Man…maybe I need to reconsider my views on him. No guarantees, mind you."

"That's all I can ask." Cap turned to the door, and then stopped. "You know, I used to deliver the Bugle when I was a kid."

Jonah's eyes went wide. "You're kidding."

"No. So you see, I have a vested interest in seeing her shine. Follow your better angels, Jonah, and your paper can be truly great again."

Cap left Jameson sitting in stunned silence, and walked out into the City Room. Everyone pretended not to look as he walked down the aisle—at first. But then one person after the other looked up, speaking quietly as he passed by:

"We're with you, Cap."

"Keep fighting, Cap."

"God bless, Cap."

It was a little embarrassing. And very touching. There were photographers all around, but amazingly, no one snapped a shot. A young intern did hold up her cell phone to film the scene, but an older staffer gently pulled the girls arm down. It was an impressive show of respect. Finally, Cap saw the man he was looking for, standing by his desk. Ben Urich was smiling.

"That," he said, pointing towards Jonah's office, "was a thing of beauty."

Cap smiled. "Ben, I have a favor to ask."

"Anything, name it."

"Those articles you wrote on the Kingpin, I was hoping to see your research notes." Cap noticed Urich hesitate, his hands clenched. "Or am I out of bounds here? If this is a breach of your ethics..."

"No, not at all," Ben said in a rush. He pulled out a stack of files from his desk drawer. "Just reflex. Old reporters like me, we get mighty protective of our notes. Feel free," he said, handing Cap the papers. "You taking an interest in the mob?"

"Possibly," Cap said, scanning the papers. After a moment, he handed the notes back to Urich. "Thanks, Ben."

"Find what you were looking for?"

"I'll let you know after I've checked it out. Oh, almost forgot. I brought you something." Cap handed Ben a small item wrapped in plain brown paper. "I know I've already overloaded you with material, but this is more recent. Thought it might be helpful." Cap looked around. "I should get out of your hair, let you people get back to work. Good seeing you again, Ben."

And with that he was gone. For several long seconds the Bugle office held still, until Robbie spoke up:

"Folks…Elvis has just left the building. And we still have a paper to put out."

Slowly, people drifted back to the flow of things and the office returned to normal. Urich unwrapped the item Cap had given him. It was a leather bound journal with a note on the cover:

I enjoyed our interview, looking forward to the follow up.
P.S. – I have some friends coming over Friday. If you play poker
you're welcome to join us. (Don't bring any money you can't afford to lose)

Cap

Ben slipped the journal into his briefcase. "I don't care what dad said, I was born lucky." He circled the date on his desk calendar. Friday was just two days away.

Kenton Tool and Die

Inside the office-turned-command center, Sam Wilson was on the video phone, speaking with the King of Wakanda.

"It's perfect T'Challa," Sam said, holding up a gleaming outfit. "Your technical people outdid themselves. I didn't expect to get it so fast."

"I had them make it a top priority. It was the least I could do. I only wish I could be there to support Steve."

"You've got a nation to run. He knows you can't just drop things."

"Especially now. We have trouble on our borders."

That caught Sam's attention. "Is it serious?"

"It is. The whole region is suddenly in turmoil. The peace I have worked to achieve in Africa is in danger of unraveling. The pirates of Somalia are wreaking havoc with our shipping lanes, disrupting food and aid to the nations of the south. Trade has been crippled, hurting the economy. And the Angolan army is threatening to renew hostilities. In the space of seventy-two hours, things have gone from peace to crisis."

"Your intelligence people, do they suspect Hydra involvement?"

"No. We are aware of the Hydra bases in Angola, but my security minister assures me the outposts are minimal, no operational capacity. Perhaps we have underestimated them?"

"It's something you should look into. Do you have good contacts with SHIELD?"

T'Challa smiled. "Sam, Wakanda sits atop the only known deposits of vibranium in the world. When I call, SHIELD will answer."

"Good. I have it on good authority that Hydra is mounting a new global campaign. Those 'minimal' outposts might be a whole lot more than they appear. Get your people ready. We're doing the same here."

"I will. It appears your new battle uniform has been delivered in the nick of time. I must cut our call short and attend to these matters."

"I understand. Akiela sends her love to you and Ororo."

"And we to her. Tell your wife the House of Panther eagerly awaits the birth of its newest member. Take care, Sam."

Sam ended the call. He stood, holding the new uniform up for further inspection. As he did, a voice from behind him spoke up.

"Green and gold. I knew someone once who wore those same colors," Sharon Carter said, stepping into the office.. "Young guy, looked a little like you. Very dashing, as I recall."

"He was a hotheaded fool. How he ever lived to make thirty-six I'll never know."

"Not that it doesn't look good, but why the throw-back?"

"These are the colors I started with," Sam said, laying the uniform on the desk. "Figure maybe I ought to end with them, too. One way or the other, this is the last flight of the Falcon. I want to send him off right."

"I have some news," Sharon said, taking her bag off her shoulder. "Hydra's communication grid is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Whatever they have planned, it's in the pipeline. We're looking at days—a week, tops."

"And do we have any clue what that plan is?"

Sharon shook her head. "Every few months, they change their codes and encryption. We can't crack it. But the sheer volume of chatter is evidence something is going down, and soon. On a brighter note, our little archer-boy managed to score some interesting info. He paid a visit to the CEO of Brand Laboratories last night." Sharon handed Sam a file. He began to read.

"Cloning? What the hell is Hydra up to?"

"Don't know. I was hearing some rumblings along these lines before I took my…sabbatical. I'll try to find out more tonight. I'm trying to reach a friend who's still with the Division. Bobbie may know more."

Sharon began checking her weapons, putting fresh clips in her bag. She didn't look up as she spoke. "So...did you stop by the mansion last night?"

"Yes. Jameson's in."

"That's good. And…the rest of the Avengers? How are they?"

"Steve's fine, if that's what you mean. He wants to see you, Sharon."

Sharon set her gun down. Her back to Sam, she spoke, quietly. "Then why doesn't he tell me so?"

"Why haven't you told him so? The man is hurting. He wants to see you."

"Did he ask you to tell me that?"

"What is this, junior high? The both of you are going to drive me nuts. And Akiela thinks I'm stubborn. Go see him, Sharon."

"I will. When I think it's time."

"You might run out of time. Going to be a hard thing to live with, that happens."

Sharon looked away. Before Sam could say anything, she finished her weapons check, closed her bag and headed to the door. "Call me when you hear from Hawkeye," she said, slipping out the door.

Sam gathered his new suit. On his way out, he picked up the file, eying it warily. "What are you up to, Schmidt?"

A cold chill ran down Sam's spine. The answer to his question was coming. It was sure to be one he wouldn't like.

The Third Avenue Parking garage,
Washington DC

Holder stood perfectly still, a shadow in the dim light. He was in the sub-level of the garage, a spot he often used. There were no security cameras, and the place was seldom frequented. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, but that was fine. He was good at waiting. Patience was a powerful tool. It was one of his key skills, a talent he used in his rise up the ladder of Washington power. He would use it to regain what he had lost. This current predicament was merely a setback—and setbacks could be overcome. It only required patience and time. He would remember everyone who turned their backs on him. He would spend his time in the wilderness and when the moment was right, he would make his return. It might take years, but that was fine. Holder was very good at waiting.

Finally, he saw the familiar silver BMW coming down the ramp. It wheeled into the spot next to his Lincoln. The driver got out of the car and walked over, scanning the garage as if looking for danger. Holder had to suppress a smile; Timothy had never served as an active field agent. He wouldn't know what to do with danger if he found it.

"Hello Timothy. What's the latest?"

"The President is moving quickly. Tomorrow morning he's nominating Donaldson to replace you as head of the NSA."

"Donaldson? The man has no background in operational command. He's a bean counter."

"Apparently that's why the President wants him. He thinks the NSA needs a manager, not a commander."

"Well he's wrong," Holder sneered. "And he's a fool. But that's fine. Let Donaldson fall flat on his face—the President too. In three years, Kelly will be in the White House. He understands the realities of power. After that, I'll be on my way back."

"You think it will be Senator Kelly?"

"Who else? The Democrats are in disarray, this is the Republican's time. The party has had its fill with fools like Palin and Trump. It has to be Kelly." Holder shook his head with an air of disbelief. "Donaldson. The man can't choose a brand of aftershave without forming a committee. Whoever winds up chairing his staff will be the one holding the real power at NSA."

Timothy nodded absently at that, glancing at his watch. "Actually, Donaldson asked me to stay on as his Deputy Director. I will be the one chairing his staff. He thinks it's important to maintain continuity as his new team takes over."

"And you've agreed? It's a mistake, tying yourself too closely to Donaldson. When he goes down, he could take you with him."

"Like you almost did, you mean?"

Holder's face registered that comment. His surprise quickly turned to cold anger. "Don't make the same mistake as everyone else in this town. I will be back, Timothy."

Timothy Varner shook his head. "You're finished, Oliver. You seem to be the only person in Washington who doesn't realize that fact." His expression was somewhere between pity and embarrassment. "I really only came to say goodbye. And to give you this."

Timothy handed something to Oliver and, by reflex, he reached out his hand: it was the key to his apartment. Holder's face went white with anger.

"You traitorous little bastard. I made you!" Holder's voice echoed in the empty concrete enclosure. "You were a nameless suit when I found you. I plucked you from obscurity, groomed you, brought you up the ladder...I gave you everything!"

"Don't think I'm unappreciative, Oliver, but all good things must end." Timothy pulled on a pair of expensive calf-skin gloves. Oliver recognized them; he had given them as a birthday present last year. "And this, I'm afraid, is the end."

Timothy took a slim Mauser HSc pistol from his jacket, and casually pointed it at Holder.

"That's my gun. For God's sake Timothy, have you lost your mind? What are you doing?"

"Following orders, of course." He pointed the weapon between Holder's eyes. Holder had only a second to process what Timothy said next:

"Hail Hydra."

He pulled the trigger. The report was small, a firecracker. Holder fell. His blood mixed with dirt and motor oil on the concrete floor, soiling his expensive overcoat. It occurred to Timothy to move the body. He knew how Oliver detested getting dirty, but he let it be, and put the pistol into Holder's lifeless hand. There were no powder burns, but that was hardly a problem. He would oversee the investigation; it would be a simple thing to tie up any loose ends. In a few days, it would be forgotten entirely, swept away by the coming revolution. Senator Kelly would no more become President than would the man on the moon. It was the Red Skull who would be the master here. He would soon rule this nation, as he would all nations. Timothy dropped the suicide note on Holders body, got back in the car, and headed off to his meeting. And the hand on the doomsday clock ticked one second closer to midnight.