Chapter 4: More Chess Pieces Come To View

A National Airlines airplane lifted off from the Greenville, North Carolina airport. Among the passengers were a brother and a sister. The male sibling's frost-white hair belied the fact that he was only four months into his twentieth birthday. His body had the lean muscles of a swimming or running Olympic athlete. Possessing rough, but handsome features, his perpetual scowl would have led casual observers to believe that he had lived a hard life. Or maybe that he was just a grumpy jerk. At present, he had little regard for anyone's opinion. He only wanted to close his eyes and rest.

His sister, 11 months his junior, sat quietly by the window. Her modest attire and reclusive demeanor made her inconspicuous; that was, until a stewardess had passed by their seat announcing to passengers that the 'BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT" light was off. It was then that the stewardess, attractive in her own right, walked away feeling jealous after seeing the smile of the very lovely brunette. Unlike her brother, her smiles came easy. The fact that she could appear chipper now, even if they were heading home without their goal being met, testified to that. They had not found one of their own, as they were led to believe. They left behind a side-show performer who proved to be nothing more than that.

She tried to put aside her disappointment with a Women's Home Journal magazine. The frustration over a fruitless mission turned into a frustration over not having the lovely homes that were depicted in the periodical.

The plane was not twenty minutes in the air when the two sets of young ears picked up a scream that was followed by other shouts. In the front of the plane was a man standing in the aisle. He was dark haired, unshaven, but otherwise well attired. In his hand was a gun. He ordered a stewardess to go into the cockpit and tell the pilots to turn the plane south, and head to Cuba. If he made it to the island, no one would get hurt. If they didn't comply, one passenger would be shot every five minutes throughout the period of their rebellion.

The brother turned to his worried sister and winked.

In Ukrainian, he said "You know the plan,"—The lovely woman narrowed her eyes, not following his words—"I make him move, you make something happen."

The twenty-year-old leaned his head into the aisle. The brother was grateful that the passengers heeded the gunman's warning to stay in their seats. This gave the white-haired youth a clear view of the man. There was a bulge in the man's right pants pocket. Great— that had to be his wallet.

The unshaven terrorist turned to another stewardess on his left. Before he could issue another command, the gunman felt a sudden tug on his pants. He looked down. Finding nothing out of the norm, the man reasoned, Maybe it was just nerves.

Returning to his seat, the slender youth looked into a black wallet. In seconds he read the name of the gunman to his sister.

She began, "If you got that close to him, why didn't you just—"

"Shhh'" he said. Taking his finger away from his mouth, he smiled. "I don't want to hog the action. You need some entertainment also, don't you?"

Before she could reply, she found his seat occupied only by the wallet. He magically reappeared four feet in front of the gunman. From the corner of the hijacker's eyes, he spotted a figure. He turned away from the stewardess and found the youth who had both hands up in a surrender gesture.

The older man gave a start and then the younger man spoke in English. "Ernesto Cordon. I know you. You don't want to do this."

"How do you know my name?"

The athletically-built youth walked backwards, ignoring his questions. "What about your family?" the youth asked. Then referring to the picture in the wallet that had three people sharing a hug, he continued, "What about your mother and your young sister?"

It was a gamble— he truly didn't know what relations the older woman and young girl had with the gunman. But the gamble proved fruitful.

"What do you know about them?" the hijacker asked angrily.

"You are scaring me, Ernesto. You really are."

The adrenaline of the hijacking and the sudden shock of his identity being exposed drowned out the voice of logic in the gunman's head. He began to walk towards the retreating man.

"Don't do this Ernesto" the young man repeated after receiving shouted orders to explain how he knew so much.

The attractive woman had moved to her brother's aisle seat, and just then pointed her finger at the hijacker. Suddenly, the man tripped over his own feet. A female passenger screamed. With the speed that defied the human eye to follow, the brother snatched the gun from the falling man. The dark haired man landed on his hands and knees. As he attempted to stand up, the swift hand of the youth brought the gun handle down on the hijacker's head with a thud.

Ernesto was on the floor, motionless. As the youth straightened his body once more, he felt his sister's hands on his shoulders. He turned around and smiled. Without returning his grin, the woman turned away to address the frightened passengers.

"It's alright, ladies and gentlemen. We're heading to New York, as planned."

The quiet cabin erupted with cheers and applause. The unexpected outpour of gratitude stunned her. The woman couldn't explain why, but she turned to her brother and gave him a victoriously embrace. He returned the hug as they looked out at their new adoring fans.

Suddenly they realized that the 40-second ovation had infused something into them. It was something that made their hearts flutter. Whatever it was, it fostered a need in one sibling to know if the feeling was shared by the other sibling.

She moved her face away from his shoulder and asked, "Pietro?" He replied, "Wanda?"

Jan was still dressed as the Wasp. In the hallway leading to Lab B, she shouldered her civilian-attired boyfriend against the wall every few steps.

"That wasn't much of a clue, Pym-ple Brain. You're so mean."

Henry replied with a smile, "Listen, I've spent weeks to get your present right. It's something that will have you thanking me for the rest of your life."

Why not turn up the charm meter, she thought. "Whatever it is Hank, darling, it will never replace you. …. But what is it, anyway? Is it perfume, jewelry?"

"You'll find it more valuable than that."

"Okay, fur?" she asked. Hank shook his head and she continued. "Oh great— a new car?"

"You already have a new car and I don't want to talk about that."

Jan thought to herself, wrong time to tick him off. Guess something else to get his mind away from sticking him with up to ¾ of the payment on that convertible Caddy.

But before she could open her mouth, they had reached Lab B. The sandy-haired man opened the door and stepped aside for her. Jan raced in and turned in every direction. Damn, whatever her present was, he hid it well. Was there no mercy in this man?

Hank walked towards the center table and reached for a small glass encasing that was placed upside down on a bakery cake stand. He lifted the stand up to her eye level and took off the glass cover. The stand, to her observation, apparently had nothing on it.

"Air? You gave me air? Thanks, there's so little of it—it must have been very expensive."

"Hush up, you little clown." Hank placed the stand back on the table. Using tweezers, he picked up something very small and then placed it on his left palm to present to her.

"This is it? The present you've been working on for weeks? — the Wasp strained to see the object and then opened her eyes in incredulity- "This little "Y" thingy? This is it?"

"Since the day you insisted on sharing my world, we both knew you were in danger. I surgically implanted artificial wings on your back as light as a feather, and as tough as Titanium. I thou—"

"How many weeks?" Jan interrupted, while pointing to his palm.

Hank sighed and then continued. "I thought that the wings would be sufficient. But I see now that they are exclusively for defensive purposes and –"

"And you thought if I see a two-hundred-pound muscle-man charging at me with a knife, I could throw this thing at him and what? I'd knock one of his dandruffs unconscious?"

"ANNND perhaps there might … Wait a minute! You can't knock out a dandruff flake. It isn't a living organiz— never mind. … Listen Jan, there might come a time when wings wouldn't be enough to get you out of a pinch."

"News flash: No one goes around pinching Wasps. How many weeks you worked on this so that I'd feel thankful and flattered?"

"You know what I mean," he responded with his annoyance held back. "I believe a good defense is a great offence."

Jan squinted again and then asked, "So you gave me something smaller that a school girl's toy ring? Who am I fighting off with that?

Wait, I know. I tell the bad guy to look at this and I'll give him a thousand bucks if he tells me what it is. He goes blind, I conk him in the head with something, and"—she raised her arms triumphantly— "the Wasp is victorious again."

Jan leaned forward for a better look at the item in Hank's palm.

Hank continued, "Sooo… I'm giving you a potent weapon. It is a miniature air compression gun. And yes, it has straps that make it look like a child's ring."

"A 'Y' child's ring, to boot. Why not a "J"? – Jan's eye shot towards him and angrily put her fists on her hips— " Was this meant for the Russian brat and she refused it? Now you're giving it to me so your work wouldn't be a complete waste?"

Henry shook his head and grunted in frustration. "Stop that and pay attention. If you look carefully, it actually resembles a Champaign Glass. The thin end is the weapon's nozzle. When you shrink to Wasp-size the elastic bands automatically slides up your forearm.

"Oh, it moves on me like a creepy-crawly insect. Just what every girl needs."

"It shouldn't bother a 'girl' who took the name The Wasp. There's a smaller elastic ring here."

He pointed back to the stand and said, "That is a black head band. Now put the gun's elastic band on your right pinky and START SHRINKING!"

"Hey, I should be the one who's grouchy, you know." Notwithstanding, Jan decreased her size to her typical inch and a half stature.

"The air gun should fit snuggly; otherwise your aim would be compromised. Jan, go and put on the headband. It should run across your face, just over your eyebrows. If you've put it on correctly, you'll see that it had has a rounded viewer mounted on it. Always keep that over one of your eyes.

Jan interrupted to ask if it was like a rear view mirror to see behind her to confirm that men were looking at her. Hank ignored the question.

"Jan, flip the viewer down over your eye and you'll see crosshairs. You now have the target-guide for your air compressor weapon.

"Now attached to the weapon are two cords with disks at the end. Place the disk with the longer cord on the end of your index and the other on your thumb. They should automatically stick to the material of your glove. When the disks make contact, the weapon fires.

Quick contact— short blasts; long contact— sustained air release for about five seconds. With your free hand, you can press the button on the top of the air compressor. That determines the degree of air strength. Untouched, you could slap away the face of a hungry cat. Pressed hard, you could kill a charging tiger. Got it? I also took the trouble to remove much of the recoil effect. Otherwise if you shot the air in one direction, you'll be hurled in the opposite direction."

The minuscule Jan hovered by his right ear. "So many instructions. A fur coat or jewelry would have saved you a lot of tongue wagging, Blue-eyes."

Hank gestured to the other side of the room. There was one desk placed against the wall. On the table were nine upright, hardcover books and three vases that belonged to the previous occupier of the penthouse. He told Jan that she could begin target practice.

"No wonder you didn't throw out that junk," she said. Jan then circled around his head. "But if I have to hit something, how about a thick chunk of granite sitting on shoulders, … having two ears, … lovely blue eyes and honey-gold hair on top."

The first two books on the left went down. Henry squinted to have a better look at Jan's face. Her smile gave evidence of her unexpected amusement.

Three additional perfect shots later, she arrived at what she had called, "The ugliest vase in history." The Wasp drew closer, applied a gentle, sustained air push to force the unsightly thing against the wall. She flew back to her original position.

Henry began, "Ah, hon— I should have explained that there is one hitch I have to work out. After that long air release, the weapon needs 30 to 40 seconds to recharge.

"Let's see," Jan replied. She adjusted the air intensity. Then she joined her index and thumb. The ugly vase gave out a high pitched shriek as the singular porcelain formation shattered into tiny flying pieces.

"Guess I was wrong," Hank retorted.

"What else is new? I, again, have to cover your blunders."

She attempted to blast the neighboring book, but nothing came out.

"I guess that's one you don't have to cover," Henry said, redeeming himself. "Look, until I fix that, I prefer that you leave the air compressor in this room after every practice, okay, hon?"

"This is fun," Jan cheerfully admitted without acknowledging the request.

Hank's intention was to increase her confidence and actuate a decisive responsive strike when faced with an offensive threat. But he was glad that she also found it entertaining.

"This is a quicker remedy to my concern and, for now, I have more confidence in the gun than the break-through I had with wasps."

Jan asked in a half-interested manner, "Wasps? Not me, but real wasps? Really?"

"I don't think I'll ever have a beak-through with you."

Jan smiled at the thought of being her own woman, unconquerable. Then she returned to the subject. "When did that happened?"

"I told you about it Friday night. I told you that I adjusted the cybergentic frequency to infuse into wasps the urgency to assemble in different parts of the park. I also managed to convince them that a paper bag that the wind was blowing across the grass was an enemy.

"Remember? I said that I preferred wasps over bees because after one attack the bees lose their stingers, whereas wasp can continue their onslaught. Unfortunately, I fear that they can turn on you. It will be a couple of weeks before I'm confident that I can bring them into complete submission."

Jan was looking around the room searching for items that she could use as targets. She shrugged at Henry's explanation without meeting his eyes.

She instantly replied, I must have been watching The Farmer's Daughter or The Addams Family at the time. Sorry, Doll."

Hank was about to protest that she wasn't watching any TV when he revealed this to her. Suddenly, alarms went off in his head.

IT WASN'T JAN! He had shared this particular achievement with Yolanda. The young intellectual was so much easier to talk to about his discoveries. If he could make such a mistake, that meant that Miss Vanko had endeared herself to him more than he realized. And his subconscious felt guilty that he could forget his troubles when she was around. That was why his mind did a cut-and-paste job, putting Jan in Yollie's place. He wisely backed off and went in another direction.

'I'm so impressed that you got the hang of this so quickly," Henry cheered. He then suggested that instead of waiting for the recharging, they go to eat. The thought of the food's preparer took away Jan's smile.

"You go ahead if you want to, Doll-face. I'll stay here practicing. I'll make something for myself later."

"Suit yourself, hon."

Henry turned away thinking, Just as well. Who knows what would've happen if he pushed her into sitting with Yolanda.

He stopped when Jan spoke again. "Oh, by the way, on the subject of remembering, ... if I say, 'June 24th,' what comes to mind?"

The renowned genius thought for a moment and then said. "It's a Wednesday."

"Oh, isn't that just so dear and so frugal," she said with that particular smile that always proceeded a blast. "Some people drink to forget. You, on the other hand, don't have to spend so much money to accomplish the same thing.

"I shouldn't be too harsh with you. Everyday I see you standing in front of me, I should appreciate your daily achievements. Like... you actually remembered how to get out of bed in the morning. Wow."

A frown accompanied her next words. "You're coming with me to the Metropolitan Museum Gala, Mr. Brain-leak. I can't believe that I have to keep reminding you. Now, if you can recall how to turn a doorknob, ... see you later."

Dr. Pym remembered and the door closed silently behind him.

A little more than a minute later, Jan had successfully knocked down the remaining books and vases. She jumped up to her human size and proceeded to set up the targets again. Then she decided to tour the laboratory room for other items that she could use for firing practice.

"Let's see. Let's see. What else can I use? Ah ha." Jan picked up the small waste paper basket. She could use that and the two empty soda cans inside of it. She got a few other items together. She felt proud of herself.

"Nothing escapes a smart gal on the prowl." After saying it, those words hit her like a sledge hammer to the head. Smart gal: Yolanda was eating with Henry…. ALONE.

Remembering Hank's instruction to leave the small weapon in the room, Jan took off her headband. It snapped back to its tiny shape at the cost of a stinging pain to her thumb.

"Stupid thing," she said after a few cuss words. Then she gingerly took off her "ring." She placed both objects back under the glass encasement, and then ran out of the room. Jan was going to make sure that one particularly smart, prowling bitch wasn't going to get her hunk-a-bundle.

It was 8:57, Sunday night when a 1964 Lincoln Continental pulled into a driveway in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. The down slope of the curb at the beginning of the driveway was meant for the angular turn of a smaller car. The rear tire always missed that slope and caused the car to jolt; not that Arthur Shapiro would give the car back to his generous brother-in-law, mind you. It was a great looking car.

Arthur's thin, small figure emerged from the driver's side and walked towards his front door. He thought that he had made an impression on Klaus Voorhees—The Cobra. But he was nervous about the setback earlier in the day. As the company lawyer, Arthur was supposed to secure an important chess piece for his employer's game.

With each step he took to reach the house, Arthur rehearsed what he would have to say to his employer—his brother-in-law—about the setback. It was only temporary, he repeated to himself. Yeah. Gregor Shapanka had too many things coming at him at one time. After a good night's sleep, Gregor would reconsider Arthur's proposal of employment.

This particular sought-after prize was the theft who called himself Jack Frost. After the death of his then-supervisor, Anton Vanko, Shapanka took the nearly-finished notes of the Director of Stark Industries' Weapons Development, made a few additions, and created a weapon that could freeze anything in his path. He could turn to crime and who could stand before him?

Unfortunately, one thing DID stand in of Shapanka's way…. his boss' bodyguard, Iron Man.

After being a model prisoner, Shapanka was approved for parole. He was released last Friday to come home to the Freeport, Long Island house that he had shared with his younger brother, Timothy. When he came home to garbage littering his yard, Timothy convinced Gregor that there was all a misunderstanding. What Timothy didn't explain was that the misunderstanding included his frequent delinquent payments to the private sanitation company that dealt with residential pick-ups. That misunderstanding extended to the mortgage, as well.

Saturday morning Gregor checked his mail to find a notice of foreclosure. When Timothy wasn't forth coming about the question of the money in Gregor's bank account and stock holdings, he threw his younger brother out. The rest of the weekend, he was trying to milk out whatever money his brother left him in the bank to save his house.

It could have been funny that today, Sunday, Arthur was the second person who Shapanka threw out of his house. But considering the reaction of his boss, it wasn't the least humorous.

Arthur winced at the thought as he put his key into the front door's lock. He was grateful to still be included in the man's family after his sister, Emily, died during child birth; but, if only the boss was more… understanding in nature.

Arthur called his employers' private line, fearfully. He was relieved to hear it continue to ring. Good— Arthur could use another hour, or so, to figure out how to soften the news of Shapanka's refusal. But just as he was about to hang up, the man answered the phone. Arthur's throat sudden became dry. A hoarse voice mixed with a frightened stutter wasn't appreciated by the man at the other end. He started to yell at Arthur, but suddenly he was interrupted and put his lawyer on hold.

The period of silence did wonders to calm the mousey little man. … Until his boss came back on the line.

After a few cuss words, the distracted brother-in-law said, "All right then, Harry, take the damn keys. Crash this car too. Just get the hell out of my face."

Arthur's nerves ignited again. Apparently, the man's son had already put him in a bad mood.

"Arthur, you there?"

What could he do? Arthur Shapiro explained the entire conversation with the prospective employee whom Arthur thought would jump at any employment opportunity. Perhaps Gregor Shapanka would be more receptive after a good night's sleep. Arthur would try again tomorrow.

"Tomorrow?" the man roared back. "You dim-witted, worthless piece of shhh… Listen to me. Tomorrow he'll turn you down again. Don't you get it? Someone else had gotten to him before your slow, lazy a - s did. No one in financial turmoil turns down a bundle of money; not unless he no longer ISSS in turmoil!"

There was a few seconds of silence. Arthur could just picture the man running his hands through his short-cropped, very wavy, red hair in silent anger. The man was probably asking himself why he retained Arthur as his company lawyer in the first place.

"Arthur," a cooler voice said.

The little man responded with a mousey "Yes?"

"Forget Shapanka. How about Voorhees?"

"He's thinking about it and it looks good. I gave him my card"

The voice rose again. "Looking good is not a guarantee, is it, Arthur?'

Shapiro agreed, repenting for his hope. His employer returned to a normal, albeit angered, tone.

"Listen up, you don't wait for him to call you. Seek him out tomorrow before lunch. But before that, you go on to the next name I gave you. And, unlike your inability to thoroughly convince Voorhees, this time tomorrow you had better not be telling me, it looks good.

"Meaning, unlike your inept attempt to reel in Shapanka, this time, for a certainty, you … BETTER NOT FAIL ME!"

The volatile man slammed the phone down. Tightening his lips together, he rubbed his temples without a sound. The walls of his luxurious den bounced the subsequent silence back to his ears. He looked around at the items neatly placed on his desk.

"Control, control" he breathed to himself in order to collect his composure. Again there was silence.

Then in a wild flurry, everything on his desk flew in every direction. But his hands weren't finished. He grabbed trophies from off the mantle, mounted pictures; anything that he could hurl against the wall shot out across the room.

Finally, he stood with his hands at his side. He was wild-eyed and hyperventilating. As his breathing became regular, he brushed back his red hair and calmly sat behind his desk. Over the intercom, he contacted his butler and graciously granted him and the three maids the rest of the night off.

His calm face hid behind his hands for five seconds. When his hands left his face, the wild eyes reappeared. He always had this thing for the number four. His industrial empire was built on four foundations: Energy, government defense contracts, pesticides and women's cosmetics. One was now gone. But he was still a successful man. And a successful man likes challenges. And stretching out his influence produces tests to his constitution. When the tests come in the guise of potential enemies, … those who stand in the way, they have to be put to rest… six feet under.

When the cosmetic branch faltered, he decided to look elsewhere for a fourth leg to his empire; Corporate and governmental thievery. Last month, he had partnered with three other men to accomplish a particular "hit." Not that the intended victim had ties to any institution, but his demise was seen as a test for him and the other three recruits. If they were successful, Stark Enterprise' bad-boy, Iron Man, was going to be next. And then, with the Iron Man's electronic weaponry in his hand…

Unfortunately, the so-called "Enforcers" weren't equal to the task of eliminating Spider-Man. Now the rich man wanted to form a new foursome and Gregor Shapanka was to be an important member. But if Gregor didn't avail himself to the better fortunes that the buffoonish Arthur presented to him, then his invention would have to be taken away from him.

The crazed man walked towards his fireplace. He pushed a button hidden in an aperture on the side of the mantle. The fireplace moved aside to reveal an elevator.

"Jack Frost," the obsessed billionaire spat out of his mouth.

A stupid name for a stupid man, he thought. But the rich man didn't need the stupid man. He was going to personally steal the freezing weapon and leave a little message thanking Shapanka for his cooperation. When it gets darker, the idiot will know what it means to anger Norman Osborn.

Inspiration: Tales of Suspense # 45; Tales To Astonish # 57.

Ernesto Cordon is an original character of this author.