Chapter 17: Things Go Rolling Along

One winter, she had thrown herself on the sidewalk. Her face suffered minor scratches skimming against the rough, hard surface. Pressing her face against the ice-cold concrete gave her the feeling that her face would eventually crack from the prolonged contact. But it was either take the concrete or the bullets that were whizzing just over her head.

The following summer, she dove into a rice field… Third World countries use a particular fertilizer. In the oppressive heat, the right side of her face was in human waste deep enough to cover one eye (and it took days for her nose to be relieved of that scent). The other side of her face became a landing pad for biting flies. But it there was a bright side, the barrage of bullets that missed her left ear by less than an inch also provided a small breeze and sent many of the biting bastards to Bug-Hell.

All-in-all nothing seemed more hopeless and frustrating to Erica Yolanda Pym Collingsworth than her beloved, but DIM-WITTED baby brother. What in blazes was this suicide drive to take on the Sons of The Serpent? Last November's Kennedy assassination proved that a civilian-dressed gunman can strike from anywhere and at anytime. Though she didn't like his current heroic adventures, at least his enemy stood out with a stupid costume. Hank's target was always in front of him.

She had stopped him from interjecting himself into FBI business before and she was sure that she could do it again. But there was that OTHER THING!

Henry just couldn't see the light. He brought that tramp into his home and his heart because ….? She looked like Maria?! AAARRRGH!

Looking out of the car window from her back seat, she decided that her mind was better occupied with her present plan; it was an option that if her unclenching stomach could talk it would have thanked her. Erica was on her way to visit her husband in Georgetown University Hospital, this morning. It was generous of the Pentagon to send a limo to her home. They knew that she wouldn't have been n a mood to deal with the crazy drivers around the Washington DC area this day.

As was her custom, she checked her pants suit after getting out of the car. Good— the dark blue suit didn't hold any creases that it wasn't supposed to have. Then the tall woman exhibited her athleticism as she scooted quickly between the limo door and the elevator door. She had only stopped at the hospital lobby's newsstand to pick up the morning paper.

Inside the elevator, the attractive, cream hair-colored woman was stuck in a sea of blabber that was punishing. Every dummy felt entitled to talk about how the Wasp was jerking the cuckold Giant-Man around. The painful trip to the twelfth floor was made worst by the extra length of time wasted when these idiots deciding to light up the floor selection buttons like a Christmas tree. The doors opened on almost every floor between the lobby and the floor where her Barry was resting. The stupidity got worst with every donut-head that came into the elevator with his/her take on the betrayal. The ensuing laughter at her brother's expense almost made her lose it, but Erica exercised the great restraint that once made her an elite CIA operative.

The doors finally opened to a wall with a big "12" painted on it. Erica rushed out so fast that one would have thought the passenger cabin had deprived her of air for the entire elevator trip.

If only there was a special soap that she could've use to wash away from her brain all the crap she had just heard. Two turns and a twenty seconds walk later she reached Barry's room. What a relief it was to see her broad-jawed hubby looking better … sitting up on the bed… alone… without the in-laws.

Her husband looked up and held back his laughter. Two hours earlier over the phone, Erica had apologized. She confessed that that her brother's stupidity was distracting her from their morning prayers together. Barry said that she might as well call Hank and get it out … again. Knowing his wife, he pitied his brother-in-law—but still the image of her blasting him was very funny.

Almost as funny as a question that he forbade himself to ask her. When Erica prayed, all those years back as a CIA firearm markswoman, did she actually ask God to make her aim sure so that she could blow someone's brains out? That didn't really fit into Barry's concept of prayer. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't all that funny. Erica was a handful when she was riled up.

Thankful that his beloved Erica couldn't read minds, Barry smiled broadly. "Well hey, gorgeous. Had a good talk with Henry?"

"Hey yourself, handsome. And as for your question, let's not talk about it right now."

He nodded with puckered lips, understanding completely. She bent down to kiss him and then she pulled a chair up close to his bed.

"They say I may go home tomorrow," Barry said. He got a happy smile that he thought should have been bigger. Then again, considering what she was going through …

Erica finally said, "Sweetheart that's wonderful. It will give me enough time to throw out all the Twinkles, Ring-Dings and Sno' Puffs from the fridge."

Barrymore Ulysses Collingsworth was a man of rugged handsomeness, and a cool exterior. But at the prospect of losing his treasures, wrinkles magically appeared on his forehead, and his "cool" was blown away. His stately, thin strokes of white hair above his temples would probably increase in heft if this matter wasn't straightened out quickly with his darling.

"Ehh, you're kidding right? No one ever said that I can't eat those things after I get out of here."

"No one ever said that I should take a bat to my husband's head if I found him eating that junk, either. But guess what, …"

He grumbled, "Woman, you're exhausting."

"I know. The things we have in common make us a perfect couple." She took a note pad out of her purse.

"You're writing a novel?"

"A reminder—Gimbels has a plan where you can rent a stationary bike for a month with the option to buy it."

"If you're getting it for the reason I think, I'm suddenly a Macy's Man."

"We're not shopping there, dear. Financing the Thanksgiving Parade isn't an excuse to over-price your items. Besides, Macy's haven't had a snacks vending machine in their lobby for years."

"Okay, you convinced me. But ehh, the bike…"

"Stay with it for a few weeks and I promise to get you a rocking horse, dear."

"Don't need you to. That 3-year-old across the street leaves his unattended for hours. Even carrying it, I think I can outrun him back to our front door."

"I love you, but my money's on the kid."

She suddenly sandwiched his right hand with her two hands. She brought her face down to his fingers and her body began to shiver. He brought his face close to hers and he heard her low sobs.

He then felt the warm tears on the back of his hand. Barry pulled his hand away to enable a loving hug around her. Barry's pull brought Erica out of the chair to sit on the bed with him. Heartfelt cheek-kisses were exchanged as he held her and stoked her hair.

How Barrymore loved this wonderful woman. How much he needed her in his life.

Without singing out the chorus that went, "I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear ol' dad", he would readily admit that he marveled and loved this younger version of the woman who had raised, guided and nurtured him. Erica was intelligent, funny, loyal, caring, protective, a pillar of strength and support.

Barry was hooked from the time he initially witnessed all these familiar and attractive traits. That was when he first saw how she treated Hank.

Realizing that this strong woman's love for him exposed her to the vulnerability he was presently seeing, he discovered a self-deceit. He was convinced that he couldn't possibly love his darling more than he already did. Right then and there, he knew that was a lie.

Erica whispered into his ear through her sobs, "Can't get yesterday out of my head. I thought I lost you. … I lost you."

He tenderly kissed her forehead and replied, "Now, you really think that you could get rid of me that easy? Listen, sweetheart, there isn't an angel in heaven as gorgeous as you. And I need my daily fix of my eye candy baby."

"Then again," she answered, "who said that where you're going you'd see angels?"

That was another of the zillion reasons that Barry knew he couldn't be happy with anyone else— no matter the situation, they both tried to make the other one laugh.

Barry nodded, "You're right. Since no one knows when's the day you shuffle off, I better start carrying fans around everywhere I go, huh?"

"And me, you big galoot."

She hugged him tighter. The embrace was so tight that it nearly pushed the air entirely out of his lungs. That was something she had over his mom and it was still another reason that Barry thought the world of Erica— she was stronger than 95% of the healthy guys he knew. How important was that? Well, when they were dating and he found shortcuts to a theatre, Barry never feared walking through dark alleys.

Her husband's caress and assuring words brought back the strong woman. Erica pulled away and took facial tissues out from her purse. She smiled lovingly as she wiped her tears from his husband's face.

In truth, Barry was disappointed at that thought-to-be caring move. Erica was taking away the tears— the medals that she gave him for being so invaluable in her life. DUMB? Yep, but the love of a wonderful woman could always short-circuit a guy's logic.

One final sniff and a cleared throat later, Erica said, "Now that you've gotten your morning bath, let's get to planning. Do you have any thoughts on where we're going on vacation when they sent you home?"

Barrymore's insides were saying, Hon, when I'm with you I'm already on the best vacation of my life. But the man couldn't help but stall until he thought up a snappy come-back.

"Ehh, Vacation?" Barry asked with exaggerated surprise. "You think we're going on vacation?"

She brought her hands to the sides of his face. She looked warmly into his eyes as her thumbs gently stroked his cheeks. She then replied.

"Let me rephrase that, do you have any thoughts about me hog-tying you and keeping you in the hospital if you tick me off?"

"Well, I get fed and clothed here. I like the garbs, but they all have that opening from behind. Kind of drafty. I can't wear them at home. When I bend over to pick up the paper from the front lawn, old Mrs. Merryweather will have a heart attack."

Erica pulled back to laugh at the mention of the elderly neighbor. "Or the thrill of her life. But I'm more concerned that no visitors will ever want to sit on our chairs again. So, let's go to rephrase number two: do you have annny thoughts that ever, evvver, enter into your cavernous head?"

There was a short period of silence where he tried to fight back a smile. Barry then reached over and brought Erica towards him again. "Yeah, I don't know what I ever did to deserve the greatest, most gorgeous wife in the world, but I'm glad I did it."

They kissed warmly until they heard a collective "Sigh." They discovered that three nurses had entered the room to enjoy the sight.

One of them said, "Don't stop on our account."

After a spiked tirade was released many miles to the north, a different plea was made over a phone line.

"Please don't.. please don't yell at me. I had my a- - chewed out already. I just called to say that I'll be bringing you to the Hamptons, Mr. Duval."

Paul Duval pulled the phone away from his ear. The weakling's response was sickening, but this was the man who made his luxurious rehabilitation stay possible. What he knew about Paul Duval was still suspect as the men had never met.

Weeks ago Duval's public name was whispered in fear among the French—Gargouille Grise. Nothing that his heart desired could be kept from this ruthless man.

He had temporarily turned his back from a lucrative crime career in Europe to come to America. He had gold and diamonds galore. But there was one thing that he desired more, one thing that made his treasures look like stubble: Eternal Life. And one person had that invaluable gift.

He came to New York City because that was where the immortal from Asgard made his earthly home. The tall, centuries old Thor looked like nothing more than a basketball player with a bodybuilder physic. That gift of longevity must have resided in the power of his hammer, Duval considered. Why else did he keep it at hand so jealously? Flight? That could be attained with boot-thrusters from his insipid friend, Iron Man. Strength? Without the hammer he reportedly staggered the juggernauts Hulk, Sub-Mariner and Mr. Hyde. … OF COURSE THE HAMMER WAS HIS SOURCE OF ETERNAL YOUTH!

Thor's one connection to this world was a Dr. Donald Blake. That doctor's office was where the powerful criminal planned to begin his search for Thor.

And so he came, this Gargouille Grise, wrecking the same havoc that caused so many hearts on the other side of the Atlantic to tremble. Eventually, he had defeated the overrated champion, touching Thor and causing him to be petrified into a stone-like figure. He assured himself that now, in the United States, these lower life forms would likewise fear the name of the Gray Gargoyle. Nothing was left but to claim his prize and go back to France.

When wide-built, stone figure could not pick the hammer up from the ground, he cried against such witchery. He would have to wait the twelve hours that was required for his victims to revert back to flesh and blood. When Thor could again speak, Duval would pummel the secret out from him that would enable the frightful Frenchman to lift the mallet. And then the Gray Gargoyle would live forever; his reign of terror would last for untold centuries.

Leaving the hammer by the unmoving Thor, Duval fought back the encroaching policemen and stole into the shadows. He could afford to wait a half-a-day to grasp eternity. But less than two hours later, Thor miraculously appeared in the sky looking as he had before their encounter. The incredulous Gray Gargoyle came out of hiding to give chase. How such an escape from paralysis was achieved so quickly became a lost question when Duval saw his second chance to attain immortality.

Minutes later he had discovered that the airborne "Thor" was just a projected image. The trickster was the skinny blonde-haired Dr. Blake. The maggot had mounted a special 3-D projector on a motorcycle— when he rode the vehicle through the streets the illusionary Master of Thunder appeared to be flying without hindrance.

The Gray Gargoyle was no one's fool and Duval was determined to make Blake pay for the treachery. Driving a stolen delivery truck, the Gray Gargoyle intended to run over the miscreant on the motor bike.

To his embarrassment, he was tricked a second time. Blake stopped at the end of an abandoned, rotting pier. Thinking that the frail man had unwittingly trapped himself, Duval raced forward. Too late, the terror of Europe discovered that he was the trapped one. The combined weight of the cycle, the tuck and the Gray Gargoyle's 450-plus pounds proved too much for the weak pier. They all fell into the East River. The villain's stony bulk kept him from swimming efficiently and the currents began to take his helplessly body out to sea.

As it so happened, the Oscorp corporate helicopter was flying back to Connecticut from a business conference that afternoon. Being firstly enticed by a low-flying "Thor," Norman Osborn viewed the entire chase from overhead.

After the pursuit turned deadly for the Gray Gargoyle, Osborn followed the gasping stony head in the water as it resurfaced once every ten minutes. The industrialist knew a potentially valuable asset when he saw one…. But to Osborn's horror that prize was in danger of drowning. The copter was equipped with Osborn's amphibious balloon-tarps on its bottom, but the choppy water allowed only for a quick rope-pull rescue.

Duval had taken in a lot of water, so his movements were sluggish. But with one foot into the craft, the Gray Gargoyle showed his appreciation. Paul Duval immediately petrified the three workers who pulled him up to safety. Between his gasps for air, Duval began barking orders to the remaining crew; but he stopped. His eyes bulged as before him stood a stately man with short red hair holding a pistol to the back of the nervous helicopter pilot's head.

"I have no problem sending her down. Yooou are the one who cannot swim. Care to try your luck at a second dunk?"

Osborn and Duvall studied the presumed measure of each other's innate viciousness. Therein began a respected, though uneasy alliance. For these past weeks, the Gargoyle enjoyed isolated luxuries as a guest in Osborn's home in the Putnam County woods. Now it was time to repay the rescue and come under Osborn's employment… TEMPROARILY. A man of Duvall's riches and prestige would suffer the indignation of being someone's servant for only a period of time…. Even if he did own the bastard his life.

This attorney presently on the phone, Arthur Shapiro, had taken care of all Paul Duval's need. Still, this mousey, whiney straw imitation of a man sounded so nauseating. The lawyer was on his way south from the village of Dannemora, and he was ordered to pick up Paul Duval and bring him closer to Osborn— to his Hampton, Long Island Estate.

While Duval had the phone away from his ear, he allowed Shapiro to squeak out his pleas for civility. Finally, when he could tolerate no more, Duval brought the phone back to his face.

"Szi-lonz, you szpine-layzz worm. Come and ge-et me. But fahr you-air szake, don't eee-von zdink a-boat sztr-iiiking up a convair-zay-szown on de way th-aaair."

His vehement words sliced through his accent to become very understandable. The phone disconnected and Arthur was left to hear his own hard gulp.

Three years. If he managed to live that long, Arthur could retire in three years.

"You understand me now, Dr. Richards?"

The graying, handsome leader of the world famous Fantastic Four remained silent. He knew better than to believe that what he had just heard was too far fetched. Actually, considering the special powers that his group and this caller had at their disposal, nothing should ever be too incredible to believe.

It had to be the Ant-man at the other line— that much was clear. Outside of his team, he only gave this phone number to the small spy-smasher last year when he helped the Fantastic Four defeat Dr. Doom. That was before the Avengers were formed. Speaking of which, since the Ant-man didn't use the other untraceable number, the direct line between the Baxter Building and the Avengers Mansion, Reed figured that he was now, or soon will be, on the move. That meant initiating a second contact with the peanut-sized protagonist could be difficult. Dr. Richards knew that he had better have the facts straight the first time.

The renowned Fantastic Four intellectual repeated the information back to the Ant-man not only to check his comprehension, but also to check for an inconsistency before confirming his involvement.

The Fantastic Four had to appear in criminal court to testify against the criminal who named himself the Thinker. His break-in and entry into the Fantastic Four Headquarters, his weapons theft, and the collateral damages he inflicted on the city should set him up for at least twenty years.

Now, the Ant-man had told Reed that the Thinker was going to enter the courtroom merely as a show; as an exhibition that there was no situation that he couldn't turn to his advantage. The Thinker was leaving no less than five minutes after the gavel opened the hearing. More than that, law-enforcement was going to escort him on his casual walk away from the building and the country. No one will attempt to restrain him.

"And, let me get this straight," the leader of the fame quartet continued. "The Mayor, my team and I are in the courtroom to testify against The Thinker this afternoon. A bombing occurs somewhere in the city. The Thinker threatens three more explosions in heavily populated areas within the succeeding ten minutes if he isn't released and allowed to take a police helicopter to a ship waiting for him beyond U.S.-territorial waters."

Yes, Richards knew that The Thinker was a master inventor and planner. Yes, he knew that the Thinker was a vicious man who cared little for the lives of innocent people. But the plan … THIS plan … Could the claim about this designed escape be legitimate? The information came from a man who Ant-man readily described as a junkie; a junkie who burned the FBI six times in four months with false alerts. And that was why the informant turned to the Ant-man— the government no longer considered him a credible source. To them, he was just an addict looking for money to score a hit. This Danny Cohen needed Ant-man's endorsement to get the ball rolling and get another chance at a whooping government paycheck.

Hmmm, a highly unreliable informer with an ignoble motive, to say the least.

Still, this Cohen person had help imprison many spies and would-be saboteurs in the past. And the Ant-man believed this current story. Okay, Reed would lend his troop to the preventive maneuvers. Dr. Richards would also persuade Mayor Wagner and Police Commissioner Murphy to place men at all bridges leading into the city.

"What are we looking for?" Reed asked.

"Delivery trucks of White Rock Sodas. I requested that some FBI men go to the bottling site on Flushing Avenue in Brooklyn, but I suspect that the bombs will be placed in the trucks after they packed up and left for their distribution routes."

"And when are these bomb pick-ups to occur?"

"I'm not certain and the company has 14 truck routes. Because the FBI wasn't enthusiastic about the source, they wouldn't give me all the agents that I needed to tail these trucks. I instead ask for covert checkpoints on the bridges and the Battery Tunnel. I'm not worried about the Midtown Tunnel—due to the repair needs, the city closes the inbound lanes on non-rush hours.

If there are isolated areas on the Manhattan side where the soda trucks could be pulled over and searched, that's where the agents will be. If those secluded areas are on the other side of the bridges, then the Feds will have folks there."

Hank continued, "Cohen was to be a look-out on the Manhattan side of the Williamsburg Bridge. According to the time he is to report there, I'd say that these trucks will make it onto the bridge about an hour from now."

Reed asked, "That is where the bombs will enter Manhattan?"

"One or a few of them," the Ant-man responded. "Where the others are coming in, well, … the Feds heading to the bottling plant will also get their hands on the truck routes and we'll see.

"Then, of course, we don't know if the bombs will be loaded onto the legitimate trucks or if somewhere along the way, four new trucks will magically appear. For that reason trucks attempting to enter from New Jersey and the Bronx will immediately be boarded."

Reed responded, "The trial is scheduled for 1 PM. In the event that your … Cohen character gave you the wrong time table, I'll have my unit search the Island until 12: 40. The Fantasti-car can split into four smaller vehicles. They are speedy and mobile to a standard beyond what you may know. I had also, long ago, installed each of them with an x-ray monitor. We will fly over any White Rock truck that may have already entered Manhattan and we'll retrieve inner imageries."

"Understandable and greatly appreciated," Hank said. "I'll ask my people to back up the Feds and the police on the bridges and tunnel leading to the borough.'

After hanging up, Hank smiled. Reed Richards' tone was a little too wide-headed when he spoke about his vehicles' capabilities, but Hank wasn't entirely annoyed. Needless to say, it didn't tickle Henry Pym as when he heard Yolanda Vanko taking pride in her invention. But better to hear Richards patting himself on the back than listening to Tony Stark's boast. As unfair as it sounded, Hank couldn't shake the feeling that the industrialist's behavior reminded him of everything that had gone wrong with Hank's romantic life.

The subsequent call that he made went to a great Avenger and gentleman— Steve Rodgers. Hank included a quick thank you for a personal and unrelated matter. Then Hank supplied to him the information that needed Captain America's response.

Minutes later, the star spangled Avenger was heading to the Williamsburg Bridge under the siren of an unmarked police car. Four blocks before the bridge, the sirens were to be cut off so as not to attract attention. The Avengers' butler, Edwin Jarvis, was asked to contact Thor through a midtown doctor and Iron Man through his boss' private line. Nearly all the Brooklyn-to-Manhattan entry points were covered.

Unbeknownst to the others participants, Dr. Pym shared a friendship with a Westchester Dean of a school of extraordinary students. Professor Charles Xavier had lent him the services of Marvel Girl, The Angel and the Iceman (Cyclops and the Beast were too invested in following up a lead on the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants to also participate). They would be monitoring the New Jersey entrances to New York. Now Hank needed only one more member.

Peter Parker was walking through the fourth floor of Rockefeller Building in a daze. Below his thin tan slacks, his sneaker-hugged feet seemed to move without the rest of his body noticing. His hands kept bringing the check up to his face so that his eyes could reaffirm that it wasn't a mistake. His calculating mind figured out that this payment was 2.8 times bigger than his best paycheck from J. Jonah Jameson.

Ohhh yeah… Peter had found his new employer. Good-bye Bugle, hello NBC-TV's Huntley-Brinkley Report. He made it to the large employee check-cashing section. The detailed, old fashion 1930s décor would normally have held his admiration, but not now.

The in-this-world-and-out youth stood on one of the two short lines in front of the cashier windows. He vaguely heard someone behind him call out for a "Richard." But that was no concern to him, really. Well, so he thought… until a firm hand pressed upon his shoulder.

"You deaf, kid?" Frank Dolmen asked him. Frank was a bi-speckled, double chinned, rollie-pollie, pale man with a terrible comb-over. But he looked like Mr. America to Peter, since it was Frank who instructed his secretary to type out his check and his temporary check-cashing ID.

"Sorry", Peter said suddenly remembering that his photography moniker was Richard Fitzpatrick. "I was in my own orbit, I guess."

"Well here's a phone number. The call came in after you left. After you cash your check, the pay phone is just by the door." Frank's thumb jerked over his right shoulder.

"Richard" looked at the paper that Frank handed him. It was Dr. Pym's number.

Since he was just the second person on line, the teen promised to call after he got his money.

Strangely, Frank Dolmen didn't leave after being thanked. The peripheral look from Peter surrendered to a full head turn towards the man. He asked the smirking older man if he had anything additional to say. And boy, was he sorry for that.

"Okay, kid, tell me. How'd you do it?"

"It?" Peter asked.

"You know— those photos. They were spectacular."

"Umm, Thanks."

"Let's hear it— where did you perch yourself? How did you get does different angles so quickly? You had a few buddies, right? What possessed you to get so close to that dangerous fight?"

He dogged Peter even to the cashier window. Okay, this Frank fellow paid way better, but he was too nosey and too clingy. No amount of money was worth so many obligatory answers. That was uncharted territory laced with mine fields that could cause Peter to somehow give away his secret identity.

"Richard" finally managed to get some private time for his call. But Frank was a few yards away from the rows of payphones. He was ready to re-drill the photographer as soon as he hung up.

Waiting for the phone at the other end to pick up, the teen fiddled with one of his shirt's long sleeves. He lowered his web-cartridge-carrying elastic band down to his wrist. He had planned a post-phone call maneuver. A webbing, in the shape of a mouse, skipping across the floor in front of Frank was sure to get the relentless inquisitor's squealing attention. Peter only needed a few seconds to dart pass the guy. But first things, first.

"Great to hear it," Henry said over the line. "You now can pay the month's mortgage, you have more than half of next month's, you can get your Aunt's jewelry back from the pawn shop, and still have a little over for a date, if you have a little honey."

Hank knew about Betty, but he didn't let on. Revealing too much about his successful info-gathering talent would invite unnecessary questions that could only be answered by a former spy-smasher, not a scientist. Hank then quickly brushed aside the youth's thank yous to get Peter's attention to the more important matter.

"A person who has ties to another part of the NBC news network is saying that Giant-man was looking for help at the 59th Street Bridge, pronto. If he finds away to communicate with someone like Spider-man, you would do well to get yourself over there with a camera. Take care, Peter."

Hank hung up not wanting to answer how he knew all this. Hank was calculating that with Peter's adrenaline on a high over his payment, the always helpful teen would get there in his heroic identity. Henry rolled one cheek as he soothed his conscience. Hank was the one with the connection to another part of the network—Ray Ailes. So it wasn't a lie, after all.

"Giant-man is looking for help?" Yolanda Vanko asked.

Henry turned around in surprise. He was immediately annoyed at himself over ignoring the small noises behind him. A minute ago, Yolanda had entered the Lab with the newly tested digital clock and waited until he was off the phone to announce its success. But she suddenly put it on the desk in front of Hank as if it was a mere paperweight.

"The Unicorn is ready," she beamed. And then on a second thought, she added, "Well the boosters for flight and the mechanics for the strength. It can generate the equivalent power of 4 bulldozers… maybe five. The horn blast is a few days away from completion, but I can assemble something quick in my palm-blasters. They're tested and I'm only a minute away from assembling them. I made them good enough to challenge Iron Man's repulsor rays."

Yolanda was inwardly angry at herself for dragging her feet the last week. Otherwise, the complete armor might have been functional right then and there.

"Shouldn't you be at the Daycare?" The man who held her interest asked.

"Not on Mondays. Give me three or four minutes and I'll be r—"

"Listen Yolanda, dear… ehhh, maybe we should—"

"Talk about this? Okay you talk on our way to the bridge. You know I'm going with you no matter what. So let's not waste time here with useless debating. We should be meeting up with Spider-man."

The Avenger thought for a moment. The young woman was right. Time was of the essence. And she wasn't a child who he could send to her room. He couldn't cement her feet to the floor (as much as he thought it was a good idea). And since she knew that he was going to the bridge, she was eventually going to show up there. No matter how emphatically he would put his foot down, she'd be there. He might as well wait for Yolanda, this new Unicorn. If he stayed along side of her, he could look out for the spirited young woman.

"I don't like being painted into a corner, Henry said. Yolanda wasn't buying his supposedly offended appearance.

"I should have known this day was going to come," he sighed. "I don't think you're ready, but here is where you prove me wrong. You will have to do as I say; no individual plans or heroics, you understand?"

She nodded with a big grin.

"And we're definitely talking about this when we get back."

"Absolutely!" Yolanda said. " Between us, I'll be able to get all the details into my diary."

"THAT"S NOT WHAT I MEA—. Never mind. Just don't make me look like the sidekick, you understand?"

References:

1) Ant-man & the Fantastic Four vs Dr. Doom: Fantastic Four # 16 (1963)

2) Grey Gargoyle tricked into falling into the river by Dr. Donald Blake: Journey Into Mystery # 107 (1964) Using a "weak pier" seemed better than the actual incident that lead to the plunge.