Chapter 18: If Only Life Was Simpler

On the 12th floor of George Town University Hospital, Barrymore Collingsworth excuse himself as he made his way to the bathroom. That left his darling wife with some time to use the hospital phone to check for messages telephoned into her office at the Pentagon.

The only call came from her dumb brother, Nee. He was urgently requesting a favor. It was a favor she was ready to give her favorite dim-wit.

The shadow of trees had stretched over the children shielding them from the harsh sun. The Negro boy had smiled when Paige was playing with his sister. Those two things made Sam Guthrie feel at ease.

The other boy sensed it and he willingly allowed himself to participate in short spurts of dialogue. Unfortunately, there were long awkward spaces of silence between the subject matters.

The bothers sat on the grass about six feet from the long flattop stone where their talkative little sisters engaged freely. It allowed the brothers to keep an eye on their siblings. It also put them within pull-'em-back distance if the sisters decided to wander off. Additionally, the space prevented the sisters' conversation from distracting them while thinking of subject matters to interrupt their silence.

It was something Negro and White mothers say— men folk can't carry on more than one conversation at a time. Women have the ability to talk to a neighbor, listen in on her older child's conversation, hear from her baby's jabber if he is content or about to cry from hunger, and still know what's happening over the radio.

Feeling dumb that he didn't do so earlier, the darker boy announced, "So, eh.. mah name …"

"Yeah," Sam Guthrie interrupted. "Ah was wonderin' when ya be gettin' ta dat. Ah can't rightly yell 'Hey ya'll' if I see you a pace off."

That particular discomforting scenario that Sam spoke about stirred a giddy feeling inside of Samantha's brother. Here was a white boy who would actually call him over if he saw him. Here was a white boy who could have used any derogatory name on him, but Sam preferred to call him by name. As Methuselah could have tripped over his own beard, the laughter that came out of the colored boy's mouth surprised even him.

It was a goodly, friendly laugh. Sam didn't know what was so funny, but the white boy began to chuckle also. The infectious laugh spread to the sisters, as they began to giggle. After a long while of laughing over nothing, Samantha's brother began again.

"Mah name" – He stopped to hold back a laugh.

"Aww come on now," Sam said with a smile. "Am Ah gonna hafta wait 'till we're old an' in wheel chairs ta find out?"

Three voices again began to chortle. Only one voice spoke out with strong determination above the laughter.

"Hiz'm name iz Ka' Lucaz," Samantha declared, It was a proud moment for the little girl who thought that it was very grown-up of her to try to calm the foolishness. But then the giggly Paige leaned her weight to the side and rested her head on Samantha's left arm. This made both girls fall over onto the grass. Like the city slicker in the woods who thought he could use poison ivy when he couldn't find toilet paper, the foursome made such a ruckus as to scare off a charging bull.

Finally Sam asked, "So it's Ka? Ah guess Ah'll remember ya'in name whenever I hafta go ta da bathroom."

"NO! NO! NO!", the boy responded. "It's Carl… CARRRRL!"

"Okay Carrrrl," Paige and Sam replied in unison. The atmosphere had definitely lightened. The male talk was almost as fluid as the sister's conversation. How it led up to motion pictures was anyone's guess.

"You hearda Rodan?" Carl asked in amazement over Sam's passing comment.

"Sure. Everyone has, … I think."

"No,"' Paige said with a pout. "Nod dalk abou' id. Dey was scay-ee."

The boys shouldn't have been surprised that the rusty-headed girl was in tune with their conversation while keeping up with her own—it was that woman folk talent, you know.

Samantha placed a comforting hand on Paige's hand. "Oh, foost Ah waz scay-ah, doo. Buh in da enn', Ah waz so-wee fo' dem."

The girls began a discussion about the troublesome humans who should have known better than mistreating mindless creatures going out only to find food and sometimes wrecking unintentional havoc. The "birds" as they called them never eat people, now did they? They ate that big lobster-thingy that chased people. How could they be scary? They were as big as buildings, but in a real way the two Rodans were like children. They were dumb in not knowing that grownups will have a say in any of their activities if they weren't secretive; clumsy in wrecking stuff, but "scay-ee? Naww."

While Paige was learning a new appreciation for the Japanese bigg'ens, Carl and Sam explored their reasons for loving the film. Carl's eyes widened when he recounted the awesome display of power exhibited by the creatures. Where that wasn't loss on Sam, young Mr. Guthrie got a chance to discover the different heavy artillery that was at an army's disposal. Okay, they weren't that effective in the movie, but they were still impressive.

"Where did you see Rodan?" Sam asked.

Carl explained what Sam already knew. Four days before Thanksgiving and Christmas the Bijou and the Bijou East interrupted their regularly scheduled first run movies to show old monster flicks afterschool. The week between Christmas and New Years saw a morning-to-mid-afternoon marathon of that stuff.

"Yeah," Sam said nearly jumping out of his own skin. "Rodan, then a break, then King Kong, one day. The next day Godzilla, a break, then King Kong Versus Godzilla ."

The boys gave each other a celebratory hand slap as they just made a real connection.

"Well ah like da Ga'den Leaf," Paige said defending her favorite theatre. "Dey show Lady an' da T'amp, Some Alvin an' da Chi'munks, an' Snow White."

"Yeaaah, mommy took me day-ay," beamed Samantha. "I don' 'emeber doo much a da oddas, buh I 'emeber Snow White. Ah hides mah face when she waz in da fowest an she seein's dem scay-ee things. Buh I lub id."

"Me doo. Me doo. Ah lub dem seben liddle dwa'fs."

The girls then attempted their own celebratory hand slap. When they missed everyone laughed, but the girls executed it perfectly the second time around.

Left to themselves, there seemed to be a lot in common between the Lucas' and the Guthrie's . This made Sam ask another question.

"How come ah haven't seen ya'll dere?"

Carl responded, "We sits in da balcony. We cain-ts sits wit you."

The boys' commonality had made Sam forget the way of things. People's skin color seemed more important to folks than whatever interest they shared. In the theatres, the Coloreds Section was upstairs. The Whites were on the ground level. It was a sobering slap in the face to be brought back to the way things ought to be; they ought to be … kinda … maybe….. did it have to be all the time?

Sam asked himself, couldn't there just be one section so that anyone who wanted to sit next to someone was free to do so? It sure would be funny to see if Carl had to hold his sister the way Sam had to hold Paige when Rodan hatched from that giant egg.

"Nex' dime, we'll all go, an' we'll si's tagedda," Paige triumphantly concluded.

"Yeah," her friend said, "We'll si's like dis." Samantha's left arm locked around Paige's right . If only, Sam thought. He then noticed an uneasy smile on Carl. The boys were old enough to know what was just dreaming and hoping.

Suddenly the quartet heard an alarming voice at a distance.

"Ma Gwen!" Carl said as he shot up to his feet.

"Ya calls ya'in Ma by name?" Sam asked

"No, she's jus' one a da old ladies dat look afta us when our paren's are workin'. Our whole town has dese Mas. Ma Mabel, Ma Doris. Ma Hattie …"

"Don' fageds Ma Gwen," Samantha helped.

"Of course not," Carl replied while shaking of his head and giving his sister an incredulous look. "She's da one lookin' fo' us now. …. Com'on, we best be goin' Sam." Turning to the Guthrie boy, Carl added—"an' it was nice meetin' ya'll, an' Paige, Sam."

"Same here," The Man of the Guthrie house answered instinctively respctful.

They were of different kinds. And they weren't as dumb as the Rodans—they knew that they couldn't let a grownup see how they got along. Trouble was always a step behind when one doesn't know his place. The call from Ma Gwen became louder. They had to separate fast.

When the boys turned towards their sisters on their rock-couch, they found them defiantly hugging each other. One right knee touched the other girl's left knee. On their laps were their egally stubborn babies, Holly and Hermione.

This sight wasn't the least charming to the brothers. It was downright frightening.

The top floor of the Kurtzberg Building's four-story Penthouse had less square yardage than the floor below. This allowed the 4th floor to be completely encircled by a patio deck that was 21 feet wide. It was ideal for sunbathing, social gatherings, gardening, ... and looking down to see if a police van was waiting for you outside of the public park situated close to the 59th Street Bridge.

That was what Dr. Henry Pym was doing behind a pair of binoculars. A windowless police van was scheduled to take him and a new crusader to the Manhattan side of the bridge.

Henry wore a blue long sleeved shirt over his Giant-man costume in the event that someone from a neighboring roof spotted him. Revealing where the hero lived would prove dangerous for everyone, including the other tenants. The patio's parapet covered his lower regions, so street paints were not necessary to wear. He had quickly soaked his hero attire in the size-changing solution. The near-perfect day's warm sun and the cool breeze was drying his costume off. At the Avenger's feet was a fairly large, tan satchel. The dear Delfina Gilbert had packed Yolanda's street clothes and placed it inside of the satchel in the event that Yolanda had to walk away from the mission. For Hank's part, he had his civilian pants inside of it so that he could do likewise at the end of the bomb search— if he could indeed still walk away under his own strength.

Besides his pants, he placed communicators in there by his tool box. This box had a "freckles painter," eye glasses, false eyebrows, mustache and nose, a wig, and an attachable fake forehead that had realistic wrinkle lines. Of course he hadn't handled any of those items since his covert anti-espionage days, but that didn't mean that Henry had forgotten how to disappear in a crowd.

Dr. Pym put down his binoculars for a minute. He found himself releasing deep sighs too frequently. It wasn't because of Jan. As a matter of fact, he relished the call to action—it enabled him to forget about her. Well, there was one sad memory trigger, but that was only when he passed her bedroom door again.

No, the source of the dramatic exhaling came from his disgust over himself and a sense of mourning. He knew that this day was coming. Being privy to her most of her diary entries and scrapbooks, Henry knew that Yolanda was aiming to follow her father's steps in his later years. She was going to put herself in danger and become a heroine, come hell or high water.

Long ago Hank should have pulled the rug out from under her as big sis Erica had done to him when she disapproved of his plans. Yet could he really? With the death of her parents, Hank felt that he was her father figure. She would bring to him her latest inventions looking for his approval. This included the renovations to the original Unicorn design. How could he not lovingly encourage her?

Well, maybe it was really cowardice controlling him back then, but now it was too late to turn this little express train back towards her terminal. She wasn't a child anymore. He couldn't send her to her room. And even though he would have loved to cement her feet to the living room floor, he knew that the opportunity to redirect her to other things had passed. Be that as it may, Hank would still insist that she stay by his side. And if she was going to be in the line of mortal danger, Hank would gladly step in front of her and sacrifice himself.

The Avenger also suffered from a bout of mourning. Soon Yolanda's naiveté would be lost. He loved hearing her exuberance when she spoke of correcting life's wrong. But from today, she'll see the ugliness and ungratefulness of the world. The villains that she read about were always at a distance; bad yes, but still images on a newspaper. Now they will present themselves in all their detailed, cruel, murderous personas. They'll use 4-year-olds for shields if they had to. They'll horribly disfigure the bodies of dead policemen. They'd surrender themselves in order to let your guard down and think nothing of then firing a gun at your head.

And how will she react when the same public who she swore to protect are swayed by unscrupulous media giants to believe that she is as dangerous as the criminal she fights against?

A playful breeze suddenly stirred Hank with a familiar fragrance— the one that Yolanda wore when she woke him up today. He instinctively turned to his right. Did he just spot Yolanda on the patio? Did she just disappear back indoors? Was that a sign that she was getting cold feet? If only his Christian faith was intact—he'd be on his knees right then praying that it was true.

Earlier, Yolanda was in Laboratory E fitting herself into the Unicorn armor. She turned this side and that side in front of her full length mirror. Within Yolanda there were two emotions elbowing each other. Firstly, she was extremely proud of her achievement (save that the headgear wasn't fully equipped to launch an attack). Here she was: the new champion of the people. The NEW Unicorn.

Secondly, she was thrilled to no end. Here she was going out on her first mission after all those months of hard work to complete her project. Obviously, she was on what Americans call a "short leash." But who was by her side, holding that leash? The man whom she finally had to admit had captured more than just her admiration— Henry Steven Pym.

She tried not to spoil the moment by running up to the patio roof. Instead she was determined to walk out of Lab E. Yolanda was a woman now… more so, a super heroine. She was a picture of dignity, sophistication, elegance— DAMN IT!

She reached for the side of the table to keep herself from falling. How did that stupid blouse get entangled around her feet? …. Yolanda was in a hurry to suit up for action, that's all. No one saw it, so there was nothing to live down. She picked up the blouse and then she looked for a hanger… a hanger …eh, a…

Awww, to blazes with it. Yolanda didn't have time. She threw it over the back of a chair and ran out of the door. Whoa— she reminded herself to reclaim the air of a suave fem fetal. She was going to just walk… VERY FAST!

Yolanda got to her room quietly. The walls were insolated, but she didn't want to chance waking up the Wicked Witch of the Western World. Jan would find some way to ruin her premiere, she just knew it. Opening her closet door Yolanda grabbed one of her six shoulder bags. She choose the soft, shiny, metallic, light bronze one. It looked like something a scientist would carry samples in. Well, … maybe not, but it looked great with the armor.

With the bag strap over her shoulder, Yolanda headed back to the lab to get her helmet and then make a quick dash to the fridge.

Lab E (as well as the kitchen) was one floor below the dormitories and she was in a hurry. If one day it would be of great importance to test the ease with which the armor on her rear and thighs could slide down a wooden banister, she would remember this day.

She entered the silent kitchen with the bag on her right, and the helmet between her arm and her left rib. Both were placed on the counter in the middle of the kitchen to free herself. Out of the refrigerator she took sliced turkey, lettuce, Swiss cheese, mayo and whole wheat bread. If the stake-out was going to take more than an hour, Yolanda wanted to show Hank that she had his best interest in mind. She was certainly a better comrade-in-arms than that woman. And she was miles above her when it came to being a caring lover—oh, you bet'cha! Look at that—she had unconsciously adopted one of Erica's signature phrases. That ought to further soften Henry's heart.

Her arms were full of her prizes. She closed the refrigerator door and discovered that Brygitka was standing behind it with her eyes the size of dinner plates.

"Oh don't look so surprised," the young woman said. "You knew I was working on this armor."

Brygitka said nothing, but turned her head to call her sister into the kitchen.

Yolanda frowned and began putting three sandwiches together— one for her, one for him and the third to—SIGH—share. After the fourth annoying cry that came out of Bryditka's mouth, the 57-year-old decided to look for the prodigal sister. That was a welcome relief for Yolanda.

The sandwiches were finally in her bag and Yolanda made her way to the stairs. The temptation came to her … and it was appropriate to warm up her propellant footwear, after all. She put on her helmet and spoke, "Boosters."

Miss Vanko's feet vibrated a little and then she began to rise. She made sure to keep her left thumb way from the side knuckle of the index finger— she didn't want to increase her speed beyond 2 feet per second. It was a good clip by which she could maneuver around the stairs and landings.

After she reached the 4th floor, Yolanda's eyes dipped under her head gear's eye slits. The illuminated readings indicated that there was no engagement of mechanical strength. Great— when she slid open the glass door to the patio, Yolanda didn't want to have to chase after the door as it sailed over neighboring rooftops.

As Yolanda stepped out, she heard a "ding" announcing the opening of the elevator doors behind her. With one foot out in the patio, Yolanda turned to see a frantic Brygtka running out and pulling her sister along by the arm. Looking straight at Yolanda's headgear, Brygitka gasped. "It's worst then I thought. Look at her!"

Henry Pym was only a 12 yards to her left, looking through a pair of binoculars. Yolanda took off her helmet and put her index finger to her lips. She needed to hush the older woman and avoid this embarrassment.

The sister brought Delfina to her side. Del, for her part, seemed to think that the theatrics were unnecessary.

"My crazy sister," Del began, "thinks that you look too masculine in that armor. And considering who you are going with, that isn't the best idea."

Yolanda again gave the hush signal; the humiliated young woman stepped inside and closed the sliding door.

Brygika added, "So you think a shoulder bag will make you look alluring? You need to be as seductive as that woman is. She can dress femininely when going to battle, so can you." Yolanda started to defend her armor design, but Del raised her palm.

"Yolanda, dear, I don't think it's all that bad. The darker colors, I'm not sure about but the gold looks fine. If there are any refinements that we can think of, we"—she looked at her agitated sister— "will come to you, and respecting you as an adult,-" Del looked back at Yolanda—"we will ask you to consider them."

"Thank you," Yolanda whispered.

"But I must say, your armor's round hips and the extra space you provided for your breastplate should do wonders to combat any masculine features in that design."

The brilliant Miss Vanko turned away with a blush.

"Let's see that Helmet again." Delfina said.

"Horriid."

"Quiet, Brygika" Delfina enforced.

Yolanda held the helmet in front of her face so that the sisters could grasp the whole attire. The gold that started by the earpieces, and widen as it went forward to cover her face stood out against the rest of the black metal covering. Yolanda's left eye moved to the side to take in the reaction.

Del raised an eyebrow which didn't indicate a favorable view.

"It certainly is… different," Del finally said.

Yolanda responded with, "I'm trying for intimidating. I want to look like a very dangerous combatant. I don't want to come across as a little girl going Trick-or-Treating on Halloween." Dr. Pym opened the door behind the young woman and asked, "Are you okay?" Have you—"

"Changed my mind?" Yolanda said finishing his question. "No, no." She turned to the biochemist. It was the first time Hank had seen the armor in full color. He looked her up and down. He puckered his lips and nodded to signal his approval.

Yolanda, though, felt her heart skip at seeing his lips that way. She gathered enough control to say, "We were just saying our good-byes."

Filled with emotion, Yolanda hadn't really noticed that Henry was disappointed over her determination. He returnied to the patio.

Yolanda leaned her forehead forward towards the women. Her index finger pointed down and made a circle. The signal to turn around and go away was not well received by Brygitka, but Del smiled.

Hank was again looking through his binoculars as she hurriedly joined him on the terrace. The conversation with the sisters left her a bit self-conscious. As she walked up to Hank, she gave herself a once-over. When she looked at her feet, she also noticed a satchel on one side of his feet. But her eyes stopped at the small puddle on the other side.

What?" she heard him say. She quickly looked up to see Henry looking at her. "You think I have a bladder problem?"

Yolanda laughed.

"I took a quick dip in the sub-atomic vat. I wanted to make sure the costume didn't tear if I needed to become Giant-man. Having my derriere out there in the breeze would be quiet embarrassing.

"Yeah, yeah, we promise. Same time tomorrow. Pleeease." Carl's third entreaty work. That was a relief to Sam who couldn't think of another angle by which he could convince the girls that they needed to say good-bye before this Ma Gwen saw them enjoying each other's company. Throwing Paige on his shoulder and running like mad was going to be his next step.

The girls looked at each other. Paige raised her eyebrows and Samantha responded with a quick curl of her right cheek.

The girls reluctantly gave their okays and parted with a hug. Sam saw Carl pulling his little sister away. Her free hand had her cat doll, Hermione. Not able to raise an index finger at her brother, she raised her doll up to his face.

"Ya'll p'omise, Ka'."

"Yeah, yeah. We'll come back to dis same place tomorrow. Ah swears."

Carl yelled ahead of them, "We's heah, Ma Gwen. We's just lookin' around, s'all."

Samantha looked back without too much reassurance. When her eyes met Paige's, Samantha gave one last big smile (as big as a little mouth could extend). That smile was the last that the Guthrie's saw of her as she disappeared behind a bush.

A relieved Samuel Jonas took Paige's hand and headed off to the main road and into the beating sun. Sam's mind was swimming in what had transpired. Carl, the Negro boy— not a wild animal, but a boy with similar interests as Sam. Samantha, his sister— ingratiating smile and perfect playmate for Paige… well, for this one day, at least.

All in all, they carried on— the White kids and the Colored kids—like they were real pals. Real …. pals. Suddenly, Sam was pulled out of his thoughts.

"Ya'll p'omise," he heard Paige echoing Samantha's words. He looked down to his side. Paige was squinting into the blazing sunlight. This was unacceptable to the Man of the House.

"Le's get off a da road and walk under dem tress," Sam said.

They made it to the shade. Unwilling to let it go of her demand, Paige again stated, "Ya'll p'omise." This time just like Samantha had raised her dollinto Carl's face, Sam was nose-to-nose with Holly.

Sam hated to be pushed into something—particularly something that was unnecessarily risky. He was getting angry, as a matter of fact, but she had him over a barrel.

"An' ya'll promise ta say nothin' to nobody, right?" Sam said hiding his agitation.

Holly fell under his eyesight to reveal Paige nodding in agreement.

Sam warned, "Even when we come back here with ya'in friends, ya'll don't say he-ah's where we met Samantha an' Carl. Nothin' even remote ta dat."

"Nope," she said with pleading wide eyes that searched into her brother's pupils.

"Okay, yeah. Ah promise, we'll be he-ah, same place tomorrow." Sam sighed with no real ease. Paige suddenly made it difficult for him to walk. She had hugged him in such a way that his right leg was hindered by her right. Holly's face was on his right side of his ribs and Paige's cheek was on the other side.

"Ya'll da bes-ess b'udda in da wo'ld." Paige cheered.

"Thanks… li'l angel. Ya'll the best lookin'-fo'-trouble sister in the world."

In one of New York's Plaza Hotel's luxurious suite, Sergie Kravinoff— better known as Kraven, the Hunter— leaned back on a very comfortable recliner. For an outdoors man who normally preferred sleeping in trees (and thereby avoiding surprises from hungry hyenas) this did not take too much of an effort to get used to. It was, after all, a reminder of his much distant past.

He looked at the off-white wall to his right with a mild disappointment. They were gone. Earlier in the morning, the sun's angle produced a small amusement for the hunter. Its rays hit the ceiling chandelier and projected small visions of red, yellow, greenish blue, and bluish purple against that wall. It wasn't as spectacular as viewing the open, clear Serengeti night sky. There the moon smiled and the stars winked down towards earth, but here, as he reasoned before, human confines had its passing allures.

He sipped the potion from the goblet in his hand. This particular mystifying drink heightened his athletic powers to rival the strongest and fasted animals on earth. This liquid before this one had a taste that even honey could not sweeten. Still, it produced within him the sensory awareness of the keenest of creatures. His African Eagle Owl-hearing picked up a familiar low volume grumble outside of the door, some thirty feet away. He not only knew the voice, but also the reason for his discord.

The figure finally entered the suite. As the new arrival took his keys out of the door his back was towards the seated mass of muscles. When the man then turned towards Kravinoff, he had the similar features of the comedian Jerry Lewis.

"Humph," the hunter muttered. It seemed fitting— this fellow was also a clown whom Kraven did not find the least funny. Sergei made no attempt to acknowledge the approaching figure who had a cardboard tube under his arm.

Expecting the man to lay something down on the coffee table in front of him, that was where Kraven eyes focused.

In an instant, "Jerry Lewis" took out a five-foot by three-foot map of the city from the tube. It lay on the coffee table without curling up. Evidently, the carrier had previously took the trouble to remove the map from the tube and rolled it up again in the opposite direction before coming here.

Without speaking, the man pulled off his face to reveal the white, nearly nose-less mask of the Chameleon. The seam going down the middle of his face seemed to be the only eye-catching thing about this eerie man.

"Dmitri," Kraven finally acknowledged.

"Half- brother," the Chameleon responded with a bitter emphasis on the word half.

The hunter asked, "Are you still whining about the decadent rich? Do your lemmings follow you everywhere so long as you keep ranting? Will they follow one another if you tell them to jump off a steep cliff? Do your lemmings know about your….. bourgeoisie duplex?

"Of course, you and your fellow denouncers of capitalism are exempt from living with the unwashed masses; I mean, you are their leader and you should live like one. And while we're at it, it seems you have settles in comfortably here, as well."

The pale faced man answered the last comment and ignored the rest. "We would have been better served under the cover of my town house. It's so secure that I had no qualms about having this map sent there so that I could pick it up."

"Yooou … picked it up from a post office." Kraven chuckled at Dmitri's careless passing of propaganda. He then continued, "Please, Dmitri, it's a hideout. It is in a high maintenance neighborhood, but like the name describes it—it is dark and fitting only for those who spend their lives cringing and running like rodents exposed to light. It hardly has the amenities of a five star hotel.

"Instead of gloriously mounted heads of majestic conquests, you have drooping faces everywhere like skin taken from beheaded skulls. The place is ghoulish, sunless, depressing."

"Well, you think dead animal heads are more revered than mask that I attained without bloodshed, but those masks are the tools of my trade, half-brother. And in my duplex, we would be under the radar—away from the press."

Kraven laughed. "This is the Plaza Hotel. The security here prevented the masses from interrupting the rest of those vain, pointless Beatles. Though I can't honestly understand why they drew a large crowd. They make noise, not music.

"Plaza security also enabled Secret Service to covertly bring that whore, Marilyn Monroe, to the room of that equally restraint, … actually, pretentious President Kennedy. I do not anticipate curiosity-seekers, professional or novice, to intrude upon us.

"Try to enjoy the sun light, Dmitri. Your love for the dark and lowly puzzles me. No wonder you are so weak."

Had he not needed to maintain their allegiance against a common target, Dmitri Smerdyakov would have loved to tell his half-brother why they were so different. It was their upbringing. Sergei was the legitimate son, born to extravagance. He was loved and pampered by his wealthy mother. Dmitri was born to the family maid and both of them were denounced by the Sergei's mother. To the advantage of the maid and her son, the matriarch of the Kravinoff estate suffered from partial dementia and, at times, had memory problems.

Dmitri lived in shadows, afraid that undue attention would remind the mistress of the house about her husband's disgrace and force both mother and child into the street. But wouldn't the big windbag, Sergei, have known that already?

Sergie enjoyed surroundings that made him strong and well advantaged. Dmitri's upbringing offered him neither. But there was something that no one could take away from him. His intelligence and his will to rise above whatever life could ever throw at him.

Returning to the present, Dmitri tapped a finger on the map to get the hunter's attention.

"This is what I had been waiting on. An acquaintance had mapped out the route of Spider-man's patrol of the city. Today is Monday. Forget the blue line. The red line drawn on the map is the way he'll travel tonight, Wednesday and Friday."

Kraven leaned forward on his comfortable chair. He raised one eyebrow. "And this acquaintance,… is he reliable?"

"Absolutely. He had look-outs in different parts of the city to pick up a discernable pattern. He is a renowned intellect. I paid him very well. Besides, this was a copy of a map that he had to design for another client. That person has an even smaller tolerance for failure."

"And that other client wants to hunt down this Spider-man, also? Well, I must start tonight, then."

The hunter stood up and stretched like a jungle leopard.

"I hope this fellow is as reliable as you claim." Kraven said, restating his concern. "I hope he isn't like those other buffoons who sent you spiraling into abysmal defeats."

The Chameleon tensed up. It was the reaction that Sergei always enjoyed producing in him.

"Truth be told, you have the lingering scent of KGB arrogance, Dmitri. You fell twice to the Ant-man and once to my prey, Spider-man.

Dmitri snapped to a straightened position. "First of all, the Kremlin never sent competent accessories. The Ant-man failures occurred without my direct involvement."

Sergei answered, "Yes, the first spy-ring roundup happened before you got there. You came to the dock expecting to collect your helpers and all you collected was a cold from the winter winds."

Kraven let out a big laugh and the Chameleon rounded both hands into fists. He released them knowing that in fight against his faster, stronger brother he would come out the worst in the one-sided battle.

"But in the second encounter," Sergei continued, "you were there. … And you were put out of action when he tied your shoelaces together? And he was less than an inch tall? By Kilimanjaro, man— didn't you think to just step on him and finish him off?"

Another laugh rang out. The Chameleon left Kraven and entered the bathroom in an attempt to calm his anger.

On the penthouse patio Henry Pym gave a compliment to Yolanda about her Unicorn armor.

"I'd believe that you meant it," Yolanda said, "if you were looking at me."

He turned to Yolanda. "Now that's unfair. I couldn't say it if I hadn't look at you. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."

That was all the incentive that she needed to recount the setbacks that she stubbornly overcame in completing the project. Hank had heard it all before, but he turned his body towards her as he leaned against the parapet. He was so proud of her progress and her tenacity. Still, if she needed to repeat the story did that mean that the ultra-brilliant young woman lacked confidence? This had to be his fault, Henry figured. He'll have to invest more time with her, that's for sure.

His communicator rang through his earpiece, and Henry excused himself. The call was from Iron Man. His boss, Tony Stark had to comply with a prisoner work program to earn Stark's Industries partial property tax reduction. The prisoner that New York State chose was not to Stark's liking.

Iron Man continued, "So since my boss isn't too hot on this prospect, his lawyers wheeled and deal-ed at the last minute to get this prisoner on the stake-out. It works towards his early release just as if he spent twenty hours a week for 3 months at the site. He's a genius, that's for sure, but Stark doesn't want him anywhere near the plant with so many exploratory weapons around."

Henry asked, "He's a problem? Are you kidding me? He's not going to bolt or turn against us if the things get hot?"

"He has a special ankle bracelet that will fry his entire leg if he tries anything other than what is expected of him; which is to find and neutralize that bomb if it comes his way. Come on pal, you need him at one of the Jersey entrances.

"And another thing, this guy hates the Thinker. I don't really know why, but maybe there was an election to decide who was the biggest evil d - - k geniuses and he lost to the Thinker. I don't know. But he's a good bet on this one, Giant-Man. I'll stake my rep on that."

In the mean time Yolanda was looking around, trying to entertain her eyes while she waited to re-engage Hank's attention. Looking back she spotted Brigitka standing half way out on the patio.

Brygitka was pointing to a photos of a yellow and tan sundress on a magazine.

Wear a sundress? To a Battle? Is this woman cra—?" Yolanda didn't complete the question, because she already knew the answer.

She wanted Brygitka to go inside - Yolanda brushed her left hand towards the right. The older woman nodded and then while still facing the magazine towards the young woman, Brygitka began turning the pages to show other outfits.

OH, LORD HAVE MERCY! What type of lunitic would interpid "go away" as being "turn the pages to show me more dresses?" The Brygitka type, obviously. Yolanda opened her palm and repeatedly pushed her hand forward. That should have meant "back off", right? Well not to Yolanda's pal. Brygitka began turning the pages in the opposite direction.

Just as Yolanada thought she could take no more and readied herself to charge towards the patio door, a female's hand reached out behind Brygidtka. In a second the older woman was whisked inside. Yolanda gave a deep sigh. With a more relaxed mind, she caught Hank's words.

"You'd stake your rep on him staying clean on this mission, but being on the Stark plant site is too risky?"

"Richards is in on it and he agrees," Iron Man said.

Upon hearing about the endorsement of the leader of the Fantastic Four, Hank rubbed his face in frustration. "All right. All right. Who is this genius?"

"Are you sitting down, chum? Because you're not going to believe this."

Dmitri could barely contain his anger, but He did manage to close the bathroom door without slamming it. He rested against the door, satisfied that he didn't let Sergei see that he got to him. Finally he felt in control enough to step towards the sink and look at hs masked face in the mirror.

Yes it was true. Ant-man defeated him. His mind returned to that shameful day. It was two days after that inept Timur Vitebsky mishandled the kidnapping of an American Scientist. Two days after that idiot accidently murdered Dr. Vernon Van Dyne.

On the second floor bedroom of the Kurtzberg penthouse, Jan Oliva Van Dyne's sleeping eyes suddenly exploded wide.