Chapter: 31 Bad Times A-Coming.
The brisk wind worked slower than a splash of cold water, but the effects were the same. Clint Barton's eyes fluttered. In his emergence from unconsciousness, the man could feel the unrelenting wind slapping his face. It took a while before his eyes repossessed their focus.
On his right wrist was a thick ugly bracelet-of-sorts. Between his hands, the vague geometric shapes were taking clearer forms. Wait—were those buildings and streets?
"What the f - - k is happening," he shouted. His arms waved wildly in his panic, but he felt his legs restricted. Maybe, like they were glued together.
"Stop squirming," an irate voice yelled from above. "I'm letting you down now."
Clint looked up to see flared nostrils on an old man's face. That face was mounted atop white fur—or were they feathers? His face was hardened and it axed its way into the direction of the wind. Only the old man's sunken, angry eyes acknowledged Clint's existence as they scorched their way down from the sides of the hatchet–like nose.
The masked man who called himself Hawkeye looked down again. He panicked when he realized that the two green legs wrapped around his chest where the only things that were preventing him from becoming a messy splat on the sidewalk.
Clint cried out shamelessly and his hands grabbed mightily onto the two emerald knees that extended from below his armpits. If he was in a more stable frame of mind, Hawkeye would have noticed what was under the costumed limbs that held him.
On the outside of each knee there was a feel of a round metal disc. Metal rods clung to the outsides of his legs. It would have been obvious that the old crow whom Clint Barton depended on to stay airborne had added mechanized strength to his limbs.
As a side note, it would not be accurate to say that this model was copied from Yolanda's armor design. The old man had this design first…. though admittedly, Ms. Vanko's strength- enhancers were much more sophisticated.
Again, the bowman looked up to the stone-like face. "What's happening? Is this a dream?" Hawkeye's last questions was more like a plea for the answer, yes.
"Oh, stop your whining," the old man chided. "You're making me think that rescuing you was a mistake."
Shaking his head in disbelief over Hawkeyes apparent cowardice, the old man continued. "We're coming down on a roof."
Clint looked down onto a rooftop that was getting closer. On it was an unusual shadow that was getting bigger. Hawkeye made out his own legs— but they were under two stilled, outstretched wings. Unexplainably, his feet had grown something like …. a tail?!
A metal "clank" of his tail accompanied his face-down, painful introduction to the roof's surface. The impact made the sprawled masked man believe that he was dropped down in contempt.
The archer turned over and vainly tried to get up. His difficulty was explained when he saw a metal leader twisted around his ankles.
Before he could ask why he was thusly shackled, a long, shiny, angular-topped green blade sliced up and through the metal between his boots. The sheering noise was quick. His feet hardly jerked upwards. The skyward-traveling blade missed Barton's nose by a half-inch. But the bowman didn't react with a backward jerk and a shout until the wind that followed behind the blade, struck the middle of his face.
He looked at his supposed rescuer in front of him. The old man was crouching like a baseball catcher. He was leaning forward towards Clint. The left side of his upper lip rose with a sneer.
"What did you do?" he asked the bald, old human head that rose above the Halloween costume of a huge emerald eagle.
Clint's words still lacked the arrogance that emboldened them in front of Giant-man, a while ago. That weakness brought an increased look of disgust from the birdman.
"The same thing that I did to the leader around your hands. I sliced it open. …. You would be wise to offer thanks to the Vulture, boy."
"The Vulture? I heard of you. Adrian Toomes. "
"Good for you." He replied coldly. The old man's upper body moved back. "For your sake, make sure that your recollection isn't the only thing that you gets you an 'A'. Like any small fish, I can always throw you back in the water."
The archer knew that the old man was referring to the police. But there was something else that grabbed Clint's attention. He felt new pressures against his mask— he knew instantly that his right cheek and the area above his left eyebrow were swollen. He raised his right hand to feel his forehead and he almost banged his eye with the metal that was still around his wrist.
That awkward move was not lost on Toomes. The Vulture's upper body leaned forward again.
"Here, hold out your hand,"—the old man said while gesturing towards the entrapped wrist.
"No, no. I can squeeze myself out."
The Vulture got up to his feet with added apprehension. The former college professor and robotic engineer had to force himself to remember that this not-too-brave yelp actually had Spider-man scrambling from before his arrows. And that was good, considering that Adrian was convinced that Spider-man had developed a special power to strike a foe from a distance. Why not turn the tables?
"I'm offering you a chance to join an elite team," the older man said.
Small as it was, Clint's gratitude was quickly diminishing because of the offer. As far as he was concerned, he and Natasha Romanoff formed the only team that interested him.
"I employ someone who serves as a messenger between Doctor Octopus and myself."
Oh great, Hawkeye thought while getting up. I'm going to join an old geezer who lost his wheel chair somewhere and a two-time looser who's locked up in prison. Now that's what I call reliable allies.
Toomes looked on silently until the swaying archer finally found his equilibrium.
He then continued, "With you, we'll have three for now. But we're on our way to becoming the richest men on the planet. With a bit more recruiting, we'll have the right talent to defy the world's might. Banks, Museums, everything will merely be our storage bins. When we decide to retrieve what are there, we'll become the nightmare of every government."
Clinton nodded with assumed interest, but inside he was saying, "No way, grampa." He already had plans to bring down governments on his lonesome. Well actually, with his beautiful girlfriend at his side.
The Vulture said, "Before that, our first target will be Spider-man. …. Since you've just had a bout with him, I figured that you would have an added incentive to join us."
Yeah, the urge to get back at the motherf - - king web-head was there, but this proposed deal was getting stupid. Hawkeye's eyes looked down at Toomes' feet while he instinctively reached behind his head for a flare arrow. In the middle of his hasty attempt to scare off the old kook, he groaned. He had just then remembered that Spider-man had webbed his arrows to his quiver. But … what a big surprise!
The webbing was self-shedding. Hawkeye brought a drooping portion of it to the front of his face. The masked archer smiled absentmindedly. It was then that he met the old man's eyes. The Vulture was anticipating a strike and he was clearly preparing his counter-attack.
Clint thought that it would be wiser to humor the old crank. He said, "Okay, Mr. Toomes. After me, you said you had others lined up?"
The other villain's face relaxed. "Yes. Stay here. I am about to retrieve another soldier to our cause."
Clint's smile broadened. He sat back down on the roof's surface and said "Well, here is where I'll stay."
The Vulture's silent wings carried the elderly, but dangerous figure off. Toomes now had more confidence that he had chosen well.
When his "recruiter" was a small speck in the sky, Clint gingerly pulled the mask off of his beaten face. He moved to the roof's edge and looked down upon an obvious middle-class neighborhood.
The building was a four-story tenement. The location wasn't familiar, but that wasn't such a big concern. At a distance, Barton saw the Empire State building standing arrogantly over other structures. That was the general direction he needed to take.
He'd find his way back to the ritzy neighborhood where Natasha waited for him. But before that, Clint had to get to the limo. In its trunk were the new weapons that the archer had intended to mount onto his arrowheads.
While freeing his arrow supply of more stringy webs, Barton walked to back of the building and again looked down. A tall wooden pole anchored clothes lines for the apartment dwellers. Conveniently, he had a broad choice of pants and shirts from the lines.
Clint had chosen his attire. He wasn't going to use the fire escape— that had "potential sighting" written all over it. It was midday, on a school day in this apparent working-class neighborhood. Nearly all of these apartments would be empty. All he had to perform was a minor break-in and then reel in the clothes.
He calmly walked over to the door that led to the tenement stairs. At this point, most of the webbings were pulled off of his quiver's top. His fingers could recognize the end of his torch arrow.
Holding the arrow stem in his left hand, Clint examined the flimsy excuse for a door lock. He then slid his left index finger down his 5-inch wide wristband on his right arm until he found his arrow-activator.
He turned towards the sky where he last saw Adrian Toomes' wide-stretching wings and smirked. "So long, sucker."
There was still plenty of day left in the pleasant day. The winds were in the duo's favor as they were traveling south. Jan was only half interested in Hank's cybernetic conversation with a fellow named Morrison, or something like it. Jan was just now beginning to get a handle on this new development. She and Hank were not riding on the backs of winged ants, but on yellowjackets.
Wow, Hank's really done it. He has really stretched his sphere of control to other species. Now if it could be stretched over elite hair salon managers, so that one fellow could opening up a mid-afternoon appointment on Wednesday. She hated to be slated in at 10:30 AM when the museum event was at 7PM.
Speaking of which, she thought that she had better remind Hank about it. He had a knack of forgetting things that didn't involve test tubes or electronics.
The Wasp looked over to her ridding companion. Getting Mayor Wagner to schedule the silly conference was a lot easier than swaying the ad agency big shot that Hank was presently taking with.
In Jan's mind, advertisers meant liars. Liars are skeptical of everyone because they project their own morals on others. This is why she believed that her beau was having some trouble.
She knew little about this Morrison—or Morbid Chump— guy except that before she met her hunk-a-bundle, the Ant-man had granted a special favor to the deceiver.
"I'm telling you that you won't regret it," she heard the ant-sized hero say. "Come on. The publicity will be fantastic. If you doubt me, after the press conference, call your employees in their different cities."
Ah yes, Jan remembered. Mr. Liar also owned a number of medium- sized radio stations up and down the coast.
"It will be covered everywhere, Craig. And your boys in Detroit— truthfully, they never fully recovered from Dinah Shore signing, See the USA in your Chevrolet."
"Think of the catch phrase. Ford trucks: Ford tough. Superhero tough. And then the camera gets the Blob driving off into the sunset to face another challenge.
"Am I making sense? …. Great! …That's all I'm asking. Well no, that's not all. You handle Coca-Cola and Gillette razor spots also, correct?"
Jan moaned. This is going to last a lot longer than she thought. The two carrier wasps dipped earthward and she finally saw the van that Hank had mention. Good. Not that she was anxious to see Yolanda, but they all had to get back home.
"Okay, we'll talk tonight," Hank concluded.
Allll right. This was her chance. She asked Hank if he remembered Wednesday. After a period of silence, he answered "Yes."
Unconvinced, she ventured forward. Did he go to get measured for the shoes and Tuxedo that she rented for him?
They made it to the ground. Before they dismounted, she was again treated to his silence. And then he asked, "Did you want me to come with you?"
"We had an agreement—YES! ….You …." Jan decided to stop there. Calling him "jackass" so close to the time that they had made up wasn't wise.
Holding back her tongue was hard, holding back her anger was more so. It was a good thing that they were in another recovery stage of their relationship. Otherwise, Jan would have flown off of her winged insect and slap the jackass off of his ride. She fought to hold a stoic face as they assumed their normal sizes.
Like most males, Hank didn't know when to leave well enough alone, though. "Didn't you say Teresa, and Darlene, and your other nose-in-the-air friends were going with you?"
"They're going with their husbands," Jan said with mounting volume. At least she restrained her hands from reaching for Hank's neck.
She added, "I wanted you there so that the papers wouldn't print that Janet Van Dyne, the rising fashion designer who clothes high society, couldn't find a date."
He turned to her. "Why would they concentrate on you when so many—"
"Because I designed a good quarter of the gowns that will be there. Not even the leading designers can say that."
"Oh come on. How many people think about the Wright brothers when they board a plan? How many think about Karl Benz when they drive a car?"
Jan was increasingly perturbed because he was comparing apples to oranges. Neither the Wright boys nor Benz could be found today to stand next to their creations.
"But if it's important to you, and I said that I'd go, then I'll—"
"Thanks for your wholehearted, eager support Mr. Pym."
"I said I'd go and I'm showing you that I would not dismiss the significance that you've placed on the gala. What are you angry at now?"
Far more irritating than his dumber-than-dumb comparison, was the clear conclusion that the big galoot will never understand a woman. Doing something FOR her to make her feel good wasn't the same as making her feel good because he was enthusiastic about doing something WITH her.
Again, she reminded herself that this wasn't the time to bite his head off.
Hank had reached out for the handle of the police van. He then turned around to get an answer to his question, but the infuriated woman just gestured for him to slide open the door.
AND HEAVEN HELP YOLANDA IF SHE'S INSIDE HEARING ALL THIS AND SHE SAYS ONE WORD TO DEFEND THIS IDIOT!
Well fine, Henry Pym said to himself. He clenched his teeth. He didn't know if he wanted to fully submerse himself into the relationship again. Things were playing out right then as they have for the last few months. Besides her wondering eyes, it burned Henry that when he tried to do good, it was never enough for that woman. Well maybe this particular love arrangement wasn't enough for him.
It wasn't like he was wildly desiring to jump back into the pool. Right now he was cautiously dipping his toes into the familiar water. And the water was just as acidy as he remembered.
Hank opened the door and found the seventeen-year-old Lorna Danes sitting on the floor. She had a red wig on that was misplaced. She clearly couldn't clearly see through the cascading hair. Lorna also had a black mustache.
That was enough to rescue him from his frustration. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. "Eh, you won't need the disguise, the battle is finished and won."
"I know. Things were getting quiet and boring." She flipped the hair-piece back into the disguise bag.
Hank looked down. Just in front of the door was the now empty gold-colored purse where Yolanda had packed a couple of sandwiches.
"You were welcome to the food, but I thought you said you weren't hungry.
"Yep, but like I also said, boredom changes things."
"No doubt," The Avenger responded. He wanted to introduce the Wasp to both girls, so he called the younger girl from the driver's seat. Jan would surely appreciate the younger, yet the more adult of the duo.
Son of a gun, if Tabby didn't greet him with a wide, angelic smile … behind a furry black beard and under a head scarf.
"Great," Jan said from behind him. "All she's missing is an eye patch, a parrot and a ship."
The thirteen-year-old missed the reference and just concentrated on the hero. "The sandwich was great Mr. Giant-man."
"Happy to oblige. Oh, ah…. Lorna, Tabatha this is the Wasp."
"Why are you sitting on the floor?" Jan asked the older girl. "Didn't they have chairs where you grew up?"
Alarm bells went off. Why in blazes was she taking out her anger on Lorna when she was clearly ticked off at … ?
"Why do you have a mask over your face?" Lorna counter-inquired. "They probably DID have mirrors where yooou grew up."
If he allowed himself to still believe, Hank would have moaned, "Oh Dear Lord!"
What is it with Jan and teenage girls? This was looking just like a Van Dyne—Vanko square off. Speaking of which, where was Yolanda? Heading home to avoid Jan?
"Knock it off, you two. You're no doubt meeting under stressful conditions."
"Not me," Lorna said. "I was just bored. But now I'm pissed off."
Giant-man interrupted, "Give your gums a rest. Please don't talk to each other right now."
"That won't be a problem," Lorna said determined not to lose the staring contest with the older female.
"Not at all," Jan replied with equal determination to win the eyeball match. "I might mistakenly use words with more than one syllable and confu—"
"Ladies, please," Giant-man yelled.
Tabatha had a scared look in her eyes. Hank didn't blame her, as both females had the power to start a destructive confrontation. But Tabby didn't deserve the fear that she was experiencing. Giant-man had to do something.
The masked hero continued, "When things are calmer, and cooler heads prevail, I expect apologies and civility. I think it won't be a stretch to think that after getting to know each other, you may like each other."
The stares that the two females were giving each other exposed the weak foundation that his prediction stood upon. Oh what the heck—maybe Hank didn't believe it either when those words came out of his mouth. He only said them for Tabby's sake. But for now…
"Tabatha you sit on the bench there with Lorna. Wasp, you siiiilently sit in the front with me."
Jan wasn't moving. Hank had to yank her away by her right arm. In what could be seen as a ballet move (but one should never tell that to Hank, himself), he spun so that Jan was facing the front of the van, his back was facing the girls, and his free hand whipped the door close.
The Wasp jerked her elbow away from Giant-man's fingers and threw open the passenger side door. Hank extended his hand to close the door, like a gentleman.
Suddenly Jan reached out for the handle and slammed the door shut with a loud bang. It was mere luck that the hero still had his fingers.
He stood there in surprise over the astronomical height of Jan's outrage. Ohhh, this is going to be a long ride home, he thought.
Suddenly Hank was caught up in dread. He was outside of the van while Jan and Lorna were inside. The red-masked Avenger ran to the driver's side door.
The police was giving a hero's escort to Frederick Dukes. He was heartened by the cheer of the crowd. It should have been enough, but he couldn't get the Unicorn out of his thoughts.
Should he have told Giant-man that she was devastated when she saw him and the Wasp kissing? On the other hand, the gallant Unicorn had not actually revealed what triggered her sorrow. That love triangle could have been only in Frederick's imagination.
Still, he wanted to do something for her. It would have to be later. Giant-man arranged for him and the Unicorn to receive the Keys to the City in a City Hall press conference slated for 6:05 PM. That time was chosen so that the 3 nation-wide TV networks could cover the presentation live on their 6 PM News.
6 PM—that brought another thought into his head. All this excitement was good. It will keep replaying in his head tonight before falling asleep. He needed that. Nights were the hard on Frederick.
He fondly remembered his adopted parents. When he was a child they lay on either side of him as they read him a bedtime story. It never made him drowsy. Only the slow rhythmic breathing of two caring, sleeping adults made the world calm and safe enough so that he could close his eyes. As a teen he would return home late and find them asleep on the couch waiting for him. He couldn't help tip-toeing close to them. It was their peaceful breathing that melted away all residue of the fast paced day from a hyped-up youth. Frederick always thought that this would be his rich heritage one day.
But now as an adult, there was no woman laying by him exhaling lovingly against his cheeks. Most nights that was very hard to take. After seeing Wanda again, he expected this night to be the worst. Maybe not. He, at least, had the day's events as weapons against the nighttime boogie-man of loneliness.
The police tried their best to keep the throngs from reaching out and touching their new hero. It wasn't a hardship at all to Fred. He enjoyed the attention now, and it would hopefully be an anti-depressant for tonight.
But he particularly enjoyed getting back to his truck. There his pal, Svend, waited with the shopping bags filled with deli sandwiches and soft drinks.
In the Jacob Kurtzberg building's four-story penthouse, sisters Delfina Gilbert and Brigitka Adamsky had not left their seats in front of the TV until the meta battle had been won. Now, the very relieved twins had nothing to do but continue their chores around the abode.
Before the fight, the two women moved what they could out of the kitchen so that they could sweep and mop the room. One of the things that they forgot to return to the kitchen was the serving tray that was on wheels. Well, Delfina didn't forget.
"Brigitka", Delfina called from the kitchen, "bring back the serving cart."
"Oh, you've become cripple, all of a sudden? You get it. I'm taking care of the flowers."
Brigitka was referring to a row of stunners that framed 80 percent of the outside wall of the penthouse's first floor. The particular door that she was going to use to access the terrace was in the glass-ceiling atrium.
Brigitka felt a little mischievous. Anticipating Del's retrieval of the serving cart, she decided to move the cart further away from the kitchen. The old woman rolled it along the front of the one-step down sunken living room. She left the cart close to the atrium. That's what her sister gets for being so bossy.
She stepped out through the patio door and she examined the flowers on the west side. She had just turned to the south side when she heard an unidentifiable sound behind her. Brigitka backtracked.
Hmmm, she could have sworn that she had closed the patio door. She strode determinately towards the glass entrance— even with so many stories over street level, she had experienced mantis' and garden spiders' uninvited visitations into the penthouse. When she grabbed the handle, Brigitka looked into the atrium. She had spotted the upper portion of a shadow on the floor of the hallway leading to the living room. In a blink of an eye, it raced behind the wall.
Now, Delfina wore her hair down today. This figure didn't have hair. And the shoulders were broader than that of her twin's frame.
"Henry? … Yolanda? … Miss Van Dyne?" There was no reply to any of those names. Brigitka had heard about cat burglars scaling tall apartments to do their dirty deeds, …. but in broad daylight? Well in this day and age, criminals are far more brazen.
Oooooh, where is Henry? Where is Henry? The house phones could be picked up by his cybernetic circuitry, but the closest phone was in the living room… where the burglar was.
Ah, but each room had an intercom. She could step through the patio doorway and reach for the 7 inch by 4 inch wall unit on her right. By pressing the "ALL SPKRS" button she could warn Delfina, wherever she may have been in the building. Better yet, Brigitka could scare the bandit.
"Delfina" she began. "Please tell the three nice policemen that I'm coming with the lemonade. Make sure that they are seated. Those big guns have to be especially heavy since they are filled with big bullets."
Fearing that her sister would reply with a counter-productive "What policemen?" Brigitka continue in Polish.
"Don't answer back. Someone is in the house. If you can make it to the elevators, run."
After taking a few steps deeper into the abode, she took off one shoe. If she had to fight her own way to the elevators, that burglar was going suffer a terrific headache.
Similar to the image of one riding on a merry-go-round horse, the brave 57-year old advanced with varying heights. Up-down-up-down. When she was on her one shoe, Brigitka was two inches taller.
On the other side of the same wall where the shadow had disappeared, Brigika thought she had heard whimpering.
Oh heavens, HE'S GOT DEL ! The courageous little woman would come to the rescue. Even though her sister was a pain in the you-know-where, the captive woman was still family. But this needed more than one shoe.
A second later, the less-than-five foot tall warrior no longer fluctuated in size. Each hand held a shoe.
She reached the end of the wall and the tearful sounds were clearer. Okay, then—Brigitka's plan was simple. Scare the intruder away or beat him senseless—either way she was going to save the day.
She rocked from one leg to the other. These old knees still had some spring to them, yes indeed. One… Two… wait.
What war cry would be the most effective? A threating HAAAA should do it. But it had to sound too angry to appear like a laugh. Okay, throat cleared, legs ready, shoes held over her head. One … Two … ah…
The face. It should convey something demonic. She practiced expressions without the benefit of a mirror. But she had to be content with wide mouth and big eyes— Del was in trouble.
Okay … her face was wildly distorted….she hoped that those old facial muscles didn't freeze. But then again, if they did, she would have no trouble finding a seat in the bus when she'd leave for home.
Okay! Face was set on scary. Knees were ready to spring. Throat was cleared for the bone-chilling shout. Shoes were held over her head for the whooping of the intruder's lifetime. One …. Two … THREEEE!
Battling Brigitka leaped out from behind the wall. Her jump to the right was to set her footing for another right turn that would lead to a charge towards the menacing intruder. The elderly heroine only managed to serve up a "H" from her HAAAAA!
Her feet understood about stopping and turning, but they didn't tell her upper body. The momentum of the leap forced the small rescuer to fall to the left…. ON TOP OF THE SERVING CART.
The four-wheeler took off in the same direction that the fall had taken. In the past, Brigitka thought that the step down onto the living room was charming. It was doubtful that she felt the same way when the serving cart went over the edge.
The cart went "crash" and Brigitka rolled on the floor until she could stop herself. Finding herself stomach down, she got up to her knees, and faced her opponent. Hoping to redeem some form of heart-melting fearsomeness, she raised her shoes over her terrifying face and prepared her roar.
Nothing came out. Brigitka just looked at the standing figures before her. Yolanda's redden eyes widened to mirror Del's eyes— all four were expressing unspeakable astonishment.
"Are you all right?" Yolanda asked as she proceeded to advance.
Del grabbed Yolanda's arm and stopped her. "I feared this day would come. I have to commit her into an institution."
Miles away from the New York trial of the criminal genius known only as the Mad Thinker, a female operative checked her watch. Seconds ago, everyone should have stood because the judge had entered the room. About now, everyone, except the defendant and his lawyers, was sitting down.
Erica Collingsworth smiled triumphantly at her husband who lay on his hospital bed. She wasn't smiling because Barry was on the phone with his— uuugh— mother. She was mentally patting herself on the back—Well done.
The Thinker hadn't a clue about the meta fight and the subsequent victory that totally destroyed his plan for escape. Covering all angles, Erica had phoned-in a High National Security Alert. That meant that once the Thinker made it to the floor where his trial would take place, armed FBI men would render the entire floor off limits to anyone except late-coming witnesses. And all witnesses were going to be escorted to and from the stand, preventing them from getting closer than twenty feet from the defendant. Anyone trying to feed the Thinker any info was going to get a surprise.
Once again Erica proved why she was the government's go-to woman. And despite Mother Collingsworth distracting Barry from their alone time now, ... and knowing that the old Scratchy-Panties was coming to the hospital later, Erica was at ease sitting in Georgetown University Hospital.
Despite having the confidence that he would be a free man in minutes, the Thinker wasn't at ease sitting the jury-less courtroom. He wasn't even comforted with the fact that he didn't have to suffer the disgrace of jurors with pimple-sized brains thinking that they held the future of the world's only true genius in their hands.
When he had sat with his lawyers at the front of the courtroom, the Thinker had turned around to the seats of the gallery. He looked at the collection of witnesses behind him. He noticed that only three of the Fantastic Four members were present. Where was that 4th dolt, the Human Torch?
Was he flying around the city, looking for delivery trucks? No, that sort of speculation belonged the inferior-minded. The Thinker deals in reality and plausible anticipation. Very few people were involved in the scheme. They were especially recruited by the Thinker's new ally, a crime lord. The leaking of information had a 2.4 percent chance of happening. Besides, the criminal boss had spotters along the route. If anything went awry, the crime lord would get the message to the evil genius through his many men who were seated in the gallery.
Still, if authorities barged in and forced the judge to dismiss the case, the Torch would not be there to hear about the acquittal. The percentages were high that if the idiotic youth saw him walking out of the court building, the baboon would throw a fiery net over him. He'd have to arrange court officers to escort him out, for sure. That would give him, at least, a 95 percent chance of leaving unchallenged.
If there was one good thing that came out of the Thinker's turning around to see the crowd, it was that he had also spotted the back of the head of a tall, light brown-haired fellow taking his seat in the back corner.
Good, the simpleton Sandman had made it. He was the character witness that the Thinker's lawyer would never get to call up to the stand. Not that Marko was plan A— but it was reassuring that the Sandman was there with the smoke bomb in the event that the four tradition explosives around the city didn't get the judge's attention immediately.
The Judge entered the room, everyone stood. When the judge took his seat so did everyone else, except for the Thinker and his two lawyers. As the court clerk read the charges out loud, the defendant turned around towards a shuffling noise.
The stupid, blonde-haired Fantastic Four member was slipping into his seat next to his other mentally inferior partners. The genius ignored his Lilliputian lawyers' pleas to face forward. The Thinker was enjoying the sight as much as one could enjoy a pig happily rolling in mud. Susan, the Torch's sister, stretched a handkerchief towards the disheveled teen's face. What was this? Lipstick on his cheek?
Why not? The brain-deprived youth had not tarried because he was spying out possible igniting flames of pandemonium. He was delayed by the allure of an equally moronic sow. The Thinker turned back to the judge with a smirk that was hammered in place by relief and impatience.
The minutes ticking by weren't loss on the Thinker. At the fourth check of his watch, he found out that the proceedings were in its 19th minute. According to calculations, 6 minutes ago, a U.S. Marshall should have handed the Judge a paper telling him to stop the trial.
Enough time had passed. Now he had to enlist the aid of the Neanderthal Sandman. Marko had to open his "box of candies", set off the smoke screens and granulate himself to become three times his normal seize. In the confusion, he had to seize the Thinker, make himself granite-hard, crash through a window and take the Thinker up onto the roof. That would be the signal for a getaway helicopter to swoop down close enough to enable the escape.
The Thinker turned the outer ring of his watch counter-clockwise until he "felt" a ting. He then pressed on the glass face. That should have sent a radio signal to the Sandman's "hearing aid." Should have. Nothing happened. No screams, no panic, and certainly no clouds of black smoke.
He pressed again. Only two things were heard in the room —the nerve scraping tapping of the court reporter's dictation machine and the mindless blabbering from the witness stand. Damn it, if that lowly Baxter Building doorman thinks that he can do harm to a man whose intellect was light years superior to his ….
The Thinker pressed again and again. The judge took his eyes away from the witness stand and centered them on the animated defendant. The lawyer to his right, placed a cautionary hand on the Thinker's elbow.
The Thinker shrugged it off and shot up from his seat. He spun around, screaming in the direction where he last saw Flint Marko taking a seat.
"You ignorant, amoeba-brained Ape. Can't you h - ?!"
The Thinker's next words died in his throat. The man whom he believed to be the Sandman was really a stranger.
How… how could this be? The genius had a 99.9 chance of escaping these dim-wits … he calculated this himself.
Faster than computer-speed, his mind whisked through the scenes that were ahead of him. If the general public consisted of the insipid unwashed, how more so the prisons? The vile, the violent, the malodorous. Sharing a commode that inmates refuse to flush. And terror of terrors, the rapes in those group showers.
Cutting through his horrible expectations, the Thinker faintly heard the shoes of court officers running towards him. The brilliant criminal panic and fell back upon base instincts. The Thinker bolted towards the courtroom door. He only got three steps into the aisle when he tripped over something. He landed hard on the floor. FBI agents and court officers pounced on top of him. As he was being lifted to his feet, he felt something snake-like moving around his ankle.
The Thinker yelled and spat in the direction of the standing figures of the Fantastic Four. All the while, Reed Richards' elongated arm was retreating into one of the sleeves of his suit's jacket.
If things weren't horrific enough…. Oh, the indignity of seeing the large white, shark smile on that grotesque, brain-dead, orange monster standing by the half-wit Richards. It was as if that scaly beast felt superior to the Thinker. This was beyond a nightmare.
"Court is recessed for fifteen minutes," the judge shouted above the crowd noise. "We will continue when the defendant is tied and gagged."
The hammer slammed down loudly and the sound bounced off of the walls as if to ridicule the mastermind of all criminal masterminds.
The youngest of the Fantastic Four was standing closest to the aisle. In a second, his head was jerked back by an unseen force— his upper torso bent backwards. Over the teen's face, the frowning Susan Storm had her hand over his mouth. But as the seized-upon defendant passed by them, the Thinker heard the youth's laughter escaping through her fingers. Unfortunately for the Thinker, that was the only thing that escaped this day.
Adrian Toomes soared up into the sky. He was proud of himself. More than two minutes ago, he had convinced the masked archer to join him in forming Dr. Octopus' dream team. Thirty seconds ago, he had spotted an Emergency Medical Service team bringing the unconscious Electro towards an ambulance.
When the duo were about to push the stretcher into the vehicle, the Vulture appeared. His wings swung threateningly, forcing the ambulance attendants away. Toomes knew that putting the retreating EMS workers between him and the police officers would give him a few seconds of silent pistols.
Before the attendants disappeared behind the blue uniforms, green blades sliced off the stretcher's straps. Without missing a beat, the Vulture's legs snagged Max Dillon and they were airborne. His zig-zag movements weren't necessary. Only two shots were fired as the police promptly realized the futility of bringing down the green-clad, winged man.
The Vulture had no fear. The police helicopters were blocks away, hovering around the bridge. And with his speed, the Vulture could quadruple that distance between them in seconds.
Yes sir, right now he was extremely pleased with himself. That is, until he neared the roof where he had left the archer.
"That son of a bitch!" he screamed into the air. "When we were 60-stories above the street, I should have dropped him head-first. "
Toomes elected to continue racing northward with his burden, Max Dillon. Why should the rage-filled villain even think of stopping on that roof? There was no welcoming committee there.
Now, 8 year old Damian Rains and his older brother, Victor lived on the top floor of a tenement building close to the Triborough Bridge. These boys were expert hokey-players. While their parents were at work, the boys made their apartment their classroom… minus the learning.
One day, last February, a surprised Momma received a letter from school asking why her two darlings missed so many days. Needless to say, the boys had to STAND and eat their dinner that night.
But that was months ago, and the school year was ending. Certainly one more day of hokey was an understandable reward for their perfect attendance since that day. Well, understandable to the boys, anyway.
They took this day off. And oh man, what a day. As soon as the TV announced the meta fight, they raced from their television, to the roof, back to the set. They finally settled on staying by the TV, as their roof view point offered little competition to what they saw on the screen.
After the good guys won the incredible battle, Damian returned to the roof. It was time to address the heart-shaped Schraff's Chocolate Candy Box that was strangely placed on the corner. The placement was mysterious because the boys hadn't seen a particular granular criminal put it there before searching out his enemy— Spider-man.
In all the excitement, the box was the boys' least concern, but now…. Damian had time to recollect that awful day when their truancy was discovered. Not wanting a reddened tush that forced him to stand for dinner again, the eight-year-old took the box and brought it down to his brother.
In the unlikely event that Momma finds out about this last hurrah, the younger brother suggested to the older that they offer the chocolates to their mother as a peace-keeper.
Nope— if she finds out or not, the chocolates will be handed to her…. Well ahhh, for being such a swell mother. Yeah, that's it.
Their graciousness had nothing to do with knowing that Momma would share the treats, of course. Still, why should the brothers deprive themselves of candy if the offense went unnoticed by her?
Damian echoed his brother's excitement when Victor declared, "Boy, I can't wait to see her face when she opens up the box."