Chapter 33 Hand Gazing, An Unessential Art

Brigitka had burst into the kitchen, Her eyes were like saucers and her voice shrieked of despair. "She's gone! GONE! "

"What?" Del asked.

"Who?" Henry asked as his body rose from the chair and his heart sank into an instinctual dark despair.

"Yolanda.'

"No!" Henry and Del responded simultaneously.

The panting Brigitka continued, "I went to her room … to bring her to the girls' bedroom … introduce them. I knocked … no answer…. I went in."- Brigitka wailed and fell into her sister's arms— "Her closet … no clothes , no scrap books. … She's GONE!"

Her words violently bounced inside Henry's head. Everywhere they ricochet they cracked holes in the wall of his confidence. His lungs seemed to forget how to function …. and his heart swelled up to nearly burst.

Henry Pym's looked onto the women's faces; his eyes begging for this to all to be a misunderstanding or a joke. The sisters were cheek-to-cheek and their own eyes were focused Brigitka's hands that had glued themselves together to look like a church steeple. The hands trembled as the women murmured something. A prayer, no doubt.

The man who had shun the idea of a Deity's existence for the last four years strangely thought that it was appropriate; the threesome had nothing but a prayer to fall back upon. The outward image that the twins portrayed reflected the same despair that Henry felt inside. He hated that feeling.

To right himself, he interrupted the prayers with a question that admittedly did not move towards the solution of finding her.

"Why would she do this?" he asked both women, and at the same time he asked to no one.

Delfina stopped her prayer and responded, "Because there is overwhelming sadness in her and she is still leaning the ways of a woman."

Henry responded, "I don't know what that last part meant, but if she was heartbroken over something, she should have come to us. What in the world would upset her like this?"

The sister said nothing but looked at Henry with prosecuting eyes. Their look seemed to slap the ol' Pym mind back to life:

"Less tears to cry, more perspiration to solve it."

There was no time to inquire about the twin's stares. There was only time to act. And since the two women knew something that he did not, they would be needed.

"There is one way that we can find her. Get your sweaters on, I'll need you both."

The trip back was uneventful. As it always was at this time of the day, the traffic was moving and the highway exits passed by her without notice. Wanda Maximoff was less than a half hour away from Erik Lehnsherr's mansion when she heard her brother stirring in the back seat of the limo.

The lovely mutant looked into the review mirror. She saw only the back rest of the seat behind her. Wanda called out his name.

In an instant, he sat up into view. His wide eyes were veiled with stark bewilderment. Pietro's eyes caught Wanda's eyes in the same in-vehicle mirror. They pleaded for answers from his sister.

"It is okay," she sounded. "We are safe. We are on our way back." In the many times that she used "back" as a destination point, Wanda never advanced a detail. Anywhere that Magneto lived was not "home" … not by the thinnest definition.

Pietro Maximoff's questioning expression melted away to reveal rage.

In a low, but contemptuous tone he asked, "Where are the inferiors?" Wanda opted not to respond if her brother was going to refer to the merciful non-mutants in that manner.

Then the white-haired man's voice rose. "Even-the-more, where are the girls? We aren't returning without them."

"Yes we are." Wanda replied in the cold voice that she had only reserved for Magneto.

"This is outrageous. We leave, without the girls? This is a defeat, can't you see that? This is intolerable!

"To who? In this instance, what you say is unacceptable is wonderful to me."

"Wanda, are you cr-?"

"Crazy? Yes—and more than crazy. I am bedsides myself, knowing that those girls will not be suffering under Magneto's thumb."

"Suffering? SUFFERING? What have the inferiors dealt us all these years? With Magneto we have a place to sleep. We have food and clothing and—"

"And with the non-mutant Avengers, the girls will have just that. But their protection will not come with the price that we must pay.

"Oh Pietro, I love you more than any sister could love her brother and that is why it tortures me that you are so willing to blind yourself to the horrors and enslavement in exchange for the essentials of a menial existence."

Pietro grabbed the back of Wanda's seat. He thrust his face forward so that his nose was close to his Wanda's ear. He hissed, "Sssister…. " that was what he called her when he was on the verge of mindless anger. This time, Wanda would not be moved.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this from you, sssssister. Do you remember how great was the debt?"

"And I can't believe that you have debased yourself to repay the debt."

Pietro's nose flared with rage as he replied, "The inferiors were running after you like you were a rabid dog that had to be put down."

"And he rescued me. I am extremely thankful. But before he appeared, I was about to release a hex upon them."

In the midst of his anger, the speedster fell back into his Ukrainian tongue. "A hex level so new, so massive, that you probably could not control it and risk maybe decapitating yourself. Girl, start thinking like an adult and stop—"

" An adult?"

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, and her foot unconsciously pressed down harder on the accelerator. "I imagine that you think an adult would hand over two innocent girls to that beast. Yes, Pietro an adult would bring so many others down into the pit of hell in order to repay a debt. Let others burn, I and my brother would be spared, after all.

"And would we? Do you foresee our deliverance in the future?"

Pietro sat back. Wanda knew her brother. He was now trying to fight off her words as they seemed to be water tossed onto his seemingly righteous burning anger. Seeing this, she calmed down as well. Her eyes instinctively returned to the dashboard.

Dear Lord! 90 mph?!

She applied the brakes to return to her normal speed. Wanda was thankful that a Highway Patrol Car wasn't wailing a siren behind them.

Pietro lowered his voice to pronounce, "We recruit. We gain his confidence."

Unable to lock his eyes to hers, Pietro's s vision anchored itself to the hands on his lap. "We will be granted more freedom, less surveillance. Then we could make our move."

"Yes, we could escape physically. But tell me dear Pietro, do you have a plan to enable me to escape the realization that our freedom came at the cost of throwing so many into the lion's den for his insatiable appetite?"

From the rear view mirror, Wanda saw her brother look out to his right, focusing on nothing. It was a relief to know that she had made a small, but visible tear into his obstinacy.

"No, my dear," the attractive brunette continued. "Being haunted with that for the rest of our lives isn't what I call freedom."

All talk ceased. While Pietro was fighting against his conscience, Wanda had her own scheme brewing. As she looked on at heruy right hand's fingers tapping on the steering wheel, she wondered what If they were useless in building Magneto's army. What would he do?

It would be minutes later that the Scarlet Witch would sigh in relief. When they enter the mansion, they will discover that the mutant leader was not there. He was in the intended hideout of the Thinker, had the intelligent homo sapien escaped from the court house.

In New York's Harbor, south of the Brooklyn Bridge, floated a barren tree that looked like it was blown into the water by a forgotten storm. But underneath the tree, below the water's surface, was a submerged engineering masterpiece. In a mutual arrangement, Magneto supplied all the materials and the Thinker had provided the many mechanical devices in the shelter. Being an intelligent man himself, the leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants figured out and mastered the controls of all the complicated mechanisms within the hideout.

It was good that the Thinker didn't escape. Even though the submarine-fortress was as large as a moderately sized parking lot, there would not have been room for the two intellectuals… and Magneto had no plans on surrendering the shelter with its advance technologies to anyone— least of all an inferior.

Erik Lehnsherr sat back into his recliner. He looked on as the fingers on his right hand rhythmically tapped the fingers of his left. Earlier, the TV monitor had been alive with the events of the great battle …. and the failure of his two youngest soldiers to secure two new members—witless girls, at that.

He was getting weary and he didn't want to ignite another argument with the pathetic Pietro. He would wait to rant against the useless siblings.

Aside from the contributing factor of exhaustion, much of his anger was quelled upon hearing the news report that the Thinker had made a desperate attempt to flee the court room. "Desperate" translated meant that whatever his plans were, they failed. The Thinker was going to spend a good stretch of his life looking at prison bars. That was good. At least if Magneto needed him again, the mighty mutant knew where to find him.

Lehnsherr followed his right hand as it reached for a phone to call another incompetent lieutenant. He stopped. Yelling at Jason Wyngarde for not recruiting enough mutants was also not good at this time. Yes, the dullard illusionist, inaccurately named Mastermind, would have been shaken up out of complacency. Yes, it would blow revivification into the flame of his fear for the leader. But just as his tirade towards the bungling Wanda and Pietro would have to wait until he was in a stronger frame of mind, this call also had to wait.

Right now, he had to rest his mind. His own search for fellow mutants around the world had drained him .

Bolivar Trask came to the US Capitol Building to offer a hand to a certain indignant senator. This world renowned anthropologist had learned so much from his former fellow University teacher Henry Pym.

Pym, who was 17-years his junior, was not only a bio-chemist genius, but he had an astounding mind for robotics. The young intellectual freely shared his knowledge of advance mechanisms, and for Trask's part, they were friends. They had held the same suspicions about mutants. But one day, Pym inexplicably refused to talk about them unless they were given the benefit of the doubt.

Imagine, this young snot-nose telling Trask that he was wrong. Those mutants were a breed onto themselves. They had little regard for humans. For example, the comments of a War World Two mutant hero, Peter Noble, revealed those people's contempt for non-mutants.

This incredibly strong, water-dweller called himself The Fin. His exploits made the casual newspaper reader believe that he and the Sub-mariner were one and the same. But they were not.

The Fin sunk many Nazi vessels, but he made sure that the world knew that he wasn't fighting for mankind's freedom. He was fighting against aggressors who he feared would gain dominance on land and later use a united surface force to invade his undersea civilization. Nothing was known about these so-called Neptunians, but it was safe to assume that they were also mutants.

Germany was defeated and The Fin had long since disappeared. But his final chilling warning hadn't faded from most human's minds. "I go to my people now. I don't want to return. But if I do, it is because you have made conditions necessary to turn my armies against you. You had better pray that those conditions never materialize. You won't stand a chance."

Water-breather, air-breather, it didn't matter. Mutants believed themselves to be superior and the rest of the world could be their doormat if they so choose. Well, what if in the near-future they did choose?

The danger was unimaginable. They had to be identified and corralled before they started their monstrous campaign.

The young idiot, Henry Pym and Dr. Trask had not communicated in years. But Last Friday, politicians leaked out that U.S. Senator Harrington Byrd would hold a Press Conference today.

The senate was going to investigate the President and CEO of Starks industries. Among those who face subpoenas would be his freelance contributors. Trask remembered that Pym was a part-time participant in Stark experiments. The potential of seeing the young fool squirm was most entertaining.

But more importantly, the senate was off-target. An incompetent or double-dealing Anthony Stark wasn't mankind's prime threat. It was the mutants. Now as the saying goes, one hand can wash the other. Trask was privy to something that could pressure Pym into betraying his employer. A honeymoon trip to Hungary, a country that the State Department insisted was off-limits to Americans, was it. Why the government dropped that investigation was still a mystery. But Byrd was the type of bull dog that could latch onto a bone and never let it go if it served his purpose.

Facing possible jail time could make the pretty-boy scientist talk. In turn, Trask wanted Senator Byrd to take possession of one particular design belonging to the young fool.

The former anthropologist had designed a mechanized defense against mutants. He had created a "thinking" Master Mode, but he needed some of Pym's writings to make it fully functional.

Both the Senator and the mutant-fighter would get what they wanted. Trask positioned himself in the hallway away from the senator's people, and against the wall by the men's room door that the Byrd had fiercely pushed open.

The poorly attended press conference in the Senate Conference Room had finished. The angry Senator Byrd had too much water to drink—preferring it to have been vodka— in order to wet his throat and take a time out in those occurrences when looking out at the one third-filled room periodically. That turned on his anger switch. Seeing himself on the TV news shows sounding crazed with rage was unappealing.

The senator reappeared from the bathroom and Trask jumped to his side. The startled senator thought that he was in grave danger until the tall, goatee-faced man extended his hand to shake. He introduced himself.

"Dr. Bolivar Trask," Byrd repeated with a false smile. He looked at the well-manicured fingers of the man and faked a cordial shake. "You've contacted my office a few times. I am sorry that I hadn't the time to return your calls. You must think me rude. … But here is why I didn't get your messages in time."

Byrd stretched both his hands towards the three young assistants that waited for him to emerge from the men's room. "They're good people, but terribly inexperienced. It's a terrible fault of mine— I like to give a break to youngster who have no way to begin a career. My consideration is also a handicap, at times."

Byrd introduced Trask to his staff. All the time, the senator's furrowed eyes were fixed on his wife's niece. The freaking incompetent should have warned him that this nutso was waiting for him to get out of the crapper.

"Pleasure to meet you all," Trask concluded. "But if you will allow me, I really came here to help you take down that arrogant Tony Stark fellow. I have a round-about, but sure way."

WEL, WELL. This nutso, eh, gentleman should be invited to a late lunch.

Yolanda sat on a seat with a full view of the big clock centered in the Grand Central lobby. She looked at the clock for the umpteenth time. She looked at her ticket for the umpteenth-and-one time. The young woman with silver-tresses then put it in an inner pocket of her purse.

It wasn't the constant crowd murmur and the commuter dashes in front of her that distracted her from reading the War and Peace novel that she had just bought. She was unhinged by reliving the moment when Henry Pym kissed that vile Janet Van Dyne.

Her tearful frustration was being feed through four different channels. On one hand, she was angry with him. How could he want that thing over her? Yolanda knew that she would have been a far more dedicated, supportive, loving mate for that dope, Henry Pym. On the other hand, she absolutely despised Jan. Yolanda envisioned the worst possible physical retribution towards the witch who had enchanted her beloved's heart.

She hated herself for even believing that she had a realistic chance to win Henry over. Unlike what Del and Brige thought, the witch had too much history with him for Yolanda to compete against her.

And to round out the disheartening foursome, she couldn't believe that she packed up and ran. Was this the right choice? Was it like Delfina said: a cowardly reaction to a mountain that could be scaled with hard work?

It's just that… climbing a difficult mountain with no ability to make choices was one thing. Being brushed aside by someone who she cared deeply for… who CAN make choices, was different. And immensely more painful.

She couldn't live under the same roof as the two lovers. Really, her imagination would go wild thinking that they sneaked into each other's bed room for frisky endeavors. She would never be able to take that.

Still, what if, as Brigitka said, Yolanda was the ONE? Yolanda was the one to one day set Henry's dumb brain straight? The one who Henry would lovingly value and the one who would convince him to kick the faithless wench out the door?

Ohhhh, this indecision was more tortuous than the other three heartbreakers.

Yolanda flipped the book onto the seat, three chairs away. She didn't care if that action was an invitation for a thief to walk off with it. Nothing really mattered to her right then.

She brought her two wheel based trunks a little closer to her. In her seated position, her trunks were as tall as her shoulders. She placed her forearm on one of them. She rested the left side of her face on her forearm.

It had been a long time since the ultra-intelligent young woman had felt so devastated. But from her experience, whenever she was depressed, she found sleep to be a comforting blanket. Her depression had already called out an invitation for slumber. But she couldn't afford that now.

Well, maybe she could afford a little shut eye. The announcement of departure trains readying for boarding would be loud enough to stir her back into this world.

Alas, Yolanda didn't need a loud announcement. While her arm covered one eye, her right eye again spotted a man who had moved from one part of the station to another, corresponding to her own travels and sit-downs.

Her brilliant mind exploded with new vigor. This little dance of theirs could not be coincidence, could it?

Was he a robber… a kidnapper working for a pimp? … Dear lord, was he a KGB agent who had sniffed her presence out?

Well, she had the repulsor ray disk in the top sleeve inside of the trunk she was leaning on. Yolanda had taken off the armor, but the disks still had a little life in them. She had designed them with a pea-sized back-up batter in the event that the mainframe alternator mysteriously stopped… like it did twice in battle. But enough of that particular humiliation, this man was the "right-now" threat. A threat who was going to be sorry he had ever seen her.

Man, oh man, was she seething— since the genius was already in a horrible mood, she would have no problem dispensing her own brand of miseries.

Yolanda took out her keys and unlocked the securities on the trunk. She reached into the top sleeve without looking. She knew where they were and her eyes were better utilized to see if the stranger was the only person who was following her.

Try as she might, she could not remember the frequent sightings of any other face. It didn't matter—one, or a hundred-and-one. Once Yolanda violently downs a couple of them, people will panic and that uproar will scare all other abductors away.

Suddenly, a welcome announcement blared through the terminal air. The boarding of the 3:45 to Alexandra, Virginia was commencing. Yolanda confidently dipped her free hand into her purse and took out a colorful scarf.

Oh lord, did it have to be THAT scarf that she took. It reminded her of that stupid attempt at the breakfast table to impress… oh, never mind.

Each palm now had a disk. She curled the scarf around her right hand—the hand that would lead her counter-attack.

Both hands came out into view and she locked the luggage. She dipped into her purse and took out her compact. Good choice. The compact would cover the disk on her palm and she could occasionally look into the rounded mirror to see if the jerk was coming at her from behind. Now what to do with the disk's strap around the back of her left hand?

Another dip into her purse produced a handkerchief. Okay, a scarf around one hand a handkerchief on the other would look weird, but better weird than harmed, Yolanda figured.

Disks were in place; they were concealed; purse strap over her shoulder; both the free hand and the hand with the compact held the handles located on the tops of the trunks and Yolanda was off.

She was nearing the escalator leading down to the boarding platform when she stopped to bring her compact up to her face. THE MAN WAS COMING AT HER WITH A QUICK-STEP PACE.

Thousands of miles to the south, in the outskirts of Philadelphia, Mississippi, Mavis' Feed-N-Weed shop owner closed his cash register after giving a customer his change. The front door bell rang, announcing a new visitor. Ben Mavis whipped off the receipt from the cash register, but in a strange sequence, Ben's hand moved very slow in handing it over to his recent purchaser. Ben's eyes were on the potbellied, dark haired man who had arrived. His clothes were clean and off-white.

The purchaser laughed, thinking that Ben was joshin, with him. The overweight store owner returned the laugh, but his mirth wasn't genuine. The first man left the shop and silence yelled loudly between this second man and the owner.

"Ben", the man said with a nod.

"Bryce," the rotund man replied without a welcoming tone.

Bryce took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the back of his neck.

"Sure do keeps a cool store, Ben. My-tee welcomin' place, ya'll know."

"Ah keeps it dat way. Anything to bring da righ' customer heah."

The way Ben replied made Bryce smile and shake his head. "Now, ya'll not implyin' dat ah ain'ts da righ' type a cus'omer?"

"Waaa would ah even think dat? Yer money's as green as ev'one else's righ'?"

If there was something more evident than Ben's insincerity and nervousness, it was the pot-bellied man's disbelief that Ben meant it.

Bryce looked to the floor as he moved closer. His smile hadn't diminished while responding to the question. "Yep. las' time ah checked."

"If ya'll need somethin'" Ben stiffly began. "Well, tell me an' I'll get it."

"Bought all I needs, my friend."

It stung Ben's ears to hear that Bryce called him friend. "If ya'll came to see Garrett, he's deliverin' some feed. He'll be mahr-chin on back heah in abou' two ah-wurz.

Bryce was now on the other side of the counter, eyeball to eyeball with the owner. "Yep, fig-ah dat, ah did."

He tapped on the glass counter inches away from the cash register. Ben nervously looked at the man's dancing fingers. Bryce was glad that he got the desired reaction.

"Ben, ya'll really should re-consida joinin'. We's doin' a lot a good. Mat-ah a fact, we's done some powerful good jus' recen'ly. Been keepin' da place righ' and pew-ah, know wha' ah mean?"

The shop owner knew exactly what he meant. The word pure meant that something was done to a Negro somewhere. Ben kept a distance from this group— he didn't have the mind to hurt others. He also recognized his civic duty to report a crime, but he wasn't fixing to rat on Bryce's boys and become a target himself. The only choice he felt that he had was to arm himself with indifferent exclusion. Close your eyes and all the bad things will pass by without touching you. But with this second conversation about joining Bryce's boys, how long before his eye-closings no longer work?

"Look ah'm a peaceful man runnin' a small, happy business. Ah'm content with havin' my wife as de only person ah pals with. So with all yo'in good an' pew-ah an' righ' an' stuff, ah want to say thanks, but ah'm more den happy jus' as ah am."

With a stone face, Bryce looked down at his tapping fingers. He was about to say something ominous when Amy, Ben's wife, came in through the back door. In her hand was a clip board.

"Oh hi, Bryce. How's Sally an' Eddie?"

"Jus' fine as dandy, Amy. Thanks fo' askin'."

Amy shook her clipboard in front of her husband's face. "Ah keep telling ya'll to keep dis in da store. All countin's done an' we needs to keep it way-ah we can find it, ya big lummox."

She started back through the door to the supply yard when she turned to ask, "He-ah for mo-ah feed, Bryce. Hope ya'll not he-ah to distract Garrett again."

Bryce began to walk backwards towards the front door. "No ma'am," Byrce chuckled. "Ah did enough dis mow-nin. Ah jus' came fo' some frien'ly talk an' invitin' you'in lummox to a frien'ly get-togeth-a."

Amy laughed when he threw back to her the description of her husband. Ben wasn't amused. That made his wife laugh harder.

Amy then said "Oh good, he needs some male-folk companions. Ah's afraid dat he'll soon put on mah dresses, since we's da only company we's have.

"Bet'cha he said no." She looked at Ben with disapproval. The woman whom Ben had always relied on for support turned back to the retreating visitor. "Well, if dere's no booze involved, ya'll keep askin' him from yo-in end an' I try pushin' him from mah side."

"Well, Ah'll su-ah keep to askin' him, be su-ah a dat Amy." Bryce opened the front door. He turned to face the outside and froze in place. After he heard a good-bye and the back door close, his body became animated again.

He didn't look back when he said, "But mah invites won't be fo'-ev-eh, ya'll know. An' dat may be a biiiig shame fo' someone." The door lock clicked close.

The delivery man left the chicken and rice with the uncombed Gregor Shapanka. Funny how in such a high class community, there's always an unemployed slob who's too lazy to cook. Wonder if he still lives with his mother in that house. Oh well, the tip was good, so the delivery man kept his comments to himself.

The lean scientist dropped the food on the kitchen table and went to open the beer-filled refrigerator. He took out a beer that had a blue circle on the can. Now in the middle of a successful day where he had managed to duplicate his freeze gun, the man who was once known as Jack Frost sat in front of his meal and smiled. The quiet was wonderful.

The boastful loud mouth, Abner Jenkins, had been quiet all day. There were no claims of possessing a superior intellect over Shapanka, no rants as to why the Beetle was far more dangerous than Jack Frost; there was not a peep.

The frost-producer imaged that it meant only one thing. Jenkins' attempt to renovate his Beetle armor had hit a snag. A snag that delighted Shapanka so much that he found himself looking at his hands as they gleefully massaged each other.

Aside from streamlining his armor, the braggart had silly ideas that were inspired firstly by the bull-like charges of a Goliath Beetle. The second stupid idea involved incorporating the squirting of poisonous liquid that the Bombardier Beetle emitted.

Shapanka had to admit that it was better than adopting the Potato Beetle style of defense. Forget about General Lee's reaction. If Jenkins decided to carry his own manure anywhere on his body, the stench alone would be enough for Shapanka to throw him out and change the front door keys.

Still, what did any of that mattered? He had promised the General that his villainous alter ego could be resurrected, and it was. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. There was an added satisfaction that the frost merchant's power was operational before the big mouth's new Beetle was completed. What could be grander?

Gregor's quiet exuberance was interrupted by running steps descending the stairs. An instant later, the front door slammed. A little while later, one of the two cars that were parked in the driveway roared.

Gregor smiled. Maybe the superior intellect had to go to the hardware store to find a 5 cents gadget to kick start his failed project.

The car tires shrieked and the engine noise dissipated. Yes, Gregor thought with great amusement. He probably needs an on/off switch.

Yolanda dropped the compact case and turned around. She was ready to launch her repulsor ray attack when she saw the man stop and look to his right. Someone was signaling him because he then nodded and retreated back into the larger area of the lobby.

Twice Yolanda turned towards the direction where the man had gazed. They were quick spurts, because her eyes wanted to make sure that the threatening stranger was continuing his departure.

It was at the third quick head turn that Yolanda finally saw the reason for the man's about-face.

Bridgitka! Delfina! Here?! How could they have possibly found her? Yolanda left behind no clues behind.

The two women walked up to her. The smiling Brigitka threw her arms around the speechless young woman. Delfina's advance, though was very somber. Her face was masked with disappointment and anger.

Yolanda would probably not remember what greetings and expressions of joy the first sister gave her, but she would definitely remember the cold, hatchet-striking words of Del.

"Your trip will no doubt be lengthy. Let's sit. You will need to rest. And I will need to comprehend your foolishness."

Yolanda felt the two rolling trunks push into her rear. Who would have thought that such a small, thin frame had such power? Brige was actually pushing her and her belongings towards a bench.

Yolanda turned to her and snapped, "Stop that."

In a lightning-strike move, Del's hand reached for Yolanda's shoulder and spun her around to face Del. The look in Del's eyes expressed a determination that said if the young woman didn't cooperate either Del or Yolanda was going to be lying on the cold floor any minute.

People in the terminal looked their way. The young woman thought that it would be less embarrassing if she acquiesced for now. ….. But Yolanda would insist that they speak in the twin's first language—Polish.

Yolanda knew that she could exchange her ticket for a later train, so she sat with Del on the bench. In front of them Bridgitka dropped the trunks on their broad sides. She sat on one and leaned to the side to rest her elbow on the second. With the thin 57-year old wildcat's weight almost evenly distributed across the luggage, the soon-to-be-nineteen-year-old could have easily flipped her off, if she was that mean. But inside of the agitated Yolanda there was still the sweetheart Yolanda.

Del began. "And so … nothing that we spoke about made any difference? I thought we had arrived at an agreement—an agreement with the foundation that you would stay."

Yolanda found it difficult to look into the hardened face that up until this meeting had been the beacon of love and compassion. Her eyes sought the refuge of her hands on her lap.

The embarrassed Yolanda replied above a whisper. "When I went to my room, I started visualizing what those two would do at night and what we agreed on seemed so –"

"I knew it," Brigitka said to her sister in a strength-drained tone. "She thought herself out of sanity."

For a fleeting moment, Yolanda and Del inwardly asked themselves what did Brigitka know about sanity?

"Perhaps that was the problem" Delfina said as her eyes remained on Yolanda. "We thought the matter was 100 percent settled and it wasn't. She should have insisted that you stay with us and not allowed you to be alone long enough to question your own resolve."

Brige nodded and seemed to look through Yolanda to something behind the young genius. "Or we should have tied her up."

She was yanked back out from her apparent trance by the four eyes that flared with the question, WHAT?!

Brige became indignant. "Well you don't expect me to tie her to me, do you? She's too heavy to carry around."

The older woman shook her head. " No ties, no ropes. Except for those that bind us to agreements" — Del turned back to Yolanda— "wouldn't you say, young lady? …. Had you forgotten our common sense talk, your rational consent? What is the reason for this treachery to us and yourself?"

The woman on Yolanda's trunks didn't wait for a reply. As if to add salt into a wound, the not-often logical Bridgitka went through the rundown of their conversation at the penthouse … after Brige had made that spectacular entrance into the living room.

After they picked up Brige off the floor and sat on the sofa, Yolanda had said that Henry had hotly kissed Jan on the bridge,. Del and Brige explained that it looked like Jan jumped into his arm. Being relieved that she was still alive, he reacted with joy. But it didn't look like he had planned to do anything beyond hugging her, spinning her around and kissing her face like a father who had just found a lost child.

About an hour ago, Yolanda also asked how she could be nothing to the man. The two wise women counter-inquired, did Henry know about her interest in him? As far as he knew, they were friends and lab-mates. It was unfair to saddle Henry with any prejudicial notion that he understood that he and Yolanda could be more than that.

Men, for the most part, are stupid, They didn't know their right from their left when it came to choosing the best things in life.

It started in hush tones, but eventually Yolanda's laughter rose above the crowd murmur in the cavernous lobby. This was what Henry's sister, Erica, had always affirmed.

Back when they were together sitting on the penthouse sofa, the red-eyed young woman said between sniffs that Jan had too much history with Henry. It would be impossible to break that bind.

Bridgitka sat up to remind Yolanda about a question. Who said that currently Henry was still enchanted with her? Del could tell from his expressions that when her walked away from private conversations with Jan, their talk hadn't brightened his day— quite the opposite. Repeated hard swings from a sledge hammer could bring down a wall that had a "history" of standing strong. The witch was unwittingly doing just that with her non-ending criticisms.

In the Grand Central Lobby, Del must have fallen into shock, hearing her sister sound so lucid. Well if the older twin remained silent, Brige felt confident enough to singularly water the seeds that were planted a while back.

In the Grand Central Lobby Brige reposed upon the luggage again. She questioned why was "impossible" in her vocabulary. Here was a young woman who resisted the brain washing of Communist media and schooling. Here was a person who actually escaped the Red Machine's grip on her throat by boarding a fishing boat, then swimming like mad on the open sea to a Japanese boat.

In Yolanda's body flowed the blood of a people who had turned away the advancing Nazi juggernaut before she was even born. Brigitka sat up and wagged her finger— how could Yolanda speak of impossible? What a great shame to her, her dearly departed parents, and her people.

A person with Yolanda's credentials shouldn't have even thought about running away from combat. And what a combat—against a self-absorbed, ungrateful little witch. Why, if Brigitka was a year younger, she'd have flattened the field rat out, herself.

"A year younger?" her sister asked above Yolanda's laughter.

"Yes. I could have straightened her out." The seated old woman brought her fists in front of her, in a fighting pose. "As a matter of fact, when we get back home, I'll take some Geritol, and I'll march up to her, and —"

"Enough, Super Woman," Del answered. "No one is interested in how you can toss her over tall buildings or punch her faster than a speeding bullet. Or attention here is centered on Yolanda and changing her silly, lazy, childishly selfish mind back into a responsible adult mind."

"You think I'm silly and childishly selfish?"

"Don't forget lazy," Brige added to help the conversation along.

Del raised her head. "No, of course not. Running away from a fight that will take some time to finish, but was almost 100 percent winnable, how is that childish or lazy? Leaving behind a possibility for your own happiness, how is that silly? Abandoning Brigitka and me to the whims of the Wicked Witch of the West, how is that selfish?

Del continued, "If I were to speak out of my own selfishness, we need you to counter her influence on the house, …. on us, … on dear Henry. Do you really want him to get his hopes up again on a relationship with that woman? She has had her chances to become a faithful companion. Has she done so? What makes you think she ever will? Because you won't be there to see Henry's tears would that mean he won't be crushed?

"I'd say if you legitimately have feelings for him … for us, you would come back."

Brigitka leaned forward towards Yolanda and smiled. "And if our plight isn't enough to sway you, there is a new inmate in our camp who will also need your support. The girl… Lorna. She can't stand the Wasp."

Brige tried not to laugh, but she did. Yolanda herself began to giggle. Yes, all these reminders had some effect on Yolanda, but nothing was so strike-me-down convincing as the sight that met her eyes. They instinctively rose up to the figure yards away that hadn't moved for a time. Her eyes widened.

There stood the man who could make her heart skip a beat. Henry Pym looked nervously towards the trio. The right side of his shirt was sticking out of his pants indicating that he had hurried out to find her. His hair looked disheveled as if he had taken off a tight hat or… he had been holding his Giant-man hood up to his face and head. Of course—the sisters had found Yolanda because Henry had activated his hood's tracking device.

Still, what signal would he have followed ? Yolanda looked at her purse. Yes, she knew instantly. Henry had tracked her down by the homing device in her purse. It was always used by Ant-man to find her and hitch a secretive ride back to the penthouse. Being desperate to get away, Yolanda had forgotten to empty her bag of the device.

Yolanda's words lost their way to her mouth, but her heart was singing out symphonies. He looked all too cute over there … so nervous. The insecurity was reflected in his hands as they scrunched the red Giant-man cowl. Yolanda thought maybe she should have warned him to hide it, but this evidence of his desperation over her tightened Yolanda's throught. Besides, the shape that it was in, the mask looked like a handkerchief.

Henry Pym tilted his head down, but his eyes never left her. He was like an adorable little boy rehearsing his plea for forgiveness, but he was lost as to that the offense was and how he had committed it. Ohhhh, but he was a million times cuter than Frederick Dukes when motor oil spilled upon him.

Yolanda whispered to Del, "And he still doesn't know how I feel about him?"

Del ignored the question. She had wanted to say something for all this time that they sat here and she wasn't going to be deterred. She whispered back into one of the young woman's ear, "I can't tell you how panic-stricken he was when Brigitka told us that you were gone. And remember how he said that he hates Jan's Cadillac, and he'd never get into it because it reminded him that he threw away money? Well, you want to guess what he jumped into and how he brought us here?"

Delfina smiled. "Hmm. That doesn't sound like he thinks nothing of you, does it?"

Brigitka whispered in the other ear, "So, are you going to make him suffer? Do something to encourage him to come over here."

Instinctively, Yolanda rose to her feet and widened her lips to give Henry a wide, inviting smile.

Suddenly, Henry's face lit up with a far grander smile that would have rivaled an army of happy angelic faces. And Yolanda felt that she could have easily compared the smiles— no being could convince her that she wasn't in heaven, right then.

Note: The Fin was an actual Marvel (or Atlas) hero in the 1940s.