Dave Cannon had managed to avoid Hank Pym’s unwelcome attentions ever since the incident aboard the Santa Eloisa, not just because the scientist was the kind of insufferable asshole who invariably tended to light Cannon’s short fuse of a temper but because he had no wish to be poked and prodded like a school experiment. Outwardly there seemed to be little difference between the man he was now and the man he had been, save for the noticeable enhancement to his physical stature and the fact he had gained weight, which in itself was also true for Clint and a number of the others. However, he instinctively knew that his internal constitution had undergone significant augmentation – it had been bolstered, not unlike souping up the engine of a racing car to its uppermost limits. Cannon could feel it. His musculature, his organs, his cardiovascular system, his skin… everything seemed tougher, heavier. Even his hearing was sharper. And, of course, there was the matter of his more obvious ability.
Dave Cannon, now known rather aptly as Whirlwind, was able to manipulate surrounding air currents to allow himself to fly and also to create a localised tornado with himself at its centre. He didn’t personally understand the physics – Pym’s elaborate diagnosis withered on about an innate physical capability to psionically generate a revolving column vortex about his vertical axis, with a speed of revolution ranging from mild to phenomenally violent – but the most important aspect, as far as Whirlwind was concerned, was that he suffered no physical discomfort whatsoever whenever he really lit rip. This, again according to Pym, was likely a result of a severe increase in the density of his cellular composition, and was why he was so eager to run his geeky little tests. But Cannon was having none of it. All he cared about was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he possessed power – true power.
And now, as he set out to save countless thousands of unknown lives and perhaps the world itself, it wasn’t because of any sense of righteous worth or moral responsibility on his part – it was simply because he wanted to see just how damn impressive he was, and for everyone else to realise it as well. The idea that, should he succeed, his colleagues would then all be beholden to him, well… what use was sharing in the power of a God if one couldn’t be worshipped? What -
“Any time you’re ready, Cannon,” Moonstone snapped. “Don’t let impending global crisis light a firework under your backside or anything.”
“Ah, shaddap.”
Whirlwind soared forth, arms outstretched, his green and silver battlesuit bright with the reflected gold of the billowing flames below but untouched by smoke or ash due to the way he was compelling the air around him to provide a swirling shield. The task he was about to undertake was, of course, far beyond anything he had previously attempted, but the idea that he might fail never even crossed his mind; Dave Cannon wasn’t the kind of man who doubted himself. And so, it was without a flicker of concern that he focused his mental concentration and began to manipulate the air currents in his vicinity, generating a trembling column of black ash and fire – an infernal tornado – that swiftly escalated in speed of revolution and also in scope and density, its narrow tail extending down to the sundered earth far below and its crown vanishing into the clouds above.
Thor, God of Storms, looked on from where he was slumped, exhausted, on an outcrop of rock. He had laid the foundations for what was now occurring, having siphoned up the enormous ferocity of the supervolcanic eruption in a score of these pillars, much like one would draw venom from a snakebite. Now he was watching Whirlwind, a man who was merely mortal two weeks past, gather the wealth of burning detritus into a singular event, a whorl that would be a black ring scorched into the planet’s atmosphere if viewed from space in similar fashion to how the red storm-spot of Jupiter was visible to Earth’s telescopes.
Whirlwind was achieving exactly what Thor himself had intended, if the act of containing the cataclysmic force of the eruption hadn’t stolen away every last scrap of his energy reserve. The Asgardian was obviously relieved that the man possessed power enough to help drag the world back from the brink of tragedy, but there was also a measure of trepidation in his eyes beneath his helm as he looked on. If Whirlwind were to have established some physical contact with the tornado he was creating then the resulting centrifugal force might have torn him apart, despite the toughening of his bodily structure; however, as it was, he was nestled quite comfortably in the heart of the tempest, maintaining the necessary concentration with ease. It was impressive – but it was also cause for anxiety. The little that Thor knew about Dave Cannon suggested a man of certain intelligence but also of a fiery nature governed less by morals than by personal gratification. This level of power in such hands was not ideal…
…and, in truth, the same could be said for the woman Karla Sofen.
“What happens now?” Moonstone asked, hovering close. Thor grimaced.
“The low temperatures will make it easier to coalesce the disgorged rock into one solid mass, which can then be ejected beyond Midgard’s immediate gravitational pull, where it shall become harmless.”
“You want to send it into space? What, and it’ll become an asteroid?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Moonstone glanced down at the earth below. The change before her eyes was more than dramatic; it was almost unbelievable. Suddenly, vast swathes of air that had been clogged with ash and fire were now clear once more, and Whirlwind’s tornado was sucking up magma and gas as fast as it could bubble to the surface. Yellowstone National Park was a disaster zone of gaping fissures and potential landslides, and would remain so for years to come, but it was a hell of a lot different from the six-hundred-mile radius of death and devastation that would otherwise have occurred.
“So… that’s it?” Moonstone asked, sceptically. “We did it? We saved the world?”
Thor rose wearily to his feet, brandishing Mjolnir in a gauntleted fist. “If what I suspect about the cause of this event is true,” he murmured, “The danger is not yet passed. However, this immediate threat will have been averted, as soon as I regain the strength to rid us of the unwanted residue. I - ”
“Don’t concern yourself,” Moonstone sniffed. “You’ve done your share. Now it’s my turn…”
The detritus collected by Whirlwind’s violently revolving air column was hardening into a gigantic ring of black rock some three miles in diameter, and its incredible weight was understandably causing Cannon to struggle for the first time. Moonstone’s intervention – collecting the rock in a field of fizzing blue energy – was therefore appreciated. Whirlwind sagged in mid-air, held aloft by the barest ripple of psionic manipulation, his brow beneath his helmet reamed with sweat. A gentle shower of ash still fell, but not enough to cause problems to any survivors below. Moonstone hefted the ring of rock without concern. Thor’s eye narrowed as he stared at her.
“It’s not a question of weight, or mass, is it?” she asked, her tone conversational but her words sharp with implication. “That’s not how this energy works. I’ve suspected as much since I moved the Santa Eloisa so effortlessly. I haven’t been able to pin down the specifics as yet – dimensional phasing, perhaps, on a molecular level – but, in basic terms, I could actually lift anything, couldn’t I? Anything my brain can conceive, that is. I could probably even move the planet… yes?”
Thor breathed deeply. “The powers of the Gods are not to be trifled with,” he declared.
“Especially in the hands of those for whom they were never intended…” Moonstone said, softly. And then, she smiled. “Don’t worry, my friend. You can trust me not to abuse my new privileges.”
She weaved her hands imperiously then, and the ring of rock overhead suddenly began to hurtle away – up towards the heavens – at incredible speed. When it penetrated the Earth’s atmosphere it flared momentarily, a ball of fire as bright as a miniature sun… but then it was gone, propelled into orbit and then beyond, out to where it would be snared by the gravitational pull of the sun rather than any other planet in the solar system. The very idea of it – the ultimate ease of such a feat – made Thor’s blood run cold. He gazed between Moonstone and Whirlwind, who was now floating back over to the outcrop, and his heart clenched. It seemed like an ending, but it was not. It was a beginning…
…of something potentially terrible.
The Lava Men emerged slowly but relentlessly from the hole in the Earth, their shambling lurch accompanied by trailing smoke and the spit and crackle of fire. There were almost fifty in total, an intimidating number when viewed from up close but merely a prelude to a greater legion, the ranks of which would swell with the assimilation of each and every new victim. At the head of the pack strode the three generals with their bodies of more human definition and their faces carved with black eyes and cruel smiles that didn’t falter even when they glanced up with some astonishment into skies that were no longer dark with annihilation but rather growing bright again with hope.
The Wasp had been momentarily overwhelmed with despair at the size of the army facing her, but the realisation that Thor had fulfilled his end of the bargain somewhere overhead steeled her resolve. In truth, her neat hair and her pretty eyes were no more indicative of a warrior’s spirit than her miniature stature – yet heroism was not dictated by size, or by the manner in which one was accustomed to living her life. It was a state of mind.
And so, as Janet van Dyne launched into her assault – one woman against an army, and what would likely culminate in certain death – she was close to smiling at the strange sense of exhilaration she experienced.
Three heads exploded before the legion was even aware that it was under attack. Four more followed in quick succession before there came angry retaliation. Flitting back and forth at astounding speed on her wings, thrusting out her hands and releasing tiny but devastating bursts of bioelectrical energy from her fingertips, The Wasp claimed an eighth fatality just as a flaming fist swept towards her. She dodged by executing an exquisite pirouette, flattening her wings instinctively so that she resembled a dragonfly more than her namesake, then disgorged a double-fist of energy into the featureless mass of molten slag that passed for her enemy’s face. The power of the blast removed not only its head but also a large section of its upper torso, filling the air with flames. Now that was where the Wasp moniker was appropriate: for all their comparative grace and beauty, dragonflies just didn’t pack such a ferocious sting.
“Something attacks!” the male of the three generals shrieked, whirling towards the unexpected melee. “Something - ”
“Something wicked this way comes?” The Wasp cooed, zipping in close and delivering three stabs of energy, one after another, into the face of the creature that had once been mild-mannered scientist Roberto da Costa. “Provided, of course, that wicked in this instance means sophisticated, intelligent and – regardless of my ex’s opinion of the matter – sexy as all hell in a tight little Lycra one-piece, hmm?”
The lava fiend staggered, arms flailing, his head smouldering but still whole.
“Oh, foo,” The Wasp snapped. “Just go pop, would you?”
She wheeled, brought her hands together, aimed, and fired. The double flare penetrated her adversary’s head dead centre and caused it to explode in a pyrotechnic flash, showering his fellow generals in flame and ash. The Wasp smiled, sweetly. “There you go,” she trilled. “Now we’re getting warmed up… no pun intended.”
Directed by their two remaining generals, the flanks of Lava Men surged forward to close in on their quarry, flailing blindly with smoking fists. For a split second The Wasp was almost concerned, twisting sharply to evade the flurry of blows, any one of which would have bludgeoned her senseless, if they had connected. However, her misgivings – which her nervous chattering served to try and smother – were unfounded. Her enhanced reflexes allowed her to thread between her enemies like a bead of mercury, distributing energy pulses at will… and, in truth, despite their superior numbers the Lava Men never stood a chance, harvested like wheat with almost cruel efficiency.
As heads exploded in concussive fireballs all around, the two generals – the women once known as Allison Crestmere and Marsha Rosenberg – reared in shock. They could hear the disembodied screams of Surtur splintering what remained of their minds with rage, and they were momentarily paralysed – but then, as the fallen God urged his power to swell within them, they spurred to action. It was Marsha who lurched forward, scattering her own legions in the process, her body shifting and hissing with living magma. She thrust out one hand and released a veritable deluge of molten death…
…and The Wasp, her concentration trained mainly on avoiding the fists of Lava Men, emitted a piercing shriek as she was consumed.
“Burn!” the volcanic fiend screamed. “Mortal witch, your flesh shall… shall…”
Her words faltered then, as her flamestream died away – and, when the smoke cleared, The Wasp remained, slightly singed but otherwise unharmed, her wings enfolded about her in a protective, flameproof cocoon. She arched a miniature eyebrow, her expression unamused.
“Now,” Janet breathed, “I’m not one typically given to cliché, but seriously… is that all you’ve got?”
Unfurling her wings, she extended one arm, her eyes narrowing. Then she released a massive burst of bioelectrical sting that stabbed the magma fiend through the chest like a bolt of white lightning, propelling her backwards through the air and slamming her bodily into a slab of ruptured earth that exploded in a shower of rock upon impact. “So, there’s a lesson for you,” the tiny woman declared, fiercely. “It doesn’t pay to make a Wasp angry.”
The volcanic woman that had once been Marsha Rosenberg groaned, and attempted to roll onto her side – but magma was leaking fitfully from the gaping wound in her torso like blood, and she was beginning to shudder. The shaft of golden energy that then shot through the air and speared her through the side of the head simply finished the job, causing her to spontaneously combust in a detonation of flames and ash. The Wasp blinked and glanced over her shoulder in the direction from which the shaft had appeared – and she gasped in delight.
Approaching her at a trudge, cradling his Asgardian bow to the scorched chest of his costume, Hawkeye tipped a weary nod. “You know,” he muttered, as three other figures emerged from the exit of the underground tunnel in his wake, “Pym is going to be so pissed when he sees what we’ve done to these uniforms of his.”
“Dirt is just the sign of an honest day’s toil,” Black Widow murmured.
“I’d agree with that,” said Captain America.
“Well,” Iron Man exclaimed, “At the risk of sounding smug, all I need is a dab of spit and polish and I’ll be good as new.”
The Widow grimaced. “You’re right. That does sound smug…”
Allison Crestmere, the final general, stalked forward, her smouldering eyes wide in disbelief. “It’s not possible!” she hissed. “I killed you all! I - ”
“You were complacent. Too eager to get on with whatever massacre you’re planning. You were careless.” Captain America hefted his shield, eyeing the depleted but still considerable ranks of the Lava Men rallied against them. “Like our companion here,” he said, gesturing towards The Wasp, “We’re all tougher than we look. You should have finished the job whilst you could – especially when one of our number possesses the kind of weapons in his armour that can carve out a tunnel beneath whatever debris you see fit to pile on top of us. Now… well, now, from the look of the blue skies overhead, it seems the main threat has passed. That means it’s time for clean-up – and that starts with you.”
Hawkeye grinned. “Hell yeah!” he barked, lifting his bow. “Avengers… kick ass!”
Black Widow raised an eyebrow. “You know, I really don’t think that was the rallying battle cry we decided upon, was it?”
“Each to their own, Russkie.”
Three energy arrows pierced the air in quick succession as the Lava Men surged forward, and three heads exploded. Captain America hurled his shield, slicing through the thong, then ducked beneath a fiery fist, caught the shield as it rebounded, and thrust up with the curved edge like a scimitar, decapitating another foe. Black Widow danced forwards, easily evading two attacks, pumping venom blasts from the palms of her outstretched hands. Iron Man backhanded one enemy so hard that the creature exploded in a ball of flame, then scattered a half dozen others with a pulse ray. All the while, The Wasp watched on from on high, hovering with her hands on her hips, her expression rather cross.
“Actually,” she snapped, “As glad as I am to see you all, I was dealing with the situation all by myself.”
Hawkeye glanced up and snorted. “Wow. I always thought Pym was exaggerating when he mentioned you…”
“Oh, really? Well - ”
A flaming hand snatched out towards The Wasp, but she slid out of range in the blink of an eye, turned, and blasted the creature to smithereens. Hawkeye blinked.
“Of course,” he bleated, “What Hank said was that you were gorgeous and wonderful and lovely and – ahkk!”
Hawkeye pitched forward as Black Widow jumped upon his back and used him as a springboard, performing a perfect triple somersault and treating an entire flank of approaching foes with an array of venom bolts. She then laughed as the archer cursed her and shook an angry fist.
“What?” he barked. “You think I’m funny? Funny how? I mean, funny like a clown? I amuse you?”
“Joe Pesci, Tommy DeVito. Goodfellas.”
Hawkeye blinked. “Hey. Hey! You like that movie? You watch movies?”
The Widow smirked. “I’m Russian, Clint, not retarded. Or is it because I’m a woman, I’m not allowed to watch gangster films?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. But - ”
“Can you two do this whole coy, getting-to-know-one-another shtick later?” Iron Man interjected. “I mean, big fight happening, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Hawkeye raised his bow guiltily, then faltered. He glanced around at all the smoking bodies of fallen Lava Men. He pursed his lips. “Actually,” he murmured, “I think we’re pretty much done.”
“Save for the Queen Bee,” The Wasp snapped. “And you know what they say about the female of the species…”
“That they bitch a lot?”
“I’d imagine that someone with a tongue as sharp as yours, Hawkman, would be no stranger to bitching.”
“Hawkeye!” the archer exclaimed. “Hawkeye! Jesus…”
The creature that was once Allison Crestmere howled in anguish as she witnessed the last of her army fall to a savage blow from Captain America’s shield, then whirled to face her enemies en masse. She attempted to roast the star-spangled hero, but he twisted clear of her first discharge of liquid flame, then snatched up his shield on the rebound and deflected the second. Black Widow and The Wasp then swept in to launch a joint attack, blasting the Magma Queen with bioelectric stings from either side and causing her to shriek. She was then hammered to the ground by Iron Man’s repulsor rays, but retaliated with another deluge of fire and lava, forcing her adversaries to retreat. She advanced with a cry of rage, expelling magma bursts left and right, each strike coming closer and closer to a fatal impact…
…until a movement from behind distracted her. When everyone looked, they saw three new arrivals on the scene in Moonstone, Whirlwind and the hulking, armoured form of Thor. It was only when she set eyes upon the God of Storms that the Magma Queen – or rather, the beast that had created her – finally faltered.
“I sensed your presence, accursed spawn of Odin…” rasped the voice of Surtur, God of Fire and Doom. “These tainted mortals – they are your children?”
Thor looked on coldly from beneath his helm. “In a way,” he said, eventually.
The fiend cocked her head. “Your power is diminished. You radiate pain. You are a broken shadow of your true self, Thunder God.”
“And you are the barest sliver of an elemental spirit escaped through a crack in the walls of your prison. Your attempts at wreaking havoc and raising a new army in your name have failed, old foe.”
“And now you shall repair my planetary cage?” Surtur hissed. “For how long, Odinson? I will rise again. You cannot destroy me.”
The fiend lunged then, once again billowing flaming venom in all directions…
…only to suddenly find herself encased in a perfect sphere of her own magma, a pulsing fireball, with her screaming and writhing at its heart. Moonstone looked on impassively, one hand outstretched, manipulating the energy field that encased her foe. The Magma Queen raged, but then – abruptly – fell silent. Her flaming hands spread against the inner surface of her bubble, she was staring out at Captain America – or, more specifically, at the item that was looped from his belt. A malachite locket. In that moment, the inferno shrouding her body faded, almost dying entirely, to reveal a woman’s face stricken with sorrow.
“Oh, God,” Allison Crestmere breathed. “Oh, please. Kill me, before he takes control again. Kill me.”
The Captain frowned and stepped forward, shield lowered and one hand outstretched…
…but then Moonstone clenched her fist and the energy field collapsed in upon itself, compacting the body contained inside into a solid sphere of glowing rock no more than a foot across. She then released her hold, and the rock fell to the ground with a harmless crunch, where it pulsed once, then again… and then darkened and was still. Captain America looked across at Moonstone, whose expression was impassive. Then, slowly, he turned away.
Below ground there was a distant rumbling, and a faint cry of despair carried upon the air. Thor scowled and raised Mjolnir above his head. Immediately the Uru warhammer began to throb with a pale blue light.
“My fellow Avengers,” he stated. “In the interests of anonymity, you should all take your leave before your world’s emergency services arrive to tend this wound in Midgard’s flesh. I shall follow on where possible.”
“There’s nothing we can do to aid you here?”
“No, Captain. This is… Asgardian business.”
“It seems poor Earth is never less than at the mercy of Asgardian business,” Moonstone murmured. She smiled coldly as Thor turned his head towards her, snarling. “Still,” she purred, “A debate for another time, yes?”
Various members of the group exchanged uneasy glances. Moonstone weaved her hands, and enveloped them all – save for Thor – in a web of blue energy, ready for departure. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. Too late for many. Captain America took one last look around at the devastation that had been wrought, his heart heavy. Today had been a victory, that couldn’t be denied; they had all survived, and although he was unsure what manner of evil they’d ultimately faced, it had been vanquished.
So why, then, did he feel that they’d lost as much as they’d gained…?
[Twenty-four hours later…]
Jim Rhodes stepped off a Greyhound in Oakland, California, with a rucksack slung over his shoulder and eyes weary behind his sunshades. No one recognised him as a man who was officially dead. His picture had appeared in a grand total of two colour newspaper supplements since the sinking of the Santa Eloisa, filed away in the single-paragraph obituaries at the backs of both magazines whilst the likes of Janet van Dyne and Natasha Romanova received full-page spreads. No one cared about Jim Rhodes, forgotten employee of Stane Enterprises.
Jim owned his apartment rather than rented, and wasn’t on first name terms with any other tenants in his block, so all that was waiting for him at home was a hall full of bills and circulars. He was forced to pick his own lock due to the fact that his keys had been lost back on the ship, but even if someone had noticed him fumbling on his doorstep – which they didn’t – they would have just assumed he’d accidentally shut himself out. He had friends, of course, in Oakland and also San Francisco, but had no plans to contact them. He had no family. With so many claims to file, many of them for millions of dollars, the insurance companies hadn’t yet gotten around to contacting his bank to void his account, which would allow him to draw out all his cash savings – over one hundred thousand dollars – later that day.
If he wanted, Jim could have lived in comfortable anonymity for a couple of years or more, until the furore over the sinking had died down. However, that wasn’t the plan. A month ago – two weeks before the Santa Eloisa – a rival company had contacted him, having been given his name by an industry spy, and had offered him a key position in their scientific and mechanical development department. At the time he had declined, out of some stupid sense of loyalty to Stane, to Whitney, to Karla. Now he wished to grasp the opportunity and to hell with the consequences.
Jim took a shower, snagged a beer from the refrigerator, then leafed through the notebook on his desk until he reached a certain name and number. He picked up his phone and dialled.
“Hammer Industries switchboard,” answered a sultry female voice on the other end of the line. “Bethany Cabe speaking. How may I help you today?”
Jim took a deep breath, then smiled. “Hi there,” he said. “My name’s Jim Rhodes, and I’m returning a call from your boss, Justin Hammer…”
The Reykjavik was a roughneck saloon bar fifty miles south of San Diego along the coast towards the Mexican border. Ninety per cent of the patrons were male. The majority of the other ten per cent were whores. It was that kind of bar. Therefore, when the honey-blonde with the jade eyes and the red smile and the thousand-dollar legs came sauntering through the doors on killer heels, dressed in a loose olive-green chemise and a flared black skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, well… you can guess what the consensus was.
The woman picked a stool at the bar and crossed her legs, an act scrutinised by every man in the place, even those comatose through bourbon or tequila. The blonde was a knockout. She smelled of citrus fruit and rain. The bartender, a skinny guy with greasy hair, was understandably nervous. He rang a bell, summoning the owner, but it was already too late. Before the echo had died away there were two swarthy grunts – regulars, with a nasty reputation – flanking the blonde, all muscles and tattoos and leather.
“Hey, lady,” one of the men grumbled in Spanish. “You look new.”
The woman ignored him. When his fellow rested his elbow on the bar and leaned in towards her, she waved him away like a fly. Not recommended. The bartender paled.
The first man placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You looking for trouble, bitch?” he asked, quietly. “Because me and my friend here, we don’t - ”
“Reckon you ought to leave the lady alone, Eduardo.”
The two men glanced up at the sound of the voice, deep and mellow, and rich with accent. There was another fellow behind the bar now, a tall brute with leather-tan skin that was a contrast to the white hair that fell down about his shoulders and a scruff of sandy beard. The woman cocked her head, her expression curious. The first man, Eduardo, looked uneasy. His friend had already stepped away, hands in pockets. The man with the white hair wasn’t armed with a gun or a knife, but the aura he projected was all the more powerful for that. He was scarred three times, twice across the mouth and once beneath the left eye. His hands were large and hard, like the kind of flat rocks one found in the desert.
Without speaking, the woman reached up and curled her fingers about Eduardo’s throat. At first he almost smiled, thinking this was some intimate caress, but then her grip tightened and suddenly he was shuddering, unable to breathe. He was also being hoisted off his feet. This slender woman was half his size, but she wasn’t even trembling with exertion.
“As the man says,” she purred. “Leave me alone.”
Puce and flustered, Eduardo could only splutter an affirmation. The woman cast him aside like rag doll, and his friend pulled him to his feet and herded him towards the exit. The blonde turned back towards the bar and smiled at the fellow with the white hair.
“Thank you,” she said, softly. “It’s nice to know you folk aren’t all Neanderthals.”
“No need for gratitude,” the man snorted. “Looks like you can take care of yourself pretty damn fine without anyone else’s help. Besides, this is my tavern. I don’t want cops crawling round, making my life difficult.”
“An honest appraisal.” The woman’s eyes flashed. “My name is Amora. I’m… new around here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Amora,” the man said gruffly, extending one massive hand. “Name’s Carlsson. Skurge Carlsson.”
“Well then, Skurge Carlsson,” breathed Amora, Enchantress of Asgard. “Pour me a drink and tell me all about yourself. I have a feeling that you and I are going to become the best of friends…”
To Be Continued...
