Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

  The other members of the FF stood watching them: Sue Richards, Reed’s wife, known as the Invisible Woman, and her brother Johnny Storm, the Human Torch. Johnny’s eyes were wide; he almost seemed in shock. Little fires flared on and off, involuntarily, across his arms and shoulders.

  A sudden motion caught Spider-Man’s eye. He turned to see Wolverine, crouched down over by the crater’s far lip. Sniffing the air.

  “…think that’s all the survivors,” Reed said, peering into a screen. “There weren’t too many, this close to the blast.”

  “What…” Johnny stopped, caught himself. “What caused this?”

  “The New Warriors,” Tony replied. “I just watched the footage…it was broadcast remotely to their studio. In the name of ratings, they tried to take down a gang of villains way above their power level.”

  “Well, they paid for it.” Reed was grim. “I read no survivors in the blast zone.”

  “I confirm that,” Wolverine called. “No livin’ scents.”

  “Not even Nitro?” Tony asked. “He set off the explosion.”

  Spidey frowned. “What kind of crook blows himself up, knowing he’ll die along with his victims? Do we have suicide bomber super villains now?”

  Tony turned glowing eye-slits toward Spider-Man for the first time. “If I could ask him, I would. But that doesn’t seem to be an option.”

  “Kids,” Johnny said. He held up a shred of blue-and-gold cloth, a tiny piece of Speedball’s costume. “They were just kids.”

  Spider-Man crossed to Johnny, lay a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Matchstick. You okay?”

  But Johnny shrugged him off, grimaced, and burst into flames. He took off, wordless, into the gray-fogged sky.

  Sue grimaced, turned toward the FF’s plane. “I’ll follow him, make sure he’s okay. You can catch a ride home?”

  “Sure,” Reed replied. Their eyes met for a moment in profound, silent understanding.

  Spider-Man found himself wondering: Could I ever be that close to a woman?

  “Reed,” Tony said. “I’m gonna need all the data you can assemble. The Senate hearing is next week…this is the worst possible time for a disaster like this.”

  “Tony,” Spider-Man called. But Iron Man was already in flight, arcing up and out of the crater.

  Spider-Man followed, unsure what to do next, at a slight distance. Behind him, Reed Richards turned to the Thing, began setting up some new piece of machinery.

  Captain America stood just outside the crater, watching the last of the casualties being loaded into an ambulance. Tony touched down next to him. “Cap.”

  Captain America turned slowly toward him.

  “All these children, Tony.” Cap’s voice was hoarse, even deeper than usual. “The FEMA chief said there could be as many as nine hundred casualties. All for a TV show.”

  “They should have called us,” Tony replied. “The New Warriors, I mean. Night Thrasher knew they were out of their league.”

  Cap stared at him for a moment, then turned away. He strode quickly over to an ambulance, began speaking with the driver.

  Spider-Man stepped forward. “Tony,” he repeated. “I’m at your service. Tell me what to do.”

  “There’s nothing to do, Peter—I mean, Spider-Man. Get your tux out of the closet and prepare to be respectful. We’ve got funerals to attend.”

  “But—”

  “This isn’t a crime to be solved, or an adventure, or a villain to be fought. It’s just a tragedy.”

  “Or an opportunity. Right, bub?”

  Wolverine had crept up behind them, silent. His face was hostile, but not with animal savagery. This was something deeper, more personal.

  “You’re headin’ for Washington soon, right? To talk to Congress about the state of superhumans in this country.”

  “That’s right, Logan.”

  “Well, I don’t give a rat’s whisker what you do with these clowns.” He gestured up at Falcon and Ms. Marvel, hovering just above. “But I got a message from the X-Men: We’re neutral. The mutant community’s stayin’ out of this scrap.”

  “You’re also an Avenger, Logan.” Tony stepped toward Wolverine, repulsors glowing.

  Immediately, the mutant fell backward into a defensive crouch. Unbreakable claws burst forth from his hands, stopping half an inch from Iron Man’s chestplate.

  Behind Tony, the other Avengers had gathered: Goliath, Cage, Hawkeye. Tigra crouched low, growling softly.

  Captain America stood off in the distance, over by the ambulance. He looked down at a stretcher, shook his head at the body.

  Tony rose up a few inches off the ground, right at the lip of the crater, and stared down at Wolverine like a god. When he spoke again, his voice was a metallic hiss. “Maybe you should take a leave from the Avengers.”

  Wolverine turned and strode away. “Way ahead of you. Boss.”

  “Watch your step, Logan.”

  The mutant turned, snarled. “You think about comin’ after me, Tone, you better watch more than your step.”

  Then he took off like a wild animal, loping away at incredible speed.

  The Avengers seemed to all exhale at once. They looked around awkwardly, watching as the last of the rescue vehicles rumbled away.

  “Tony,” Spider-Man said. “What are you gonna say to the committee?”

  Tony Stark made no reply. He just stood, staring out over the crater, as the black-gray mist slowly faded to reveal a low, setting sun.

  Spider-Man stood with him, with his new teammates. He was an Avenger now; this was supposed to be his new beginning. But for nine hundred residents of Stamford, Connecticut…

  “…it’s the end,” he whispered.

  Tony turned sharply toward him. For a moment, Spider-Man had the crazy idea that Tony was about to snap at him. But the armored Avenger just looked upward, activated his boot jets, and flashed silently up into the blood-red sky.

  FROM outside, the Blazer Club didn’t look like much. Just a greasy glass double-door, its small velvet rope projecting out onto the sidewalk. Old-style movie marquee with plastic letters spelling out TONIGHT: ACTS OF VENGE NCE.

  The bouncer looked Sue Richards up and down, from her flat shoes to her old jeans to her bob haircut. His eyes were hidden behind thick shades, but his mouth betrayed a slight smirk. He didn’t even bother to shake his head.

  Sue grimaced and stepped back into the crowd. It was an unusually showy group for New York. A clutch of Wall Street execs, laughing loud and showing off big rings. Two tourist girls, impossibly skinny and bejeweled, trying hard to look cool. Smallish, muscular black man with a girl on each arm and a hot pizza slice hanging from his hand. A seven-foot-tall Amazon woman in revealing white dress, cleavage threatening to spill out onto the streets of Manhattan.

  Inside and out, Blazer was a bit more L.A. than most New York clubs. Maybe that was why Johnny Storm, Sue’s brother, liked it so much.

  A muscle-shirted Latino man with a goatee shoved past Sue, towing a small Asian woman in his wake. The bouncer moved the rope aside, let them in.

  Sue clenched her fists. She’d been hunting for Johnny all afternoon, and these were the only civilian clothes she’d had stored in the plane. If she didn’t look fabulous enough for the Blazer Club, that was their problem.

  She closed her eyes, concentrated, and vanished from sight.

  Susan Richards, the Invisible Woman, strode back up to the doorway and stepped easily around the rope. As she passed the bouncer, she willed her force field to expand slightly, shoving him up against a suburban-trash nerd who was trying to talk his way in. The bouncer turned, puzzled, but saw nothing.

  That was petty, Sue thought. But she smiled.

  Blazer’s main hall was enormous, at least half the size of a football field. Low lighting, forty-foot walls rising up to a vaulted ceiling. Colorfully garbed people danced casually or stood in clumps, yelling to be heard over the pounding techno hip-hop. Men in suits, rich kids, lingerie and feti
sh models casting painted eyes around for the right agent, the right photographer.

  Sue pushed her way through the throng of humanity, keeping herself invisible for now. Up on the stage, a dominatrix dressed like the Black Widow raised a stiletto heel onto “Daredevil’s” back, whipping him lightly as he crouched on all fours. The costumes, Sue noticed, were really sharp: every zipper, choker, and billy club in place. But none of the patrons seemed to care.

  Sue stopped to watch, more thoughtful than aroused. I’ve missed a lot these past few years. While I was raising Franklin and little Valeria.

  She realized she couldn’t even identify the song playing.

  Johnny had taken the Stamford disaster harder than anyone else. He’d always been an emotional kid, and the death toll had shaken all of them. But Sue realized something else: Johnny was closer in age to the New Warriors than anyone else on the scene today.

  And Johnny had made plenty of mistakes in his own life.

  I could have been an Olympic swimmer, Sue thought suddenly. When I was fifteen. I used to practice every day; I even passed the prelims. I was on my way.

  But I gave it up when Dad…stopped trying. Gave it up to take care of my little brother.

  Years later, she was still taking care of him.

  Johnny wasn’t the sort to mope around when he felt bad. He went looking for trouble. Which meant—

  A young man in a skinny tie bumped into Sue, nearly spilling one of his four drinks. He looked around, puzzled. Sheepishly, she faded back into view, mumbling an apology that vanished into the roar of music. The young man blinked twice, frowned momentarily, then shrugged and held out a brown cocktail.

  Sue started to shake her head, then smiled and took the drink.

  Just then the music blipped off. Some sort of technical glitch. Sue turned at the sound of raised voices.

  Across the room, a freestanding metal staircase led up to a platform and a door set halfway up the wall. A mixed group of clubgoers stood gathered around, ogling someone or something at the top of the stairs. A bright orange flame flared up from the platform, and the crowd shrank back, oohing.

  Johnny.

  Sue pushed her way through the crowd, leaving Skinny Tie behind. She tried to call out to her brother, but the room was too noisy. When she reached the base of the staircase, she could see Johnny standing before the door, waving a flaming hand down at the crowd. Some of them seemed impressed; others were…well, it was hard to tell. A trashy blonde hung on Johnny’s arm, gesturing drunkenly.

  At the top of the staircase, a bouncer swung open the door. “VIP Room, Mister Storm. Paris and Lindsay are waiting.”

  “Thanks, Chico.” Johnny pulled out a fiver, then accidentally set it aflame. “Ha, sorry! Wait, here you go.”

  Sue grimaced, then moved toward the staircase. But a big woman in a tight backless dress clanked a boot up onto the steps, blocking her way. “How come that loser gets into the VIP Room?” the woman asked.

  Johnny paused at the door, turned slowly around.

  No, Sue thought. Don’t do it, kid.

  “Tell you what, Gorgeous.” Johnny’s eyes flashed. “Next time you save the world from Galactus, you can borrow my pass. ‘?”

  “How ’bout the next time you blow up a school?”

  The woman’s companion, a trim man in an all-black shirt, laid a hand around her shoulders. “Yeah, jackass. How ’bout the next time you kill some innocent kids?”

  Johnny tottered drunkenly, took a step toward the edge of the staircase. “Hell are you talking about, hipster?”

  The bouncer watched, eyes narrowing. Johnny’s date disengaged from his arm, casting a quick worried look his way.

  Sue tensed, prepared to will herself invisible again…but stopped as a look of shame crossed Johnny’s face. “Look,” he began. “I mean…”

  “Man,” said a heavy man, “you got some nerve swaggering around town after that. I was you, I’d be ashamed to go outside.”

  Johnny lurched forward, suddenly angry, and almost fell down the staircase. “Shut your cakehole, Tubby. I got nothing to do with Speedball or the New Warriors. Those guys were strictly C-List.”

  “Baby killer!”

  The crowd charged up the stairs.

  Everything happened very fast, then. Sue reached out with her force field, clearing a path up the metal staircase. People stumbled up against the railings, a few of them toppling the few feet down to the floor. Sue leapt up the steps, three at a time. Heard a sickening crack, and a cry of pain.

  The music faded back up, harder and louder than ever.

  When Sue reached the top, Johnny was lying on the platform floor, his hands wrapped around his bloody head. The Tight Dress woman stood over him, face twisted with hate, a broken bottle clutched in her fist. The bouncer stood at the edge of the platform, warning people away.

  Johnny’s date let out a little shriek and disappeared into the VIP Room, slamming the door behind her.

  Sue charged Tight Dress, projecting invisible force from her hands. The woman got in one more good kick at Johnny’s head before Sue rammed into her. Sue lifted up with her force field, pushed the woman over the rail, and watched as she fell into the crowd of humanity below.

  Johnny was rolling around, writhing, blood dripping through the metal mesh of the platform, like red rain falling onto the patrons below. His arms flashed briefly aflame, then his legs. He clutched his skull, let out a horrible huh huh huh noise.

  More patrons were rushing the staircase now. Furious, pent up, some of their faces spattered with Johnny’s blood. They want to kill him, she realized. They want to kill all of us.

  Bouncers closed in, trying to stop the human tide. But the clubgoers kept advancing, like maddened nineteenth-century villagers. As they reached the top of the stairs, Sue crouched down next to her brother and reached out, surrounding them both with an impenetrable force field. The first two attackers bounced off hard, tumbling back into the wave behind them.

  Johnny wasn’t moving now.

  “My brother,” Sue called, struggling to shout over the music and screams. “CALL MY BROTHER AN AMBULANCE!”

  “FIRST of all, I’d like to thank you all for coming. It means a lot…to me, and most of all to your friends, neighbors, and family who lost loved ones in yesterday’s utterly avoidable tragedy.”

  Subject: Henry Pym

  Aliases: ANT-MAN, GIANT-MAN, YELLOWJACKET

  Group Affiliation: Avengers (former)

  Powers: assorted size-changing abilities, flight, stinger-weapons

  Power Type: artificial

  Current Location: New York, NY

  Tony Stark called up the iPhone’s onscreen keyboard, jotted a note: Retired. Harmless.

  “At times like this, it’s crucial that a community come together. We cannot allow ourselves to descend into hatred and bitterness. Judgment belongs to the Lord, not to us.”

  Subject: Robert Reynolds

  Aliases: SENTRY

  Group Affiliation: Avengers (occasional)

  Powers: extreme strength, invulnerability, and unknown other capabilities

  Power Type: inborn

  Current Location: unknown

  Tony frowned, wrote: Potential trouble. Find and recruit.

  “That said…” The minister looked down, removed his glasses. “…in our grief, we must not forget the causes of this tragedy, nor forgive its perpetrators. Forgiveness, too, is reserved for the Lord.”

  Subject: Robert Bruce Banner

  Aliases: THE HULK

  Group Affiliation: none

  Powers: anger-fueled strength—no measurable limit

  Power Type: inborn

  Current Location: exiled to deep space

  Tony shivered.

  The church was huge, with several hundred pews; but every one of them was filled today. Old people and young, men and women, every one of them dressed in mourning black.

  Tony sat five rows from the front, his mind racing. He hadn’t slept last night.
Since the incident he’d slipped into overdrive, the way he did when confronted by a sticky engineering problem. His subconscious whirled around and around, tackling the situation from a thousand different angles.

  “…and so we ask you, Lord, for your mercy.”

  So many heroes. Hundreds of them, and who knew how many villains besides. Tony already kept dossiers on most of them, but now he found himself compulsively updating the entries.

  There’s a lot of power here, he thought. A lot of potential Nitros.

  “Mercy. Not only for the souls of the children who perished…” The minister paused, looked out over the crowd. “…but also for the so-called super-people whose carelessness led us to this sad place.”

  A news-alert icon flashed in the corner of Tony’s phone. He slipped on his earbuds, casting a brief, guilty glance around. A bald man appeared on the phone screen behind a cable-news logo, his voice tinny in Tony’s ears.

  “…like Speedball, for example. Nobody likes to speak ill of the dead, but here was a boy who, by all accounts, couldn’t even name the president of the United States. Shouldn’t a kid like that be tested before he’s allowed to work in our communities?”

  Tony frowned, clicked to another channel. The phone screen filled with a close-up of Johnny Storm’s bloody, unconscious face as he was loaded into an ambulance. Blinding lights flashed in the Manhattan night.

  “—details in the brutal assault on Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, last evening. This, the latest in a series of attacks on New York’s super-community. More on the hour, plus the growing pressure on the president as the people of Stamford ask: What are his proposals for super hero reform?”

  Click.

  “A ban on super heroes?” She-Hulk leaned forward and removed her glasses, rattling the talk-show host. “Well, in a world full of super villains that’s obviously impossible, Piers. But training them and making them carry badges? Hell yes, I think that’s a reasonable response.”

  Tony felt a prickling on his neck, looked up suddenly. The two women next to him were glaring at him through their veils. He flashed them a sheepish smile.