by Stuart Moore
Then he noticed the other set of eyes boring into him, from the end of the row. Captain America.
Tony yanked off the earbuds, slipped the phone into his pocket.
When the service ended, Tony beelined for the door. People were already gathering together, weeping and comforting each other. He had no desire to intrude on their grief. Several other Avengers, including Tigra and Ms. Marvel, had wanted to come, but they’d all agreed it was best to keep the superhuman contingent as small as possible. No one wanted to turn the people of Stamford’s grief into a media circus.
Tony strode quickly out of the church. He didn’t really feel like arguing with Cap right now, either.
Just outside the door, Tony felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Peter Parker, smiling sheepishly. “Boss,” Peter said.
“Peter. I thought we agreed Cap and I were going to represent the Avengers.”
Peter shrugged. “Who’s an Avenger? You’re looking at a humble photojournalist from the Daily Bugle.”
Tony smiled despite himself, eyed Peter up and down. The rented tux looked good on Peter, but those shoes were scuffed. And brown.
Baby steps, Tony thought. This one’s a project.
“Besides,” Peter continued. “I just wanted to be here.”
The church’s driveway was small and curved, on the edge of an open field. Cars clogged its full length, pulling up one at a time to pick up the oldest mourners. Down the line, Tony spotted Happy Hogan leaning against the limo.
“Walk with me, Peter.”
Peter fell in beside Tony. They passed the minister, who stood comforting a pair of grieving widows. A very old woman was with them, weeping uncontrollably into a lace kerchief.
Captain America stood off to the side, solemnly shaking hands with a pair of firemen.
The minister raised his head, locked eyes briefly with Tony. Tony looked away.
“I feel like I should be snapping pics,” Peter said.
“That part of your life is over,” Tony replied. “No more scrambling for rent money.”
“You mean I’m part of the one percent now?”
Tony stopped, touched the boy’s shoulder. “Things are about to happen fast, Peter. I’m glad you’re with me.”
“Things. Like the Superhuman Registration Act.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Not many people have heard that phrase yet.”
“But it’s why you’re going to Washington next week, right?”
“Tonight, actually. The Committee has moved up their timetable, in light of…” He gestured around, taking in the church and the mourners. “The president has asked to meet with me this evening, and the hearings take place tomorrow.”
“What would it mean? This Act?”
“All metahumans would be required to undergo registration and training in order to practice their…their gifts in public. It also gives the government extremely broad powers of enforcement. Broader, even, than anything the Senate was considering before.”
“And you support it?”
“It’s a tricky piece of legislation.” Tony frowned. “If it’s enacted into law, it would have to be administered with great wisdom. Great care.”
“Tony Stark?”
Tony whirled around—just in time for a stream of spittle to strike him in the face.
“You filthy piece of crap!”
The woman was crying openly, tears streaming down her cheeks. Peter moved to restrain her, but Tony held out a hand.
Happy Hogan was already behind the woman. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He laid a meaty hand on her shoulder.
“Leave what? My own son’s funeral?” She shrugged him off angrily, turned to point at Tony. “He’s the one you should be dragging away.”
Tony grimaced, wiped his face dry. “Ma’am, I appreciate that you’re upset. But the New Warriors’…tragic actions…had nothing to do with me.”
“Oh yeah? Who finances the Avengers? Who’s been telling kids for years that they can live outside the law, as long as they’re wearing tights?”
Peter Parker cleared his throat. “I, uh, don’t think Mister Stark says that.”
“Cops have to train and carry badges,” the woman continued, “but that’s too boring for Tony Stark. All you need are some powers and a badass attitude, and bang! You’ve got a place in Joe Billionaire’s private super-gang.”
Tony opened his mouth to speak, and then something happened that had only happened once before. His mind went utterly, completely blank.
She’s right, he realized.
Happy reached for the woman again. She shrank away from him, doubling over with a piercing wail of sorrow. A crowd was gathering now, watching with hostile eyes.
“Jerome left me,” the woman sobbed. “When they took away his pension, he just…he couldn’t take the pressure. All I had left was my little Damien. And now…and now…”
“Hap,” Tony said, “Let’s go.”
“You, Stark.” The woman straightened, stabbed a finger out at Tony’s retreating form. “You fund this sickness. With your billions. My Damien’s blood is—it’s on your hands. Now, now and forever.”
Tony strode toward the limo, flanked by Happy and Peter. A thousand eyes followed them, glaring in judgment.
“Well, that was fun.” Peter grimaced. “And only a little scary.”
“They’re the scared ones,” Tony said. “All of them. They grew up thinking they’d have jobs, pensions, a few bucks to spend in their old age. Now they’re terrified. Can you blame them?”
“Maybe you could give them ‘a few bucks.’”
“Maybe I can do more than that.” Happy yanked open the limo door, and Tony stepped inside. He paused for a moment, fixed his gaze on Peter’s questioning eyes. “I can make them safe.”
Peter nodded slowly.
He knows, Tony thought. He understands.
The door slammed shut, and suddenly Tony was alone. Alone in the dark quiet limo, walled off by metal and glass from the sea of grief outside. Just a billionaire and his private thoughts, dark and heavy.
Happy slid around to the front, slipped behind the wheel. “Home, boss?”
“Straight to the airport, Hap.” Tony peered out the tinted window at the dark-suited mourners. “I know what I have to do.”
THE Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, had seen its share of battles. The Sinister Six once tore up the square in front so badly, the FF had been without water for a week. Galactus, Devourer of Worlds, had been fought off from the roof. Doctor Doom once launched the entire building into space.
The people of midtown Manhattan, understandably, had a love-hate relationship with the FF. They loved having heroes in their midst, especially heroes as public and friendly as the Four. But the constant brawling and property damage had brought on civil suits, protests, and even the occasional death threat.
Still, Spider-Man had never seen anything like the scene outside today.
A solid wall of protesters formed a semicircle in front of the Baxter Building, blocking Broadway where it met Seventh Avenue at the north end of Times Square. They chanted angrily, waved signs reading:
FF OUT OF NYC!
(NEW) WARRIORS OF DEATH
REGISTRATION NOW
HEROES = MURDERERS
And perhaps most succinctly:
REMEMBER STAMFORD
Spider-Man swung over the crowd, as swiftly as he could manage. A few people pointed, and the chants stopped. The crowd grew silent for a moment, as though confused.
Great, he thought. Doesn’t anybody recognize me in the new threads?
Then a low rumble rose up, followed by a barrage of boos and whistles. A rock flew past Spidey’s head; he dodged it easily, spider-sense kicking in automatically. Then a tomato.
He let go of his webline and spread his arms wide. He felt a moment of panic; he’d only used the costume’s gliding mechanism once before, and he really didn’t want to plummet face-first into that angr
y mob. But at a certain point, he reflected, you had to trust something.
Or someone. Tony Stark, in this case.
Then Spider-Man was soaring, almost flying through the air. He reached out and made contact with the outer wall of the Baxter Building, then scuttled upward like his namesake, circling around the building to avoid the huge vehicle hangar doors on the top levels. Below, the crowd’s booing seemed to fade like a bad dream.
At the second level from the top, he spotted a concealed doorway built right into the brick facing. He started to reach for it—
—and turned in alarm.
“Dasvidanya.”
Natasha Romanov, the Russian super-spy called the Black Widow, sat casually on a ledge, gorgeous as always in tight black leather. She was eating a salad from a takeout container.
“Natasha,” Spider-Man said. “What—how did you get here?”
She turned, gave him a withering look. “You have airplanes in this country?”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you. Well, someone like you. Preferably taller.” She stood, stretched precariously on the ledge. Spidey started to reach for her; the street was forty stories below. Natasha didn’t seem concerned.
“I just flew in from the Mother Country,” she continued. “Tony was kind enough to tell me about the gathering, but apparently Reed Richards didn’t get the message. I was not on the approved list at the door.” She gestured down at the crowd, now distant dots of color. “And security is a bit tight today.”
“So you just…”
“There was bound to be an airborne visitor sooner or later.”
Spidey paused, digested this for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned back to the hidden doorway.
“Johnny Storm gave me access to this,” he said. “Man, I hope he’s okay.”
“Yes, yes.” He heard her yawn.
At Spider-Man’s touch, the doorway glowed. The word AUTHENTICATING appeared, holographically superimposed over the bricks; then AUTHORIZED. The hatch swung inward.
A quick crawl through an air duct, and they dropped down into a corridor near the FF’s main operational center.
“So are you here as an Avenger?” Spider-Man asked. “Or representing S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
The Widow shrugged, as if the question had no meaning.
A flurry of laughter, and a tiny girl stumbled into sight, tripping over her own feet. A slightly older boy with a thick mop of blond hair came chasing after her. They both stopped simultaneously, eyeing the Widow. She glared back down at them.
Then the boy turned to Spider-Man and grinned. “Hey, Uncle Spidey. Cool costume!”
“Thank you, Franklin,” Spider-Man said. “You’re the first person I’ve met today with any taste.”
The girl—Valeria—had recovered, and looked at them with witchy, glowing eyes. “Everybody’s in Daddy’s lab,” she said.
“Cool.” Spidey reached down and ruffled her hair. Valeria stood stock still, watching him, as though they were conducting an experiment together.
Then Franklin slapped her arm and ran. She whirled, laughing, and took off after him.
Spider-Man watched them go. Franklin and Valeria were great kids, and he knew how much they meant to Reed and Sue. He felt a twinge of regret, of envy. If only things had worked out differently with…
“While we’re young?” the Widow said.
Spidey grimaced, and followed the Widow down the hall.
He always felt like a twelve-year-old around her.
REED Richards’s laboratory was huge, windowless, high-ceilinged, and utterly packed with scientific equipment. Particle beam microscopes, giant lasers, alien spaceships laid out like frogs ready to be dissected. Supercomputers, ranging from the latest SUN systems to antique Cray assemblages, all custom-networked together in a tangled system that only Reed’s incredible brain could understand. Johnny Storm had once observed to Spidey that, if anything ever happened to Reed, nobody would even be able to toast a slice of bread in this lab, ever again.
It seemed an odd place for the biggest gathering of super heroes ever assembled. But Spider-Man quickly realized: It was the only room in the Baxter Building large enough.
Hawkeye, Goliath, the Falcon, Tigra, and Ms. Marvel stood together, talking intensely. These, Peter realized, were the core Avengers, the nexus of Tony’s premier super hero team. Hawkeye gestured wildly, nearly banging into one of Reed’s big electronic devices. A time machine, maybe.
Luke Cage stood apart, in street clothes and dark shades, speaking in low tones with Cloak, a young African-American hero in a swirling blue costume. Nighthawk and Valkyrie, representatives of the off-and-on team the Defenders, milled about uncomfortably, drinks in their hands. Spider-Woman, the red-and-yellow-clad masked Avenger, stood alone in the group, tapping at her phone. The Young Avengers—Hulkling, Patriot, Wiccan, Stature, and Speed—seemed to huddle together, eyeing the older heroes suspiciously.
Dagger, a willowy young girl with light powers, danced around the room, flitting excitedly from one of Reed’s machines to the next. Reed stood in the back, near the Negative Zone portal, his neck stretched out like a ten-foot snake. His head bobbed back and forth, following Dagger’s path. Every time she touched something, he winced.
Spider-Man felt a stab of claustrophobia. Here, among all his fellow heroes, he felt somehow, paradoxically, exposed. Vulnerable.
You’re not wanted by the law anymore, he reminded himself. You’re an Avenger now.
He spotted Daredevil over in a corner, talking in soft low tones with the green-skinned She-Hulk. Get two lawyers together, he thought…they were probably deep into the legal implications of the Superhuman Registration Act by now.
Spider-Man started over toward Daredevil, but Natasha elbowed past him. She slinked up to Daredevil, laid a hand on his chest. She-Hulk rolled her eyes and turned away.
Ben Grimm, the Thing, clapped a hand on Spider-Man’s back—not too hard; Ben had learned not to cripple ordinary people with friendly gestures. “Hey, Spidey. Glad ya came.”
“Ben.”
Spidey leaned against an intricate machine, a latticework of glass and metal. Ben frowned. “Y’better not touch that.”
“Oh, sorry. Reed’ll get mad?”
“Worse. He’ll spend twenny minutes tellin’ you what it does.”
Spidey followed Ben’s gaze. Across the room, Reed was gesturing expansively with elongated arms, explaining something to a clearly confused Dagger. Cloak, her partner, had joined her. He seemed equally befuddled.
“Hey,” Spider-Man said, “how’s Johnny doing?”
“Better…he’s stable, mostly conscious. Suzy’s with him now.” Ben slammed a rocky fist into his palm. “I shouldn’t think about it too much. Makes me wanna clobber somebody.”
“Yeah. Any news about the Registration Act yet?
“Not yet.” Ben gestured up at a huge wallscreen tuned to CNN. The sound was muted, but a graphic read: BREAKING NEWS - SENATE IN CLOSED SESSION ON SRA. “Should be any minute.”
Ms. Marvel glided over to join them, tall and statuesque in blue and red. The other Avengers followed in her wake. “Tony’s been incommunicado all day,” she said to Spider-Man. “We were just wondering if you’ve heard from him.”
Tigra, smiled, baring pointed teeth. “Spider-Man is Tony’s new favorrrrrrite.”
“Not me,” Spidey said. “Haven’t heard a word.” He felt uncomfortable again, like an invader in a private club.
“Tone only texts me about babes. An’ I ain’t got a single pic from him today.” Hawkeye, the archer, looked up from his phone. “That really worries me.”
“Hey.” Spider-Man looked around. “Where’s Captain America?”
“Called away. Top secret.” Falcon shrugged. “’Sall he’d say.”
“Gotta be S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Hawkeye said. “It’s always S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Nighthawk was staring at the TV screen. “Pension plans and annual vacation time? Are they trying to
turn us into civil servants?”
Luke Cage frowned. “I think they’re trying to close us down.”
“Or make us more legitimate,” Ms. Marvel replied. “Why shouldn’t we be better trained and publicly accountable?”
Patriot, leader of the Young Avengers, spoke up tentatively. “Somebody said we should go on strike if they mess with us. Does anybody think that’s a good idea?”
Reed Richards stepped forward, frowning. “I don’t think anyone here would seriously advocate a super hero strike, son.”
“Becoming public employees makes perfect sense,” Ms. Marvel continued, “if it helps people sleep easier.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Goliath grew slightly, rising to eight feet in height, and all eyes turned to him. “The masks are a tradition. They’re part of who we are. We can’t just let the government turn us into super-cops.”
“Actually,” Spider-Woman said, “we’re lucky people have put up with this for so long. Why should we be allowed to hide behind these things?”
Hawkeye bristled. “Because the world ain’t so nice outside your ivory tower, babe.”
“I’ve never really understood the secret identity fetish,” Reed said. “The Fantastic Four have been public since the very beginning, and it’s always worked for us.”
“For you, maybe.” Spider-Man felt the claustrophobia, the panic, rising inside him again. “But what about the day I come home and find the woman who raised me impaled on an octopus arm?”
Awkward silence.
Parker, Spidey thought, you sure know how to bring down a room.
As the conversation slowly resumed, he slinked into a corner. Behind a refrigerator-sized electron microscope, Daredevil and the Black Widow stood very close together, their lips almost touching. At first Spidey couldn’t tell if they were arguing or making out.
“…being paranoid,” the Widow said. “It’s all just speculation at the moment.”
“No,” Daredevil replied. “This has been building for a long time. Stamford was just the final straw.”
“You Americans.” She nuzzled his chest, a hard look on her lovely face. “So spoiled with freedom. The slightest hint of a threat, and you throw a tantrum.”
