Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

  The drinks sat above a trough of crushed ice, staring out at Tony like a row of glass and metal eyes. And not one of them was what he wanted.

  Distract yourself, he thought. He clicked on the TV, and a coiffed blonde appeared above a cable news logo.

  “…just got word about a press conference that Tony Stark has called for tomorrow,” she said. “This, of course, to follow the enactment of the Superhuman Registration Act into law, just minutes from now. How does that strike you?”

  The screen shifted to a fierce masculine face. Bushy brows, graying temples, a too-short mustache adorning his lip. White shirt, rolled-up sleeves. Nostrils flaring with excitement.

  Below his face, the words appeared:

  J. JONAH JAMESON

  PUBLISHER, DAILY BUGLE

  “How does it strike me?” Jameson repeated. “It’s great, Megan. I mean, it’s only a first step toward controlling our massive superhuman problem. But at midnight tonight, everything my newspaper has ever campaigned for officially becomes law.”

  Wow, Tony thought. He’s even scarier when he smiles.

  “Do you think—”

  “No more masks,” Jameson continued, cutting off the reporter. “No more hiding, and no more creepy excuses about secret identities. These clowns will work for S.H.I.E.L.D. or their colorful butts will wind up in jail. Period.”

  “Mister Jameson. Do you think, do you really think all the super heroes are going to just sign up?”

  “No.” Jameson leaned forward into the camera, and a hungry look appeared in his eyes. “Only the smart ones.”

  Tony smiled. Sorry, old man. Peter’s not your whipping boy anymore.

  Still, it was good to have a major newspaper on the side of Registration. Even one run by a borderline psychopath.

  The reporter asked another question. Jameson ignored it entirely, launching instead into a long recitation of the great struggles for justice conducted over the years by the heroic Daily Bugle. Tony rolled his eyes, clicked to another channel.

  The thick smoke cloud again, rising up over the ruined Stamford school. As if I don’t see that in my dreams every night. He muted the TV.

  The corner of the screen read: 11:53 PM.

  “Pull over, Happy,” Tony said. “Time to drink a toast.”

  Happy’s voice came over the speaker. “You got a beer for me back there, Mister Stark?”

  “You’re driving, Hap.” Tony glanced briefly back up at the devastation on the screen. “Let’s play by the rules tonight.”

  “HEARD anything from Captain America, Mister Stark?”

  Tony fidgeted, shifted the smartphone from hand to hand. He looked up at Happy, who sat opposite, hefting a seltzer water while leaning his bulky frame against the driver’s barrier.

  He looks so…at ease, Tony thought. Will I ever feel that way again?

  “Nothing from Cap.” Tony frowned. “Hawkeye’s dropped out of sight too, and I can’t raise Cage. I think Cap’s secretly putting together his own team.” He tossed the phone to Happy. “Jesus, Happy, I can’t look. Tell me how many heroes have registered.”

  Happy peered at the screen. “Looks like…thirty-seven. Wait, make that thirty-eight. Ms. Widow’s registration just came through.”

  “Just like Natasha to make me sweat a little.” Tony took a deep breath. “Thirty-eight.”

  “That’s about what you expected, right?”

  “Pretty much. Still…Hap, are the FF’s forms in?”

  “Just a sec…” Happy ran a thick finger down the screen, scrolling the display. “Yep, here they are. All four of ’em.”

  Well. That was something, at least.

  “Couple more just rolled in. Prob’ly not everyone’s gonna meet the deadline head-on.” Happy glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s one minute till. You want we should do a New Year’s-style countdown?”

  “No.” Tony leaned back, closing his eyes tight. He kept them closed, squeezing till spots appeared. “I just hope we’re doing the right—”

  A loud sharp beeping filled the air, echoing off the limo’s walls. Tony snapped his eyes open just in time to see a startled Happy toss the smartphone up into the air, like a boiling pan of oil.

  Tony grabbed the phone, stabbed at a mute button. “S.H.I.E.L.D. alert,” he said.

  When he turned around, Happy was already holding up the Iron Man helmet.

  S.H.I.E.L.D. Mobile Command Center 3A was a high-tech hovercraft designed specifically for urban operations. Tony caught up with it a few blocks north of Wall Street, among the close-packed skyscrapers of lower Manhattan. At first all he saw was a blur, like a heat wave rippling sideways in the night against the fifth-story windows. He kicked his boot-jets to full, course-correcting by trial and error. When he matched the vehicle’s speed, his sensors penetrated the S.H.I.E.L.D. stealth cloak and he saw the Command Center: a low flat bus with a pointed front end, skimming its way around the tall buildings.

  “IRON MAN, REAL NAME TONY STARK,” he broadcast. “REQUEST APPROVAL TO COME ABOARD.”

  The interior was dark, cramped, and crowded with surveillance screens. A real war room. Four S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in full gear manned computer consoles.

  “Unregistered minor,” Maria Hill said, pointing to a flatscreen. “Tried to foil a robbery in costume. A clear violation of the Act.”

  Tony lifted up his helmet and peered at the screen. It showed a young masked black man, accompanied by one of Tony’s own dossier entries:

  Subject: Eli Bradley

  Alias: PATRIOT

  Group Affiliation: Young Avengers (unauthorized)

  Powers: enhanced strength, agility; throwing stars

  Power Type: inborn/artificial (hybrid)

  Current Location: New York, NY

  Tony frowned. “Where is he now?”

  Hill turned to an agent. “Russell. The new holo display online yet?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Punch it up.”

  She motioned Tony back. In the center of the room, a three-dimensional image flickered to life: Patriot, scared and breathing hard, lit only by sporadic streetlamps and roof lights. He ran and jumped for his life, making incredible leaps from the top of one high building to another.

  “This display is state of the art,” Hill said. “It uses ordinary cameras, but enhances—”

  “I know.” Tony waved a hand through the image; it didn’t even waver. “I designed it.”

  “We’ve got him,” the agent said. “NYPD surveillance cameras are locked on his heat signature. Foxtrot-Four is closing in, just a few blocks south of here.”

  On the image, a helicopter spotlight appeared in the air, just behind Patriot. He half-turned, a terrified look on his face. Then he sprinted away, even faster.

  Hill smiled. “Run, you little freak.”

  Tony frowned. He’d never been sure what to make of Hill; she struck him as an extremist, the kind of soldier who always looked for the simplest, most violent solution to a problem. The loss of Nick Fury had left a vacuum at the top of S.H.I.E.L.D., a dangerous thing in an organization charged with policing the entire free world. Hill had seen her chance and grabbed for it.

  And she sure seemed to be taking a lot of pleasure in this.

  “The Registration Act has been law for thirty-eight minutes, Commander. Shouldn’t you give this kid a little time?”

  Hill raised an eyebrow at him. “First off, Stark, it’s Director now.”

  “Acting Director, I think.”

  She glared at him. “Patriot and the Young Avengers—a group, I might add, that you allowed tacitly to be formed in the first place—have been tweeting all night against the Act.” She motioned to an agent, who called up a flatscreen full of text. “Examples: ‘Death before unmasking.’ ‘Eff S.H.I.E.L.D. forever.’ ‘Tony Stark: One Percenter With a Heart of Stone.’” She smiled. “Bit of poetry in that one, I thought.”

  “Director,” the agent said, “signal from Foxtrot-Four.”

  On the holo, Pa
triot made a massive leap up and across a dark gap between buildings. He scrambled and almost missed the roof, but grabbed hold and vaulted up. The copter circled around to intercept him, fanning its light across the roof. Tony could make out weapon-launchers mounted on both sides of it, just above its landing gear.

  The pilot’s crackling voice filled the Command Center. “Visual confirmation, S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC. I’m in position.”

  Hill stepped forward. “Roger that, Foxtrot-Four. Permission to use tranquilizers and minimum force.” She turned to Tony. “Satisfied?”

  He didn’t answer.

  A hail of capsules and rubber bullets rained down on Patriot’s running figure, ripping open the back of his jacket. He cried out, but kept moving.

  “No injury, S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC.”

  The agent turned to Hill, frowning. “This kid is bulletproof now?”

  “Damn database,” a second agent said. “I thought we had people updating this thing.”

  “Patience, people.” Hill smiled again. “As Mister Stark says, we’ve been in this business for less than an hour.”

  “Where is he going?” Tony asked. “He’s running out of island.”

  “According to our intel, the Young Avengers have a safe house right about…”

  Still pursued by the helicopter, Patriot launched himself off the side of another building. But this time he wasn’t aiming at a roof. He flailed in the air, then crashed straight into a plate glass window, shattering it. He let out a cry and tumbled inside the building.

  “…there,” Hill finished.

  “Switching to copter view,” the agent said.

  The image became a shaky downshot on Patriot, standing just inside the shattered window. The room looked dark, abandoned; Tony couldn’t make out any other figures.

  “Guys!” Patriot yelled. “We gotta get out of here! I was…I was breaking up a mugging for God’s sake, and now S.H.I.E.L.D.’s all over me!”

  “He’s in for a surprise,” Hill said. “We picked up the rest of the Young Avengers half an hour ago.”

  “Actually, Wiccan’s still in the wind,” one of the agents said. “But local police have got a line on him.”

  “GUYS, THIS IS SERIOUS!” Patriot’s figure wobbled as the copter circled around the gap in the building. “S.H.I.E.L.D. IS—THEY’RE NOT MESSING AROUND!”

  “Tranqs ineffective, S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC,” the copter pilot said. “And now I can’t get a bead on him.”

  Hill turned to an agent. “Is that building clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. No life signs.”

  “Foxtrot-Four, you are cleared to escalate.”

  Tony turned to her, alarmed. “What does that —”

  The agent clicked back to a wide view. Twin incendiary missiles flashed out from the copter’s weapon-launchers, headed straight toward the building.

  The holo switched back to the copter’s camera again—just in time to capture Patriot’s terrified face. He stared straight at the camera, mouth open, as the missiles closed in on him.

  Then the building exploded. The framework shattered and the top three floors erupted up into the air, glass and metal flying everywhere. A cloud of dark ash filled the screen, blotting out the devastation.

  Tony grabbed Hill by the shoulders. “What are you doing? Are you insane?”

  She winced under his metallic grip, then pulled angrily away.

  “That kid is practically indestructible. What do you expect?”

  “I expect you not to cause wanton property damage.” He gestured at the dust-cloud on the screen. “The whole idea behind this is not to panic people!”

  “I suppose our methods differ.”

  “If that kid is dead—”

  “He’s not.” The agent stabbed at his controls, and the holo flickered from static to dust and back again. “I can’t get a picture—NYPD cameras were knocked out by the blast. But Foxtrot-Four confirms: They’ve picked him up.”

  “This is wrong.” Tony snapped on his helmet, and all his systems flashed to life. “This is—I’m going to speak to the president about this.” He turned and strode toward the hatch.

  “Stark.”

  Something in Hill’s tone made him stop.

  “We’re on the same side here,” she said.

  He reached for the hatch, activated the airlock. The inner door hissed open.

  “I know,” he replied.

  And off he flew, into the night.

  AUNT May’s house was very quiet. Old books, chotchkes; souvenirs from vacations taken back when air travel was far less casual. Framed pictures everywhere: Peter, Uncle Ben, and Peter’s long-dead parents, posed proudly in their military uniforms. Sepia-toned photos from the early 20th century, maybe even the 19th. Smell of mothballs, of disinfectants manufactured decades ago.

  Peter Parker sat on his bed, smoothed down the old checkered bedspread. Like everything else in the room, it had been here for decades. His old, clunky microscope; the analog-film camera he’d taken his first photos with. The science trophy with the dent in it, where Flash Thompson had knocked it to the ground back in high school.

  All of it the same. Preserved, he realized, but not obsessively. Proudly. There’s a difference.

  So much of him, of Peter Parker, was here in this room. And yet a big slice, a big thread in the skein of his life, was missing.

  He went to the closet, pulled back a loose board. Felt around for a moment, and closed a hand around his very first, cloth Spider-Man mask. It stared at him with oversized, white eyes, slightly discolored with age.

  “Peter?”

  At the sound of May’s voice, he suddenly remembered why he’d come. A surge of panic ran through him. He wadded up the mask, stuffed it into his back pocket.

  “In here, Aunt May.”

  Every time Peter came to visit, Aunt May made him wheatcakes, no matter what time of day or night. Fortunately, he was hungry.

  “Goodness, Peter, you’re awake early. The sun isn’t even up yet.”

  She stood in the doorway. Wobbling a little, he noticed, but smiling for her nephew. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun; her face showed a few more lines every year. Her hands were blue-veined, but steady.

  Only one thing was odd: The tray in her hands held chocolate chip cookies, not wheatcakes.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Peter smiled hesitantly at the tray. “Cookies, Aunt May?”

  She looked at the tray, as if seeing it for the first time. For a moment, she looked confused. Peter felt another stab of panic, of worry.

  Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. Today seemed different.”

  “I’m not complaining.” He took one, bit into it. Still hot. The chips melted onto his tongue, a pleasant, homey feeling.

  May smiled and set down the tray. Peter finished his cookie, studying her in silence.

  “How do you feel, Aunt May?”

  “I’m fine, Peter. I’m always fine.” She waved her hand, a dismissive motion. “But I worry about you.”

  “Me?”

  She perched on the bed, motioning him to sit next to her. “Your luck with girls is…well, it’s not stellar, dear. I’m sorry to have to say it.”

  “Aunt May—”

  “I still think it’s a shame about Anna Watson’s niece. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Stop changing the subject, pretty girl. Are you taking your pills?”

  “Who’s changing the subject now?” She reached out, touched his knee. “Really, Peter, there’s nothing wrong.”

  “Yes there is, Aunt May. There’s plenty wrong.” Then, at the fearful look on her face: “Oh no, not here. Not with you. It’s just…there’s a lot of stuff going on out in the world.”

  She nodded gravely. “The Stamford business.”

  “Yeah. People are really afraid right now.”

  “That is bad.” She stood up, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “I was a little girl when Joseph McCarthy launched his big campaign against Communism. He managed
to scare people into thinking there were Communists everywhere: in the Congress, in their backyards, waiting in the bushes to overthrow the government.”

  “Were there?”

  “Oh, maybe a few. But most of them were too busy smoking marijuana to overthrow anything.”

  Peter laughed.

  “This is a little different, Aunt May. People are afraid of superhumans, and there really are a lot of them running around. Flying, too.”

  “My point is, Peter: People make very bad decisions when they’re afraid.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re fidgeting, dear. What is it?”

  “It’s—I—I have to tell you something, Aunt May. And it’s kind of, well, tricky.”

  Tricky? he thought. That’s an understatement. Get a hold of yourself, Parker.

  “Peter, listen to me.” She put a hand under his chin, forced him to look into her eyes. “Whatever’s going on out in the world, that’s out there. It doesn’t touch us. It doesn’t come inside these walls. It’s just you and me here, and you can tell me anything.”

  “Okay, but—this might be a shock.”

  Her eyes went wide. She stood up quickly, tottered once, then stared at him.

  “So it’s true.”

  “What?”

  “It’s—it’s all right, Peter. I half-saw this coming. Mrs. Cardoman’s boy just came out, and he’s so much happier now. He’s even talking about marrying his—partner, I guess you call it.” She raised a hand to her chin. “Come to think of it, he used to date fashion models, too.”

  “What?” Peter jumped to his feet. “Aunt May, I’m not—wait, Jason Cardoman is gay? Oh, of course he is. But—”

  “You have to understand, Peter. My generation didn’t grow up with…we just didn’t talk about such things.” She reached out, touched his cheek. “But times have changed. And you…you have to be your own unique, wonderful self.”