by Stuart Moore
She slammed the field downward, flattening Taskmaster against the sidewalk. Smashed it down once, twice, slamming him down again and again with tremendous force.
When she was done, the Taskmaster lay limp in a two-foot circular depression, surrounded by cracked concrete. Above, on an ad for a children’s musical, a cartoon lion looked down blankly.
Ben stared at her. “Whoa.”
Sue knelt down, cradled Reed’s elongated body. A faint, pained sound issued from his lips.
She looked up, grimacing at the chaos all around. Flying heroes fought up above; fierce battles continued on the ground, fought with fists and guns and force blasts. All around, Namor’s Atlantean legions fanned out, assisting the rebels.
The tide was turning.
Hercules hefted Doc Samson into the air, hurled him at a bus. Tourists poured out the door in panic, just before the huge, green-haired scientist slammed into the bus windows. The vehicle crashed down on its side, narrowly missing an old woman.
Ben reached down for Reed, but Sue held out a hand. “Go help people,” she said. “I’ve got him.”
Ben glanced at her, unsure. Then he turned sharply as Doc Samson lifted the bus, tossed it through the air toward the laughing Hercules.
Ben touched her once on the shoulder, then hurried off.
Sue reached under Reed’s limp body and lifted him up. His stretched-out limbs flopped out at unnatural angles. He mumbled incoherently as she carried him off through the chaos. A drop of blood fell from his lip.
“Stupid,” she whispered, trying not to cry. “Stupid, stupid man.”
DOWN below, Times Square was really taking a beating. Storm fired lightning bolts down at the dodging Ms. Marvel, cutting up chunks of pavement with every strike. She-Hulk threw Hulkling into a public bench, shattering it to splinters. Hercules was a one-man wrecking crew.
Tony Stark hovered, studying the chaos. It was all spiraling out of control. Cap! he thought. Why are you doing this?
“Stark.”
The voice was like a mini-migraine in his ear.
“Yes, Maria.”
“I’ve got eight more battalions ready to drop.”
He glanced upward. More copters had assembled, buzzing angrily in the air. Below them, the S.H.I.E.L.D. Mobile Command Center swooped down low. That would be Maria.
“Negative. I can contain this.”
“I think we’re a few stages past that, Stark. And I’ll remind you: There are now foreign terrorists aiding the fugitives on U.S. soil. Which gives S.H.I.E.L.D. clear authority.”
“What foreign—” He stopped, swiveled to look down again. The Atlantean warriors had spread out all through the square, armed with both spears and energy-weapons. A few of them had inserted themselves into a battle involving Cloak, Dagger, Hawkeye, and She-Hulk; another group skirmished with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on the eastern side of the square. Eight or nine more warriors stood triumphantly over the Thunderbolts’ bodies.
“Stand by, Maria.”
“Stark—”
“Damn you! Just give me a minute.”
Tony triggered boot-jets to full and shot upward. He gave the Mobile Command Center a curt wave as he passed it, then zigzagged around the S.H.I.E.L.D. copters. When he’d cleared the skyline, he swooped around the copters and whirled around to look down. He needed to get a full view of the situation.
As always, the sight of Manhattan at night took his breath away. Headlights creeping down avenues, thousands of people—millions—stalking the streets. All those lives, all those souls. So glorious, yet so helpless…
Tony shook his head. When was the last time I slept?
Then a bright flash of light caught his attention, along with a faint crashing sound. Ms. Marvel’s force bolts; he couldn’t tell who had made the impact—Hercules, maybe, or She-Hulk. Even from this height, without triggering lens magnification, he could see the damage being done. Not just in Times Square itself, but to the surrounding area. Explosions, stinger-bolts, bodies flying into buildings. Black S.H.I.E.L.D. helmets formed a perimeter guard around the three-block area, but a lot of civilians were trapped inside the combat zone.
A flying figure gestured—Sentry?—and a huge, smoky explosion rose up from the middle of the square.
Panic gripped Tony, bone-deep and sudden. No, he thought. Not another Stamford. Never again.
He aimed sensors down and activated a mobile CapeSearch protocol. Images flickered before his lenses: Spider-Man and Daredevil facing off against Black Widow and Captain Marvel. Cage and She-Hulk, circling like boxers. Falcon in midair combat with Ms. Marvel. Hawkeye in front of a food truck, grappling with—
—Captain America.
“Target,” Tony said softly. And he dove.
Cut off the head, he thought, and the Resistance will fall.
Times Square loomed into view, incredibly fast. More images of little battles: Photon vs. Tigra. Dagger backed up against a wall by Stature and Yellowjacket. Hermes in furious motion, whizzing around and around the Human Torch.
Captain America flipped Hawkeye over his shoulder. Arrows flew wildly; Hawk crashed into a metal table with a cracking noise. Cap stared at Hawk’s unconscious body, started to speak—
—and then Tony struck.
But Cap had raised his shield, faster than even Tony’s armor could detect. Tony’s fist struck the shield, which absorbed most of the impact. Cap jabbed the shield forward and Tony leapt back, rising up into the air slightly. He touched down right in front of the U.S. Armed Forces recruiting center wall: a 12-foot high, brightly lit American flag shining into the pedestrian seating area.
Tony dropped into a crouch, facing his enemy head-on. Giant flag at his back.
“You and me again, Cap.”
Cap glared. “Things are a little different this time, Tony.”
“You’re right. This time I’m not gonna fall for some antique S.H.I.E.L.D. gadget.”
He leapt for Cap, repulsor rays firing. Cap raised the shield again, deflecting the rays. But Tony was on him, knocking him backward. Tony raised a metal-sheathed fist and cracked it against Cap’s jaw.
Cap grunted, pushed Tony off him. “And this time I’ve got more allies.”
“You mean those Atlantean mercenaries?”
Tony raised his hands, triggered repulsors again—
—and then something landed on his back, light as a feather. “Hi, dad. Miss me?”
Spider-Man. Again.
Tony whirled, glared at the wall-crawler with bright glowing eyes. Tony rose up into the air, tilted side to side, trying to shake him off.
Below, a news van screeched up. A coiffed newswoman tumbled out, yelling frantic instructions to a photographer and technicians.
Spider-Man gripped Tony’s shoulders, one in each hand. “Don’t want to go too high, Tone.”
“If you’re trying to gum up my armor again, forget it. I can neutralize your webbing now.”
“I figured you’d fix that.” Spider-Man pressed his thumbs into the shoulder-joints of Tony’s armor. “But some things are harder to fix.”
Too late, Tony realized what the wall-crawler was doing. He turned sharply in midair, but Spider-Man held on tight.
“Microcontrollers in your armor,” Spider-Man said. “Delicate little buggers. You told me you were having trouble with them, remember? Way back, when we were bestest buds?”
Spider-Man squeezed. The microcontrollers, nestled in Tony’s shoulder-joints, made a low snapping noise—first one side, then the other.
“Never got around to dealing with that, did you?”
Tony’s arms snapped up, rigid, and he tumbled out of the sky. Spider-Man leapt free just before impact. Tony crashed down awkwardly, straight onto his chestplate.
He gasped, struggled to catch his breath.
Dimly he registered that civilians were clustered around now, recording video on their phones. At least eight or nine, silhouetted against that gigantic flag display.
“You know who
could have helped with those microcontrollers? Bill Foster.” Spider-Man leaned down, his blank eye-lenses filling Tony’s field of view. “Too bad.”
Tony struggled to his knees. The controllers were rebooting, but for the moment he was vulnerable. “P-parsifal,” he said.
“What’s that, boss?”
“Parsifal!”
A massive bolt of lightning cracked down, splitting open the pavement between Tony and Spider-Man. Spidey leapt up, momentarily disoriented. Then a meaty hand grabbed him around the waist and lifted him up into the air.
The Mighty Thor stood like a vengeful god of old, dangling his prey between two enormous fingers. His hammer flashed in his other hand. He leaned in close to Spider-Man and hissed:
“HAVE AT THEE.”
Then he flung Spider-Man up and out, clear over the recruiting center. Spidey twisted, flailed in midair, and dropped out of view behind the low building.
Thor clomped off after him, shaking the pavement with each step. He reached out a hand to swing himself around the recruiting center, and a section of the big flag—a cluster of red and white LEDs—sparked and shattered under his grip.
Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents glanced at Thor, touched their shoulders to radio for assistance. A small clutch of civilians followed, camera-phones held up to catch every move. Then they all disappeared behind the sparking wall of the recruiting center.
Across the Square, Hercules’s body smashed into an office building. Glass rained down; a small explosion erupted from the impact spot.
Tony’s armor clicked once as the left-shoulder microcontroller finally engaged. He straightened up, took a look around. This is bad, he thought. Millions of dollars’ worth of damage already. And the Resistance will fight until their last member drops.
And then, for the first time, he felt a different kind of despair. A deeper, more personal sadness. It’s gone too far, he realized. All of it. There’s no going back between us, no dusting off wounds and shaking hands in grudging admiration. No teaming up against Galactus or Doctor Doom. Not now, and not ever again.
It’s over.
He looked up and saw Captain America advancing on him. Face bloody, fire in his eyes. Moving in for one last battle, one final contest of shield and steel. Two gladiators made old before their time, squaring off for one final bout in the ring. Two men who had once been friends.
Tony tried to crouch for battle, but his right arm still hung loose. So he lifted his left hand, fired repulsors, and prepared to embrace his destiny.
SPIDER-MAN landed in a crouch in the middle of Broadway. He whirled around, searching for cars; but the local authorities had finally managed to clear the street. He raised his web-shooters—
—but before he could fire, Thor was on him again, bodyslamming him like a wrestler. Spidey fell to the street, the breath knocked out of him, Thor’s massive bulk crushing him against the pavement.
Not Thor, he reminded himself. Clone Thor. Clor.
Spider-Man wrenched his arms back, pressing his palms against the pavement. He tensed his muscles and pushed. Thor flipped off of him, and he rolled out of the way.
Thor raised his hammer, calling down lightning. “BASE VILLAIN,” he said.
Spidey leapt to his feet, dodging lightning bolts. He stumbled backward, almost falling into a curious woman in a business suit. “Stay back!” he called. “That isn’t a real thunder god, but it’s twice as nasty.”
“THE THUNDER. IT IS…MINE.”
Spider-Man stopped, studied Thor for a moment. The clone seemed slower now, confused. Spider-Man moved toward him cautiously, ready to dodge at any second.
“You know, Clor—can I call you Clor? This is all kind of funny.” Spidey took another step. “Tony tried to make me into a junior version of himself, and it didn’t take. So he trotted you out. His own private super hero, grown exactly to his specifications.”
Thor’s hammer flashed. But he made no movement.
“Trouble is, you didn’t work quite right either, the first time out.” Spider-Man studied him. “Y’know what I think, Clor? I think they upgraded you after the chemical factory. Gave you the power of speech, for one thing. Step in the right direction, though your patter could use some work.”
A network news crew approached. A cameraman poked his way in, dangerously close to the battle.
“But I think maybe they put in some safeguards, too. I think they put you on a leash. I bet even Tony Stark wouldn’t set you loose again, unless he was sure you wouldn’t start massacring people.”
Thor turned toward Spider-Man, his hammer raised. He reared back to throw it—and then his gaze dropped to the civilians below. His arm went slack.
“You know,” Spider-Man continued, “I was worried about replacing you. Not you—Thor, I mean. The real one. When Tony asked me to join the Avengers, I wasn’t sure if I had what it took to compete with a god.
“’Cause I knew Thor, buddy. I fought with him. And you know something, imposter?”
Spider-Man tensed, leapt through the air.
“Thou art no Thor!”
The clone whipped around, but Spider-Man was already on top of him. Webs shot out, clinging to Thor’s face. The thunder god howled, clawed at his eyes.
Spidey grabbed Thor’s huge hammer-arm in both hands, wrenched it back. Thor toppled to the ground with a massive crash. Spidey leapt up into the air and brought both fists down together on Thor’s neck.
An electric shock surged through Spider-Man’s body. He yelped, pulled back both hands, and stared. Thor’s throat had torn open, revealing a bizarre mixture of cell tissue and sparking, electronic wires and circuits. The clone’s arms flailed, jerking all around.
Spider-Man reached out and grabbed the hammer out of Thor’s twitching hand. “And this,” Spidey said, “art no Mjolnir, neither.”
Spidey slammed the hammer down onto “Thor’s” throat. The clone spasmed, arched his back, and let out a metallic howling noise. His chest cracked open, revealing a glowing, sparking central power unit.
“Or is that ‘ain’t’? Middle English gives me a headache.”
Spider-Man struck again, a hammer-blow straight to the power unit. Pulled his hand back just in time, as a massive electrical short-circuit ripped all through Thor’s mutilated, spasming body.
Thor blinked once, twice. Then he was still.
A crowd had gathered now, staring in awe and horror. Spidey turned toward them and they backed away, almost like a single organism. He looked down, saw the stain of blood and machine oil on his gloves and chest.
All around him, the battles continued. Cage and the Thing squared off against She-Hulk and Wonder Man. Daredevil and the Black Widow stalked each other up and down lampposts and benches, their moves deadly and precise. Above, a half-dozen costumes tumbled through the air, force bolts lighting up the night.
Spidey slumped back against a wall, momentarily exhausted. With Thor gone, he felt oddly quiet, alone in a private, important moment. I’ve proved myself, he realized. I’m as good as any of them. No matter what Tony Stark, Captain America, or anyone else thinks.
Whichever way this battle went, there would be hell to pay. If Cap prevailed, Peter would be a wanted fugitive. If Tony won, he’d have to face charges. Either way, the future looked grim.
But right now, Spider-Man was victorious. He’d won.
Today, he thought, I am an Avenger.
CAP brought his shield down hard, smashing it across Tony’s helmet. The playboy’s head snapped to the side. He let out a strangled cry.
One more blow, and Tony’s helmet cracked. His faceplate clicked open, revealing split skin and bloody bruises. Once, Cap might have felt sorry for him. But not today.
“Arrogant little rich boy,” Cap hissed. “You had it all. Born with a silver-plated rattle in your crib.”
“Ugggh!”
“Not me. I’m just a fighter, a soldier. A man trained to seize any chance, find the crack in any enemy’s armor.”
Tony said
nothing.
Cap paused, gestured around him. “See those Atlantean warriors? They’re my cavalry, Tony. They’re gonna pound your forces into fish food.”
“S.H.I.E.L.D. has…tranqs. Made specially…for mermen.”
To the north, the S.H.I.E.L.D. copters were just dropping to the ground. Agents swarmed out the doors, leaping the last few feet, not even waiting till touchdown.
“Then we’ll fight even harder.”
Tony reached up with trembling hands and pulled off his faceplate. His face bled from a dozen cuts; his lip was split. One eye was almost swollen shut. But as Cap watched, a kind of peace seemed to settle over his face.
“What are you waiting for?” Tony grunted. “Finish it.”
Cap paused for just a second. Then he pulled his fist back—
—and a hand clamped down on his shoulder, from behind. “Lay off him, man!”
Cap whirled, swinging his shield at the attacker.
“Uhhh!”
The attacker fell back against a pedestrian seating table, striking his head on the round metal leg. Cap jumped to his feet, then stopped at the sight that confronted him.
The man wore a tracksuit and glasses. Short graying hair, a face that had seen a few scraps. But not a hero, not a villain; neither an Avenger nor a Resistance member. Just an ordinary man.
The man rubbed his head. “What are you doin’?”
Behind him, a clutch of other bystanders stood just in front of the sparking flag display. A tall businessman with a loosened tie. A big girl with teased-out hair hair. Black guy in shades. Sharp-faced Japanese woman, and a blond fireman in full uniform. Trim businesswoman in a tailored suit and heels.
Cap frowned at them. “I—”
The fireman pointed. “Get him!”
Then they were all on Cap, grabbing for him, pulling him down. His eyes went wide with shock; he couldn’t even fight back. They swarmed over him, tugging at him, dragging him down to the pavement.
Tony Stark struggled to rise. Cap could feel Tony’s good eye on him, watching the scene.
