Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” the Asian woman demanded.

  “Let me go!” Cap struggled, still stunned. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “Hurt us?” The businesswoman’s face showed shock. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  The fireman hauled Cap roughly to his feet, and gestured around.

  Cap took in the scene. Heroes fought heroes; S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Atlantean warriors traded shots, while civilians ran panicked for cover. Fires burned in a dozen spots, from gas mains and trash cans and office windows. To the north, half a building had collapsed, rubble blocking the entire street and half a pedestrian area.

  “People are worried about their jobs, their futures, their families.” The black man lowered his sunglasses, glared at Cap. “You think they need to worry about this?”

  Cap opened his mouth to reply. And stopped, struck dumb.

  Tony’s words, from the press conference, came back to him: moment of clarity.

  “Oh my God,” Cap whispered.

  Falcon swooped low overhead. “Cap!” he called. “Stand back, I’ll—”

  “No!”

  “What?”

  Falcon spread his wings, touched down in front of the half-smashed American flag display. The civilians stepped back, releasing Cap.

  Tony Stark staggered to his feet. Spat a tooth, but held his fire.

  “They’re right, Falc.” Cap lowered his shield, bowed his head. “We were…we were supposed to be fighting for the people. But that’s not what we’re doing anymore.” He gestured around. “We’re just fighting.”

  The Human Torch swooped in. “What are you doing, Cap? You want them to throw everybody in jail?”

  “We’re beatin’ ’em!” Falcon gestured at a troop of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, on their knees before the fierce Atlantean warriors. “We can win this!”

  Cap turned, ran his eyes across the civilians who’d attacked him. Their faces showed fear, but also determination. They knew their cause was right.

  “We can win,” Cap repeated. “Everything but the argument.”

  He raised his shield slowly, tossed it to the Falcon. Falcon caught it in surprise, and stared at it for a long moment. Then he turned to glare at Cap, a horrible look of betrayal and accusation. He threw the shield to the ground and shot off into the sky.

  The shield rolled down the street, past Cage. He didn’t move, just shook his head as it passed by. Hawkeye ran for the shield, grabbed for it, and missed.

  Tigra snatched it up, stared across its shiny surface at Captain America. There was something in her eyes that might have been understanding.

  Maria Hill ran forward, accompanied by her S.H.I.E.L.D. guard. At her signal, the agents took aim at Captain America. But Tony Stark raised a hand.

  All around him, the heroes gathered together. Paused in their battles, looked to their leaders for guidance. Another S.H.I.E.L.D. troop ran up, followed closely by a pair of local cop cars.

  Namor soared on to the scene, stopped in midair, and locked eyes momentarily with Cap. Then Namor shook his head, held up his hand, and let out a low whistling sound. All around the square, Atlantean warriors began to retreat from their battles.

  Slowly Cap reached up and pulled off his mask. Revealed bruises, cuts, and decades’ worth of scars.

  “Steven Rogers,” he said. “United States Armed Forces, Honorably Discharged. Serial Number RA25-262-771.”

  Maria Hill stepped forward, her leather-garbed form dark against the bright stars and stripes of the recruiting center.

  Cap held out his hands. “I surrender.”

  Hill lowered her shades…the first time Cap had ever seen her unsure of herself. “I, uh, he should be processed by local authorities first.”

  Tony nodded. His face was swollen, unreadable.

  Two New York cops moved in, wide-eyed. The tall one pulled out cuffs, snapped them on to Cap’s wrists.

  Spider-Man webbed his way on to the scene. He was saying something, calling out to Cap. But Cap couldn’t hear him.

  The other Resistance members looked around, eyeing the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents nervously. Cage looked exhausted; Johnny Storm was stunned. Ms. Marvel hovered above, alongside the brightly glowing Sentry. One by one the battles slowed, the powers faded.

  Fires blazed all around; the noise of sirens and rescue vehicles suffused the air. Everyone seemed dazed, shell-shocked. No one wanted to make the next move, fire the next shot.

  The cop gestured toward his squad car. Cap moved toward the open door, ducking his head.

  “Stand down, troops.” Cap paused, just long enough to register the stunned, betrayed looks on his followers. “That’s an order.”

  The door slammed shut behind him, and the War was over.

  My Dear, Sweet Susan:

  Forgive my erratic handwriting. You know how difficult I find it to slow my thoughts to the point where a keyboard can translate my sentiments into linear sentences. A handwritten letter like this one takes an even longer, more excruciating period of time to compose.

  But you wrote me your thoughts in this form when you left. So it seemed fitting, symmetrical even, for me to respond in kind.

  Sue Richards stood in her rented room on the Brooklyn waterfront. Mattress on the floor, rusted teakettle heating on the stove. The letter felt cold in her hand.

  It has been nearly two weeks since that terrible battle. I hope you were pleased by the general hero amnesty offered in the wake of Captain America’s surrender. Certainly I was pleased that you accepted it.

  I saw you across the square, during the cleanup. But I felt it was inappropriate to discuss our future while our adrenal glands might still impair our judgment.

  You looked so beautiful, so vibrant and clear-eyed. Like the girl I first met, wise beyond her years, with a raging fire for justice in her heart. It seemed as if all the years melted away and I was a nervous suitor again, fumbling for the right words to say to such an exquisite creature. That day, as so many times before, I failed.

  When I returned home that night, I cried for a full ninety-three minutes.

  The kettle whistled. She crossed to the stove, poured a cup into a cracked mug. Watched for a long moment, while the teabag steeped and the water turned a warm, dark color.

  She took a tentative sip. Hissed in a breath, and resumed reading.

  By now you will have seen the launch of the Initiative. When it is completed, it will comprise at least one super hero team in every state. I’m sure you can appreciate the pressure I, and all the others involved, have been under: creating new heroes, revamping old ones. Building a super-powered force for the twenty-first century.

  The public seems very pleased, overall, with the new arrangement. How frightening the world must have seemed to them before: vigilantes roaming the streets, amateurs with the power of nuclear weapons, villains whose atrocities never seemed to reap genuine consequences.

  It’s a wonder we were tolerated for as long as we were.

  Of course, not everyone is happy with the new order. Some have moved to Canada, where Registration laws do not apply. Here in the U.S., a small band of Captain America’s followers are rumored to be still at large, forming a new, more radicalized underground movement.

  And then, of course, there is Cap himself.

  But on the whole, our experiment has been an enormous success. What once seemed like our darkest hour has been transformed into a great opportunity.

  Perhaps the most heartening thing, for me, has been the new life the Initiative has given to old friends. Hank Pym has thrown himself into the job of training new heroes. Tigra felt some guilt over her betrayal of Captain America, I think, but she too has become a valued member of our team. First, last, and always, she’s an Avenger.

  Our remit has now progressed beyond simple enforcement of law and order. We’re now working directly with the U.S. government, tackling everything from environmental crises to global poverty.

  Tony in partic
ular. Can you believe the new job the President has handed him?

  But utopian ideals and favorable opinion polls mean nothing to me, my darling, without you by my side. No matter what we achieve in this New America, it can never be Heaven to me unless I have you.

  So I promise you: no more traps, no more clones. None of the painful things we had to do on that path toward respectability.

  I could never, would never try to pressure you. You know where I am, and I’ve reprogrammed the rebuilt Baxter Building locks to admit you once again. The choice is yours, and yours alone.

  But I hope, beyond all hope, that you will return to the family who needs you more than

  A rustling noise at the door. Sue whirled, feeling pent-up and angry: That better not be the creepy guy with the dogs again. She flung open the door.

  Reed stood there, wearing a sadly dated suit and tie. His limbs were normal-length; he wasn’t using his powers. He held a small bouquet of daisies, already starting to wither.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he said.

  She smiled, felt tears rising. “That’s the sorriest batch of flowers I’ve ever…”

  And then they were in each other’s arms, sobbing and mumbling apologies. His breath was warm in her ear, his tears hot on her shoulder. She reached out, pulled him closer.

  His body began to stretch involuntarily, forming a thin blanket, reaching out to cover her in a full-body embrace. But it didn’t feel confining or stifling. It felt right.

  “…too much futurism,” he said, his thoughts spilling out too fast. “Learned I need to moderate my logic. Tony’s learning that too, I think. And also, also you should know: The Negative Zone prison is being closed. Tony didn’t want to do it, but I insisted. It was the price of my continued involvement in his plans. Probably the last chip I’ll ever be able to play with Tony, but…”

  “Reed.” She pulled back, framed his face in her hands. Stared into his wet, suffering eyes. “Reed, can I tell you something? Something that might shock you?”

  He stared, nodded.

  “Tony Stark is not a partner in this marriage.”

  A moment passed, a long quiet beat in that shabby room on the docks. And then Reed Richards laughed. It was a lovely human sound, a sound Sue hadn’t heard for a long, long time. She laughed back, then leaned forward and kissed him.

  Tears mingled with laughter, and Sue let Reed into her heart in a way she hadn’t for a long time. She felt warm, loving, loved.

  And very, very visible.

  “IT’S very dry here, dear. Good for my sinuses, I suppose. But I do miss the squirrels—”

  “Stop, Aunt May. Please. I don’t want to know where you are.”

  “Oh. Of course, Peter. I’m sorry.”

  “No, Aunt May, I’m sorry. Sorry you have to—oh, dammit. Hold on a minute.”

  The phone crackled in Spider-Man’s ear. He held it out and wiggled its old-style, spiral cord. He planted his feet on the brick wall, three stories up, and adjusted the wire connecting the phone to the junction box.

  “Peter? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Aunt May. Sorry. I didn’t want to use my cell, so this setup is a little bit jury-rigged.”

  A little trick Daredevil had taught him: Landlines are still harder to trace.

  “I’m worried about you, Peter. Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  That’s a world record, Parker. Lying to your aunt twice in three words.

  “I miss you, Aunt May. I promise, things will calm down soon and you can come home.”

  “I’m not worried for myself, Peter. But Mary Jane seems a bit on edge.”

  “Can I speak to her again?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wait.” Spider-Man flattened himself against the building wall, sheltering against the chill autumn breeze. “Aunt May, are you still proud of me?”

  “Of course I am. Especially when you don’t talk like a silly little boy.”

  He laughed.

  “Here she is, dear.”

  There was a pause on the line, long enough that Spider-Man worried they’d been disconnected. He looked around at the five- and six-story buildings, old and weathered, dotted with lights in the windows. The renovated doorman buildings with fancy names, the old rent-controlled brownstones, the bodegas that never closed. The Upper West Side had been the site of his very first apartment, with Harry Osborn.

  “Petey?”

  Her voice was like a shot of warm coffee, soothing and exciting at the same time. A memory rose to his mind: Mary Jane coming up to visit that first apartment, dancing her way inside, stopping to flirt with both him and Harry. Bright red hair, even brighter lipstick, and a smile that seemed to burn right through him.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak.

  “Tiger, what’s going on? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, MJ. I’m here.”

  “What’s the situation? Are we safe yet?”

  “I’m not sure.” He swallowed. “You know they offered us all amnesty…”

  “Yeah. You’re taking it, right?”

  “I…I don’t think I can.”

  Another pause.

  “It’s just…” He paused, lost for words. “I’ve been through so much with Tony. To jump back into that fire again…they’d probably make me do training in Montana or something. But that’s not really it. I guess…I’m just a loner, you know?”

  “I know.” Her voice was hard, unhappy.

  “And I know it affects you—”

  “Cable news is buzzing with rumors, Tiger. Something they’re calling the ‘Secret Avengers.’ They say it’s connected with Doctor Strange.”

  “I’m not in touch with them.”

  That was a half-truth. The Falcon had sent him a brief text, a street address in the Village that sounded like Strange’s house. But Peter hadn’t replied.

  “I’m sorry, MJ. About uprooting you, saddling you with Aunt May—”

  “We’re fine, Peter. May’s much more adaptable than you give her credit for, and I spend half the year on the road anyway. I’ve already picked up a few modeling gigs here.” She laughed. “You know, it’s funny.”

  “What?”

  “On our wedding day…when you didn’t show. Afterward, all you talked about was what a terrible thing you’d done to me, to your aunt, to our friends. You apologized so many times, tried so hard to make it up to me. But you never realized what was really bothering me. It never occurred to you that what I was worried about, the thing that woke me up screaming at night, was what had happened to you.”

  He blinked.

  “How are you, Petey?”

  “I…”

  “And don’t give me some glib spider-quip. You’re not talking to Professor Octopus Man here.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I’ve lost my job, MJ. I’ve got no apartment, no friends I can talk to without endangering them, no clothes except the ones on my back. The cops are after me again, and Jameson has launched a blistering new anti-Spider-Man crusade that makes all the crap he’s done before look like a kid’s birthday party.

  “Every shred of my normal life has been blown apart. Except for you, I’ve got no contact left with the normal, human world. I’m really, truly alone.

  “But you know what? I can sleep at night.”

  “I guess…I guess that’s what matters.”

  “Some things are just wrong, MJ. And somebody’s gotta stand up for what’s right.”

  “Then that’s all there is to say.”

  “Yeah. Except…MJ, I really want you to know, I always—”

  “Save it, Parker. You’ll tell me in person, soon enough.” She drew in a deep breath. “Just water my damn tomatoes, okay?”

  “Every day.”

  The line went dead in his hand.

  “I promise,” he said.

  Spider-Man reached out and yanked the cord out of the junction box. He hurled the phone through
the air, three stories down. It whizzed past a young woman, startling her, and landed square in the middle of a public trash can.

  “Slam dunk,” he whispered.

  A scream rang out, faint in the cold air. Five, maybe six blocks away.

  Webbing shot out toward a lamppost; powerful legs tensed, then sprang up into the sky. Passers-by pointed upward, whispered excitedly. And once again, as so many times before, the amazing Spider-Man swung off into the night.

  “YO, Steve.”

  Skritch skritch.

  “Steve! You there?”

  “Yeah, Raheem. I’m here.”

  “What you doin’ over there? I hear some crazy skritch-skritch on the other side’a this wall.”

  “Sorry if I disturbed you, Raheem. Just doing a little drawing.”

  “Drawing! On the wall?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You a artist?”

  “I was a commercial artist, for a while. I’ve done a lot of things.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ll try and be quieter.”

  “Don’t trip, brother. Anything’s better’n bein’ bored all the time.”

  “Actually, Raheem, I like having time to think.”

  “You a strange one, Steve. See if you can get yourself transferred to death row, you’ll have plenty of time.”

  Skritch skritch skritch.

  “Sound like chalk. How they let you get chalk, anyway?”

  “A guard did me a solid.”

  “You trade for it?”

  “He owed me a favor. From before.”

  “Pretty small favor. Sound like you got scammed.”

  Skritch skritch. “I only needed three colors, anyway.”

  “You losin’ it, Steve. How long you been in this joint?”

  “Thirteen days.”

  “You sure? Seem like more.”

  Steve Rogers stepped back, holding up the red chalk in his hand. The cell was Spartan: bed, bench, bare metal toilet. But the wall facing him was covered with a meticulous chalk rendering of an American flag. He reached out and added the final strokes to the red stripe at the bottom.

  The thirteenth stripe.

  “I’m sure,” he said.