by Greg Cox
With an instant’s thought, the Vision shed his dense solidity, becoming vaporous once more. The sudden evaporation of all resistance caused the Hulk to topple forward, falling face-first into the foaming water, which rolled him inexorably toward the crest of the awesome cataract—and a staggeringly rough descent.
Weightless and watchful, The Vision levitated in the air a few feet past the brink, not to mention over one hundred and fifty feet above the misty pool below. He had no fear that an unwanted trip over the Horseshoe Falls would kill or even seriously injure the Hulk, but perhaps the rocky plunge would knock some of the combative spirit out of the ferocious malefactor, making him more amenable to the Vision’s planned interrogation. There was even some slight possibility, which the synthezoid estimated at approximately 15.64%, that the arduous plunge would be sufficient to trigger the Hulk’s metamorphosis back into Bruce Banner, who was, in fact, the very individual the Avengers most desired to question.
I can only hope for such a fortuitous development, the Vision thought, looking on dispassionately as the Hulk clung desperately to the crest of the cataract, struggling to keep from washing over the edge. The Vision began to descend slowly toward the pool, readying himself to fish either Banner or the Hulk from the churning water at the foot of the Falls.
But, to the Vision’s surprise, the Hulk did not plunge as promptly as the android Avenger expected. Instead, the Hulk fought back against the relentless current, rising slowly to his hands and knees amidst the savage torrent, throwing back his head to gasp for air above the waves crashing against his head and shoulders. He sputtered, coughing out great mouthfuls of water that ran down his chin and back into the river. Even the Vision’s imperturbable plastic face displayed a degree of astonishment and open wonder as, defying all probability and reasonable expectation, the obstinate green titan rose again to his feet.
“Gutless coward!” he accused the hovering Vision. Water streamed from his matted emerald hair, irrigating the crevices between his bulging muscles. ‘ ‘A cheap trick like that can’t stop the Hulk! Come back and fight me like a man, you chicken-hearted mannequin!”
The Vision felt no need to defend his man-made masculinity, but acknowledged that his ploy had failed to overcome the Hulk’s truly remarkable perseverance and stamina.
Very well, he cogitated. I have other strategies to employ.
Reversing his gradual descent, the Vision floated back to the Crestline. “This conflict is unnecessary,” he reminded the Hulk, regaining sufficient mass to immerse his legs in the current a second time. He waded across the rapids, waist-deep in the spewing water, until he came close enough to thrust an intangible arm deep into the Hulk’s inhumanly broad chest. His right forearm disappeared entirely within the Hulk. The tips of his ethereal fingers emerged from the monster’s back. “All we desire is information, followed by your peaceful departure from this venue. Spare yourself further discomfort.”
“Spare this!” the Hulk bellowed, throwing a gigantic fist at the Vision’s face.
Simultaneously, the Avenger resorted to his most aggressive, and consistently effective, offensive tactic, partially materializing his arm within the very substance of the Hulk’s body. As two solid objects could not occupy the same space at the same time, the subject of such an invasion invariably suffered intense and incapacitating pain. It was a delicate procedure, requiring acute concentration; if he allowed his arm to become too fully solid, he could easily kill even so indestructible entity as the Hulk.
Said concentration was not made any easier by the physical shock of the Hulk’s fist smashing into the Vision’s face. Knuckles like concrete slammed into a diamond-hard mask, although some portion of the force of the blow was sapped at the last minute by the convulsive agony that spread from the Hulk’s chest to the rest of his Herculean body. Even still, the punch rattled the Vision’s cybernetic synapses and knocked his entire super-hard body back a few inches, dangerously dislodging his precarious footing upon the watery ledge. On the other side of the Hulk’s thick torso, the Vision’s extended fingers sank back into the chartreuse flesh as it were a pool of quicksand.
“Arrgh!” the Hulk howled, throwing back his head in agony, his emerald eyes bulging from their sockets. He clutched at the phantom arm invading his flesh, but his beefy fingers passed through it fruitlessly. “What are you doin’ to me?”
“Surrender,” the Vision said concisely, declining to explain the precise nature of his attack. Still reeling from the Hulk’s single blow, he considered rendering his entire body as insubstantial as his arm, but feared that he would not being able to hold his position without the excess mass weighing him to the rocky floor below. No matter what other blows he might endure, he could not allow the Hulk the slightest chance of dislodging the synthezoid’s invasive arm before it had completed its task of subduing the bellicose colossus.
Already the Hulk had resisted his transcorporeal assault longer than the average organic being. Most foes succumbed almost immediately, the acute systemic shock reducing even the most intransigent of adversaries to unconsciousness within a matter of seconds. As with the Hulk’s triumph over the current only moments ago, however, the verdant giant’s astonishing recuperative powers again undid the Vision’s carefully reasoned calculations. To his confbundment, the very substance of the Hulk’s being seemed to resist the synthezoid’s intrusion on a cellular, even a molecular, level. The Vision grimaced in unaccustomed discomfort as the Hulk’s atomic structure refused to give way to his own synthetic flesh and bone, squeezing his semi-solid atoms all the way down to their collapsing nuclei. A surprisingly human gasp escaped the Vision’s sculpted lips.
“Hah! Didn’t expect that, did you?” the Hulk gloated. His enormous body quivered in pain, but the Hulk somehow managed a malignant sneer, as if daring the synthe-zoid to push the fight further. The surface of his skin seethed and bubbled where it intersected with the Vision’s ethereal limb, a visible symptom of his flesh’s tireless straggle to expel the foreign material. Irrationally, or perhaps not, the Vision imagined that he was trying to subdue an unusually malignant, humanoid form of cancer. “Give me your best shot!” the living green cancer dared him.
Wanda is in danger, the Vi sion recalled. I cannot fail. The Hulk’s gamma-charged body had become a battleground upon which the Vision knew he dared not lose. The Hulk defied logic, overthrew all standards of rationality; if unreliable emotional responses could provide him with whatever extra capacity he required to vanquish this indefatigable beast, then for once the Vision welcomed them. He thrust his arm so deep into the Hulk’s breast that his gioved yellow hand penetrated straight through the monstrosity’s spine and came out the other side. Wanda, my wife...
“You don’t get it, do you?” the Hulk mocked him. Spidery tracings of green streaked the Hulk’s bloodshot eyes. “You can’t beat me. You can just make me mad.” The Hulk glared at him with gleeful malice, a rictus-like sneer distorting his bestial countenance. His hot, foul breath offended the Vision’s olfactory sensors. Stubborn green flesh writhed at the point of contact between the Vision’s untouchable limb and the Hulk’s palpitating muscles. “And you know what? The madder I get, the stronger I get... !”
That is scientifically improbable, the Vision thought, with something resembling desperation. Nonetheless, the Hulk’s endurance indeed appeared to be increasing at a geometric rate; new muscles, unseen in any anatomy text, formed atop preexisting layers of sinew. The Vision willed his arm to near full substantiality, exceeding every humane safety limit he had ever maintained, yet the Hulk remained standing. Beads of greenish sweat broke out on his sloping brow, and his rippling thews pulsated convulsively, but he stayed fixed in place like some solid green outcropping of the cliff beneath him.
The Vision looked no less unbending, his arm thrust out in front of him, buried up to his elbow in the Hulk’s breastbone, a yellow hand protruding between the monster’s shoulderblades. Spasms of pseudo-pain ran up the Vision’s arm, triggering his in
nate programming for selfpreservation, but he did not withdraw his arm or abandon his attack—until the Hulk, grinding his teeth together loud enough to be heard over both the Falls and the artillery, grabbed onto the not quite solidified arm at the shoulder, right where it connected with the rest of the Vision’s uitra-dense body, and ripped the entire limb from its socket.
Sparks flared from the ruptured torso. Oily lubricants and hydraulic fluid sprayed from severed tubing, disappearing rapidly into the constant flow of the river. The Vision’s head jerked spastically, his overloaded circuits struggling to process the full effect of his arm’s brutal amputation.
‘‘W-w-warning,” he stuttered, like a malfunctioning tape recording. The jewel in his brow flashed on and off. “M-m-major damage to structural integrity. Im-imediate repair is nec-necessary—”
The severed arm, semi-liquid in appearance, dangled like a tendril of green and yellow jelly from the Hulk’s chest. He raised a dark green eyebrow and, with a surly wince, plucked the invading arm out of his body, producing a slight sucking sound that the Vision was in no position to hear. He carelessly tossed the gelid limb over the Falls, then shoved the tottering, sparking synthezoid with the flat of his hand.
“W-w-waming,” the Vision repeated automatically. He was dimly aware of gravity seizing him as he toppled over the brink of the Horseshoe. “W-w-w-warning—” The Hulk vanished from his field of vision, supplanted by a kaleidoscope of rotating images that spun in front of him as he accelerated downward through empty space, unable to stabilize his internal systems fast enough to discard the weight that was pulling him toward a rough landing in turbulent waters. His yellow cloak wrapped around him like a cocoon.
My apologies, Wanda, the Vision thought, as he hurtled toward the churning surface of the pool. This mechanism has failed you again....
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” the cameraman said as he climbed aboard the boat, stepping awkwardly off the gangplank onto the riveted steel deck. He stared nervously at the looming Falls, towering above them at the far end of the pool. His blue rain slicker was already damp from the spray.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the anchorman replied, a note of impatience marring his mellifluous baritone. He paced impatiently toward the prow, leading the way. “This is the biggest story to hit Niagara since Marilyn filmed that movie here in 1952.”
Not to mention my ticket to the big time, Cliff Barron thought; he’d spent enough time paying his dues at that dinky local station in Buffalo. This was his chance to impress the bigwigs at the networks, maybe even land a spot on the evening news. “This story belongs to me, and I want to be live on the scene, right at ground zero!” “Yeah, sure,” the cameraman said unenthusiastically. His name was Muckerheide, but everyone called him Muck. His portable camera sat poised upon his shoulder. “But what about the cannons and stuff?” Even as he spoke, shells exploded at the top of the Horseshoe Falls, adding to the chaos in the distance.
The flunky’s foot-dragging just annoyed Barron, who was anxious to be underway. What if the Hulk surrenders before we get there? “They’re firing at the Hulk, not us,” he insisted. “Besides, they wouldn’t dare put us in danger. We’re the press. We have a First Amendment right to be here.” He paused and looked to the west, toward scenic Ontario. “Um, they do have a First Amendment in Canada, right?”
Muck shrugged, apparently resigned to his fate. He 205
dabbed at the lens of his camera with a dry cloth while Barron nodded at the ship’s captain to set sail. The grizzled boatman muttered under his breath, like he was already regretting his decision to ferry the avid newsmen in exchange for a generous bribe, but took his place at the helm, a deck above his two passengers. A few minutes later, the all-steel, double-deck tour ship chugged away from the dock, with Barron and his one-man film crew standing at the prow. A matched set of American and Canadian flags waved from the back of the small craft.
The Maid of the Mist was the latest in a string of vessels, all bearing the same name, that had taken sightseers for a close-up look at the Falls since the middle of the nineteenth century. Under ordinary circumstances, the ship could carry up to six hundred passengers, but Barron and Muck had the boat to themselves, given that the Hulk crisis had pretty much curtailed tourism as usual.
Nothing like a berserk monster and frightening mutant terrorists to put a damper on a vacation, Barron thought. As the Maid sailed upstream toward the Horseshoe Falls, carefully skirting the rocks below the American Falls, the ambitious reporter experienced a troubling moment of anxiety when he recalled that he had forgotten to get a receipt for his expense account. Maybe I can get the boat guy to write something up later, he speculated.
The crescent-shaped curtain of water that was the Canadian Falls grew larger and more impressive as the Maid came within a few hundred yards of the wide, cascading spume. Staring upward through the thickening mist, Barron could barely see the superhuman figures of the Vision and the Hulk fighting it out at the brink of the Falls, close to two hundred feet above him. From where he now stood, upon the increasingly slippery deck of the prow, they
looked like a pair of dueling green action figures. Barron assumed that Muck’s telephoto lens was getting a better view of the action; after all, that’s what the fainthearted cameraman got paid for.
It took a few minutes for Barron to decide on the ideal spot for his soon-to-be-historic broadcast, with just enough mist and spray to look dangerous and authentic, but not enough to mess up his hair or make-up. The Falls providing a magnificent backdrop behind him, he carefully adjusted his own blue slicker, now bedewed with condensation, while he waited for his cue, smugly noting the absence of any other boats on the river. He had this scoop locked up tight.
Eat your heart out, Dan Rather, he gloated Muck signaled him they were about to go live, counting down on his fingers, so Barron cleared his throat, slicked back his dyed chestnut hair, held onto his microphone, and launched into his spiel:
* ‘This is Cliff Barron of WDRP, on the scene beneath Niagara Falls, where an apocalyptic confrontation with the incredible Hulk and the infamous X-Men has escalated into open warfare, transforming this otherwise peaceful and romantic vacation spot into a veritable battleground, and pitting an unholy alliance of mutants and monster against the armed forces of two nations, as well as the Avengers themselves.”
Not a bad intro, he congratulated himself, although describing the Hulk as “incredible” was a bit of a cliche. / probably should have used another adjective. The crashing water and ear-splitting explosions were making quite a racket, he fretted; hopefully, the sound guys back at the studio could filter out most of the background noise. If not, he vowed, heads will roll.
“As this exclusive live footage shows, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes are leading the fight against the ... dreaded ... Hulk and his mutant confederates, but whether their unquestioned courage and power can prevail remains to be seen. Even now, the ... stupendous , . . Hulk is locked in mortal combat with the android Avenger known only as the Vision.”
He winced inwardly at his own words. Mortal combat? That sounded too much like a video game. Probably a licensed trademark, too. Just what I need, he groused. Another whiny memo from Legal.
Muck took advantage of his pause to tilt his camera back up toward the top of the Falls, where the fighting was. “Make sure you’re getting all this,” Barron whispered to him urgently, placing his hand over his mike. Should’ve had two cameramen, he realized. One for the action footage and one for his close-ups. But what could you expect from a mom-and-pop operation like WDRP? I won’t have to put up with shortcuts like this after I make my move to the networks. Then it’ll be first-class production values all the way. Maybe a couple of Emmys, too.
The cool, misty air was refreshing and invigorating; Barron recalled that the Falls supposedly produced ‘ ‘negative ions” that were highly conducive to romance, part of the region’s claim to fame as the honeymoon capital of the U.S.A. Maybe I should bring the wi
fe up here for a weekend, he thought idly, while Muck kept his telephoto lens focused on the ratings-grabbing spectacle above. Better yet, maybe I should bring Tiffany. Why waste all those ions on the spouse?
Squinting through the viewfinder, Muck kept his camera rolling—until his jaw dropped unexpectedly and he scurried backward upon the deck, almost losing his balance atop the slippery metal. Lowering his camera, he started shouting at the captain in the wheelhouse.
“Back up! Back up!” he shrieked in panic, waving his free arm wildly in a desperate attempt to attract the boatman’s attention. “We have to get out of here!”
Barron was shocked by the cameraman’s unprofessional behavior, and right in the middle of Barron’s big break. What did this clown think he was doing? Who the heck did he think he was to decide when the broadcast was over? Barron saw his future Emmys going down the drain and wanted to shoot Muck. He was spoiling everything!
The Maid sluggishly began to turn around, but not quickly enough for the hysterical photog. Clutching the camera under one arm, Muck pointed frantically at the Falls and yelled at the indignant anchorman, practically jumping up and down in his anxiety.
“Look out!” he cried.
A sliver of urgency penetrated Barron’s frustrated ambitions and preoccupations. Still fuming indignantly, he turned around and looked up, his telegenic blue eyes widening at the sight of a green-and-yellow figure plummeting toward them.
“Ohmigod,” he whispered, unintentionally sharing his surprise with countless TV viewers. “We’re all going to die!”
