12 Ant-Man Natural Enemy

by Jason Starr

  Then Cassie had a great idea. It was so totally amazing and perfect, she didn’t know how she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

  Cassie went to the closet in the hallway and moved out a couple of boxes of books or whatever, and there was the safe where her dad kept his Ant-Man suit. Once, a few years ago, Cassie had seen her dad open the safe. She remembered the combination, or most of it—34 right, 28 or maybe 27 left, 11 right. She tried it now, with 27—but, nope, it didn’t open. She tried again with 28 and nothing happened. Had her dad changed the combination? That would suck big time.

  After trying 27 and 28 again, she was about to give up and put the boxes back, but then she tried with 24 as the first number and 27 as the second number. She didn’t know why she tried this—it was kind of unconscious—but when she turned the dial back to the right to 11, she heard a click and opened the safe.

  There it was—the red-and-gray Ant-Man suit and a silver helmet-like thing with what looked like short antennae. Scott had shown Cassie the suit before, but never told her how to operate it, how to shrink to the size of an ant. He’d also told her that he could communicate with ants while he was wearing it, which had sounded crazy to her, even impossible. Had her father been lying to her?

  She examined it closely. It was made of some tough material, like a weird cross between metal and fabric—definitely not something you would wear on Halloween. The helmet was strong but super thin, and had a mechanism that let it retract and practically disappear into the collar of the suit. Cassie figured this was so her dad could wear the suit under his clothes. The underside of the helmet looked like the inside of a computer. Cassie and her dad had taken apart lots of computers and put them back together—it was kind of a hobby of theirs—and the helmet was obviously the motherboard. Cassie tried on the helmet, but it was a little big. Her dad was a few inches taller than her, and when she held up the suit, it was obvious that it wouldn’t fit her.

  She didn’t understand where the power came from—the helmet had no battery pack or power source, but it had to get its juice from somewhere. She had no idea how to turn it on, either, because there was no switch. There were a few small canister-type things, though—these contained the gas with the Pym Particles. Her dad had never told her how it worked—he always said it would be “too dangerous” to tell her, whatever that meant—but she knew the gas made things shrink. One thing Cassie was certain of, though: The suit was no hoax. It had seriously complex technology, which meant everything her dad had told her about Ant-Man could actually be true.

  Cassie heard footsteps outside the front door—someone in the hallway approaching. She put the suit back in the safe as fast as she could. It could be one of the FBI agents pacing back and forth, or maybe a neighbor. Then Cassie heard a key turning in the lock. Crouching, she pushed the boxes back into the closet, blocking the safe, and was just standing up when her father entered.

  “Hey,” Cassie said, trying to act natural.

  Her father must’ve seen her crouching—he seemed a little suspicious. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Not much,” Cassie said. “Just, um, looking for my gloves.”

  “Gloves? It was seventy degrees today.”

  Cassie wished she’d come up with a better excuse. Gloves in May was pretty dumb.

  “It’s for a project for school,” Cassie said.

  “A project?”

  “We’re working with ice, in a freezer, in science class, so we need to bring in gloves.”

  This didn’t make much more sense, but clearly it was good enough for her father, because he said, “Ah, okay. How did your day go?”

  “Not so awful,” Cassie said.

  “Great,” Scott said. “I was worried. Sorry again for getting you involved in all of this.”

  “No worries.” Cassie kissed her dad on the cheek. Then she went into her room and shut the door.

  It was hard to believe that just a few minutes ago, she had been so doom-and-gloom about the future. Now that she had this great plan about how to get revenge on Nikki, she couldn’t wait to go back to school tomorrow.

  I’m looking for a recommendation for a babysitter, maybe you can help me out, Little Guy? I hear you’re using a good one.

  The text was from Tony Stark.

  Scott was at work, in the cable warehouse at the Midtown office of NetWorld, with Carlos Torres, the federal marshal who was supposedly protecting him. Obviously Tony had heard about the protection order via whatever sources he had, and naturally he was getting a big kick out of it.

  Scott texted back:

  Haha

  Then added:

  If this whole Iron Man thing doesn’t work out for you, maybe you should do some stand-up

  Tony responded:

  If you keep giving me such great material I might just do that

  Scott had to smile. Tony had been teasing Scott for years about his, well, smaller stature in the super-hero world, and while Scott wasn’t happy about it, he was used to it. How could he get upset with Tony after the guy had helped him out so many times? Tony had even given him a job at Stark Industries back when Scott had decided to go straight and no one else would hire an ex-con who had done a long stretch for armed robbery. Okay, yeah, so Tony had been doing a favor for Hank Pym because they were old buddies. But in a way Tony had saved Scott’s life, given him the foundation he needed to get on a positive track and be a good father to Cassie. They were more than fellow Avengers—they were friends.

  But the main reason Scott couldn’t get upset about Tony’s teasing was that he agreed with him—he did feel like the FBI was babysitting him, escorting him around the city. After all, as Ant-Man, he could hold his own against pretty much anybody. He agreed that Cassie needed protection—better safe than sorry—but the idea that Willie Dugan posed a serious threat to him was ridiculous. Scott tried to remind himself that he was in this situation partly because the FBI didn’t know he was Ant-Man. This wasn’t just about his safety—it was about his family’s, as well, so he had to suck it up and deal with the ribbing from Tony. But that didn’t change the way it made him feel.

  The idea had occurred to Scott, though, that he didn’t just have to hang around with his family in protective custody and wait for Dugan to show up. Another option was to go on the offensive—put on the Ant-Man suit in the middle of the night, slip away, and track down Dugan. He could confront Dugan—wherever he was hiding out—and intimidate him, convince him to stay away from Scott and his family.

  There were problems with this idea, though. First and foremost, he’d have to find Dugan. The FBI had been conducting a nationwide manhunt for the guy and hadn’t been able to locate him, so how was Scott supposed to do it on his own? For all Scott knew, Dugan was nowhere near New York. Scott could ask Tony, Spidey, or even Cap for help, but an ex-con who’d escaped prison wasn’t exactly a reason to get the big guns involved. It wasn’t like the whole world was in danger—just Scott’s family, apparently. Scott hoped the situation would resolve itself soon—without an appearance by Ant-Man.

  He was getting ready to head out with his crew for a networking installation downtown when his boss—Jeff, the CEO of the company—called him into his office.

  There was a strict divide at the company between the white-collar sales-and-marketing guys and the blue-collar cable-installation guys. Scott hadn’t had a single conversation with Jeff since he’d been hired at the company about two years ago—well, except for saying “Hey” to each other on the elevator and in the men’s room.

  Jeff’s office had glass walls and faced the rows of cubicles. Jeff closed the door. He did not ask Scott to sit. Scott would’ve thought he was about to get fired, except he knew that Juan in Human Resources, nicknamed “The Assassin,” handled all the firings.

  “Look,” Jeff said, gesturing toward Carlos, who was waiting behind the glass. “I know that guy’s FBI, and I’m not supposed to ask what’s going on, and I won’t. I don’t need to know what I don’t need know, if you get
what I’m saying.”

  Scott wasn’t sure what Jeff was talking about. “I hear what you’re saying.”

  “What I mean,” Jeff went on, “is I’m not looking for any trouble here, you know?”

  “There won’t be any trouble,” Scott said.

  “That’s good,” Jeff said. “’Cause I knew about your past when I took you on here, but you promised me your past would stay in your past.”

  “That’s true—I did promise you that,” Scott said.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re keeping your promise,” Jeff said.

  “This isn’t what you think it is,” Scott said. “They’re just being extra cautious about a situation that really has nothing to do with me. I’m sure in a day or two this will all blow over.”

  Scott tried his best to say this with confidence and conviction, but he knew he wasn’t even convincing himself.

  “Well, I hope so…for your sake,” Jeff said. He turned his back to Scott and said, “You can leave now.”

  He might as well have said, “You’re dismissed.” Scott hated feeling powerless, having no choice but to take all this crap and disrespect. As Ant-Man, he was used to a certain lack of respect from his peers, but it was always in jest. It was different at work, being dismissed in such a callous and cold way by his boss. Since he needed his job, he had no choice but to suck it up.

  Good thing he could become Ant-Man. That always made him feel powerful, the polar opposite of how he felt at work. It was also a great stress reliever.

  Meanwhile, he did the right thing. He kept his emotions in check; he didn’t snap and raise his voice, or say something he’d regret. Instead he said, “Thanks, have a great day,” and dutifully left Jeff’s office. He’d worked too hard to build an honest career for himself to throw it all away with a few careless words.

  He went about the rest of his day, trying to stay focused. The strategy worked—he managed to forget about Jeff’s disrespect and the whole order of protection situation. When his workday ended at six, he was looking forward to going home and having a normalish evening with Cassie. He picked up some Chinese for dinner. If she got her homework done early maybe they could kick back together, watch a movie on Netflix.

  When he entered the apartment, he was surprised to see Cassie on her knees near the closet, as if searching for something. She stood quickly and said, “Hey.”

  He asked her what was going on, and she said she was just looking for her gloves, which didn’t make much sense during a spell of beautiful weather in May.

  Then she said the gloves were for some science project, involving ice. Scott sensed that something was off with Cassie, and he knew it probably had to do with the FBI. As a teenager, a lot of things made her self-conscious, so today those feelings must have intensified. He felt awful, knowing that she must’ve had a weird day at school with the federal marshal shadowing her. He said, “Sorry again for getting you involved in this.”

  She said, “No worries.” Then she kissed him on the cheek and went into her room and shut the door.

  He was proud of having such a laid-back, well-adjusted daughter. He’d put her through a lot in the past fourteen years, and it was amazing how well she’d handled it all.

  They watched a movie after dinner, Tom Hanks’ latest, and then they went to bed. In the morning, as usual, he was up first. He left a note for her on the kitchen table, “Have a wonderful day,” and then left for work with Carlos escorting him.

  It was another beautiful spring morning. As Scott walked toward the subway, he noticed a lot of ants on the ground—especially near trees and on lampposts, fire hydrants, garbage cans, and other objects. Perhaps this was because it was such a perfect day—ants liked their good weather, just like humans did—but then again, there had been a lot of nice days recently.

  Scott arrived at work. He was about a half hour into his work-day when Carlos came over and whispered into his ear: “We have a situation.”

  They went to a corner, out of earshot of the other workers, and Scott said, “What is it? Does it have to do with Dugan?”

  “We can’t locate your daughter,” Carlos said.

  Scott felt sick, and angry, and terrified—mostly terrified.

  “What do you mean ‘you can’t locate her?’”

  Carlos explained that Roger, the other marshal, had been waiting to escort Cassie to school. But she hadn’t left the building that morning, and they hadn’t been able to find her.

  “What do you mean? She was in my apartment this morning.”

  As he was saying this, Scott realized he hadn’t actually seen her.

  “She’s not in the apartment. We checked,” Carlos said.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Scott said. “You guys are staked out in front of the building twenty-four/seven.”

  “I just wanted to inform you what’s going on,” Carlos said.

  “Well, thanks for the wonderful information,” Scott said, already on his way out of the office.

  Jeff wasn’t going to be happy that he had to leave work early, but Scott didn’t care. This was about Cassie now, and her safety was all that mattered.

  In the cab uptown, Carlos tried to reassure him that it was highly unlikely that Willie Dugan was connected to this. But Scott feared the worst. Had he miscalculated this whole situation from the beginning? Maybe it had been cocky of him to pooh-pooh Dugan’s potential threat to his family when the FBI believed the threat was real. After all, Scott hadn’t had any contact with Dugan in nearly a decade, so did he know, truly, what Dugan’s intentions were? Dugan apparently had murdered three people already, so why not kill a few more?

  When the cab reached Seventy-Eighth Street, Scott rushed out in front of his building. Roger, the FBI agent who was supposed to have Cassie’s back, was standing with George, the surly fifty-something Greek-American superintendent of the building.

  Roger was finishing a cell call, saying, “…Okay…right…I’ll get back—”

  Scott interrupted. “You were supposed to be protecting her.”

  “He’s here,” Roger said into the phone. Then he ended the call and said to Scott, “Okay, calm down.”

  “My daughter’s missing, and you want me to stay calm?”

  “Are you sure she was in the apartment this morning?”

  “You guys are staking out the place!”

  “She didn’t leave the premises,” Roger said. “We would’ve seen her.”

  “Maybe she’s in the building somewhere,” Scott said. “Have you checked other apartments, the basement?”

  “We checked everywhere,” George said. “She’s not here.”

  Scott resented George’s tone. George sounded irritated and put out, the way he acted when he had to come fix a toilet. To him, someone’s missing daughter was just an inconvenience that was complicating his day.

  “You’re gonna have to check again,” Scott said. “What about the roof? Did you check the roof?”

  “The door to the roof’s bolted from the inside,” George said. “No one went up to the roof.”

  “Check the roof,” Scott said.

  George reluctantly entered the building.

  Carlos joined Scott and Roger.

  “What about her school?” Scott asked.

  “She isn’t there, just checked,” Roger said.

  “We have to check again,” Scott said.

  “Hey,” Roger said, “where are you—”

  Scott didn’t wait for him to finish. He took off in a sprint toward Cassie’s school.

  “Wait,” Carlos called after him. “You can’t go alone.”

  Scott was tired of this protective-custody crap. He wished he’d handled this alone, brought the fight to Dugan instead of waiting for the fight to come to him. If it turned out Dugan was involved in this—if Dugan hurt Cassie in any way—Scott would never forgive himself.

  Scott went right to the main office and said to the first person he saw—a twenty-something blonde woman—“Is my daugh
ter Cassie Lang in school today?”

  “I don’t do attendance,” she said.

  “Who does?”

  “Barbara is away from her desk.”

  “When’s she getting back?”

  “Sir, you’re going to have to wait.”

  “I can’t wait. Can you just check?”

  “Sir—”

  Carlos had entered, gasping from the sprint over. Showing his badge, he said, “FBI. Do what he says.”

  The woman went to a desktop, pulled up the morning’s attendance, and said, “No, she’s absent today.”

  Scott cursed. He turned and kicked a desk, knocking off a plant; the pot smashed on the floor.

  The principal rushed in and said, “What’s going on here?”

  Scott had met the principal, a squat, balding guy—Michael something. He let Carlos explain that Cassie was missing.

  “How do you know she’s missing?” Michael asked.

  Scott was too impatient to deal with these questions. He said, “How do you know she’s absent? Maybe there’s a mistake. Can you call her teacher?”

  The blonde woman went to make a call. Scott noticed several ants, in a line, marching across the floor. This wasn’t unusual, of course.

  Or was it?

  He glanced toward the wall near the door and saw a couple ants there, as well.

  “I’m sure there’s some explanation,” Michael said. “So this has to do with the protective-custody situation? Another agent talked to me yesterday.”

  “We’re not sure what it’s related to,” Carlos said.