12 Ant-Man Natural Enemy

by Jason Starr

  Cassie had always liked Pepper, though. She was super-cool and pretty, and Cassie didn’t know why she was wasting her time with Tony. Well, Tony was one of the wealthiest men in the world, so Cassie understood that part, but Pepper didn’t seem like the type who would be into a man just because of his money. That was one of the things that Cassie liked best about her. There were rich boys in Cassie’s school, boys who lived on Park Avenue and all that, and they always talked about their fancy trips—except they didn’t say “trips,” they said “vacationing.” When Christmas break had come up last year, Cassie heard one Park Avenue boy ask somebody, “Where are you vacationing this year?” It was so annoying. If Pepper were Cassie’s age, and they went to school together, Cassie bet they would’ve hung out and been friends. Maybe not best friends, but friends.

  While Cassie’s dad and Tony were talking about their super-private saving-the-world stuff that was way too important for her to hear about—eyes rolling—Pepper hung out with Cassie. First Pepper showed Cassie a bunch of dresses that she didn’t wear anymore and said that Cassie could have them if she wanted. She tried them on, but Pepper was a few inches taller than her so they didn’t fit, which sucked because a few of them were really cute and Cassie had already been imagining wearing one of them on her first real date with Tucker McKenzie. Cassie told Pepper all about Tucker. It was nice to have somebody to talk to, like a woman, with her mother so far away. She obviously couldn’t talk to her dad about boys. He was always prying into her life, reading her private texts out loud, trying to embarrass her. Maybe he was only being overprotective like a lot of dads, and she knew that he loved her, but she just wanted to keep everything to herself even more whenever he acted like that.

  After they were done trying on clothes, Pepper said she had to go to a hairdressing appointment, so she parked Cassie in front of the TV in the “theater room” of the apartment. The screen was as big as the ones in small theaters, and there were reclining movie-theater-style seats. It was really cool, but Cassie felt like a total baby. She didn’t feel like watching a movie, so she flipped channels, stopping at some news story about the Antpocalypse. Wow, it was just like her dad had said—or worse. Ants were dying all over the Northeast. The images of ants, hanging dead from leaves and wherever, were so sad. Cassie remembered how cool it had been to wear the Ant-Man suit the other day, and to see ants from so close up. She hoped her dad figured out what was happening soon, but he’d seemed confused about the whole thing himself, so she wasn’t confident.

  While she was watching TV, Tucker texted her:

  can we hang out later?

  She could have been on a date with the cutest boy in school, the love of her life, and instead she was being held prisoner in Tony Stark’s home theater. It so wasn’t fair.

  After about twenty more minutes of boredom and frustration, Tony entered and said, “How’s everything going?”

  “Terrible,” Cassie said.

  “At least it’s not disastrous or unbearable,” Tony said. “I always like to look at the bright side.”

  “Can I go out for just an hour?” Cassie asked.

  “First of all, I promised your dad you wouldn’t go anywhere,” Tony said. “Second, no.”

  Tony had his usual arrogant smirk.

  “Please,” Cassie said. “We won’t leave the block, I promise.”

  “Ah, let me guess,” Tony said. “First boyfriend.”

  “Did Pepper or my dad tell you something?”

  Cassie didn’t think Pepper had said anything, but she could totally see her dad blabbing about it.

  “Nope, just my brilliant intuition,” Tony said.

  “You can’t make me stay here,” Cassie said.

  “As your very overqualified babysitter, I think I can. And while I know nothing about this charming suitor of yours, if he’s anything like the average fourteen-year-old boy—or, god forbid, like I was when I was fourteen—he isn’t worth it.”

  “He’s fifteen,” Cassie said, “and why would I take relationship advice from you? Mr. Never Been Married, Mr. Never Been Serious. And don’t tell me it’s because you’re too busy for a relationship, because that’s just a lame excuse.”

  “Saving the world does tend to take up a lot of a guy’s time,” Tony said.

  “Seriously,” Cassie said, “how come you and Pepper won’t get married, already? She’s so awesome.”

  “Finally we agree on something,” Tony said.

  “And you’re old—”

  “Hey, easy now.”

  “Older than my dad, anyway,” Cassie finished. “I think I know what the problem is.”

  “Pray tell,” Tony said.

  “Commitment phobia,” Cassie said. “A lot men have it, especially men your age who’ve never been married.”

  Tony smiled, said, “Wait, so now you’re giving me relationship advice?”

  “Somebody’s gotta give it to you,” Cassie said, “before you totally blow what you have going on with Pepper. If you wanted to get married, you would’ve done it by now. It’s so obvious she’s totally into you. You’re just leading her on, making empty promises, and it’s not right. If you weren’t so into your image and naming buildings after yourself, maybe you’d realize it.”

  There was a long pause as Cassie and Tony had a staring contest.

  Then Tony said, “Well, this has been a blast so far. I wish your dad would leave you here more often. I’d be so psychologically well-adjusted if I just had your guidance.”

  “Also, your sarcasm,” Cassie said. “Obvious defense mechanism probably related to deep-seated insecurity. I’d suggest losing it. Trust me, no woman’s going to stick around for that cocky crap especially not one as cool as Pepper.”

  Tony was impressed with her comebacks. “You’re a good kid, Cassie Lang. I won’t hold your opinions against you. Want to come upstairs and see something cool?”

  Cassie was glad just to get out of this home theater—it was making her claustrophobic—so she followed Tony up to the top floor of the gigantic penthouse.

  This was Tony’s workspace, where all of the Iron Man magic happened. In the center of the room was one of his gold-and-red Iron Man suits.

  “Say hello to my latest toy,” Tony said.

  Celebrities didn’t impress Cassie, but technology blew her away.

  “So cool!” She went closer to it and peered inside at the control panel. “Can I go for a ride in it?”

  “And you think I’m cocky?” Tony said, smiling.

  “There’s a difference between confidence and cockiness,” Cassie said. “Come on, my dad lets me use his suit.”

  “He does?”

  “Well, once, the other day. And he didn’t exactly let me, but nothing bad happened.”

  “That’s nice you’re so, well, close with your dad,” Tony said. “But at Tony Stark’s house, only Tony Stark gets to play with the toys.”

  Cassie, looking at the back of the suit now, said, “Repulsors—nice.”

  “Yep,” Tony said, “they aid in horizontal—”

  “—and vertical thrust,” Cassie said. “But it’s the gyro-stabilized repulsion that makes you fly.” She squatted to look at the boots. “Micro-turbines for air liquification, running on rings of liquid nitrogen.”

  Tony, impressed, asked, “You’re into theoretical mechanics, huh?”

  “I guess it’s just a hobby,” Cassie said. “My dad never told me how the Ant-Man technology works, though. I guess he’s paranoid about it or something. I had to figure a lot of it out on my own.”

  “All kidding aside,” Tony said, “you have a great dad. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Cassie said. “One thing I couldn’t figure out while I was in the suit is how he can communicate with ants. When I was wearing the suit, it was, like, weird. I felt like I was talking to the ants, but I wasn’t talking. It’s hard to explain, but it felt like, I don’t know, telepathy.”

  “That’s because it probably is telep
athy,” Tony said. “Your dad hasn’t shared everything with me, either, and vice versa. Call it super-hero trade secrets, if you will. But if I were guessing, I’d say Hank Pym used a type of synthetic telepathy in the suit. It’s how brains can communicate with machines via direct neural interface, except he figured out a way to go from brain to ant.”

  “But how is that possible?” Cassie asked. “I mean, ants don’t think the way people do.”

  “Exactly,” Tony said. “This telepathy is driven by thoughts, not language. Think of a dog whistle, or the way birds communicate. Do they need words or thoughts, or is it really just instinct? I’m guessing your dad can communicate with ants via a similar mechanism, except it’s silent—at least to human ears.”

  “Wait.” An idea was coming to Cassie; she was getting excited. “My dad was concerned about me being in the suit because he thought I wasn’t old enough, my brain wasn’t fully developed. He was worried about me shrinking, what effect it would have on me.”

  “Call me crazy, but that sounds like a reasonable concern,” Tony said.

  “But what if it actually worked the other way?” Cassie said. “What if my brain did something to the suit? I’m not an adult yet, and the suit has never had a teenage brain in it. When I was communicating with the ants through the direct neural interface, maybe I changed something in the suit, and it, like, opened a portal.”

  “I’m not following you,” Tony said.

  “My dad thinks something happened to the ants, something that affected their immunity and let this fungus spread. But maybe it’s because the Ant-Man suit sent some kind of signal to the ants. Not on purpose, but because something in the helmet changed to work with my brain.”

  “He said he thinks their immunity was compromised,” Tony said. “If his suit can communicate with the brains of ants, why not with their immune systems?”

  “Right,” Cassie said, “but if the suit sent a message that altered the immunity of ants, why can’t it send one to fix it? We have to tell my dad about this. Where is he now?”

  “He’ll be back soon.”

  “We should tell him now, Tony, before the Antpocalypse gets any worse.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Tony asked. “He’s not an easy man to track down. I mean, the guy’s the size of an ant.”

  Actually, Cassie knew exactly how to track down her dad, but she was afraid Tony wouldn’t let her leave to go find him. It had been a mistake to even suggest the idea.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said. “Never mind.”

  “He’ll contact us soon, I’m sure,” Tony said.

  To change the subject, Cassie asked Tony questions about the Iron Man suit. It totally worked—he loved showing her all of the latest gadgetry. She’d thought her dad was the biggest technology geek in the world, but Tony was just as absorbed.

  Later, after Tony had turned on some awful, old heavy-metal music and was busy adjusting something in the turbines, Cassie slipped away to go to the bathroom. Then she realized: She could just leave the apartment. First, she grabbed an iPad, then she took the elevator down to the lobby and strolled past the doorman, and she was free. Tony might have been one of the most powerful super heroes on the planet, but he was the world’s worst babysitter.

  A few months ago, Cassie had downloaded a GPS tracking app onto Scott’s phone. Kids needed to keep tabs on their parents these days, or there was no chance of having any fun. She found a Starbucks with Wi-Fi and connected to Scott’s phone via an app she downloaded to the iPad. A map of New York appeared; she zoomed in on Brooklyn and the blue dot near downtown where Scott currently was.

  Cassie had five dollars on her—more than enough to buy a single-fare MetroCard at the 57th Street Station at Sixth Avenue. She compared the map on her phone to the subway map and figured that Scott was near the Lafayette Avenue stop on the C train. She took the F downtown to West Fourth and switched for the C. When she arrived at Lafayette, she went up to the street and saw she’d been off, but only by a few blocks. She walked up the avenue to the street and headed toward her dad’s location.

  It was a normal-looking old house, wedged between two other old houses. There was a short gate in front of it and a bunch of garbage cans. Near an entrance to the basement, lower down, there was a big puddle; it looked like there had been a flood or something in the basement. There were also footprints of water leading up to the house, so someone was probably inside. She had no idea why her dad had gone to this house, or what this had to do with zombie ants, but whatever.

  Cassie rang the bell, but no one answered. She tried a few more times; still no answer. She checked the app—her dot was practically on top of her dad’s. She tried the handle, and the door was open, so she went inside into the long vestibule near the kitchen. There was a weird, loud buzzing sound in the house—but was it one sound or a bunch of sounds?

  “Hello,” she called. “Anybody home?”

  As she went farther into the house, the buzzing got louder.

  SCOTT, ant-sized, jumped off a van at the intersection of Washington and Fulton, and then darted along the sidewalk. When he got to the house around the corner, he slipped under the door. There were shoes near the door and a pair of boots, all men’s. He paused near the staircase, but he didn’t hear anything. He went into the kitchen. There was no one in there—well, no one except a mouse puttering near the baseboard of the sink. Although Scott had been Ant-Man for a long time now, and felt as comfortable in miniature as he did when he was normal size, it still always gave him a little jolt when he saw an animal or a bug from his tiny perspective. The mouse didn’t notice him at all, though, as he went through the kitchen into the dining room.

  Nothing looked out of the ordinary—a table, chairs. He leapt onto the table and saw a mug with steaming coffee inside, indicating that someone was home—or had been recently.

  Back on the floor, he crossed into the living room, traversing an Afghan rug that had lots of hairs in it—some of which looked similar to Monica Rappaccini’s hair. A door led to the backyard patio. He went outside and saw several ants walking unsteadily, seeming dazed. One of the ants had grotesque growths on its head.

  He went back into the house and saw a stack of magazines on the end table near the couch. He climbed up to the top one, a National Geographic with a cover story titled—would you believe it?—“Ants of the Amazon.” The mailing address that appeared on the label was for Peter Lawson, confirming that Scott had the right address. He was about to go check out the upstairs when he heard footsteps above him, creaking on the wooden floor. Then he heard a woman talking—it sounded like she was on the phone, finishing up a conversation:

  “Yeah…okay, I will…thank you…okay…bye.”

  It sounded like Monica.

  Scott moved over near the stairwell as the woman came downstairs. From his vantage point, he could only see her legs as she arrived at the bottom and walked straight toward him. He moved very close to the wall so she wouldn’t notice him. She passed by and went into the living room.

  Humming some song Scott didn’t recognize, she dropped her cell phone on the coffee table. Then she went into the kitchen and screamed.

  The mouse, Scott realized.

  “Disgusting,” Monica said. “My god!”

  Scott came around so he could see Monica, who had backed away from the sink in fear. It was hard to believe that this innocent-looking, mouse-fearing woman was a dangerous criminal who’d hooked up with Willie Dugan’s crew—that she’d committed the murders in Wallkill.

  “Hey, Monica,” Scott said.

  Already jittery about the mouse, Monica glared toward the dining room and said, “Who’s there?”

  Scott stood off to the side of the entrance where he couldn’t be seen. He said, “I’m surprised you forgot me so quickly.”

  Peering around the kitchen, he saw that Monica was holding a large knife.

  “Whoever you are, get out now,” she said.

  Scott dashed
into the room, leaped up, and knocked the knife out of Monica’s hand.

  She was stunned.

  Scott landed on the countertop. “I think you’re starting to catch on.”

  She turned and ran out of kitchen. Scott jumped after her, grabbed part of her shirt, and spun her around, pressing her up against the wall.

  “It’s over now,” Scott said. “You’re going to be arrested.”

  He let go of her, dropping to the floor so she couldn’t see him.

  “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, her eyes shifting back and forth.

  “But you know who I am,” Scott said. “You know I’m Ant-Man.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Had Scott gotten it all wrong?

  He kept going with it. “You killed three men,” he said. “They were wanted killers themselves, but you still killed them—and you also did something to the ants.”

  “You…you’re crazy,” she said, backing away.

  She was looking around frantically, trying to figure out where he was. “You’re making a big mistake. I-I have no idea who you are, or what you want from me.”

  “You wanted my tech,” Scott said. “But what for? What do you want to do with it?”

  She said, “I have no idea why—” Then she turned, suddenly making a dash for the living room. Scott was on her right away; he grabbed her from behind. But she held up a tiny device, like something a speaker might use to flip through slides during a video presentation. Scott lost his grip on her back, and he fell straight down to the floor, bouncing, then spinning, with no control of his movements. He lay on his side, unable to move, like at the house in Wallkill.