by Len Wein
It was coming to kill her.
It halted its advance at the ruined wall, staring down at her through the newly-burned hole.
Weak and dizzy, unable to do anything else, she simply stared back. It was a robot, an angular, ugly, gray-metal mockery of man. In its clawlike hands it held the fruits of its plundering: two fire-extinguisher-sized canisters, one orange, one green. She noticed the labels: “AD resin X” and “AD resin Y.”
Gibberish.
Somewhere behind the robot’s single, mechanical eye a decision was reached. A whirring sound drew her gaze to its chest, where a short-barreled weapon mounted in a ball turret angled down toward her.
She threw herself up to her knees, eyes wide with terror, and pointed the fingers of her right hand at the monster’s eye. Every muscle in her lithe body tensed. She summoned all her will, all her might, and screaming, she struck first.
A searing bolt of pure energy surged from her fingertips. slamming the monster’s metallic face with the fury of a thunderbolt. For a second, the brilliant flash again obscured Janet’s vision.
Sight returned quickly this time, but she blinked in disbelief at what she saw.
The mechanical assassin stood unharmed, though her ricocheting bioelectric blast had obliterated another large piece of the lab wall.
It fired back.
And Janet Van Dyne Pym vanished.
The elegant mansion on Central Park West seemed to be drenched in blood as Iron Man plunged headlong toward it, the rising sun at his back. Swiveling his boot jets underneath his body at the last possible instant, he braked. His jets’ pneumatic backwash rattled the windows as he landed with a clang on the front walk.
Seconds later, Iron Man strode silently down a plush-carpeted corridor.
“Good morning, sir,” said a baritone voice with a bit of a British accent.
“Morning, Jarvis.”
Iron Man turned to face the trim, balding, fiftyish figure emerging from the kitchen. Jarvis was straightening his tie, though it didn’t need straightening. His attire was impeccable, as always. Jarvis believed that butlers should look “proper”—even at six A.M.
“I trust all is well with Mr. Stark, sir.”
“Haven’t seen him this morning, Jarvis. Did you summon the others?”
“The ‘Avengers Assemble’ signal went out less than a minute after your radio call awakened me, sir. The others will be joining you shortly, I’m sure, in the main conference room.”
“Good,” said Iron Man over his shoulder as he continued down the hall.
“Marmalade on your muffin, sir?”
Iron Man stopped.
“Jarvis, the world as we know it is teetering on the brink of chaos. Our last moments may be at hand—and you ask me if I want marmalade on my muffin?”
“Ah! My apologies, sir! Would the Swiss strawberry preserves I’ve been saving be acceptable?”
“Much better, Jarv. And a side of machine oil for me, huh?”
The curtains were open and the conference room was awash in the morning’s warm glow. In the center of the room, seven modernesque white chairs, each emblazoned with a symbol representing an Avenger, surrounded a round white table. A golden, block-letter “A,” outlined in black, adorned the table top.
Iron Man stood alone in the room, looking out the window. He wondered what time it had gotten to be.
Catching the interrogative key word “time,” the cybernetic web in his helmet flashed “6:09 A.M.” on a tiny LED display on the edge of his eye slit.
Iron Man noticed, grunting, all at once resentful of his own computer’s incredible efficiency and relieved that it was earlier than he thought. Moments were precious.
Something made him turn.
The ceiling was growing ghostly legs.
Thev were nearly transparent. Iron Man could just barely see them: yellow-booted, green-clad legs slowly emerging from the solid substance of the ceiling. Yellow trunks, then the green-clad torso of a slim-but-powerful male figure followed. The tall figure stood erect, motionless, except for its slow descent. At last the green-hooded head appeared, a long, yellow cape drifting indifferently behind it.
The face was narrow, angular, grim, and stoic. The eyes blazed from within their dark chasms. At the brow, a yellow jewel glistened.
Settling to the floor, the figure began to solidify, and the color of its skin, which showed only at its face, became apparent. It was brilliant blood-red.
“Morning, Vision,” Iron Man said. “You know, no matter how many times I see that trick, it still unnerves me. Where’s the Witch?”
Iron Man meant, of course, the Scarlet Witch—the Vision’s wife and a fellow Avenger.
“Wanda was about to leave our chambers upstairs when I began my descent. She will arrive in approximately thirty-five seconds.”
The Vision’s voice was cold, hollow, and nearly devoid of inflection.
Thirty-five seconds later, the Scarlet Witch walked into the room. As usual, when the Witch entered his presence, the man inside the gold-and-crimson armor suppressed a sigh of admiration—and lust. The face of Iron Man betrayed nothing, however.
“Are you well. Iron Man?” Wanda spoke softly, always with great dignity and sincerity. She had the merest hint of a Balkan accent, which laced her speech with exotic undertones.
“Fine,” said Iron Man, careful not to let his gaze dwell too long on her handsome body. She was tall, almost five feet ten, and devastatingly voluptuous; the kind of woman whose every movement evokes male fascination—a symphony of sensual curves. She wore what resembled a one-piece strapless bathing suit, wine red and formfitting, over a lavender-red body stocking. Low-heeled boots, long gloves, and a full, flowing cape, all wine red, completed her attire. Her long, wavy auburn tresses spilled down over her shoulders, framing her face. Nobility showed in the high arch of her brows, her long lashes and her delicately sculpted nose. Her lips were dark and full. There was a softness in her features that bespoke compassion, and yet, somehow, disturbingly, the potential for coldness, even cruelty, was evident in her sea-green eyes. They met Iron Man’s.
Something clicked in Iron Man’s brain. Something violent, something deadly, possessed him. His muscles tensed, stiffened, as if to spring.
“No. Not yet.”
It passed. A chill raced down Iron Man’s spine as he abruptly became aware again. He felt like a late-night motorist roaring down a dark highway, suddenly awakening, terrified to find that he had nodded off at the wheel for . . . a second? Two? Five?
“Not yet . . . what?” Wanda inquired.
“What?” said Iron Man. He remembered nothing save that a vague, troubling thought had rumbled through his mind beneath the level of consciousness.
“Are you all right, Iron Man?” the Vision asked. There was no concern evident in his hollow, robotic voice.
“Just tired.” Iron Man involuntarily wondered at the oddity before him. What was this dazzling sensual beauty doing married to this machinelike man? . . . or was it a manlike machine? He was a synthezoid—an artificial, solar-powered being, a melding of chemically synthesized organs with computer circuitry. A . . . thing! He . . . it arrived at its version of feelings through binary logic. And then, it was virtually incapable of expressing emotion, much less passion! She, on the other hand . . . ! He had known lesser women somewhat like her. She would be a raging volcano of passion. She was the kind of woman . . .
The man in the armor stopped himself there.
He shuddered at how easily he had lapsed into prejudicial self-justification. Was it jealousy? Fear?
This morning, all things computerlike bore a sinister association. Even his ally, the Vision.
His friend.
With cooler eyes, he looked at Wanda and realized the irony in his attack of prejudice. She was also a victim of man’s hatred and injustice.
She was a mutant. A Homo superior, born with an extra ability denied mere mortals. Hers was the power to alter probability, to change the odds
of an event’s occurrence. She could simply point, casting a hex, and cause the improbable to become imminent. With a casual gesture she could make the chandelier fall, or the chair leg break. Science could not explain it. Men called it sorcery, and perhaps it was. Or, perhaps, it was simply science beyond human ken.
It didn’t matter. She was different, and humans had made her suffer because of it. She had seen much cruelty.
No wonder a trace of it remained in her eyes. No wonder she sought out another outcast with whom to share life.
After all, she was what they called her: a witch, something more than human, and therefore, inhuman.
Perhaps, then, she was not so unlike the Vision.
Perhaps no man could understand her inhuman passions save one beyond human passions.
The man in the armor again held back a sigh as Wanda lovingly took the Vision’s hand. Together, they sat down at the table.
A noise in the hallway outside the meeting room caught Iron Man’s attention. A second later The Noise burst into the room.
“Hey, there, friends an’ neighbors, make way for the heavyweight bow-an’-arrow cham-peen of the universe!”
“Not to mention the biggest blowhard,” said a deeper, and far less brassy voice behind The Noise.
“I was gonna introduce you in a minute, Grampa, but first, me! Heee-errre’s Hawkeye! Ta-Taa!”
Hawkeye posed with his arms raised. Captain America stepped around him and calmly walked to his seat. Even in that simple action he evoked awe.
He stood six feet two, and was an absolutely perfect specimen, every muscle in his body developed to its ultimate potential, in perfect balance with its counterposed muscles. Every movement he made was carelessly precise, pantherlike, a study of implied power and subtle grace.
He wore red gloves and red boots. His snug-fitting pants and trunks were blue. On his lower torso, broad, vertical red-and-white stripes adorned his shirt. Over the striped cloth shirt he wore a short-sleeved half shirt of blue chain mail complete with a hood which covered his head and the upper half of his face. Centered on the front and back of the mail shirt were large, white stars. On the front of the headpiece, a white letter “A” was emblazoned, and on the sides, above the ears, small wings were affixed. The white cloth sleeves of his undershirt covered his arms. He carried a circular shield with a white star on a blue field in its center ringed bv red and white stripes.
Cap rested his shield beside his chair and sat erect, his attention on Iron Man.
Hawkeye, having strutted to the table behind Cap, slung his quiver of arrows and his huge double recurved bow across one of the two vacant chairs beside his. Then, he slid his chair back, sat down and leaned back, purple-booted feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the tabletop.
“Hawkeye, must you behave like a schoolchild?” Wanda asked, but without real disapprobation in her tone.
“Hey, I ain’t got no couth! What can I tell ya?” Hawkeye retorted.
Hawkeye pulled back the purple hood which covered the upper part of his face and his head. He was blond, and to his everlasting chagrin, he looked more than a little like Captain America did under his mask, at least at first glance. To everyone but Hawkeye, the similarities dissolved at second glance. Where Cap was a ruggedly handsome, firm-jawed solid-looking man whose deep principles showed in his face, Hawkeye was the devil himself. He was wickedly handsome, with an air of carnival decadence about him left over from his years as a big-top performer. The costume he wore was also a memento from the years he spent performing as Hawkeye, the World’s Greatest Archer. It consisted of a form-fitting midnight-blue tunic, ornamented in purple, which split into a loincloth below his purple belt. Underneath the loincloth he wore tight midnight-blue breeches. His arms were bare except for purple metallic arm bands and wrist braces.
It was clear from those muscular sun-bronzed arms that Hawkeye was a man of unusual strength. No ordinary man could even string his powerful bow, much less bend it.
Still, he wasn’t quite the physical phenomenon that Captain America was. That irritated him even more than the superficial facial resemblance.
“Anybody got a deck of cards?” Hawkeye said, yawning broadly.
“At ease, Barton,” Cap snapped. “We’re still missing two members.”
“But we dare not wait any longer,” Iron Man said. He had resumed his vigil at the picture window, but now he turned and stood facing the seated Avengers, silhouetted by the morning light at his back.
“As current chairman, I hereby call to order this council. I won’t waste any more time with formalities.
“I have reason to believe that Ultron has been recreated . . . and even now is preparing to str—”
The shattering of glass drowned out Iron Man’s words as the window exploded inward. Shards of crystal death sliced the sun’s golden rays into flashes of brilliance as they cascaded over Iron Man, only to splinter and sliver further against his armor.
Before the first fragment of glass spilled past Iron Man, Captain America had scooped up his shield and in one fluid movement, leaped across the table to intercept the deadly fusillade, protecting the Avengers behind him.
Hawkeye fumbled for his bow and quiver.
On the far side of the table, the Vision sprang to his feet, almost as swiftly as Cap, and spread his cape between Wanda and the razor-sharp shards, willing his body and costume to increase in density until both had reached the consistency of steel. The few flying fragments to elude Cap’s shield did not shred supple cloth or vulnerable flesh, but instead clattered harmlessly away. The Witch had already instinctively covered her eyes and face with her own cloak.
The explosion of glass ceased.
“Hawkeye! Cover the window!” Iron Man shouted.
By this time Hawkeye had nocked and pulled an arrow with an explosive warhead tip. At Iron Man’s command, he trained his bow on the broken window. The roguish glint in his eye had gone deadly cold.
“Witch! The door! Vizh! Check out the area!”
The Witch emerged from behind the Vision as the last glass bits rattled down. She faced the door, arms raised, her fingers pointed like weapons. Deep within, she fondled a mental trigger for the awesome energies coursing through her mutant body.
Cap had flattened against the wall by the window. Iron Man stood ready on the opposite side.
The Vision heard it first.
A groan. Then a weak, nearly inaudible cry.
“Help me!”
“What the hell are you waiting for, Vision? I said recon!” Iron Man hissed.
Captain America heard it too. “Hold it, Iron Man. There’s something . . .”
The Vision knelt among the fragments of the shattered window, staring at the floor. He saw her.
Then they all saw her—a tiny woman, no larger than an ant. A winged woman.
She was growing.
“Hawkeye, give me your sharpest pointed arrow,” the Vision said without looking up. Mystified, Hawkeye nonetheless complied.
With machinelike precision, the Android Avenger used the arrow tip to flick tiny razor-sharp splinters of glass away from the miniature, growing figure.
Seconds later, when she had become a teaspoonful, the Vision gently picked her up and held her limp body in his palm. The Avengers gathered around.
Wanda cleared the table of glass and they laid her there, still growing.
A minute later she reached full size. The insectlike wings had diminished as she had grown. No trace of them remained, save for the two narrow slits in her tattered yellow body suit, over her shoulder blades from which the wings had protruded.
“Wasp! Are you hurt? What happened?” Iron Man asked urgently.
“I’m okay . . . robot tried to kill me . . .”
“Ultron?”
“No . . . but strong . . . couldn’t hurt it. It wrecked my house! My beautiful house . . . Hank’s whole lab! He’ll kill me!”
“I doubt it, Jan,” Cap said, smiling. “Go on.”
“It almost . . . fried me, but I shrunk down to wasp size . . . and scooted out of the way . . . well, almost. Fringe of the blast . . . caught me. Oh-h. My hair is ruined!
“I pulled myself together . . . and flew here . . . fast as I could.
“Sorry about the window . . . Iron Man. So tired. My wings hurt. I started to black out . . . saw I was plunging toward the glass . . . used my sting . . .”
“Lady, if you can get together enough bioelectric energy to do that to a thermopane window when you’re blacking out, I’d hate to see you when you’re in fighting fettle,” Iron Man chuckled.
With help from the Vision and Captain America, the Wasp sat up.
“Nothing feels broken. I guess I’ll be all right. But, you know, I could get used to all you hunky guys fussing over me. Hank always says I’m . . .”
A faint sound, a soft, metallic clanking silenced the Wasp. The Avengers turned as one toward the source.
It was outside, in the hall, advancing toward the closed meeting-room doors.
In the space of a heartbeat the Avengers stood ready for battle.
“Let the monster stand revealed!” Wanda cried, gesturing dramatically toward the heavy mahogany doors.
With a thunderous crash, they fell from their hinges, split into kindling.
Jarvis’ eyes widened momentarily as the doors loudly disintegrated in front of him, and doubtless wondered why the Avengers were poised to obliterate their trusted butler. However, undaunted, he calmly rolled his tea cart through the wreckage into the room.
“Breakfast is served.”
Breakfast got cold while Wanda and Jarvis dressed the Wasp’s minor wounds, and Iron Man boarded the broken window. Then, as Jarvis served the coffee, the Wasp recounted in detail the story of the attack on her home.
“You say the robot was carrying something when he tried to kill you?” Iron Man asked.
“Yes. Two cylinder-thingies, about as big as . . . golf bags. Something was written on them—I can’t remember what.”
“Try, Jan. It may be important,” said Iron Man.
“Hmm. Well, I remember what colors they were. Who could forget? One was that same yuckie green that Moondragon wears. Honestly, that woman has less taste than she has hair! And the other was a garish orange just like that little car Tony Stark drives sometimes—is it a Ferrari? Iron Man, you ought to tell him how gauche that color is. And that could be such a cute little car!”
