by Stuart Moore
“Here,” Voodoo said, his thick hand clamping around Tony’s metal-sheathed throat.
Tony paused, mesmerized, staring into Voodoo’s eerily glowing eyes. His armor was at full charge now, his weapons ready to fire. Yet somehow he couldn’t move.
“You did this,” Voodoo said. (Echo: Did this). “Your company, your empire… it rules the poor serfs of this island Earth.” Voodoo slammed him into the wall. “Whatever becomes of the Kree – of all of them – let it be on your head.”
This time, the echo was different. Tony distinctly heard: Help me.
Suddenly he remembered the curse of Jericho Drumm: the soul of Drumm’s dead brother, doomed to coexist alongside him in the body of Doctor Voodoo. Was this the brother speaking? Had he somehow gained control of their shared body? What was the brother’s name…?
“D- Daniel?” Tony croaked.
Voodoo smiled. “Half right,” he said, and squeezed harder.
Tony stared into those eyes, watching as eldritch flames filled Voodoo’s pupils. There’s something else here, he realized. Another entity – something dark and otherworldly. Something that hungers…
“How?” He gasped. “How many people you got in there, Doc?”
The flames rose higher, and all at once the room was filled with rage. An anger that burned through the veils, that could snuff out whole stars. It sent tendrils into his mind, seeking and probing for weak spots. He recognized it as an invasion, an attack from some vast, unseen enemy. Yet he was powerless to resist.
Another time, he realized, I could have fought this. But he was too worn down. By work, by exhaustion, and most of all by guilt. Guilt for what he’d allowed to happen, the offenses against the Kree. Guilt for all that had been done, and was yet to be done, in his name.
The fire burned him to ash, and he was lost.
•••
Daniel/Doctor Voodoo held the armored man up against the wall for a long time. His free hand roamed across the man’s face, sealing the incantation with a low, whispered chant.
The hooded man stepped out of the shadows, watching with satisfaction. The room was almost silent now; Stark’s armor had fallen into inactivity. The only sound came from the skull-device on the desk, humming softly.
He gestured at Stark. “Is he ours?”
Voodoo released the Avenger. Tony Stark tottered for a moment, staring straight ahead.
“Yes,” Voodoo said.
“Good.”
The hooded man gazed at the slowly smoking skull-device. It had been built at this very facility, using Stark’s own money and resources. Just like this cold office, the expensive furniture, the glass windows. Stark, he thought, this is all your fault. You deserve every ounce of pain that’s coming.
For a moment, he shivered. Relishing the Master’s power, anticipating the chaos that would drown this world in blood. When it’s all done, he thought, there will be no rich men. All the Starks – the arrogant, privileged ones who had kicked him around, all his life – would die screaming.
He pulled the hood up over his head, then reached over and snuffed out the candle. The device’s hum continued, slightly louder than before. Good, he thought. Building up its charge.
“Box this thing up for me, huh, Danny?” he said. “And make it quick.”
“Do not speak to me like that.” Voodoo turned to him with a slow, dangerous gaze. “I am not your doll.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Please?”
Voodoo glared, then turned to pack up the device on his desk. “You’re not coming with us?”
“I’ll meet you at the rendezvous. But first…” The hooded man grinned. “I’ve got a date to keep.”
Chapter 34
“So, there we were,” the old man said, “two hundred soldiers, all in standard green-and-whites – no skinsuits, no enviro-belts. The heavy cruisers dropped us down on this abandoned Skrull orbital platform and then they just bolted, back into hyperspace before you could say Gods Bless Hala. This was in the early days, mind you, before war was officially declared.”
Kamala glanced over at Halla-ar, who sat with her on a lumpy sofa. Across the living room, his grandfather paused to lean back in his armchair, staring into empty air. Grandpa – he’d insisted Kamala call him that – was tall and thick, dressed in a formal beige-and-green uniform that seemed out of place in the shabby, cramped apartment.
“So then we’re all alone,” Grandpa continued, “and we’re all looking at each other, right? We knew the Skrulls could change their shape, could look like anything or anybody. So we’re all, every one of us, we’re thinking: is this really my buddy? Is this my LT? Or is it a Skrull in disguise?”
Halla-ar flashed Kamala an apologetic smile. She smiled back, feeling a little awkward, but she knew that understanding people was part of what made Avengers business worthwhile. She wanted Halla-ar and his family to know that she’d do everything she could to help them.
“We’re all tense, amped up, proton rifles cocked and ready. And then… while we’re all thinking the attack is about to come from inside the platform…”
“…the Skrulls attack from outside,” Halla-ar’s grandmother said, entering the room with a tray of drinks.
“I guess you’ve heard this story before,” Kamala said, smiling tentatively.
The old woman, whose name was Ann-ya, handed her a glass of steaming liquid. Ann-ya was very small, with high cheekbones. She wore a pale, functional bodysuit.
“They crash right in through the plasteel window port,” Grandpa continued, “and all the air goes WHOOSH, straight out into the void, all at once. I see my buddies, the officers and enlisted men, all shooting past me. Even our resident Accuser goes flying out into space. That’s just for a second, mind you, before the cold hits me. Your eyes freeze up first, and then you can’t stop watching. They don’t warn you about that.”
Kamala felt a twinge of discomfort. Come meet my family, Halla-ar had said; be normal with me. Was this normal? Old people in her family didn’t tell strangers about their painful near-death experiences.
“How did you survive?” she asked hesitantly.
“What?” Grandpa shook his head, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Oh! Well, you see, that comes down to the dirty Skrulls again. They fished me out of space with a microtrac, and then they…”
“…they took him prisoner,” Ann-ya said, settling herself on a small folding chair. “That’s a whole other excruciating story.”
“It was more excruciating to live through,” the old man grumbled.
“I’m not sure about that,” she grumbled back.
Halla-ar looked like he was about to die of humiliation. That made Kamala smile. Old people always embarrass their relatives, she thought. And even though Grandpa’s stories were unrelentingly grim, it was still sort of cute the way the old folks finished each other’s sentences.
She took a sip of the drink. It felt warm, fizzy bubbles burning their way pleasantly down her throat. The apartment, located on the sixth floor of an old Jersey City housing complex, was small and rundown, with only a single window located behind the old man’s armchair. But at least it was quiet. After all their trials, the traumas of war and the literal end of their world, this family seemed to have built themselves a safe little nest.
“Dear.” Ann-ya smiled at Kamala. “My grandson says you have powers.”
“Uh, yeah,” Kamala replied.
“She’s called Ms Marvel,” Halla-ar said, with a note of pride in his voice.
“Show me.” Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. “Show me some powers.”
“I can’t right now. I can’t use my powers while I’m healing, or I might hurt myself worse.”
“Ha! Earth people.” Grandpa turned away, shaking his head. “Always full of excuses.”
“Where is your sister, dear?” Ann-ya asked Halla-ar. “
She didn’t come home tonight.”
“I don’t know,” Halla-ar replied. “Last I saw her was back at the plant.”
“The Stark plant?” Grandpa leaned forward, frowning. “When were you there?”
“I told you, Grandpa. Ms Marvel took me there to talk to Mister Stark.”
Ann-ya raised an eyebrow. “How did that go?”
“Not well,” Kamala admitted.
“She moved us out of that place,” Grandpa said to Kamala. “Kir-ra, our granddaughter. This apartment, it isn’t much. But at least the rats are smaller.”
“It is much better,” Ann-ya said, chiding him. “The children have their own rooms.”
“I saw the conditions at the barracks,” Kamala said. “I spoke to Mister Stark about it. He says he’s looking into it.”
“I told you,” Halla-ar said, with a fury that surprised her. “He doesn’t care.”
“They never do,” Grandpa agreed. “Earth people… they’re as bad as the Kree ruling caste. They don’t give a vata’s tooth about us on Hala, either. We’re just trash to them.”
“Oh, shut up,” Ann-ya said to him. “You’re always complaining. So full of hate. I wish you’d stop talking for once.”
All three Kree looked away then. Kamala sipped her drink, feeling like an intruder. The wounds this family had suffered clearly ran deep.
“How is she?” Grandpa asked. “Your sister?”
“We hardly see her anymore,” Ann-ya said.
“She seemed…” Halla-ar paused. “I don’t know.”
“Intense?” Ann-ya suggested. “Driven? Obsessed? Over-serious?”
“Hopeless,” Halla-ar replied. “Without hope. I’m worried about her.”
Another awkward moment. Grandpa sat back, staring idly at a switched-off wall TV. He seemed to have turned himself off too, as if the memories had transported him back to some other, disturbing time and place.
“Whole universe is doomed, you know,” he said. “The threat… you think you’re prepped, think you’re ready for it. But there’s always something bigger coming. Something hiding in the dark, something you can barely see.”
Ann-ya covered her ears, scrunched up her eyes. “I said shut up!”
Kamala tensed. Something in the old woman’s voice reminded her of Halla-ar’s outburst in the gym, back at school, when he’d attacked Russell. If there was anger inside Halla-ar – and she knew there was – then this was where it came from.
All at once the Kree apartment seemed stuffy, oppressive. The worn sofa, the tiny kitchen… it felt like a dead end, a place devoid of any possible future. A place to die.
She shot Halla-ar a look, and he nodded quickly in response. “Uh, Grandma? I think we’re going out.”
“I’ve got something to do,” Kamala added.
Ann-ya looked up slowly. “For Mister Stark?”
“For the Avengers,” Halla-ar said, standing up. “Ms Marvel is a hero.”
The old woman turned those sharp eyes on him, a strange smile playing at her lips. Grandpa stared blankly ahead. His lips moved rapidly, silently, as if some old drama was playing itself in his head.
Halla-ar ushered her out through the kitchen, followed by Ann-ya’s steely eyes. Then they were in the building’s narrow hallway, surrounded by thick apartment doors and peeling plaster walls.
“There are other Kree living here?” she asked.
He nodded. “A half dozen or so. In this building, and the adjoining ones.”
Kamala hesitated, looking back at the number on Halla-ar’s door: 6-66. “Not a great omen,” she muttered.
He gave her a blank look.
“Your grandparents… they’ve been through a lot.” She touched his hand, then pulled it away, remembering his aversion to contact. “It can’t be easy living here.”
He shrugged. “They’re my family.”
She nodded, feeling out of place.
“Come on, hero.” He turned away and started down the corridor. “Let’s go find a planet-killer.”
Chapter 35
Dave Williard was having the best day of his life. Sure, his boss Kramer had given him a string of crappy assignments. And his Stark keycard had been turned off a day early, so he had to keep asking to be buzzed in everywhere. And yeah, when the guys took him out for lunch, he had the weird feeling they were laughing at him.
But none of that mattered, because this was his last day. His last day listening to Kramer; his last day in crowded, expensive New York; his last day dealing with super heroes. Most important, his last day working security at Stark Tower.
And then the stupid perimeter-breach alert went off, on Floor 66. The creepy floor, the deserted one marked Level One/Restricted. So of course Kramer had told Williard to take the call. It was the last chance for Kramer to make him eat dirt, and nothing was gonna stop Kramer from doing that.
But Williard didn’t care. He was whistling as he waltzed off the elevator, taser in hand. He’d already accepted a job down in Miami, starting next week. His wife Tisa was there now, setting up the new place. Sure, he’d be working for her father, and the old man had never liked him all that much. But at least he’d be in Florida, where the beach was warm and the drinks were ice cold…
“…Tony’s transponder signal cut off here – at this location. He’s off the grid.”
“Can you access the security feed?”
Williard froze, clicked his taser on. The voices were coming from a locked door marked MR JERICHO. He whipped out his keycard, swiped it across the door. Nothing happened. Oh yeah. Fortunately, he still had an old master key in his pocket. They’d miss him when he was gone, that’s for sure; they’d miss his accumulated wisdom, his knowledge of how things worked. Ever since Ms Potts left, the whole place had gone to hell. The old ways were being forgotten–
The door swung open and a slim, strong arm grabbed him by the jacket, yanking him inside and slamming him up against the wall. He opened his mouth to protest, then went silent as a sharp, jagged sword pressed against his throat. He found himself staring at a woman with bright green skin.
“Wh- Wh- Whaaah?” he said.
“Drop the weapon,” she hissed.
Williard gulped, nodded, and let the taser slip from his limp fingers. He touched his badge and managed, “S- Security.”
He stared past the green woman into the room. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, sat at a disheveled desk, tapping at a keyboard. Captain America was there too, watching over her shoulder. The office was a mess: papers and broken glass everywhere, with a distinct burning smell in the air.
“Should I kill him?” the green woman asked.
“Let him go,” Cap said, not looking up.
“Do I have to?” the green woman asked.
“Does she have to?” Romanoff repeated.
Shrugging, the woman released him. Williard rubbed his neck, eyeing her nervously. The Avengers, he thought. Whatever they were doing, he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to be doing it. Why did these things always happen to him?
“The footage has been erased,” Romanoff said. “There’s nothing here for this entire floor.”
“What about the rest of the building?”
Her fingers flashed over the keyboard. She looked up at the screen and shook her head.
“Can’t get into the system?” Cap asked.
She glared at him. “I’m in,” she said. “I’m into everything. But there’s too many cameras, and I don’t know the file system. It’ll take time to scroll through them all.”
“We may not have time. Tony…”
One by one, their eyes turned to Williard. Romanoff lasered in on him first, like a cat with a bird. Cap looked at him next, and then the green woman.
“No,” Williard said. “Oh no. No way. Three more hours and I am out of this creepy place forever.
”
The Widow’s stinger-blast seared into the wall an inch from his head.
“Hey. Hey now.” Cap walked up and wrapped an arm around Williard’s shoulders. The other arm, Williard noticed, was slung in a cast. “This isn’t your fault, soldier – but I think everyone in this room has had more than enough of Stark bureaucracy for one day. Besides, I don’t think I can keep these two off you.” He smiled and held up his cast. “Not with a bum wing.”
Williard turned to the two women. They stood together, eyes glaring at hm.
“Wh- Which camera do you want?” he asked.
“Let’s try street level,” Cap said.
The green woman watched, amused, as Williard seated himself at the desk. She clamped a hand on his shoulder and kept it there. He brushed aside singed, smoke-damaged papers and pulled up the outside feed on the monitor. A grainy downshot of the sidewalk appeared, with the Stark Enterprises awning hanging in the foreground. People scurried by, all different kinds of New Yorkers: women in suits, men in jeans, nannies with strollers. He wouldn’t miss them, he thought. He wouldn’t miss any of them–
“Fast forward it,” Natasha ordered. Then: “There.”
He froze the playback. A tall man in a deep violet cape had just exited the building with a human-sized bundle slung over his shoulder.
Cap squinted at the screen. “Is that… Doctor Voodoo?”
“Never mind that,” Natasha said. “Look who’s behind him.”
It took five minutes to enhance the image, swiveling the angle and filling in details virtually. But when it was done, they found themselves looking at a young man in a dark hooded sweatshirt, with a cruel expression on his face.
“The Hood,” Cap hissed.
“Who’s the Hood?” the green woman asked.
“Parker Robbins,” Natasha said. “Small-time crook who lucked into some big-time magic. He’s got a whole bag of tricks, including air-walking and invisibility. Almost took over the entire New York gang system at one point.”
