by Stuart Moore
“He’s sharp and brutal. Very nasty.” Cap reached across and zoomed the image out. “He’s carrying some sort of bag…”
“Yeah.” Natasha pointed at the wrapped-up bundle on Doctor Voodoo’s shoulders. “And that’s gotta be our missing billionaire.”
Cap’s eyes narrowed. “Why would Doctor Voodoo be working with the Hood?”
“More to the point,” the green woman said, “what are they doing with your Mister Stark?”
“I heard something just the other day,” Natasha mused. “Shady dude in a hoodie hanging around Russian bars. Let me make a couple calls.”
She stood up and walked to the window, pulling out her cell phone. Captain America just stared at the image on the screen. Williard looked up at the green woman, who still held his shoulder in an iron grip.
“Can I, uh, go now, She-Hulk?” he asked.
The woman stared at him in surprise. She turned to Cap, who shrugged. Natasha Romanoff looked up from her phone and raised an eyebrow.
“I were you, Gamora,” the Widow said, “I’d kill him for that.”
Two minutes later they were gone. Williard staggered over to the desk and sat down, alone. He was shaking.
His phone buzzed; it was Kramer. Bloody Kramer. He shook his head, imagining the debrief to come. The office was a disaster; all the perpetrators had fled, probably with classified data. If he understood what Captain America had been saying, it looked like Tony Stark himself had been abducted.
Slowly Williard stood up, letting the phone ring. He fumbled with his badge, unpinned it from his shirt, and laid it on the desk. Then he walked back out to the elevator, leaving the door open, and pressed the button marked LOBBY.
With luck, he’d be in Miami by nightfall.
Chapter 36
Tonight the vodka was working. Maybe a little too well. Kir-ra couldn’t quite remember deciding to come to the dusty little Russian establishment, after swimming back to Manhattan and toweling the East River filth out of her hair. She shook her head, remembering the shock of cold, the icy impact when she’d first hit that water. Her only thought had been to escape, to leave behind that horrible Stark plant forever.
Now she found herself back at the bar, awash in dark thoughts. She didn’t remember seeing the hooded man sit down beside her, either. Like every Earthman, he had an arrogant streak to him. But at least he was a good listener.
“…what I’m fighting for,” she said, “my world is gone, the war is over. My brother… I thought I could protect him, at least. But he doesn’t want my help.”
“You have other people who need you,” the man said. “Right?”
“Halla-ar… he should have been an artist. But you know what’s funny? All I ever wanted to be was a warrior.”
“You are a warrior,” he said, his eyes glowing slightly. “But you’re an arrow, not a bludgeon.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He reached out a finger toward her face. She flinched away, then shook her head and allowed him to touch her cheek.
“You’ve got a little scrape there,” he said.
“A man with a cast on his arm and a flag on his chest gave it to me.” She gave a dry laugh. “After I had my butt handed to me by a pair of outer-space mercenaries.”
The bar swam before her. The vodka, no doubt – in her exhausted state, it was hitting her hard. But something else was wrong, too. Was that smoke she smelled?
“They all make promises,” she mused. “‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ ‘I will make this right.’ All lies…” She shook her head angrily and took a long drink. “The Kree have no friends on this world. I have no friends. You, you said that. You said that to me.”
“I did.”
“My parents were heroes.” She turned away, tears forming in her eyes. “They had allies, comrades-in-arms… they gave their lives for the Kree Empire. What am I? What do I have? What’s left to believe in?”
He stared at her, his eyes hard now. She reached for him, clamping a hand over his.
“When I dove off that pier,” she said, “the water closed in all around me. Then the tide took hold, whisking me away… stronger, faster than I expected. I thought about letting go. Just letting the current pull me down, all the way to the bottom, and never coming up again. Welcoming it into my lungs, inside me, letting it wash all through me and… and destroy me.”
He stared at her, a strange fire burning in his eyes. He nodded, and she realized: On some level, he understands.
“What…” She shook her head. “What is that smell?”
“Look.” The hooded man leaned in close, staring at her with those bewitching eyes. “Everyone else lies to you, but I won’t. You’re right; you have no purpose. You have no friends.”
She looked down, into her drink.
“I’m just being honest,” he continued. “People like you and me, nobody cares about us. That’s why we’re in a hole like this on a Saturday night, drinking the worst swill on Earth. No offense, Feliks.”
Over in the corner, the bartender shrugged.
“No one cares about you,” he repeated.
“You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I mean, I don’t have much to offer. But maybe I can do something… put a Band-Aid on what’s wrong with you. It’s a big, cold world – nobody makes it alone. You need a friend, right?” He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Let me be that friend.”
She cocked her head sideways, feeling the liquor war with her despair. This was wrong, this was not the answer. But she couldn’t even remember the question anymore.
“‘Be my friend’,” she repeated. “Another promise?”
“I’ll make you one promise, and only one.” He leaned in close, and she smelled smoke on his breath. “No promises.”
Time froze for a moment. She knew this was hollow, she knew it was a pickup. Beyond that, she knew nothing about this Earthman; she shouldn’t trust him, any more than the others who had lied and cheated and treated her people like trash. He had set out bait, lured her in, and now he was toying with her emotions. Probing, painfully, at her most vulnerable points.
But he was here, now. And he burned.
“Do you have someplace we could go?” she whispered.
“Ah.” He grimaced. “That’s a little complicated.”
“Come on, then.”
She stood up and turned toward the door. He pulled up his hood, reached down to pick up a small travel bag, and followed.
“What’s in the bag, anyway?”
He didn’t answer, just nodded to the bartender. Feliks didn’t even look up this time.
“Wait.” She stopped, turned, and pressed a hand to his chest. “You, uh, might have to meet my grandparents.”
He smiled, a wide, dangerous smile. Once again, she saw the fire in his eyes, those unearthly flames. They seemed to burn through some unseen dimensional veil, seething with power.
“I love old people,” he said.
Chapter 37
Kamala sat with Halla-ar on a low stone wall at the edge of the housing complex, facing the street. Night had fallen. A few cars crept by, speeding up slightly when the projects came into view.
“Well,” Kamala said, “that was a bust.”
Halla-ar looked at her, puzzled.
“I mean we didn’t turn up anything,” she explained. “Like, that old lady in 2-43? I do not think she’s a planet-killer. She couldn’t even find her teeth.”
He grunted in agreement. “The Kal-tan couple seem no likelier.”
“Or that guy with the eighteen cats!”
“Nineteen.” He shook his head. “Cats are not native to Praeterus. I do not understand how he managed to adopt so many, so fast.”
“Are you the only… I mean, I didn’t see any other kids here.”
“There are small children, but no one else my age.”
“Sounds lonely.”
They fell into a contemplative silence. Across the street, an old strip mall sat abandoned; the roof of the grocery store at the far end had partially collapsed. The only light came from a pizza place fronting on a circular outdoor seating area.
“They’re gonna tear all that down,” Kamala said, “if the pizza place ever closes.”
“This piz-za,” he said. “Is it good?”
“Not the way they make it! But I still hope they don’t close down.”
“This place…” He frowned. “This Jersey City. It is…”
“Like a big city, but not?” She smiled. “Yeah, that’s JC.”
A breeze blew up; Kamala shivered. Halla-ar frowned at her and asked, “How is your head?”
“It’s fine, better. I’m just cold.”
“We should get back.” He hopped down off the wall. “I do not like to leave my grandparents alone for long. Grandpa in particular has some…”
“…issues,” she said, taking his hand and jumping down. “We call them issues.”
He smiled. “I like it when you finish my sentences.”
“Whoa, whoa, alien boy. Let’s take this slow.”
They walked toward the apartment. The project buildings stretched up around them, dark brick monuments with few windows. Exterior-mounted floodlights cast occasional pools of light down on the walkway.
A few young people lounged on outside benches, laughing or smoking or just watching the passers-by. They eyed Kamala’s costume with a mixture of interest and suspicion. Ms Marvel was a known public figure in Jersey City, but this wasn’t the kind of place where super heroes hung out.
A family caught her eye: a young couple with two squirming toddlers. Were they human, or Kree? It didn’t matter, she thought. People were people.
“They’ve been trying to tear this place down too,” Kamala said.
“What?” Halla-ar asked. “Why?”
“Well, it hasn’t been kept up very well. They say this is a high crime area.”
“But so many people live here. Where would they go?”
She gave him a sad smile. “Earth folks don’t always think that stuff through.”
They came to the central courtyard. The three project buildings all faced inward here, fanning out from the center. The pattern reminded Kamala of something, but she wasn’t sure what.
“That woman with the birthmark,” she said. “She might have been a planet-killer.”
“Ki-san? She was my sister’s friend, growing up. She is utterly harmless. She flunked her warrior trials because she refused to fight back when attacked.”
Kamala shrugged. “Guess we struck out, then.” He looked at her again. “Uh, that means–”
“I know what it means.” He gestured toward the wall, past an overflowing dumpster, where a floodlight cast a patch of light down on the bare ground. “Would you stand over there for a minute?”
She nodded, puzzled, and walked to the wall. Feeling vaguely silly, she clenched her hand into a fist and struck a dramatic pose. Halla-ar smiled, whipped a small notepad out of his pocket, and started scratching on it with a pencil.
“What are you–”
“One minute. Just a minute.”
He frowned, pencil flashing: sktch sktch, sktch sktch. She remained perfectly still, feeling vaguely silly. When he finished, he stared at the paper, smiled, walked over to her, and held up the notepad. “What do you think?”
She blinked. He’d drawn a quick sketch of her in the pose she’d adopted, with her fist outstretched, an exaggerated scarf flaring back from her throat.
“It’s great!” she said. “I look very… I don’t know. Heroic?”
“You are always a hero. To me.” He gave her a small smile. “You came to my rescue. You defied Mister Stark.”
“You don’t need much rescuing,” she replied, looking away. “You’re a heck of a fighter. And you helped me, too…”
A flash of movement caught her eye. Over by the dumpster, just out of the light. Something gliding along in the air, at eye level… a red blanket, or maybe a cloak?
“What is it?” he asked.
She pointed. “Over there.”
She checked the area, but there was no one around; this corner of the courtyard was deserted. She took a long stride, extending and embiggening her legs. Halla-ar followed, stashing the notepad away.
Then, again, in front of the wall: a quick flash of crimson. “There!” she said. “Did you see it?”
“I’m not sure.”
She stretched her body upward, searching the area along the wall. Nothing. At least her head didn’t hurt anymore; that meant it was safe to use her powers.
“What is this?” Halla-ar called.
She shrank back down to look. He crouched behind the dumpster, holding a softly glowing object in both hands. It looked like a giant eye set inside a frame of metal.
“It was just lying here,” he said.
“Bring it into the light.”
They walked back to the floodlight. The eye seemed to follow them, turning to meet their gaze. In the light, Kamala could see it was made of some sort of liquid held within a transparent bubble. A delicate, tarnished web of gold held the whole thing in place.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is this some instrument that Earth people use?”
“Not any Earth people I know.”
She frowned, glancing back at the dumpster. She remembered that strange red cloak, floating through the darkness…
“Someone was here,” she said. “Someone left this for us.”
“But why?” He frowned. “Is it some sort of trap? Something left by one of the Avengers’ enemies?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think the Avengers have ever faced off against an evil ophthalmologist.” She studied the object. “Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe somebody’s trying to help us. In our hunt?”
At the word hunt, the eye seemed to brighten. A deep buzz pulsed from it, and then it went silent again.
“Yes.” Halla-ar nodded. “To help track the killer.”
The eye buzzed again, more insistently this time. The metal around it vibrated, tugging Halla-ar’s hands to the left.
“It’s pulling me,” he said. “Leading me toward something… Hey, what if it is a trap? What if it turns me evil?”
“If you turn evil, I promise I’ll take you down.” She frowned. “Seriously, just go with it. I’m right here.”
She concentrated, thinking of the killer. Of all the poor Kree exiled to Earth, forced to live in poverty and work themselves to death just to survive. And those were the lucky ones. So many had already died…
The eye hummed, louder than ever. Halla-ar held it tight, letting it pull his arms one way, then the other. It pointed up toward one of the three buildings, then swung back around toward another one.
“That’s your building,” Kamala said.
Halla-ar nodded, eyes wide as his arms rose up. The eye swiveled in his grip, staring up at an angle toward a single window. A window that opened onto the back of an armchair, with an old man’s head visible inside.
“And that,” Halla-ar said, “is my family’s apartment.”
Chapter 38
Captain America descended the short staircase off the street and froze. Before him, where a subway entrance had once been, a wall of concrete blocked the way. Next to it was a slim, unassuming door.
“Captain?” Gamora called.
He motioned her back. His mind raced, replaying the events, just days ago, of his battle in Pittsburgh. Climbing the fire escape outside the refinery, coming to a window reinforced with concrete. Thin wooden panel next to it…
That’s where he’d been ambushed, by the Red Skull’s nano-powered go
ons. Where the Skull had come close to wiping out his arch-enemy, for good this time. Where Cap had sustained the wound to his arm that, even now, ached when he moved too fast.
“Steve?” Natasha recognized his alarm immediately. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “Guess I’ve got some battle jitters left over from Pittsburgh.”
He stared at the wooden door, pulling in quick breaths to oxygenate his system. Pumping himself up, preparing for whatever lay within. Kree warriors? Planet-killers? The Hood? Doctor Voodoo, mysteriously turned evil…?
“Stand aside,” Gamora said, drawing her sword. “I will–”
Cap raised his shield and slammed it into the door. As the hinges swung inward, he realized he felt no pain in his injured arm. Had it healed up already? He flexed his fingers. No pain–
“Cap?” Natasha said.
He looked around at the cramped, windowless bar. In the gloom, he registered a few empty tables, an odd-shaped concrete wall, and a small TV. No one in the place except a wiry middle-aged bartender, sharing an open bottle with…
…with …
“FLAG GUY!” Rocket yelled, raising a shot glass and spilling half his drink on the floor. “Black Window! And my besht pal Gamora, the deadliest something in all of someplace! Get in here, you flarking losers!”
Cap stood very still, stunned, while Natasha and Gamora squeezed around him into the establishment. Rocket’s Kree detector, the gadget he’d displayed back at the barracks, sat next to him on the bar. His aero-rig lay discarded on the floor.
“You are very drunk,” Gamora said, shaking her head.
Natasha crossed to the bar and picked up the bottle. “Whisky-73,” she read. “No wonder.”
The bartender shrugged and turned away, pretending to wash a glass.
“Rocket,” Gamora continued, “what are you doing here?”
“I followed a woman! Except I didn’t know it was a woman.” Rocket pointed a thumb at the bartender. “Feliks says it was a woman.”
Feliks nodded. He placed a fresh round of shot glasses down on the bar.
