by Stuart Moore
“What woman?” Gamora slammed her fist down on the bar. “What are you babbling about?”
“OK. OK, thish a good story.” Rocket poured himself another glass. “We was draggin’ the ship out of the water. Well, Drax was draggin’. I was just flying around on my aero-rig, you know, supervizhing. Round and around in the air… round and round and round and–”
“Get on with it!”
“OK! Yes sir, Madame Star-Lord. Ow! OK, OK… all of a sudden, my Kree dingus–” he slapped a hand down on the detector “–it started beepin’ like crazy. Something moving fast, in the water or maybe underneath, maybe. I figured some Kree was makin’ a break for it in a planet-killin’ speedboat or something.”
“Yes,” Natasha observed dryly. “Planet-killers are known for their interest in aquatic sports.”
“So I just took off in the air, started following the signal. It took a sharp veer toward Manhattan and started pullin’ ahead of me. I was able to stay in range, but barely. Finally tracked it here.” Rocket grinned and gestured at the bar. “And here I am!”
Natasha held up the bottle, which was nearly empty. “This stuff was made by the Soviet Union decades ago,” she said. “It was rapidly discontinued.”
“Yes,” the bartender said proudly. “Is hard to get.”
“It was discontinued because it caused skin disease, redness of the eyes, and uncontrollable tremors.”
“Oh yeah.” Rocket grinned. “I got all of that!”
“Nineteen seventy-three,” Gamora said, reading the label. “That was some time ago. Did your planet understand the concept of bacterial infections?”
“Rocket,” Cap said, pitching his voice deliberately low. The raccoonoid paused in mid-sip, as if he’d been caught stealing. “Where is she now?”
“What? Who now?”
“The woman. The Kree you were chasing!”
“Oh? I dunno.”
Gamora frowned. “You lost her?”
“No, no, I think I can still…” He fiddled with the detector, squinting at its controls. It flashed green – just once. “Got it locked to her signal.”
“I don’t understand,” Gamora said. “Why didn’t you go after her?”
“I was gonna! But…”
Rocket indicated the litter of shot glasses next to the bottle.
“He is distractable little raccoon,” the bartender said.
“I’m gonna ignore that insult, because you’re my besht buddy in the world. Or you will be, once you show me another disastrous liquor from your frankly terrifying homeland.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow, reached under the bar, and pulled out a bottle labelled Kapitansky Dzhin. Rocket reached for it like a baby seeking its mother’s arms.
Natasha slammed her elbow down on the bar, startling Cap. She snatched up the bottle, poured a shot glass to overflowing, and slammed it down in one gulp. Feliks, the bartender, watched her closely. She smiled and wiped the “dzhin” from her lips, then leaned forward and started peppering him with questions in Russian.
The bartender gave her an uncertain smile. Keeping his locked on hers, he poured himself a matching shot and downed it with a visible shiver. Then he began talking back in the same rapid-fire dialect.
Cap struggled to follow the conversation. He knew some Russian, but Feliks and Natasha were speaking too fast. He caught a few words: “alien” and “refugee” and something that might have been “major threat”.
Natasha turned to Cap. “According to my beloved countryman, the woman was a tall, wiry type with blue skin.”
“Ah,” Cap said. “I believe I’ve met her.”
“He says she left here in the company of a man in blue jeans and a dark hood,” Natasha continued. “The man is a regular of sorts, but Feliks doesn’t know his name. He’s not Russian, but he reminds Feliks of some of the criminal gang leaders back home.”
“That’s got to be Parker Robbins,” Cap nodded. “This is all coming together.”
The bartender leaned over the bar and spoke to Natasha again. He touched the skin of his cheek to illustrate something.
“He says the woman had a scar of some kind.”
“That’s good to know,” Cap said, “but I think ‘blue skin’ would have been enough to go on.”
“I think Kree would have been enough,” Rocket said.
Cap frowned. “This Kir-ra… the Kree woman. I don’t think she trusts me, or Tony either. But if she’s with Robbins, she’s definitely in danger.”
“Or else she’s working with him,” Natasha said. “Either way, if we find her, we’ll find the Hood. And maybe Tony.” She turned to Rocket, then frowned. “Hey, where’s your detector thingy?”
“More to the point,” Cap said, looking around, “where’s your teammate?”
Rocket turned to the bar, where the detector had been, and did a classic double-take. He whipped his head one way, then the other, and then he burst out laughing.
“She took it!” he cried. “Gam… she stole my… AH HA HA HA HA!”
“She’s gone, all right,” Natasha said.
“She stole my detector! Well, stole it back.” Rocket laughed again. “The little thief. I’ve taught her well.”
Cap turned to Natasha. “What’s her game?”
“I suspect she got impatient with the floor show.” Natasha turned to the inebriated raccoonoid. “Without that thing, you have no idea where this Kree woman went?”
“Ah no, I remember.” He tapped his forehead. “I got a mind like a steel net.”
“We better move,” Cap said. “Oh, no. Do you think Gamora knows how to fly the quinjet?”
Natasha sighed. “She was asking me a lot of questions on the way over.”
Cap turned to Rocket, pointing at the aero-rig. “Can you carry someone on that thing?”
“Like you? No way!” Rocket shrugged. “Someone little, maybe.”
“Looks like we’re stranded,” sighed Cap.
“Then I’d better get myself a ride.” As he reached for his phone, Natasha pulled out hers as well. “Who are you calling?” he asked.
“The Hood is trouble, and we don’t know what he’s done with Tony – or how Doc Voodoo fits into this. So I’m calling in the guns.” She raised an eyebrow. “Well, one gun. The big one.”
Cap nodded. He spoke a few quiet words, then clicked his phone off and started toward the door. Natasha followed, pausing to grab Rocket’s arm and drag him along.
“Podozhdite!” the bartender yelled.
Everyone stopped. Natasha turned, lowering her phone, and barked out a quick question in Russian. The bartender listened, sweating, and nodded. His cool demeanor was utterly gone now; he seemed terrified. He replied with a couple of unfamiliar words.
Natasha just watched, brow furrowed, and nodded. “Spasibo,” she said.
“I couldn’t make out all of that,” Cap said as they emerged on the dark street. “What did he say?”
“He said beware,” Natasha said, her voice grave. “Beware the devil.”
•••
In the dark empty tavern, Feliks Andreyevich Litwin stood alone, trembling. He didn’t have to wonder what was coming, because it was already here. It was always here.
The TV lit up with an image of fire. “JUST CURIOUS,” said a staticky voice. “WHY DID YOU HELP THEM?”
“She was pretty,” Feliks said, “and strong. And…”
He swallowed, shrugged, and spread his arms wide at the overturned bottles, the dozen-plus shot glasses littering the bar. A final trickle of Whisky-73 dripped out onto the floor.
“…and I miss my country.”
The TV said nothing more. He could feel the Master’s rage burning within him, flames licking at the walls and foundations of his world. But it wasn’t mad at him, he knew. He was beneath its notice. All he
was, now, was a worker to be dismissed, a ledger item to be erased.
The heat began in his chest and quickly fanned outward. Fire spread through his veins, burned his soft tissues, set his eyes and mouth aflame. Feliks stood still, accepting his fate. With his last breath, before the hot ash of his body crumpled inward and fell to the floor, he gasped out two words:
“Narushitel’ mira.”
Part Six
The Fragile Grip
Chapter 39
Gamora stalked down the hall, past door after door. She didn’t notice the cracks on the walls, the badly plastered ceiling, or the occasional furtive glances from humans peering out of their apartments. Her attention was focused on the Kree detector, which flashed in a steady rhythm: green-green-green-green-green.
Almost there, she thought. Soon. Soon.
She thought of the Kree woman, Kir-ra. Gamora had felt the evil on her, and now the detector had trailed her here, to this housing project. Was she the planet-killer after all? Had Gamora let her go too quickly?
Either way, Gamora knew, this was her quest to follow. In the end, the Avengers had proved as slow, as easily distracted, as her own teammates. She couldn’t afford to wait for any of them – not while this evil still roamed free.
Twice now, the detector had burst into fits of activity. There must be other Kree, she realized, living in this same housing complex. But Rocket’s modifications had locked the detector onto Kir-ra’s signature. Now the device led her to a door labelled 6-66, chipped paint framing tarnished bronze numbers.
She tried the knob; locked, of course. Humans and Kree alike kept their guard up in a place like this. She pulled back and jabbed the doorknob with her elbow. The lock snapped, the knob turned–
“Assassin!”
Gamora whirled to meet the attacker, charging toward her down the hallway. She tossed the detector away, zigzagged from side to side, and grabbed his shoulders – then swiveled to the right, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He slammed to the floor, face-up, with an impact that shook the entire level.
“Mercenary!” he spat.
Gamora sighed. It was the kid, Halla-ar – the Kree woman’s brother. “I don’t want to fight you again, boy,” she said, pressing her boot on his chest to hold him down.
“You hurt my friend,” he hissed. “You tried to kill my sister!”
She hesitated, seeing the rage in his eyes. Was it him? Was he the killer?
“Guys! Stop it!”
She turned to look down the corridor. The costumed Terran, Ms Marvel, approached, eyes wide. She held a mystic implement of some kind, an orb of tarnished metal with a pulsing, glowing eye inside it.
“What is that thing?” Gamora asked.
Ms Marvel held out the eye for Gamora to see. It strobed and hummed, shining bright. “We don’t know.”
“It looks like…” Gamora turned away from the eye’s gaze. “Like it’s hunting for something.”
“Yeah,” Ms Marvel replied. “Same thing you are, I think.”
Gamora raised her foot, releasing Halla-ar. He scrambled to his feet and glared at her. Ms Marvel handed him the eye, and he held it up to the door. It glowed brighter.
Again, Gamora hesitated. She thought of a little girl, lost in the destruction of her planet. Of an assembly line where war casualties worked themselves to death. And, finally, of a kitchen full of wary women, forced to band together for protection.
My purpose, she thought, is as urgent as ever. But maybe I don’t have to pursue it alone.
“Follow my lead,” she whispered, placing a hand on the door.
They stepped into a small kitchen filled with grimy, outdated appliances. Voices came from the next room, around the corner of an open doorway.
“Sometimes,” a man’s voice said. “Sometimes you can sleep.”
“That’s my Grandpa,” Halla-ar whispered.
Gamora beckoned the kids forward, creeping along the tiled floor. They took up position at the edges of the doorway, so they could see inside the next room. An old Kree man sat in his armchair by the window. Kir-ra perched on a sofa across from him, leaning forward to listen.
“You tell yourself it was a dream,” Grandpa continued. “Something that happened to somebody else.”
“I know,” Kir-ra said. “Grandpa, I know.” She frowned, casting a nervous glance down at a travel bag on the floor next to the sofa.
“You think, that’s not me. That couldn’t be me.” Grandpa’s voice was oddly monotone, as if he were reading from an old script. “And then it all comes rushing back…”
He turned, eyes suddenly wide and sharp, toward the kitchen.
“…and you know.”
Blast it, Gamora thought, he heard us! She jerked her head out of the doorway, hoping to gain a second to think. But the boy, Halla-ar, stepped past her – straight into the living room. She followed reluctantly, with the young Avenger right behind them.
“Brother.” Kir-ra stood up. “Where have you…” She trailed off, peering at the object in the boy’s hands. She looked confused, almost disoriented.
Gamora frowned. Nothing here, she sensed, was quite what it seemed. Everything felt off balance, askew. Dreamlike.
The eye surged, glowing brighter than ever. Halla-ar held it up to his sister, and its glow subsided. Gamora gritted her teeth; did that mean Kir-ra was innocent? What was this eye talisman, anyway? Was it guiding these two children, or had it placed them under some sort of spell?
The eye let out a loud hum. It seemed to jerk Halla-ar’s arms upward, pulling him away from the sofa. He followed its lead, raising it higher as it tugged him across the room. Its light grew brighter, more intense.
The old man watched them, staring blankly. The eye flared, became impossible to stare at directly. Halla-ar stopped short, lowering the object in astonishment.
“You know,” Grandpa repeated.
“Grandpa?” Halla-ar whispered.
“It was me,” Grandpa said, still staring. “I did those things…”
The bedroom door opened and an old woman walked in. “…I did them all,” she said.
A bolt of lightning ran up Gamora’s spine. Staring at the old woman – Halla-ar’s grandmother – she knew. All at once, she knew.
“You,” she hissed, reaching for her sword. “It was you.”
Chapter 40
They came in over the Hudson River, veering south at the Jersey City waterfront and soaring over the green triangle of Liberty State Park. Captain America hung from the strong, metal-sheathed arms of James Rhodes, the US government’s very own super hero: War Machine. Rhodey’s silver and white armor had been designed by Tony Stark himself.
As they flew inland, Cap squirmed slightly. “You OK, Steve?” Rhodey asked, his voice filtered through the War Machine armor.
“Yeah,” Cap replied. “Just testing this bad arm.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to make the ride a little smoother.”
“No, it’s not a problem. In fact, I’m fine. Just get us to the target.”
Cap smiled, thinking back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor who’d examined the arm. A hairline fracture, the woman had said; try not to move it. Don’t move the arm? Did she know who she was talking to?
“You got it.” Rhodey’s voice was tense. “Sooner we find Tony, the better.”
Cap turned to look behind them. In the night sky, he could just make out Natasha clinging to the back of Rocket’s aero-rig and attempting to help steer the controls. They seemed to be having trouble keeping up.
“When I said I could carry a small person,” Rocket grumbled, “I meant, like one of those little symbiotic beings that hitch a ride on somebody else. Or a baby. A baby person, maybe.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Maybe I should drive–”
“Hey!” Rocket pointed down. “Is that the low-incom
e housing unit we’re looking for?”
Cap looked down. Just ahead, a trio of buildings stood out above the surrounding three- and four-story townhouses. They were arrayed in a circle, fanning outward from a central courtyard. “It looks…” He hesitated. “It’s designed almost like a radiation symbol.”
“Or a pentagram,” Natasha said.
“All right, let’s land on one of the roofs.” Cap frowned, surveying the buildings. “Nearest one, I guess–”
“Uh, Cap?” War Machine’s lenses glowed. “Take a look out past the buildings.”
Cap squinted. In the dark, all he could make out was a wide street and what looked like an outdoor strip mall beyond. “I don’t have your night-vision scopes, Jim.”
“In the parking lot. It’s him.” Rhodey’s voice rose in excitement. “It’s Tony.”
Rhodes swung upward, towing Cap along with him. Rocket and Natasha followed, arcing up and over the housing complex, then across the street. The shopping center stood dark, nearly abandoned, and partially collapsed. The parking lot was empty except for a garbage hauler and a large tanker truck.
In a corner of the mall, a lone pizza parlor’s windows glowed, opening onto an outdoor seating area with fixed stone tables and benches under dim lamps. Tony Stark stood alone among the tables in full Iron Man armor, face hidden behind his helmet.
“Tony!” Rhodey called.
Cap touched his earpiece. “How’d you escape, Tony? Is the Hood in custody?”
Tony Stark turned to look, his eye-lenses swiveling toward the sky. He watched as Rhodey and Cap descended, with Rocket and Natasha close behind. Slowly he began to lean back, his feet planted in place, body bending at an unnatural angle.
A chill of alarm went up Cap’s spine. “Wait, wait,” he called. “He’s not–”
The uni-beam blasted out from Tony’s chestplate, flashing like a comet into the night sky. Cap ducked, then realized the beam wasn’t aimed at him. It seared into Rocket, raising sparks on the raccoonoid’s aero-rig; he cried out and began spiraling down. Natasha hung on, her legs swinging wildly in the air.
Cap rose back up to face Tony, shield raised. Had he been taken over somehow? Or had someone else overridden Stark’s protocols and stolen the armor? Either way, the strategy didn’t make sense. Why take out the raccoon first, when a man in a military-grade weapon suit was hurtling straight toward you? A man literally called War Machine?
