Back to Gatefold
Issue #2 by Hunter Lambright
Oct 2008 |
Hampton Marine Research Center, Fort Myers, Florida
Yesterday
It was the end of a long day at the Hampton Marine Research Center. The beachside facility was home to hundreds of ongoing projects and experiments involving everything from urchins to algae. Professors and researchers alike spent hours cataloguing data and publishing results, though the tedium of such tasks often led them to pick up young protégés, such as Michael Corson. The sixteen-year-old had held a fascination with the ocean since he was born. That fascination had blossomed into a well-developed curiosity and enthusiasm, which made him the perfect research assistant at the facility.
It wasn’t until the early evening’s rays of light crept to the point that they penetrated beneath the blinds that Professor Walter Sams looked from his microscope to his watch. He studied Michael as he diligently scribbled changes in count and concentration of the algae samples for a moment before he said, “Well, son, the evening’s wasting. What say you cut out early tonight, maybe catch some of your friends? With the amount of hours you put in here, I’d say you deserve a break. What do you think?”
Michael’s pencil stopped moving. He looked up. “Sir? With all due respect, my friends are pretty much limited to the staff around here. The ocean…well, lately it’s my life.”
Professor Sams sized Michael up. The thin, muscular teen looked more like he belonged on a surfboard than in a laboratory. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Michael. Take the rest of the day, have some fun. The algae will still be here tomorrow.”
“If you say so, sir,” Michael said, cocking a bemused eyebrow. “Don’t complain tomorrow about how much you had to do yourself, though.”
“Believe me,” said Sams, “you won’t hear a word out of me. Now go on, get out of here!” He made shooing gestures. Michael smiled, then grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the room, leaving Professor Sams alone with his algae.
The day outside was beautiful. There were still hours of daylight to be had, and Michael considered hitting the beach for awhile. Maybe he would see some of his classmates there, he thought, shaking his head. The dark-haired boy slung his backpack into the backseat of an ancient stick-shift car before piling into the front seat. He cranked open the windows to let the hot air out and the breeze in, just as he would have even if his air conditioning worked. It was nice out after all. He pulled out of Hampton’s parking lot and headed for the Fort Myers Beach.
It seemed that there were a lot of people with the same idea, because Michael had a difficult time finding a parking spot. He finally gave up and took one far from the sand before hotfooting it barefoot across the blacktop until he reached the beach, leaving his shoes in the car. It wasn’t long before he had crossed the wooden slatted bridge and was on the beach along with what seemed like half the population of Fort Myers. The heat came up in waves over the sand, and Michael was soon forced to unbutton his cotton shirt, opening his lithe torso to the cooling wind. He tried not to linger too long near the volleyball net, where a group of college-aged girls were giggling and slapping a cracked, gray volleyball back and forth. He spared them a moment of time before walking on.
Michael spied a few of his classmates in the water. It was mostly the jocks and surfer crew, angling this way and that along the surf on boogey boards. The gulf water was too calm for surfing without a storm on the way, but that didn’t stop several of the boys from straddling their boards in the water anyway. He quickened his pace as he went past them, doubting they even recognized him.
Finally, after he had gone on for quite awhile, Michael checked his watch. He was already ten minutes late, and he knew his dad would be worried. Then Michael patted the pocket of his cargo shorts and realized that his cell phone was back at the parking lot in his car. He turned around and began jogging back the way he came. He was only halfway back when he heard the volleyball girls screaming, and in the open space of the beach, it wasn’t hard to see why.
A squadron of black-suited men wielding some kind of high-powered rifle had hustled onto the beach, spiraling out from a central point. That means they’re looking for something, Michael realized. Then he thought darkly, Or someone.
There was something unsettling about the way they moved that made Michael realize that they weren’t the good guys. The gunmen weren’t on a drug bust or a terrorist raid. They were mercenaries. It was a gut instinct, but Michael’s hadn’t been wrong yet. A quick scan showed him that the other beachgoers were also reacting with panic. That was good. It gave him time to think. It gave him time to act.
Everything he needed was on the beach. It was time to play the hero—no, it was time to be the hero. Call it an innate sense of nobility, or call it an innate sense of stupidity. He had trained for years in fencing, and while he didn’t have his preferred tool at hand, it had given him an uncanny knack for being able to see when and where opponents were vulnerable. Even though his was trained into him, he called it his Karnak Sense after his second-favorite Avenger. His first favorite was Stingray.
There were seven gunmen. Michael had counted them as he ran and ducked, blending in with the scrambling beachgoers. The first gunman went down with a smack to the back of the head with a chunk of driftwood. Michael had positioned himself under a fallen canopy umbrella until the man had gotten close and swiveled around to check behind him. Michael knew that the first was the easiest. It would be harder after this.
He heard shouts soon, and that let him know that the first man’s absence had been noted. The second gunman came and knelt by his compatriot, checking for a pulse. He turned his head and caught sight of Michael before shouting. Michael kicked sand up into the man’s eyes, then whipped a beach towel around the gun barrel, forcing it down into the sand. A swift kick to the back of the head took the second one down, but the other five were already running.
That was when Michael realized he was in over his head. The adrenaline rush, the initial feeling of invincibility was gone. The confidence high was dashed as soon as another gunman shouted, “That’s him! It’s the target!” The blood drained out of Michael’s face. They weren’t here for someone else. They were here for him.
He began to run. There were three sharp gunshots, and Michael could suddenly no longer feel his legs. His stomach scraped the sand as he skidded to a halt, leaving three thin, bloody trails behind him. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision until, like his confidence before it, his consciousness faded away into black.
Yesterday
It was the end of a long day at the Hampton Marine Research Center. The beachside facility was home to hundreds of ongoing projects and experiments involving everything from urchins to algae. Professors and researchers alike spent hours cataloguing data and publishing results, though the tedium of such tasks often led them to pick up young protégés, such as Michael Corson. The sixteen-year-old had held a fascination with the ocean since he was born. That fascination had blossomed into a well-developed curiosity and enthusiasm, which made him the perfect research assistant at the facility.
It wasn’t until the early evening’s rays of light crept to the point that they penetrated beneath the blinds that Professor Walter Sams looked from his microscope to his watch. He studied Michael as he diligently scribbled changes in count and concentration of the algae samples for a moment before he said, “Well, son, the evening’s wasting. What say you cut out early tonight, maybe catch some of your friends? With the amount of hours you put in here, I’d say you deserve a break. What do you think?”
Michael’s pencil stopped moving. He looked up. “Sir? With all due respect, my friends are pretty much limited to the staff around here. The ocean…well, lately it’s my life.”
Professor Sams sized Michael up. The thin, muscular teen looked more like he belonged on a surfboard than in a laboratory. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Michael. Take the rest of the day, have some fun. The algae will still be here tomorrow.”
“If you say so, sir,” Michael said, cocking a bemused eyebrow. “Don’t complain tomorrow about how much you had to do yourself, though.”
“Believe me,” said Sams, “you won’t hear a word out of me. Now go on, get out of here!” He made shooing gestures. Michael smiled, then grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the room, leaving Professor Sams alone with his algae.
The day outside was beautiful. There were still hours of daylight to be had, and Michael considered hitting the beach for awhile. Maybe he would see some of his classmates there, he thought, shaking his head. The dark-haired boy slung his backpack into the backseat of an ancient stick-shift car before piling into the front seat. He cranked open the windows to let the hot air out and the breeze in, just as he would have even if his air conditioning worked. It was nice out after all. He pulled out of Hampton’s parking lot and headed for the Fort Myers Beach.
It seemed that there were a lot of people with the same idea, because Michael had a difficult time finding a parking spot. He finally gave up and took one far from the sand before hotfooting it barefoot across the blacktop until he reached the beach, leaving his shoes in the car. It wasn’t long before he had crossed the wooden slatted bridge and was on the beach along with what seemed like half the population of Fort Myers. The heat came up in waves over the sand, and Michael was soon forced to unbutton his cotton shirt, opening his lithe torso to the cooling wind. He tried not to linger too long near the volleyball net, where a group of college-aged girls were giggling and slapping a cracked, gray volleyball back and forth. He spared them a moment of time before walking on.
Michael spied a few of his classmates in the water. It was mostly the jocks and surfer crew, angling this way and that along the surf on boogey boards. The gulf water was too calm for surfing without a storm on the way, but that didn’t stop several of the boys from straddling their boards in the water anyway. He quickened his pace as he went past them, doubting they even recognized him.
Finally, after he had gone on for quite awhile, Michael checked his watch. He was already ten minutes late, and he knew his dad would be worried. Then Michael patted the pocket of his cargo shorts and realized that his cell phone was back at the parking lot in his car. He turned around and began jogging back the way he came. He was only halfway back when he heard the volleyball girls screaming, and in the open space of the beach, it wasn’t hard to see why.
A squadron of black-suited men wielding some kind of high-powered rifle had hustled onto the beach, spiraling out from a central point. That means they’re looking for something, Michael realized. Then he thought darkly, Or someone.
There was something unsettling about the way they moved that made Michael realize that they weren’t the good guys. The gunmen weren’t on a drug bust or a terrorist raid. They were mercenaries. It was a gut instinct, but Michael’s hadn’t been wrong yet. A quick scan showed him that the other beachgoers were also reacting with panic. That was good. It gave him time to think. It gave him time to act.
Everything he needed was on the beach. It was time to play the hero—no, it was time to be the hero. Call it an innate sense of nobility, or call it an innate sense of stupidity. He had trained for years in fencing, and while he didn’t have his preferred tool at hand, it had given him an uncanny knack for being able to see when and where opponents were vulnerable. Even though his was trained into him, he called it his Karnak Sense after his second-favorite Avenger. His first favorite was Stingray.
There were seven gunmen. Michael had counted them as he ran and ducked, blending in with the scrambling beachgoers. The first gunman went down with a smack to the back of the head with a chunk of driftwood. Michael had positioned himself under a fallen canopy umbrella until the man had gotten close and swiveled around to check behind him. Michael knew that the first was the easiest. It would be harder after this.
He heard shouts soon, and that let him know that the first man’s absence had been noted. The second gunman came and knelt by his compatriot, checking for a pulse. He turned his head and caught sight of Michael before shouting. Michael kicked sand up into the man’s eyes, then whipped a beach towel around the gun barrel, forcing it down into the sand. A swift kick to the back of the head took the second one down, but the other five were already running.
That was when Michael realized he was in over his head. The adrenaline rush, the initial feeling of invincibility was gone. The confidence high was dashed as soon as another gunman shouted, “That’s him! It’s the target!” The blood drained out of Michael’s face. They weren’t here for someone else. They were here for him.
He began to run. There were three sharp gunshots, and Michael could suddenly no longer feel his legs. His stomach scraped the sand as he skidded to a halt, leaving three thin, bloody trails behind him. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision until, like his confidence before it, his consciousness faded away into black.
"LEGACY LOST - Part Two: Stagger Pace"
The Burdick Apartment, New York City
“Sir, please put the gun down.” The Young Avenger held his arms up in surrender. His dark green bodysuit seemed to have paled to match his panicked face now that they were caught, and Bryon knew that he was in no position to make demands.
The officer had to chuckle at that. “You’re the perp, and you’re ordering the cop whose house you broke into. That’s a laugh.”
“Blake, stop,” said Cassie Lang, huddled on her bed. “Maybe you should listen to him.”
“He just tried to kidnap you, Cassie!” shouted her stepfather, brandishing the gun. “This isn’t the first time this has happened! He’s probably just stalling while he waits for backup!”
Bryon shook his head, careful to leave his hands in their upright position. This had not gone according to plan. He had severely messed up. What was supposed to have gone smoothly, in an attempt to force the police and Avengers to take the threat he was trying to protect Cassie from seriously, had turned into a serious botch-up with a police officer pointing a gun at his forehead. Today was not his day.
“Now, get on your knees, and put your hands behind your back—but not under your cape! Put ‘em where I can see them,” Blake said, moving forward. Cassie cringed, but now she was pulling back from her stepfather’s rash behavior instead of fear of her attacker.
“Yes, sir, officer,” Bryon said, folding his arms over his cape as he knelt on the floor. Then he cocked his head to the side. “You know, I heard a rumor. Would you believe that many Nazis only had blue eyes because they were blind?”
“What are you talking about?” Blake muttered rhetorically.
“I can’t believe I still remember that,” hissed the shadow. “For you, we learned those cues just a few months ago. For me, it’s been years.” It then shot out from its hiding place under Cassie’s bed and darted into Blake’s face. His eyes were covered with the shadow’s opaque, intangible body. Blake gasped and clawed at his face, but the shadow, like a ghost, slipped through his fingers like so much nothingness. A bestial scream emanated from Blake’s throat as he clawed and only managed to scratch his own face.
“Now, Cassie!” shouted the Young Avenger in pure cheese-ball fashion, seizing the moment. He held out a hand to her. “Your life depends on it!”
“N-no,” Cassie said, shaking her head uncertainly. “I can’t.”
The shadow directed its voice at her with extreme urgency, even as the rest of it continued to keep Blake occupied. “You have to go now, Cassie! You are being targeted, and every moment you are here puts your mother and stepfather in danger! You can trust Bryon, just as you’ve trusted Kristoff! Now go!”
Bryon’s brow furrowed in confusion at the sudden outburst from the shadow. Still, Cassie looked Bryon in the eyes and took his green-gloved hand. “Let’s go!” he shouted, pulling her toward the window.
“No!” Blake shouted from his knees. Blood trickled from beneath his fingers, and Bryon hoped that the man’s eyesight wasn’t permanently damaged. “Cassie, don’t!”
“I-I’m sorry, Blake,” Cassie replied, a single teardrop trickling down her cheek. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
Bryon struggled to block out Blake’s desperate cries as they made their way down the fire escape.
# # # # #
“Lieutenant, it is my sincerest regret to inform you that we missed the Lang girl by what appears to have been mere minutes.” A man completely covered in black stood stock-still on the screen, doing his best to maintain his composure.
The Lieutenant stood there, drumming his fingers idly on the edge of the thick, concrete table. “The location doesn’t matter, soldier. Find her and take her out, be it at home or elsewhere.”
The soldier shifted nervously. “Sir? That appears to be the problem. She was reportedly kidnapped—and, uh, according to her stepfather, the ‘villain’ who took her matches the file description of the Young Avenger. As of right now, she could be anywhere with him in a city of millions. Without a solid lead, it would be like finding a needle in a stack of needles, and we’re slightly inconspicuous here, sir. Perhaps if we’d been able to use the teleporter—”
The Lieutenant slammed his hand against the table, his pale, white fingers flashing red where his hand struck at the impact. “Soldier, are you telling me that you have failed your mission?”
The soldier stared down at the ground. “I…we merely face a temporary, uh, setback, sir.”
“Your mission parameters did not include room for error, soldier. Report back to base, and do so in a timely manner. You are not the first team that has failed me today.” At that, he flipped a switch on the vid-screen, and the soldier disappeared from view.
Then, alone in the room where no one could see him, the Lieutenant smiled. All of the pieces were falling into place, just as they had all those years ago.
Father is going to be so proud, thought Lieutenant Narfi with a sly grin on his face as his fingers resumed their drumming on the tabletop.
# # # # #
Avengers Mansion
From the outside looking in, Avengers Mansion was a picturesque place, with a serene walkway into the memorial garden in the back and a regal entrance to the hall of champions itself. On the inside—and, more importantly, below the surface—the mansion was a place where the best trained to get better and those same champions were built, broken, and rebuilt even stronger.
It was in this training facility that Walter Newell, the Avenger known as Stingray, was fighting a losing battle against three training robots, each programmed with a high level of martial arts ability. The red-and-white clad hero stood in the middle of the room as the three robots encircled him. He darted to his left, choosing to take the robot that lay on his weak side on his own terms. As the left-hand robot compensated for Stingray’s body weight, the frontward and right-hand robots pressed the attack.
Stingray’s right foot swept out under the forward robot, catching it off its guard. He reached out and grasped his other attacker with his right hand and, as soon as he fingers had locked, discharged a blast of electricity through his glove. The robot at the left swung its metal arm upward and into Stingray’s lower gut, flipping him over its shoulder even as it fell to the ground.
Then, suddenly, the simulation went dead. Stingray had set the program to end when he managed to get all three robots on the ground at the same time. It was a simple exercise, but he also knew it was one that he needed. The final robot’s last-second uppercut was painful proof of that.
“Impressive,” said a voice off to the side of the training room. The Inhuman called Karnak stood with his arms crossed, his eyebrows raised appraisingly. The Terrigen Mists had granted him the ability to see the weakness in anything. “There seems to be but one flaw with your fighting style, Stingray. You expect your opponents’ movements to be delayed, as though you were fighting underwater. You have become used to being able to see movements before they happen. If you wish to enhance your fighting skills, you will need to learn to anticipate your opponent’s movements before even then.”
“Thanks, Karnak,” said Stingray, taking his words with a grain of salt. If it was something he could easily apply, he would attempt to incorporate it into a fight. Still, Walter was a scientist first and foremost, and he couldn’t see Karnak’s words making much of a difference until the next time someone threatened to end the world, or do something else of that sort. “I’ll have to work on that.”
“Yes, you likely will,” Karnak replied coolly, his eyes following Stingray out the door.
Walter made his way to the control room where he planned to review the tape of his short training session. Then he would run through it again and see what he could change to make it work this time. He pushed open the door to see Steve Rogers and Carol Danvers huddled over a large, conference-style table.
Steve looked back over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening. “Walter? You should see this.” He beckoned Walter over to the papers and documents spread out over the table’s mahogany expanse.
“What are we looking at here, Steve?” Walter asked, pulling off his face mask and gloves.
“Headlines,” Steve replied grimly. “T’Challa called us yesterday, claiming that he believed that the American government had ordered a hit on his ‘Legacy,’ a teenage Wakandan girl with powers similar to his. We told him we would look into it, but neither Carol nor I had heard of this Legacy Program before.”
“Right,” said Carol, folding her arms over the front of her body. The blonde heroine’s face was set in stone. “We started digging up information over the past few weeks about assaults or attacks on teenagers and young adults, but we didn’t find anything solid—until today.”
She held up a printout of an online version of a newspaper. The headline read, “LOCAL TEEN CRITICAL AFTER BEACHSIDE DRIVE-BY.” The paper featured a dramatic photo of the yellow “do not cross” tape against a background of police officers silhouetted by the sun setting below the gulf waters. “Do you remember Michael Corson?” Carol asked.
Walter thought for a moment. “He won one of those junior science achievement awards. I pulled some strings and landed him an internship at the marine center in Fort Myers so that he could work on his stuff even though he’s in high school.” Walter paused, as several pieces fit together in his head. “Wait—are you saying—you don’t think he’s my Legacy, do you?”
Steve held his hands out. “We don’t know for sure. In fact, we’re still completely in the dark when it comes to that, even with both of our contacts with the government. Carol and I were discussing this, though, and we think that it would be a good idea for one of us to go down there. Whoever did this did it methodically. They meant to execute the boy. Chances are they’re going to try it again.”
“So you want me to—what? Go down there and stand guard outside his hospital room?” Walter asked. “You seriously believe that T’Challa wasn’t barking up the wrong tree and that these two incidences are related?”
“We can’t take the chance that they aren’t,” Steve replied. “Children’s lives could be at stake here, and I don’t want that on my head if we assume it’s a false alarm.”
As Steve finished his last sentence, his communicator on the table chirped loudly. He picked it up. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice instantly serious. “Get down here…I’ll assemble the team…We’ll brief them when you get here, Scott.” He snapped the communicator shut. “That was Scott Lang. His daughter, Cassie, has been kidnapped. I think the chances of these being related just got a lot better.”
“I’m taking a Quinjet to Florida. I just have to tell my wife, and then I’ll be in the air. Keep me posted,” Walter said with a newfound sense of duty. “I want to know where this thing goes. If the water starts getting hotter, I want to be here where I’m needed.”
“Will do,” said Steve. “Oh, and Walter? You never know. Karnak might really be trying to help instead of just being nosy.” The last part came with a hint of a smile.
After Walter left, Carol looked at Steve. “Okay, what’s going on? I can tell you’re thinking about something.”
Steve shrugged. “Do you think you can handle debriefing the team for me? There’s someone I need to check up on, especially if this is what I think this is.”
“No problem, Steve,” Carol replied. “Tell Isaiah I said hi.”
# # # # #
The Hideout
During the last few years of World War II, the hometown heroes of New York began to spend more time together outside of costume, despite many of their reservations about their identities. However, it only made sense that some of the heroes would bond after stopping Nazi threats to the homeland together, and often the heroes took it upon themselves to get together and discuss the war—or, more often than not, just to relieve some stress by hanging out with others who felt the same pressure.
This is how the Hideout was born. The idea came to Marvel Boy after he teamed up with the Secret Stamp and Wonder Boy to defeat a swarm of radioactive locusts. He pulled a few strings and closed off the entrance to a basement room from the surface, relocating the entrance to a secret alleyway alcove. The room had an access door into the greater part of the sewer system, which would allow any of the boy sidekicks to quickly navigate toward a threat in the city.
Unfortunately, the Hiroshima Cleanup ended the use of the Hideout, and it had yet to be opened—until today.
Bryon spread out his files on the card table that he used to play poker at with the other sidekicks as Cassie looked around. The years had not been kind to the room and moisture had caused the wallpaper to peel away from the walls.
“What is this place?” asked Cassie. From the look on her face, it was obvious she was unimpressed.
The shadow flitted about the walls. “It used to be a hangout for off-duty teen heroes. It looks like it’s been forgotten, though, for quite some time.”
“I’d say,” Cassie responded. “Now, can you tell me, you know, why I’m here?”
Bryon looked back over his shoulder and stood up quickly. “Sorry. Let me explain.” He quickly went over the story of his escape and what he had overheard from the Lieutenant.
Cassie’s eyebrows narrowed. “You kidnapped me because you thought that would be the best way of keeping me safe? What about keeping you safe? The Avengers and the N.Y.P.D. are looking for you right now.”
“I know, I know,” Bryon said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Cassie stood there for a moment before responding. “So, if this is all true, then what are we doing next?”
“We?” Bryon asked, surprised.
“Yes, we,” the shadow cut in. “Cassie has some talents that could prove useful to you.”
Bryon looked at the shadow, his face hardened. “Can we talk? We don’t seem to be working from the same place here.” He cast a sideways glance at Cassie. “Sorry about this.” He stepped toward the back of the Hideout. The shadow followed, but its pace was almost defiant.
“What’s going on?” Bryon hissed. “You tell me this is my mission—to figure things out for myself. Then you tell me who I’m working with, and you say things to Cassie that you couldn’t know unless you already knew something about her. Are we even on the same side?”
“You’re the one who nearly threw it all away with your stunt at the apartment,” spat the shadow. “My goal is to make this a success. Whether that is by following your lead or by taking my own does not matter. All that matters is that we win.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bryon retorted. “Isn’t that what the Axis powers said in World War II? ‘Win by any means necessary?’”
“Yes, but--” the shadow began.
“No,” Bryon interrupted. “We talk to each other on this. We’re in this one together. You’re either with me, or you’re finding someone else corporeal to do the lifting.”
“Then in that case, I’ll tell you who we retrieve next,” replied the shadow, tired of the back-and-forth. As long as it could make Bryon think it was his idea, he could move forward with the mission. “Her name is Kate Bishop. I think you’ll find her a lot easier to find than the last one…”
# # # # #
The Bradley Residence, Queens
Captain America pulled his motorcycle up outside the Bradley home directly up to the doorstep. Faith and Isaiah Bradley’s apartment was accessible from the ground level, unlike some of the complexes in the heart of Manhattan. Cap pulled off his helmet and ruffled his blond hair to get rid of his helmet head. He couldn’t remember a time before today that he had visited while wearing his uniform. Today was different. Today, Steve was here not as a friend, but as an Avenger.
He pressed the doorbell with a red-gloved hand and stepped back. A quaint-looking black woman opened the door tentatively. Her eyes brightened as she saw who the visitor was, but the look immediately turned to confusion. “Why, I hadn’t realized that you were visiting today, Steve,” she said carefully. “Should I go get Isaiah?”
Steve held up his hand. “This wasn’t a planned thing, Faith. I’d have called ahead, but my mind was going off in too many directions at once. I apologize. Is now a bad time? I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”
Faith stepped aside and let Steve into the humble apartment. He walked down the hall and into the living room, where Isaiah Bradley sat peacefully in an armchair. A chessboard sat on the table beside him with a game already in progress. Isaiah had been a member of a platoon of black soldiers that were given the Super-Soldier Serum during a trial run. Only he had survived.
What the scientists discovered was that Isaiah had not only survived the experiment, but he had also gained extraordinary strength, stamina, and agility. He donned a red, white, and blue outfit and became one of the many Captains America in history. Steve and Isaiah often spent time together, although the conversation was somewhat limited due to an accident that had left Isaiah’s voice crippled.
Steve stepped into the room and sat down in the armchair next to Isaiah’s, turning to face the silent man. “Is today a good day or a bad day?” Steve asked, indicating Isaiah’s throat. Isaiah returned the question with a thumbs-down gesture.
Accepting that answer, Steve proceeded forward. “Look, Isaiah. Something’s come up, and I’m somewhat worried for your family. Someone is targeting people who might carry on an Avenger’s name he died and I wanted to know if you knew how to get a hold of Josiah. I want to let him know he could be in danger.”
Isaiah shook his head. He did not know where Josiah was.
A voice came in from the side room. “Hey, Grandpa, I’m heading—holy crap, that’s Captain America!” Eli Bradley stopped in mid-stride as he caught sight of the star-spangled Avenger.
Faith heard the commotion and stepped in, drying her hands with a washrag. “Captain, this is our grandson Eli. He’s been staying with us for a few weeks now, but it’s been awhile since you’ve stopped in.”
“P-pleased to meet you, sir,” Eli stammered.
The wheels in Steve’s mind were turning at hyper-speed. “Eli, this may seem odd to you, but do you happen to have any…superpowers?”
Eli opened his mouth and began to respond, but Steve’s eyes were no longer focused on the boy. His ears went deaf to all the inside noise because he could see something else unfolding out the window on the front door, just down the main hallway. He could see a delivery truck’s wheels and several heavily-armored, black-suited males lumbering out of it. The reflection from the mirror in the hallway held the upper body of a field commander. His lips said two words. Target acquired.
“EVERYONE—GET DOWN!” Steve shouted. He grabbed Faith and pushed her onto Isaiah’s lap, using his other arm to whip the shield off his back and in front of the Bradleys. An odd word was shouted from outside, and then the room dissolved in a chorus of bullets and shrapnel.
The dust had barely cleared by the time Isaiah Bradley shouted the loudest he had since the accident. “Eli…!”
The teenage boy’s clothing was in tatters where the bullets had ripped through the fabric and halted. The bulletproof boy rose to his knees and coughed. “That answer your--*kaff!*--question, Cap?”
Steve’s mind was elsewhere again as he heard the squeal of tires from the trucks outside. “What did you hear them say before they shot?” he asked quickly. But it made no difference. Steve had heard the word as clear as day. “They shouted ‘Allah!’ They’re trying to pass themselves off as terrorists.”
He looked from Faith to Isaiah to Eli. “Get to Avengers Mansion as quickly as you can. Tell them I sent you. They’ll take care of you.”
“Wait—Cap! Where are you going?” asked Eli as Steve began running for the door.
Steve looked back as he stood his motorcycle back up from where it had fallen. “After them. You do not do something like this with me around and get away with this.” Then, he mounted the bike, gunned the engine, and rocketed off into the midday sun after the murderous delivery vans.
# # # # #
The Kaplan Residence, Brooklyn
Billy Kaplan woke up half-on and half-off his bed at one in the afternoon Saturday morning. He halfheartedly pushed his upper body back onto the mattress as he squinted into the red light of his digital alarm clock. He rolled onto his back and groaned before throwing off the covers and swinging his feet onto the floor.
Making his way toward the kitchen, Billy stopped and stared at the note on the refrigerator door, his hand paused in the middle of running through his black hair. “Billy, took the boys to Jimmy Carroll’s birthday party. Leftover lasagna in the fridge. Your father will be home around five. Love, Mom.”
Billy shrugged and pulled a milk carton out of the fridge. Since no one was home, he forwent the use of a glass and began to drink straight from the carton. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The wiry sixteen-year-old wore only a pair of flannel pajama pants. He frowned as he pulled the carton away from his mouth and wiped away a milk mustache.
Suddenly, the mirror and the wall behind it exploded outward, and Billy put out his hands as if they might protect him from the blast that was coming at him.
“That’s him!” shouted one of the men in black as he leveled a rifle at Billy, who was huddled on the floor in the wreckage of the apartment wall. “Awaiting orders, Captain?”
“You have your orders,” said another man. His nametag marked him as Abrams. “End it.”
Billy stared up at the gunman fearfully. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered weakly. Then, without warning, his eyes glowed a bright blue. “Idon’twannadie… Idon’twannadie… Idon’twannadie…”
The apartment exploded in a brilliant turquoise supernova.
# # # # #
Next Issue: Cap attempts to track down Lieutenant Narfi’s agents, and Stingray has a surprise waiting for him in Florida! Plus, what happens when the Avengers track down the boy who stole Ant-Man’s daughter?
“Sir, please put the gun down.” The Young Avenger held his arms up in surrender. His dark green bodysuit seemed to have paled to match his panicked face now that they were caught, and Bryon knew that he was in no position to make demands.
The officer had to chuckle at that. “You’re the perp, and you’re ordering the cop whose house you broke into. That’s a laugh.”
“Blake, stop,” said Cassie Lang, huddled on her bed. “Maybe you should listen to him.”
“He just tried to kidnap you, Cassie!” shouted her stepfather, brandishing the gun. “This isn’t the first time this has happened! He’s probably just stalling while he waits for backup!”
Bryon shook his head, careful to leave his hands in their upright position. This had not gone according to plan. He had severely messed up. What was supposed to have gone smoothly, in an attempt to force the police and Avengers to take the threat he was trying to protect Cassie from seriously, had turned into a serious botch-up with a police officer pointing a gun at his forehead. Today was not his day.
“Now, get on your knees, and put your hands behind your back—but not under your cape! Put ‘em where I can see them,” Blake said, moving forward. Cassie cringed, but now she was pulling back from her stepfather’s rash behavior instead of fear of her attacker.
“Yes, sir, officer,” Bryon said, folding his arms over his cape as he knelt on the floor. Then he cocked his head to the side. “You know, I heard a rumor. Would you believe that many Nazis only had blue eyes because they were blind?”
“What are you talking about?” Blake muttered rhetorically.
“I can’t believe I still remember that,” hissed the shadow. “For you, we learned those cues just a few months ago. For me, it’s been years.” It then shot out from its hiding place under Cassie’s bed and darted into Blake’s face. His eyes were covered with the shadow’s opaque, intangible body. Blake gasped and clawed at his face, but the shadow, like a ghost, slipped through his fingers like so much nothingness. A bestial scream emanated from Blake’s throat as he clawed and only managed to scratch his own face.
“Now, Cassie!” shouted the Young Avenger in pure cheese-ball fashion, seizing the moment. He held out a hand to her. “Your life depends on it!”
“N-no,” Cassie said, shaking her head uncertainly. “I can’t.”
The shadow directed its voice at her with extreme urgency, even as the rest of it continued to keep Blake occupied. “You have to go now, Cassie! You are being targeted, and every moment you are here puts your mother and stepfather in danger! You can trust Bryon, just as you’ve trusted Kristoff! Now go!”
Bryon’s brow furrowed in confusion at the sudden outburst from the shadow. Still, Cassie looked Bryon in the eyes and took his green-gloved hand. “Let’s go!” he shouted, pulling her toward the window.
“No!” Blake shouted from his knees. Blood trickled from beneath his fingers, and Bryon hoped that the man’s eyesight wasn’t permanently damaged. “Cassie, don’t!”
“I-I’m sorry, Blake,” Cassie replied, a single teardrop trickling down her cheek. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
Bryon struggled to block out Blake’s desperate cries as they made their way down the fire escape.
# # # # #
“Lieutenant, it is my sincerest regret to inform you that we missed the Lang girl by what appears to have been mere minutes.” A man completely covered in black stood stock-still on the screen, doing his best to maintain his composure.
The Lieutenant stood there, drumming his fingers idly on the edge of the thick, concrete table. “The location doesn’t matter, soldier. Find her and take her out, be it at home or elsewhere.”
The soldier shifted nervously. “Sir? That appears to be the problem. She was reportedly kidnapped—and, uh, according to her stepfather, the ‘villain’ who took her matches the file description of the Young Avenger. As of right now, she could be anywhere with him in a city of millions. Without a solid lead, it would be like finding a needle in a stack of needles, and we’re slightly inconspicuous here, sir. Perhaps if we’d been able to use the teleporter—”
The Lieutenant slammed his hand against the table, his pale, white fingers flashing red where his hand struck at the impact. “Soldier, are you telling me that you have failed your mission?”
The soldier stared down at the ground. “I…we merely face a temporary, uh, setback, sir.”
“Your mission parameters did not include room for error, soldier. Report back to base, and do so in a timely manner. You are not the first team that has failed me today.” At that, he flipped a switch on the vid-screen, and the soldier disappeared from view.
Then, alone in the room where no one could see him, the Lieutenant smiled. All of the pieces were falling into place, just as they had all those years ago.
Father is going to be so proud, thought Lieutenant Narfi with a sly grin on his face as his fingers resumed their drumming on the tabletop.
# # # # #
Avengers Mansion
From the outside looking in, Avengers Mansion was a picturesque place, with a serene walkway into the memorial garden in the back and a regal entrance to the hall of champions itself. On the inside—and, more importantly, below the surface—the mansion was a place where the best trained to get better and those same champions were built, broken, and rebuilt even stronger.
It was in this training facility that Walter Newell, the Avenger known as Stingray, was fighting a losing battle against three training robots, each programmed with a high level of martial arts ability. The red-and-white clad hero stood in the middle of the room as the three robots encircled him. He darted to his left, choosing to take the robot that lay on his weak side on his own terms. As the left-hand robot compensated for Stingray’s body weight, the frontward and right-hand robots pressed the attack.
Stingray’s right foot swept out under the forward robot, catching it off its guard. He reached out and grasped his other attacker with his right hand and, as soon as he fingers had locked, discharged a blast of electricity through his glove. The robot at the left swung its metal arm upward and into Stingray’s lower gut, flipping him over its shoulder even as it fell to the ground.
Then, suddenly, the simulation went dead. Stingray had set the program to end when he managed to get all three robots on the ground at the same time. It was a simple exercise, but he also knew it was one that he needed. The final robot’s last-second uppercut was painful proof of that.
“Impressive,” said a voice off to the side of the training room. The Inhuman called Karnak stood with his arms crossed, his eyebrows raised appraisingly. The Terrigen Mists had granted him the ability to see the weakness in anything. “There seems to be but one flaw with your fighting style, Stingray. You expect your opponents’ movements to be delayed, as though you were fighting underwater. You have become used to being able to see movements before they happen. If you wish to enhance your fighting skills, you will need to learn to anticipate your opponent’s movements before even then.”
“Thanks, Karnak,” said Stingray, taking his words with a grain of salt. If it was something he could easily apply, he would attempt to incorporate it into a fight. Still, Walter was a scientist first and foremost, and he couldn’t see Karnak’s words making much of a difference until the next time someone threatened to end the world, or do something else of that sort. “I’ll have to work on that.”
“Yes, you likely will,” Karnak replied coolly, his eyes following Stingray out the door.
Walter made his way to the control room where he planned to review the tape of his short training session. Then he would run through it again and see what he could change to make it work this time. He pushed open the door to see Steve Rogers and Carol Danvers huddled over a large, conference-style table.
Steve looked back over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening. “Walter? You should see this.” He beckoned Walter over to the papers and documents spread out over the table’s mahogany expanse.
“What are we looking at here, Steve?” Walter asked, pulling off his face mask and gloves.
“Headlines,” Steve replied grimly. “T’Challa called us yesterday, claiming that he believed that the American government had ordered a hit on his ‘Legacy,’ a teenage Wakandan girl with powers similar to his. We told him we would look into it, but neither Carol nor I had heard of this Legacy Program before.”
“Right,” said Carol, folding her arms over the front of her body. The blonde heroine’s face was set in stone. “We started digging up information over the past few weeks about assaults or attacks on teenagers and young adults, but we didn’t find anything solid—until today.”
She held up a printout of an online version of a newspaper. The headline read, “LOCAL TEEN CRITICAL AFTER BEACHSIDE DRIVE-BY.” The paper featured a dramatic photo of the yellow “do not cross” tape against a background of police officers silhouetted by the sun setting below the gulf waters. “Do you remember Michael Corson?” Carol asked.
Walter thought for a moment. “He won one of those junior science achievement awards. I pulled some strings and landed him an internship at the marine center in Fort Myers so that he could work on his stuff even though he’s in high school.” Walter paused, as several pieces fit together in his head. “Wait—are you saying—you don’t think he’s my Legacy, do you?”
Steve held his hands out. “We don’t know for sure. In fact, we’re still completely in the dark when it comes to that, even with both of our contacts with the government. Carol and I were discussing this, though, and we think that it would be a good idea for one of us to go down there. Whoever did this did it methodically. They meant to execute the boy. Chances are they’re going to try it again.”
“So you want me to—what? Go down there and stand guard outside his hospital room?” Walter asked. “You seriously believe that T’Challa wasn’t barking up the wrong tree and that these two incidences are related?”
“We can’t take the chance that they aren’t,” Steve replied. “Children’s lives could be at stake here, and I don’t want that on my head if we assume it’s a false alarm.”
As Steve finished his last sentence, his communicator on the table chirped loudly. He picked it up. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice instantly serious. “Get down here…I’ll assemble the team…We’ll brief them when you get here, Scott.” He snapped the communicator shut. “That was Scott Lang. His daughter, Cassie, has been kidnapped. I think the chances of these being related just got a lot better.”
“I’m taking a Quinjet to Florida. I just have to tell my wife, and then I’ll be in the air. Keep me posted,” Walter said with a newfound sense of duty. “I want to know where this thing goes. If the water starts getting hotter, I want to be here where I’m needed.”
“Will do,” said Steve. “Oh, and Walter? You never know. Karnak might really be trying to help instead of just being nosy.” The last part came with a hint of a smile.
After Walter left, Carol looked at Steve. “Okay, what’s going on? I can tell you’re thinking about something.”
Steve shrugged. “Do you think you can handle debriefing the team for me? There’s someone I need to check up on, especially if this is what I think this is.”
“No problem, Steve,” Carol replied. “Tell Isaiah I said hi.”
# # # # #
The Hideout
During the last few years of World War II, the hometown heroes of New York began to spend more time together outside of costume, despite many of their reservations about their identities. However, it only made sense that some of the heroes would bond after stopping Nazi threats to the homeland together, and often the heroes took it upon themselves to get together and discuss the war—or, more often than not, just to relieve some stress by hanging out with others who felt the same pressure.
This is how the Hideout was born. The idea came to Marvel Boy after he teamed up with the Secret Stamp and Wonder Boy to defeat a swarm of radioactive locusts. He pulled a few strings and closed off the entrance to a basement room from the surface, relocating the entrance to a secret alleyway alcove. The room had an access door into the greater part of the sewer system, which would allow any of the boy sidekicks to quickly navigate toward a threat in the city.
Unfortunately, the Hiroshima Cleanup ended the use of the Hideout, and it had yet to be opened—until today.
Bryon spread out his files on the card table that he used to play poker at with the other sidekicks as Cassie looked around. The years had not been kind to the room and moisture had caused the wallpaper to peel away from the walls.
“What is this place?” asked Cassie. From the look on her face, it was obvious she was unimpressed.
The shadow flitted about the walls. “It used to be a hangout for off-duty teen heroes. It looks like it’s been forgotten, though, for quite some time.”
“I’d say,” Cassie responded. “Now, can you tell me, you know, why I’m here?”
Bryon looked back over his shoulder and stood up quickly. “Sorry. Let me explain.” He quickly went over the story of his escape and what he had overheard from the Lieutenant.
Cassie’s eyebrows narrowed. “You kidnapped me because you thought that would be the best way of keeping me safe? What about keeping you safe? The Avengers and the N.Y.P.D. are looking for you right now.”
“I know, I know,” Bryon said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Cassie stood there for a moment before responding. “So, if this is all true, then what are we doing next?”
“We?” Bryon asked, surprised.
“Yes, we,” the shadow cut in. “Cassie has some talents that could prove useful to you.”
Bryon looked at the shadow, his face hardened. “Can we talk? We don’t seem to be working from the same place here.” He cast a sideways glance at Cassie. “Sorry about this.” He stepped toward the back of the Hideout. The shadow followed, but its pace was almost defiant.
“What’s going on?” Bryon hissed. “You tell me this is my mission—to figure things out for myself. Then you tell me who I’m working with, and you say things to Cassie that you couldn’t know unless you already knew something about her. Are we even on the same side?”
“You’re the one who nearly threw it all away with your stunt at the apartment,” spat the shadow. “My goal is to make this a success. Whether that is by following your lead or by taking my own does not matter. All that matters is that we win.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bryon retorted. “Isn’t that what the Axis powers said in World War II? ‘Win by any means necessary?’”
“Yes, but--” the shadow began.
“No,” Bryon interrupted. “We talk to each other on this. We’re in this one together. You’re either with me, or you’re finding someone else corporeal to do the lifting.”
“Then in that case, I’ll tell you who we retrieve next,” replied the shadow, tired of the back-and-forth. As long as it could make Bryon think it was his idea, he could move forward with the mission. “Her name is Kate Bishop. I think you’ll find her a lot easier to find than the last one…”
# # # # #
The Bradley Residence, Queens
Captain America pulled his motorcycle up outside the Bradley home directly up to the doorstep. Faith and Isaiah Bradley’s apartment was accessible from the ground level, unlike some of the complexes in the heart of Manhattan. Cap pulled off his helmet and ruffled his blond hair to get rid of his helmet head. He couldn’t remember a time before today that he had visited while wearing his uniform. Today was different. Today, Steve was here not as a friend, but as an Avenger.
He pressed the doorbell with a red-gloved hand and stepped back. A quaint-looking black woman opened the door tentatively. Her eyes brightened as she saw who the visitor was, but the look immediately turned to confusion. “Why, I hadn’t realized that you were visiting today, Steve,” she said carefully. “Should I go get Isaiah?”
Steve held up his hand. “This wasn’t a planned thing, Faith. I’d have called ahead, but my mind was going off in too many directions at once. I apologize. Is now a bad time? I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”
Faith stepped aside and let Steve into the humble apartment. He walked down the hall and into the living room, where Isaiah Bradley sat peacefully in an armchair. A chessboard sat on the table beside him with a game already in progress. Isaiah had been a member of a platoon of black soldiers that were given the Super-Soldier Serum during a trial run. Only he had survived.
What the scientists discovered was that Isaiah had not only survived the experiment, but he had also gained extraordinary strength, stamina, and agility. He donned a red, white, and blue outfit and became one of the many Captains America in history. Steve and Isaiah often spent time together, although the conversation was somewhat limited due to an accident that had left Isaiah’s voice crippled.
Steve stepped into the room and sat down in the armchair next to Isaiah’s, turning to face the silent man. “Is today a good day or a bad day?” Steve asked, indicating Isaiah’s throat. Isaiah returned the question with a thumbs-down gesture.
Accepting that answer, Steve proceeded forward. “Look, Isaiah. Something’s come up, and I’m somewhat worried for your family. Someone is targeting people who might carry on an Avenger’s name he died and I wanted to know if you knew how to get a hold of Josiah. I want to let him know he could be in danger.”
Isaiah shook his head. He did not know where Josiah was.
A voice came in from the side room. “Hey, Grandpa, I’m heading—holy crap, that’s Captain America!” Eli Bradley stopped in mid-stride as he caught sight of the star-spangled Avenger.
Faith heard the commotion and stepped in, drying her hands with a washrag. “Captain, this is our grandson Eli. He’s been staying with us for a few weeks now, but it’s been awhile since you’ve stopped in.”
“P-pleased to meet you, sir,” Eli stammered.
The wheels in Steve’s mind were turning at hyper-speed. “Eli, this may seem odd to you, but do you happen to have any…superpowers?”
Eli opened his mouth and began to respond, but Steve’s eyes were no longer focused on the boy. His ears went deaf to all the inside noise because he could see something else unfolding out the window on the front door, just down the main hallway. He could see a delivery truck’s wheels and several heavily-armored, black-suited males lumbering out of it. The reflection from the mirror in the hallway held the upper body of a field commander. His lips said two words. Target acquired.
“EVERYONE—GET DOWN!” Steve shouted. He grabbed Faith and pushed her onto Isaiah’s lap, using his other arm to whip the shield off his back and in front of the Bradleys. An odd word was shouted from outside, and then the room dissolved in a chorus of bullets and shrapnel.
The dust had barely cleared by the time Isaiah Bradley shouted the loudest he had since the accident. “Eli…!”
The teenage boy’s clothing was in tatters where the bullets had ripped through the fabric and halted. The bulletproof boy rose to his knees and coughed. “That answer your--*kaff!*--question, Cap?”
Steve’s mind was elsewhere again as he heard the squeal of tires from the trucks outside. “What did you hear them say before they shot?” he asked quickly. But it made no difference. Steve had heard the word as clear as day. “They shouted ‘Allah!’ They’re trying to pass themselves off as terrorists.”
He looked from Faith to Isaiah to Eli. “Get to Avengers Mansion as quickly as you can. Tell them I sent you. They’ll take care of you.”
“Wait—Cap! Where are you going?” asked Eli as Steve began running for the door.
Steve looked back as he stood his motorcycle back up from where it had fallen. “After them. You do not do something like this with me around and get away with this.” Then, he mounted the bike, gunned the engine, and rocketed off into the midday sun after the murderous delivery vans.
# # # # #
The Kaplan Residence, Brooklyn
Billy Kaplan woke up half-on and half-off his bed at one in the afternoon Saturday morning. He halfheartedly pushed his upper body back onto the mattress as he squinted into the red light of his digital alarm clock. He rolled onto his back and groaned before throwing off the covers and swinging his feet onto the floor.
Making his way toward the kitchen, Billy stopped and stared at the note on the refrigerator door, his hand paused in the middle of running through his black hair. “Billy, took the boys to Jimmy Carroll’s birthday party. Leftover lasagna in the fridge. Your father will be home around five. Love, Mom.”
Billy shrugged and pulled a milk carton out of the fridge. Since no one was home, he forwent the use of a glass and began to drink straight from the carton. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The wiry sixteen-year-old wore only a pair of flannel pajama pants. He frowned as he pulled the carton away from his mouth and wiped away a milk mustache.
Suddenly, the mirror and the wall behind it exploded outward, and Billy put out his hands as if they might protect him from the blast that was coming at him.
“That’s him!” shouted one of the men in black as he leveled a rifle at Billy, who was huddled on the floor in the wreckage of the apartment wall. “Awaiting orders, Captain?”
“You have your orders,” said another man. His nametag marked him as Abrams. “End it.”
Billy stared up at the gunman fearfully. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered weakly. Then, without warning, his eyes glowed a bright blue. “Idon’twannadie… Idon’twannadie… Idon’twannadie…”
The apartment exploded in a brilliant turquoise supernova.
# # # # #
Next Issue: Cap attempts to track down Lieutenant Narfi’s agents, and Stingray has a surprise waiting for him in Florida! Plus, what happens when the Avengers track down the boy who stole Ant-Man’s daughter?