Civil War Prose Novel (9 page)

AUNT
May’s house was very quiet. Old books, chotchkes; souvenirs from vacations taken back when air travel was far less casual. Framed pictures everywhere: Peter, Uncle Ben, and Peter’s long-dead parents, posed proudly in their military uniforms. Sepia-toned photos from the early 20th century, maybe even the 19th. Smell of mothballs, of disinfectants manufactured decades ago.

Peter Parker sat on his bed, smoothed down the old checkered bedspread. Like everything else in the room, it had been here for decades. His old, clunky microscope; the analog-film camera he’d taken his first photos with. The science trophy with the dent in it, where Flash Thompson had knocked it to the ground back in high school.

All of it the same.
Preserved,
he realized,
but not obsessively. Proudly. There’s a difference.

So much of him, of Peter Parker, was here in this room. And yet a big slice, a big thread in the skein of his life, was missing.

He went to the closet, pulled back a loose board. Felt around for a moment, and closed a hand around his very first, cloth Spider-Man mask. It stared at him with oversized, white eyes, slightly discolored with age.

“Peter?”

At the sound of May’s voice, he suddenly remembered why he’d come. A surge of panic ran through him. He wadded up the mask, stuffed it into his back pocket.

“In here, Aunt May.”

Every time Peter came to visit, Aunt May made him wheatcakes, no matter what time of day or night. Fortunately, he was hungry.

“Goodness, Peter, you’re awake early. The sun isn’t even up yet.”

She stood in the doorway. Wobbling a little, he noticed, but smiling for her nephew. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun; her face showed a few more lines every year. Her hands were blue-veined, but steady.

Only one thing was odd: The tray in her hands held chocolate chip cookies, not wheatcakes.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Peter smiled hesitantly at the tray. “Cookies, Aunt May?”

She looked at the tray, as if seeing it for the first time. For a moment, she looked confused. Peter felt another stab of panic, of worry.

Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. Today seemed different.”

“I’m not complaining.” He took one, bit into it. Still hot. The chips melted onto his tongue, a pleasant, homey feeling.

May smiled and set down the tray. Peter finished his cookie, studying her in silence.

“How do you feel, Aunt May?”

“I’m fine, Peter. I’m always fine.” She waved her hand, a dismissive motion. “But I worry about
you
.”

“Me?”

She perched on the bed, motioning him to sit next to her. “Your luck with girls is…well, it’s not stellar, dear. I’m sorry to have to say it.”

“Aunt May—”

“I still think it’s a shame about Anna Watson’s niece. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Stop changing the subject, pretty girl. Are you taking your pills?”

“Who’s changing the subject now?” She reached out, touched his knee. “Really, Peter, there’s nothing wrong.”

“Yes there is, Aunt May. There’s plenty wrong.” Then, at the fearful look on her face: “Oh no, not here. Not with you. It’s just…there’s a lot of stuff going on out in the world.”

She nodded gravely. “The Stamford business.”

“Yeah. People are really afraid right now.”

“That is bad.” She stood up, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “I was a little girl when Joseph McCarthy launched his big campaign against Communism. He managed to scare people into thinking there were Communists everywhere: in the Congress, in their backyards, waiting in the bushes to overthrow the government.”

“Were there?”

“Oh, maybe a few. But most of them were too busy smoking marijuana to overthrow anything.”

Peter laughed.

“This is a little different, Aunt May. People are afraid of superhumans, and there really are a lot of them running around. Flying, too.”

“My point is, Peter: People make very bad decisions when they’re afraid.”

He nodded.

“You’re fidgeting, dear. What is it?”

“It’s—I—I have to tell you something, Aunt May. And it’s kind of, well, tricky.”

Tricky?
he thought.
That’s an understatement. Get a hold of yourself, Parker.

“Peter, listen to me.” She put a hand under his chin, forced him to look into her eyes. “Whatever’s going on out in the world, that’s out
there
. It doesn’t touch us. It doesn’t come inside these walls. It’s just you and me here, and you can tell me anything.”

“Okay, but—this might be a shock.”

Her eyes went wide. She stood up quickly, tottered once, then stared at him.

“So it’s true.”

“What?”

“It’s—it’s all right, Peter. I half-saw this coming. Mrs. Cardoman’s boy just came out, and he’s
so
much happier now. He’s even talking about marrying his—partner, I guess you call it.” She raised a hand to her chin. “Come to think of it,
he
used to date fashion models, too.”

“What?” Peter jumped to his feet. “Aunt May, I’m not—wait, Jason Cardoman is gay? Oh, of course he is. But—”

“You have to understand, Peter. My generation didn’t grow up with…we just didn’t talk about such things.” She reached out, touched his cheek. “But times have changed. And you…you have to be your own unique, wonderful self.”

“Aunt May, I’m not gay.”

“Oh.”

For a moment, she looked confused again. Her eyes darted around the room, coming to rest back on Peter.

This is it,
he thought.
This is the moment.

But I can’t. I can’t do it.

Slowly she reached behind him. Her thin fingers closed on a small scrap of red fabric protruding from his back pocket. She tugged at it, tentatively, until a web pattern appeared. Then, in one quick motion, she yanked it free.

They stood together for a long moment, both staring at the blank-eyed mask of Spider-Man.

Then, to his shock, Aunt May smiled. A long, serene, wonderful smile.

“Peter,” she said. “I’ve known about
this
for years.”

He felt tears welling up.

“You’re not so sneaky as you think, young man.”

“Aunt May…oh, Aunt May…”

“But why today, Peter? Why now?”

“Because…”

He reached out with both arms, pulled her close. Buried his head on her shoulder, like when he was a little boy.

“…because something’s going to happen,” he whispered. “Something that
will
come inside these walls.”

She reached up, patted his shoulders softly.

“But it’s okay,” he continued. “You’ll be safe. I’ve made sure of that. No matter what, you’ll be safe.”

“Peter,” she said, her voice a frail trill in his ear. “Dear Peter. I trust you. And whatever happens…I am so, so proud of you.”

He hugged her tight, rocked her slowly side to side. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

For one moment, he felt utter peace.

Then the panic returned. Along with the thought:

That was the easy part.

“MOBILE
Bus One, we got him. The witch-kid’s down.”

At the sound of Director Hill’s voice, Captain America’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He spoke quietly: “Location?”

“Brooklyn Bridge.”

The badge on Cap’s stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform read:
Agent Lamont.
Thankfully, Maria Hill didn’t seem to have recognized his voice.

Cap glanced over at the burly agent in the passenger seat—Axton, that was his name. He sat tense in his full armor, smiling, tapping a stun-truncheon against his hand.

“’At’s the last one,” Axton said.

“Hang on.”

Cap wrenched the wheel around as hard as he could. S.H.I.E.L.D. Mobile Bus One—an eight-ton urban paddy wagon with Adamantium-reinforced holding walls—lit up in a blare of lights and sirens. It swung around in a U-turn through the crowded intersection, its bulk straining against the force, passenger-side wheels rising up off the pavement. Then it settled down with a low
crunch
and took off at full speed, heading south down West Street.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC, this is Bus One,” Cap said carefully. “Moving in for pickup.”

“Roger, Bus One. It’s a mess down there, but we’ll have the locals clear you a path.”

“All right. This is what I’m talkin’ about.” Axton leaned forward, called up a dossier photo of the Young Avengers on the dashboard computer screen. “Patriot, Hulkling, Stature, Speed. Speed? That’s a hero name?”

Cap blasted the siren again. A minivan skittered to the side of the road, making way.

“These kids,” Axton continued. “They’re what—sixteen years old? Seventeen, tops? And they’re out there in their pantyhose laughing in our faces. Time somebody taught ’em a lesson.”

A green sign appeared, big white arrow labeled: TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE. Cap pulled hard left, steering the bus onto Chambers Street.

Up ahead, he could see flashing lights. Echo of sirens in the night.

“It’s not like we’re banning ’em, man. Nobody’s stopping these punks from doing their thing. Government’s even
paying
these clowns to go official now. But you know something? They don’t want that. They don’t get a
buzz
off bein’ legit. Freaks get off on the masks an’ all that ‘mystery man’ crap.”

To the right, a phalanx of lit-up cop cars blocked the ramp leading to the Brooklyn Bridge. Cap slowed, moving in. A gray-haired police captain signaled to his men, and the cars broke ranks, opening a lane.

Axton was still talking. “Gonna be one cold shower when they see the new pen they’re building for these super-creeps. Frank in supplies says it messes with your head, makes it so you can’t even
think
about escaping.”

The bus lurched over a pothole, bumping between the line of police, up onto the bridge. The two lanes heading into Brooklyn had been cleared. Up ahead, Cap could just make out a small figure lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by another pair of police cars.

Wiccan. Last of the Young Avengers.

“Tranq’d,” Axton said. “Hope it hurt the little creep. My sister used to date a super hero, you know.
Turbo
, he called himself. Thought he was pretty hot stuff.”

The bus approached Wiccan, an unconscious teenage boy in gray. Tattered red cape around his neck. Cops stood in a semicircle around his body, their guns drawn and pointed.

“No real powers, though. Turbo, I mean. Always wanted to get him alone when he took off that power-suit—I woulda given him the swirly of his life. Hey man, shouldn’t you slow down a little?”

“You know something, Axton?”

Cap pulled the wheel around again, and Axton slammed against the far door. Cap thumbed the door-lock open and kicked out sideways, aiming carefully for Axton’s arm. The agent’s elbow jabbed into the door-latch, clicking it open—and Axton tumbled out of the moving vehicle.

“You talk too much,” Cap said.

Screaming, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent rolled to the pavement, narrowly missing Wiccan’s prone body. The row of cops drew back, startled.

Cap thumbed a hidden transceiver in his lapel to life. “Falc,” he called. “Extraction. NOW!”

The Falcon’s reply was drowned out by a flood of swearing on the S.H.I.E.L.D. frequency. “S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC,” Axton’s voice yelled, “Mobile Bus One has been compromised!”

Should have hit him harder,
Cap thought.

In the rearview mirror, Cap saw a blur of red-and-white flash down out of the night sky. Nine-foot wings spread wide, scattering the cops. The locals squeezed off a few quick shots, but Falcon was already airborne again, carrying the unconscious Wiccan in his arms.

“Got ’im,” Falcon’s voice said.

Cap frowned, jabbed at the S.H.I.E.L.D. radio. Silence. They’d changed frequencies, locking him out of the conversation.

The road ahead was clear—the cops had blocked it off from both ends. “Falc, where are you?”

“’Bout fifteen feet above your head.”

Cap glanced in the rearview mirror. The cops were pointing and aiming their guns upward, trying to get a bead on the soaring, dodging Falcon.

Then another flash of lights caught his attention. Up ahead, on the Brooklyn side of the bridge, two more NYPD cars loomed into view, bearing down on him fast. Lights and sirens flashing.

“Stay with me, Falc.”

Cap floored the accelerator, sending the bus shooting straight toward the two newcomers. Too late, the cop cars swerved, tried to get out of the way.

Cap gritted his teeth.

Mobile Bus One struck the first police car straight on, shattering its headlights. The cops flew out of each door, landing roughly on the pavement. They watched, horrified, as the Bus’s huge wheels ground slowly up over the car’s hood, smashing its windshield, crushing its engine clear down to the pavement. The Bus bumped, lurched, and squashed the cop car flat.

The other car skidded to a stop. The driver leaned out the window, fired off a few shots. They bounced harmlessly off the back of the Bus.

Cap was on his way.

“No sleep till Brooklyn,” Falcon’s voice said.

Cap frowned. “Is that a poem?”

Then he saw them, up ahead. Big flashing lights, bigger than the locals’ cherrytop signals. S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles, dropping down out of the sky to intercept.

He glanced in the mirror again. The NYPD cops, the ones who’d captured Wiccan, were on the move again. Closing in fast.

The new security state,
Cap thought.
It’s efficient, that’s for sure.

“Cap,” Falcon said, “you got locals behind and S.H.I.E.L.D. up ahead. I dunno about you, but I only see two ends to this bridge.”

Cap grimaced, thumbed the Bus’s computer screen to life. Scrolled quickly through a series of dossier entries, then jabbed down on one:

Up ahead, the S.H.I.E.L.D. troops were setting down, right in the middle of the road. Three copters, another Bus, and—yes, that was Mobile Command Center 3A itself. Hovering just above the first exit in Brooklyn.

Maria Hill’s voice filled the cabin. “Surrender,
Captain
. You’ve got nowhere to run.”

They weren’t even moving to intercept. There was no hurry; they knew they had him.

“Falc,” Cap said. “Is that kid conscious?”

“Unfortunately. He just woke up, started screamin’.”

“Change of plans. Rendezvous with me—NOW.”

“With
you
?”

Cap glanced over at the passenger’s side door. It still flopped loose, following Axton’s ungraceful exit.

“Door’s open.”

Ground troops stood blocking the exit now, cocking and loading their weapons. They formed a full line, with the copters hovering right above. Rifles glinted from the copter doorways.

Cap’s eyes flashed forward, then to the right; forward again, then right—and this time he saw the white flash of the Falcon’s wings. The burly man grunted in midair, shifted the struggling Wiccan to his right arm, and reached out to grab the door handle.

“Hold ’er steady, will you?”

Then they were inside the cabin. Wiccan was whimpering and flailing around. Falcon glared at him, reached over to slam the door shut.

“Son,” Cap said forcefully.

Wiccan looked up at him and shut up.

Falcon gasped for breath, folded his wings expertly behind his back. Then he grimaced, pointed at the road ahead. “That is one metric truck-load of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.”

“Son,” Captain America repeated. “We need an extraction. Do you know what that means?”

Wiccan just stared at him with terrified eyes.

“Your teammates are in the back of this vehicle,” Cap continued. “All of them: Patriot, Hulkling, Stature, and Speed. I can’t get them, or us, out of this alone. I need your help.”

Cap pulled up a map of Manhattan on the cabin’s video screen. He jabbed a finger in one particular spot, and a red circle appeared next to the word
Chelsea
.

They were drawing closer to the S.H.I.E.L.D. line. A dozen high-powered particle rifles flashed red laser-dots, zeroing straight in on the Bus.

“We need a teleportation spell,” Cap said, pointing to the map. “And we need it now.”

Falcon pulled the boy up, glaring straight at him. “
Understand?
”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Wiccan started muttering to himself, eyes wide. He seemed thoroughly traumatized.

Up above, S.H.I.E.L.D. copters buzzed forward, filling the sky with noise. The sun was beginning to rise, the first glow of light showing on the horizon.

“It’s got to be now, son,” Cap said.

The first shot blasted out from a handheld S.H.I.E.L.D. cannon. It struck the Bus head-on, jolting the vehicle, slowing it just a tiny bit. A hairline crack appeared in the windshield.

“Somewhereelse,” Wiccan was whispering. “Iwanttobesomewhereelse Iwanttobesomewhereelse I…”

“Captain.” Maria Hill’s voice was faint, crackly.

Then a bright blue glow seemed to rise within the cabin. Cap glanced right, and saw the kid—Wiccan—glowing with energy. Falcon shrank back, stunned. The blue glow expanded outward, filling the small compartment.

“I want to be
somewhere else.
” Wiccan’s voice was clearer, louder now.

Cap leaned forward. The bridge, the road, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ahead…all seemed to glow, to flare bright with that same blue radiance. Everything flashed once, then faded from view.

For a long moment, all Cap could see was that blinding blue light. Pulsing, shining, so bright it burned the eyes. Then the light seemed to thin out into a dozen strands, all radiating outward from the central core. The dozen became a hundred, a thousand, and then a thousand thousand beams of light, each pointed outward toward a different point in space.

Probabilities
, he realized.

And then he was falling, tumbling outward away from the light-core, toward one of the strands. One single destination, out of millions.

“…somewhere else,” Wiccan’s faint voice said.

The Bus jolted, touched ground—and suddenly the acceleration slammed Cap back into his seat. He looked around in alarm. The truck barreled across a large indoor space, industrial and spare, half the size of a football field. Toward a brick wall. At 62 MPH.

“Frying pan, fire,” Falcon said.

Cap slammed on the brakes, jerked the wheel sideways. The tires screamed, began to smoke. The Bus arced hard around, almost skidding to a stop before the wall. Almost, but not quite. Its rear end whipped around, crunching sideways against the brick wall with enormous force. The Bus strained hard and almost tipped over, then righted itself again.

Wiccan was still staring. “Somewhere else,” he repeated, almost too quietly to hear.

Falcon smiled, slapped him on the back. “You did it, kid. We’re here.”

Cap wrenched open the door, dropped quickly to the floor. The back door of the Bus was dented, but its locking mechanism still held. He reached up with a handheld S.H.I.E.L.D. device, clicked it open.

“Come on out,” he said.

Hesitantly, the four Young Avengers stumbled down the ramp. Stature, the young blonde size-changer, came first, followed by Patriot, Hulkling, and Speed. They all wore thick collars, glowing with power-inhibiting technology. Their wrists were cuffed behind their backs.

Falcon led Wiccan around to meet his friends. Wiccan’s eyes met Hulkling’s, and they both smiled. They clasped hands.

Cap reached toward Stature. Her red-and-black costume was bloody from a cut on her cheek; she flinched away. He clicked open her cuffs, and she stretched her arms, involuntarily growing a foot taller.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “Where are we?”

“Congratulations, kids.” Cap gestured to the far doorway. “You’ve just joined the Resistance.”

A motley group marched toward them. Daredevil, grim in his all-red uniform. Goliath, eleven feet tall at present. Hawkeye the marksman, bow slung over his shoulder. Tigra the were-woman. And Luke Cage.

Falcon smiled. He strode up to Cage and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cage, my brother. Finally came to your senses.”

“All good,” Cage said. But he looked troubled.

Stature approached Goliath. “Doctor Foster. You’re part of this?”

Goliath smiled, held out his arms. “Grow a little bigger so I can hug you.”

One by one, the Young Avengers shrugged off their bonds. “What
is
this place?” Patriot asked.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house number twenty-three,” Cap replied. “Dates back to the Cold War. Existence known only to S.H.I.E.L.D. officials of clearance level Thirty-Four.”

“How many of
them
are there?”

“Now that Nick Fury’s gone? Zero. He told me about it, a long time ago.”

Cap felt the adrenaline fading. A wave of sadness, of loss, washed over him. Suddenly he missed Fury—and Thor, too. Thor would have polished off those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents back on the bridge with one swing of his hammer. Then laughed about it.