"Duuucks are flyyying..."
A song of the orderlies.
Walter Mayer.
************************
I sat in my apartment thinking. Had I done the right thing? Well, 'joking' with the mercenary had definitely been worth it. And the joke had been relatively harmless. For his physical health, at least. It wasn't as though I was actually going to torture him. There was, admittedly, one tiny complication involving Deadpool's food.
You see, the closest store to that basement had turned out to be a pet shop. And I'd been too lazy to walk all the way to a proper supermarket. So there I sat, wondering whether the guy would be terribly offended if his reward for all that effort was a bowl of cat food.
After mature consideration, I decided I hadn't broken my word. He had been guaranteed food. Nobody had specified what kind. And why wasn't cat food food? Exactly. But fine. Let the lunatic enjoy some quality time alone with the Teletubbies. I had other things to do.
For example, drag Felicia somewhere. What kind of relationship was this if we'd exchanged only a couple of words in an entire week, not counting occasional phone calls? No. That would not do. I remembered Harry Osborn mentioning some theatrical performance involving his girlfriend. Hmm. Why not?
All that remained was convincing the beautiful Miss Hardy to accompany me. And honestly, I simply wanted to see her. So why not drop by?
A Little Later. Yeah. This was something else. Mountains of paper lay in complete disorder. Or perhaps my inferior mind simply couldn't comprehend whatever grand filing system the girl had invented. Scattered throughout the drifts were a couple of 'nests' showing traces of coffee and the remains of various sandwiches. And naturally, in the center of it all sat Felicia, buried in reference books and business papers.
Mrs. Hardy had opened the door for me. Judging by her expression, she had already been considering throwing her daughter outside for fresh air. So she was extremely pleased by my visit. Hmm. Felicia still hadn't noticed me. How could I possibly fail to take advantage? Carefully, trying not to rustle the papers, I crept up behind the girl. Right. Now don't breathe. I leaned down and lightly bit her earlobe.
Oh, what a reaction. Apparently all those kidnappings had given Felicia a touch of paranoia and a desire to take self-defense classes. Her leap into a roll from a seated position was excellent. And considering she'd been sitting among the papers wearing a robe over nothing at all... well. The view that opened before me was extremely interesting. Then the girl's eyes found my rather satisfied grin and warmed slightly... right until she realized that her acrobatics had scattered a pile of what looked like very important paperwork.
Right. I was about to be beaten. Judging by her emotional state, possibly kicked too.
"Walteeeer..." Yep. Already growling. At this rate Miss Hardy would soon start chewing the edge of a shield or, in the absence of one, me. "Praaay."
"In the name of Control, Alt, and the Holy Delete," I began obediently.
"Yeah... I'd started to forget that you can interpret absolutely anything in the strangest possible way."
"Naturally. It's part of the job description for us Dark Lords." And cue the trademark Dark Lord smirk.
"So why has the 'Dark Lord' descended upon my humble dwelling?"
No question about it. I was having a terrible influence on her. That made me very happy.
"Oh, he felt like being a shining knight for a little while and rescuing a beautiful maiden from the clutches of a terrible monster known as paperwork. In short, my dear, enough sitting inside four walls and wasting away over all this paper. At this rate you'll soon become very interesting to necromancers, and I'll be the one who has to deal with them again. So drop it and let's go for a walk."
Throughout the speech I'd been treacherously moving closer. At last I managed to wrap an arm around the girl and pull her firmly against me. Then I began combining pleasure with utility: aesthetic enjoyment from being close to a beautiful woman, together with correcting the mild exhaustion of said woman. It didn't take much persuasion. Felicia was thoroughly sick of invoices, reports, and contracts herself.
So after saying goodbye to Mrs. Hardy, we headed toward a small theater where Mary Jane was performing that day. Not that she and Felicia were exactly friends. The main thing they had in common was Parker having been rejected by both of them. Poor guy really had terrible luck with beautiful women.
Still, they often crossed paths at the university and sometimes exchanged gossip. Acquaintances, perhaps. Friendly ones. If I remembered canon correctly, Mary Jane's performance had been outdoors. But that was canon. Either the place had permanent summer, or all six seasons had somehow happened during three warm months.
The real world reminded us of itself with below-freezing temperatures and light snow. No outdoor stages in parks. And in the movie, as far as I remembered, the redheaded beauty had appeared on the stage of a proper theater anyway. Details.
Almost half our year had turned up to see Miss Watson perform. Fortunately, we didn't have to stand in the crowd. Harry, in honor of our friendship, had managed to obtain tickets to a VIP box. The funniest thing was that those warm 'friendly' feelings had appeared roughly two days after the news of Doom Incorporated's extraordinary rise.
The general public might not know that a new major shareholder had appeared. Everyone who mattered, however, was fully informed. Strange that Felicia hadn't asked me about it. Then again, after our conversation... perhaps she was waiting until I told her myself.
Either way, I had no intention of refusing the younger Osborn's 'friendship.' The connection benefited me first and foremost. So there we sat in the box, enjoying the actors. I'm no expert, but to my amateur eye everything looked quite good. They were performing 'Romeo and Juliet,' too. A rather interesting work, apart from the final epic fail of the main characters.
Unfortunately, this time we didn't get to watch the performance through to the end. The culprit was a flying bastard trying to imitate either an oversized bird or some kind of angel. Yeah. A green one. The kind that appears to certain people who spend too much time socializing with strong alcohol. The aforementioned character somehow managed to fly straight into the auditorium and scared the audience rather badly. Shakespeare definitely hadn't written that part.
That alone might have been tolerable. But the VIP box contained Felicia and me. Our combined karma attracted every strange lunatic in the area like a magnet. Naturally, this potential resident of a padded room hurried over for a courtesy visit.
Oh, what a twist. This time the psycho in the stupid costume wasn't targeting the beautiful Miss Hardy. He wanted terrible Mr. Osborn Junior. He still hadn't changed that haircut. Horrifying. How did Mary tolerate it? Well, at least this was something new.
No. Dropping Harry from this height was not allowed. Peter hadn't changed into Spider-Man yet. My cells told me Parker himself was nearby. But I doubted he'd come to the theater in the red-and-blue suit. So I'd have to intervene.
Hmm. As an opponent, the flying guy was obviously nothing special. Theoretically, an ordinary human could take him down... with the right surprise attack. Why not test the theory?
While the proud bird was trying to drag the resisting student out of the VIP box, I simply ran up and hit him properly in the jaw. And planted a dozen or two of my cells in him at the same time. I didn't use full strength. The last thing I needed was to explain to everyone how I'd managed to remove a man's head with one punch. Still, he'd be eating through a straw for at least the next two or three weeks.
Strangely, the bird didn't lose consciousness. His enthusiasm clearly decreased, however, and the attacker hurried to retreat. Heh. That alone had been worth it. Felicia was giving me some very interesting looks. Harry looked grateful too.
"What? All kinds of people flying around here, interrupting performances..."
I shrugged. Oh. And here came Spidey. Took him long enough.
"Is everyone all right?"
"Everything's all right-handed!" I answered cheerfully.
I'd always wanted to say something equally stupid. Hmm. Why was everyone staring at me? Damn. Concern for my girlfriend, anticipation of a fight, and then the fight itself—even a very short one.
Looks like I was slightly high again. Pull yourself together.
"We're fine. It's just not every day you get to knock the teeth out of a lunatic in a weird costume, so I'm joking to blow off the tension. Ignore me. If somebody could explain what that was, things would be even better."
"I'm not sure, but my father said someone similar tried to attack him too," Harry admitted.
"What, does he have some hereditary feud with the Osborn family?"
Hmm. Peter still seemed under the influence of the play.
"Harry!"
And now Mary Jane burst in too, still wearing her theatrical costume. Understandable. Jealousy and irritation flickered through Spidey's emotions. Well, his own fault. He'd lost the girl. Now he could enjoy the harvest. Spider-Man hurried to excuse himself. Felicia and I left the couple as well. They clearly had no interest in anybody else's company right now.
We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in a café, discussing what had happened at the theater and then our plans for the near future. Laura and I had been invited to the Hardy mansion for Christmas. To tell the truth, I'd nearly forgotten that in the United States Christmas was far more important than New Year. And they celebrated it not on January seventh, but almost two weeks earlier.
Daaamn. I needed gifts. Urgently determine whether vampires celebrated Christmas. If they did, things became depressing. I knew what to buy for my girls. All three of them. Kurt and Felicia's mother wouldn't be a problem either. But my hand would fall off signing cards for the entire Brotherhood.
That evening I walked Felicia home and received a kiss. All right, all right. Far more than one. Unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to continue in the same direction today. Physiology. Even I shouldn't argue with it unnecessarily. Afterward I'd be the one spending forever fixing things. Well. I had no plans for the night. Might as well see what my new flying friend was doing.
A Little Later. Hmm. Could he be a fan of Deidara-senpai? The moment I approached the building where I believed our green parrot had settled, the building exploded rather enthusiastically. Damn. Spider-Man was nearby too. That explained quite a lot. He'd probably charged in headfirst and frightened the target away again.
I'd hoped his conversations with the Nazgûl had made him at least slightly more careful. Or perhaps the people who claimed canon always tried to drag events back onto its original track were right, no matter how bizarre the required detour? Eh. Not important.
Far more interesting was what was currently happening between Peter and the Flyer. Let's call him that. I didn't believe my own cells when the data began arriving. I was close enough to maintain a strong connection—not merely location and the target's 'name,' but actual biological telemetry.
The two men were exchanging biological ages. Literally. Peter was aging rapidly, while his opponent became younger and younger. Amazing. One thing I couldn't understand was why, with technology like this, the man was wasting his time on petty terrorism. And yes. It was definitely technology.
The Flyer's organism was entirely human. No mutation. No abnormality. Why did everyone in this world love hammering nails with microscopes? The funniest part was that they had no shortage of either microscopes or nails.
For the moment, there was nothing for me to do here. Except perhaps make the parrot's life slightly worse. And I should keep an eye on Parker. In his current state, a strong flick to the forehead might kill him. I'd rather avoid that. Right.
Let's recreate Peter's altered cells inside the bird's body and give them a little stimulation. There. In a few hours, our friend would receive an eight-legged surprise. Heh-heh. Spider-Man caused little trouble. He escaped from the thief of youth easily enough and hurried away from the scene of his defeat. He slipped from ledges a couple of times. I had to slow his falls and steer him first into a stack of empty boxes, then into a dumpster full of waste from a local poultry plant. Smelly feathers aren't pleasant. But they're soft.
Fortunately for my nerves, after only the third incident the newly minted old man realized he might actually kill himself. A true concentration of intellect. So he completed the rest of the journey the same way normal people did. By bus. There. Delivered.
Now I could keep watching the winged one. The mutation should hit him soon. Why was I making everything so complicated? Wouldn't it have been easier to knock him out, save Spider-Man, and generally sow goodness and justice everywhere? Why? I had relatively free time at the moment. I couldn't be bothered to train. I couldn't go out with either girl. Laura was on the final stretch of 'Bleach,' and only nuclear war might have dragged her away from the screen. And even that wasn't guaranteed.
So why not entertain myself with an exciting fight? Besides, somewhere deep in my heart lived the hope that if Peter got hit over the head often enough, eventually he'd start using that head for something other than ramming walls. That reason was secondary, admittedly. Funny. The longer I lived like this, the farther my thoughts drifted from anything that could be called 'humanity.'
I didn't particularly care. There was me. There were the people I could call family and my 'inner circle.' Everyone else? Mostly indifferent. I evaluated them primarily in terms of useful/useless and interesting/boring. I could always dig through the twists of my own personality later if I ever felt like it. For now, I had the more immediate problem of pounding brains into certain wooden skulls.
Oh. And there were the consequences of a couple of unpleasant falls already. Fast. Spidey called asking for help with the mess he'd landed in. Kurt was unavailable, still camped out with von Doom. So that left me. Fortunately, I wasn't far from Connors's level anymore. And I had laboratory access.
I told Spider-Man to meet me there at around nine in the morning. Agreed.
I spent the rest of the night watching the most fascinating spectacle imaginable: Deadpool and the Teletubbies song. What can I say? I am a very, very bad creature. There is no compassion for my fellow man inside me. The sight didn't make me feel ashamed.
It did, however, make me laugh like a lunatic. What did you expect? A grown man jerking around in the 'dance' of those horrifying creatures while squeaking something about Tinky-Winky... Brrr. The creators of that nonsense were clearly taking something stronger than weed. Chemicals, perhaps? Hmm. Anyway. I made a recording. The mercenary had honestly earned his cat food.
In the morning, completely happy and satisfied with myself, I headed for the laboratory. It was only half past seven. I'd have arrived earlier, but vigilant Grandma had refused to let me leave the house without a substantial breakfast.
Right. A mountain of work awaited. I needed to understand how exchanging biological ages was even possible. I'd also meant to find a linguist to help decipher the Tablet, but there hadn't been much time or desire. Not important right now. I'd warm up the irradiator and a couple of other useful machines first. As one cheerful bear used to say, 'Whoever visits in the morning is wise,' or something like that.
Apparently one bird of my acquaintance had decided to follow the bear's example and dropped in. Oh, what a look he gave me when he realized that instead of the famous geneticist he'd found the guy who had broken his jaw. Incidentally, the jaw had already restored itself. Amazing what playing with biological 'rollbacks' could accomplish. In the end, the Flyer thought of nothing better than pointing a monstrously large gun at me.
On one hand, I found it mildly irritating when people shoved random garbage in my face. And I had no idea where he'd been keeping the thing. I couldn't see any pockets on that costume. On the other hand, he was afraid. Fear means respect.
"Where is Connors? Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Or perhaps not respect. Still, I was in a good mood and had nothing especially urgent to do. Why not talk with an interesting conversational partner? Or do more than talk? I paused thoughtfully.
While the bird waved his gun around, my cells returned information about our unexpected guest. Mr. Toomes was a respectable scientist who had devoted his life to the search for eternal youth. Since childhood he had also dreamed of flying like a bird. And now, at over eighty years old, he possessed the body of a twenty- or twenty-five-year-old. And he had flown to the laboratory. Hmm. Not merely a dream. A goal. And he'd achieved it. Not bad. Very much not bad.
I recalled that Victor still hadn't found suitable deputies. The Flyer couldn't be allowed anywhere near organizational work, even at cannon range. I'd already seen he was incapable of thinking more than one or two moves ahead. Anything more advanced wasn't worth discussing. But as a scientist? Perfectly respectable. His laboratories certainly wouldn't be unnecessary either.
Taking him directly into the Brotherhood was obviously premature. But making him into a reliable servant... and perhaps later a full vassal? Time would tell. All that remained was informing the old man of my decision.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Very nervous bird. Then again, if the mutation was already twisting him, understandable.
"Mmm? The Doc is currently consulting on the establishment of a laboratory for Mr. von Doom. I'm filling in for him. As for what I'm doing—at the moment, answering your questions, Mr. Toomes."
"You know meee—AAAAH!"
Oh. Another wave of transformations. Not a pleasant sight, let me tell you. And the bird was feeling considerably worse than it looked. Fine. Pause the activity of the altered cells for the moment.
"Tsk. Looks like somebody spent a little too much intimate time with Spider-Man. At your age, too. Shameful."
"Wh-what... is... happening to me?"
The Flyer rasped with difficulty. Remarkably, he still hadn't lowered the weapon. Strong. I had to give him that.
"Well, at the moment you're mutating just like Spider-Man once did. How exactly you managed to reach this stage of your life is clearly not a question for me, though I'd be interested in hearing the answer."
Let's add a little desire to confess. Why not? Training was possible anywhere. I didn't desperately need Toomes. In the worst case, he could sign the necessary papers with his brains burned out. Cruel? So what? He wasn't part of my family or my circle of friends. And he'd pointed a gun at my face.
"Biochemical exchange... could've caught the mutation... didn't think..." The old man was still hoarse, but every second his voice became steadier. "You said 'once'... He was cured?"
"Yes. And I'm the one who did it, if you're interested. Not entirely alone, of course, but still."
"Cure me!"
I've always said audacity is the second happiness. Then again, the bird was in no state for polite conversation. And from his perspective the situation looked much brighter than it actually was.
"For which I get... what, exactly?"
I asked with a deliberately exaggerated accent. Couldn't resist. Almost nobody here would understand the joke. But it amused me.
"I won't shoot you!"
Oh, what a hiss. That option didn't interest me much. Time to clarify the old gentleman's situation. I lunged forward, intercepted the gun, and closed my fist. Metal screamed as it crumpled. There. Now Mr. Toomes held a stylish handmade club. He definitely wasn't shooting anyone with that.
"I think we're misunderstanding one another. Allow me to clarify. The only reason you are still breathing is your potential usefulness to my organization."
A little psychological pressure. Careful not to overdo it. A drooling vegetable would be less useful.
"And what do you want?"
Fear. Pain. Echoes of doom in his emotions. A fascinating cocktail. It would have been for Symby once. Now fear was simply a tool. Nothing more.
"That depends on one phone call."
I dialed Victor and outlined the situation and the possibilities. Not directly. The line could be monitored. But hints and a description of the general opportunities were harmless enough. Von Doom had no particular need for Toomes personally. He already had people of his own whose loyalty wasn't in question. Taking over the man's laboratory and projects, however? Victor was very interested. The old bird might still be useful there. He knew his own research better than anyone. So the decision was made: Toomes would become a consultant, on probation. After that, his future would depend on how well he performed. Only one detail remained. Informing the Flyer himself.
"You're lucky. It seems our cooperation may last longer than a few minutes. You will consent to the merger of your company into Doom Incorporated. You will retain a position as consultant on the relevant research. If your work satisfies us and the cooperation proves productive, you may receive a much more interesting and generous offer."
The stick had already been shown. Time for a little carrot and the appropriate psychic push.
"What do you say?"
"I don't have a choice anyway, do I?"
There. He surrendered. Now he certainly wasn't going anywhere. Hmm. Why did that phrase sound familiar?
"Of course you have a choice. There is always a choice. It's merely that some options are considerably less pleasant than others."
And a small reminder of the stick. I released the altered cells just a little.
"Hhss... I agree! I agree!"
I walked calmly to the table and took out a syringe. Filled it with ordinary saline solution. The bird didn't know that. Look at the way he watched the vial. I injected his 'medicine' and simultaneously ordered the altered cells to destroy themselves.
"There. All done. By the way, if foolish ideas ever visit you—eliminating me, for example, or trying to blackmail me through my loved ones—the small gift inside your body will make you go insane from pain long before you manage to finish planning."
To demonstrate, I stimulated one small section of his brain for a moment through my implanted cells. Standard reaction. He folded magnificently. I observed the convulsing body with detached interest.
"I think that concludes our discussion. Our lawyers will contact you shortly. Oh, one more thing. Leave the Osborns alone. There is no benefit in touching them, and it creates unnecessary headaches."
Toomes left. I returned to preparing for Peter. Hmm. Half an hour of persuasion, and a respectable laboratory complex with good capacity had effectively become mine. Well, not exactly mine. Victor's. But my stake in his corporation was substantial. The place had a few problems. Doom could deal with those. Heh. The day had begun well. Very well.
I prepared the laboratory while quietly whistling 'It's Good to Be the Dark Lord.' Peter was due in about forty minutes when somebody interrupted me again. This laboratory was becoming a public thoroughfare. Had every security guard gone on vacation at once? Or were they running a promotion— lunatics and mutants enter without waiting in line?
My next guest was Scorpion. Hmm. Where had he been hiding for the last several months? After that affair involving the photographer's aunt, there had been no news of him. And now, here he was, smashing through a steel door, dragging some body behind him by the tail, and obviously in a very poor mood.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
The mutant offered this instead of a greeting. Hmm. Did he and Toomes know each other? Or had I misunderstood some social convention and this was simply how people greeted each other nowadays? And what should I do with Scorpion?
I already had his DNA. Still, multiplying him by zero seemed wasteful. What if I needed him later and he'd already died? What did he want?To become human again? Hmm. Interesting thought. I didn't have his original DNA. Which meant I couldn't return him to his original state exactly.
On the other hand... why restore the original state? Interesting problem. More importantly: solvable. Did I actually need to solve it? Let's calculate. The tailed one was useless to me in his current form. If anything, he was actively harmful. Recruiting him into the Brotherhood made no sense either. No knowledge. No connections. No money. We already had more than enough fighters. Therefore the most rational option would be disposal.
Strategically, however, that might prove unprofitable. If I reshaped Scorpion into an ordinary human and preserved the option of restoring his combat form later... Now that was interesting. It was also difficult enough to be educational. Why not try? I could always eliminate him later.
"I'm an intern under Dr. Connors. Working here a little. Apartment rent doesn't pay itself."
"An intern... You may be useful. You'll help him." A jab of the tail toward the body. "Do what you're told and nothing will happen to you."
Holy screaming hell, as one character used to say. Could I start keeping a notebook where I recorded how many times I'd been kidnapped, threatened, and subjected to attempted murder? Or was it still too early? No. Probably early. One more kidnapping. Then I'd definitely start the notebook. And I'd charge the kidnapper for it.
"All right, all right. No need to get nervous." I raised my hands peacefully. "So what's the problem... mister?"
I addressed the body, which had already begun to regain consciousness. Hmm. I'd seen him somewhere before. Couldn't remember where.
"I'm Dr. Stillwell."
Oh. Now I understood. I'd seen him in Parker's memories. He had, effectively, started the entire epic involving spiders, mutations, and Peter's hero complex.
"Oh, what an honor. I always wanted to attend one of your conferences, but unfortunately you disappeared from the scientific community before I came to the States."
"Yes... I was... somewhat occupied."
"Hey, have you forgotten why you're here?"
Scorpion interrupted our pleasant conversation. I had to stop chatting and start working on the mutant. Blood tests. Mapping nucleotide chains. Determining what needed replacement and what could remain. Spider-Man soon arrived. But in his current condition, he had no chance against Scorpion.
The only reason Parker wasn't killed was that I happened to be nearby with a very heavy microscope in my hands. Inside, I literally wept at the necessity of using such a delicate instrument for such barbaric purposes. But what could I do? I had to knock Stillwell out too.
The half-educated demolition enthusiast decided to overload the irradiator while the tailed idiot was distracted by Spider-Man. And so I stood in the middle of the wreckage, holding a slightly dented microscope, with three unconscious bodies lying around me.
"Yeah... If somebody walks in right now, there is absolutely no way they're going to interpret this correctly. What am I supposed to do with all these bodies?"
I asked the ceiling. The ceiling showed no sympathy for my problem. I had to solve it myself. Right. A few cells into Scorpion so he wouldn't twitch unnecessarily. A sedative for Stillwell. Peter... A few light slaps on the cheeks would be enough. Even through the mask.
"Owww. I feel like a fly after somebody used a swatter on it." Parker groaned. "Why am I still alive? Last thing I remember was Scorpion winding up for the final blow."
"Well... I had to apply a scientific approach to the problem."
"How?"
Peter sounded interested.
"With a microscope to the back of the skull. Also, if anybody asks, Scorpion damaged the instrument. All right? Otherwise Dr. Connors will eat me alive."
"Kh... heh... Deal."
"Excellent. Now tell me what brought you to my humble abode, and whether it has anything to do with why you were fighting so badly."
Instead of answering, Parker simply removed his mask. Well. What could I say? Adorable grandpa. Looked about sixty.
"Mmm. I don't know where you've been, but don't go there again." I put on my most serious face. "Now tell me exactly what happened."
Peter told me nothing I didn't already know. Except one interesting detail. Ordinary people recovered their youth within roughly half an hour to an hour. Peter, however, had been hit permanently. How interesting. This looked a lot like Rogue's transfer mechanism.
If there wasn't enough energy for complete ability transfer, everything eventually returned to normal. But if there was enough... The funniest part was that although Peter's organism had aged, its resource base remained intact. Rejuvenating him would be easy.
Still, to create the proper image of exhausting intellectual labor, I spent about eight hours tinkering with the irradiator and running Peter through monstrously complicated-looking equipment. Basically, I entertained myself however I could. At the end, I pumped him full of the same ordinary saline and placed him under the irradiator. I configured it for plain ultraviolet. But the glowing beam looked impressive.
Meanwhile, I gently washed his brain with a lecture about 'how unbelievably lucky you were this time.' His body obediently returned to normal. Parker emerged absolutely convinced that prayers should be addressed to me and praises sung in my honor.
Hmm. I may have overdone it slightly. During the process, conversation drifted toward ancient rituals and magic. I lamented that I'd always wanted to learn sorcery. A childhood dream, you understand. Unfortunately, in twenty years I'd never once seen genuine magic. So in despair I'd gone into science and decided to manufacture miracles myself.
If I remembered correctly, in another month or two Peter was supposed to encounter a genuine magician. It would be extremely useful if he introduced me officially. Yeah. Honest and noble people were so easy to manipulate. The photographer left me happy as a necromancer in an unclaimed necropolis. I needed to leave too.
But first I called security and raised a scandal. They, in turn, called the police. Scorpion was hauled off to some prison-fortress. Not the same one he'd already escaped from once, surely? Either way, definitely not my problem.
Stillwell, after I reported his attempt to blow up the entire building, was taken to the police station. Although... if that really was a hospital gown, they'd probably send him straight back to a psychiatric hospital. They were strict about that here.
And there we were. Once again, the peace and safety of the city had been saved by modest little me. I could be proud of myself. A fine occasion to eat something delicious and catastrophically unhealthy. Maybe stop by McDonald's? Those cheerful thoughts lasted exactly until a dart hit me in the neck.
It had passed through the collar of my coat, which was made from my own body, so I immediately identified the contents. Some kind soul was worried about my sleep problems and had chosen the most radical solution possible: a very powerful sedative. All right. Let's see who cared about me so much.
I grabbed my neck and 'pulled out' the now-empty dart. Then came a confused sigh and a theatrical collapse onto the pavement. Hmm. What next?
"He's out?"
"Of course he's out. That dose would stop an elephant at full gallop!"
"Fine. Let's not hang around. The colonel wanted to talk to this guy as soon as possible. Pick him up."
I maliciously disabled self-levitation.
"Oh, hell. Heavy bastard. Fine. Oooone, two!"
Hmm. Second time in my life somebody had carried me in their arms. Can't say the sensation was especially pleasant. Why do girls like this so much? Although... they're definitely carried more gently. Fortunately, they didn't take me far. My kidnappers had a van parked nearby. They threw me inside. Hey. Could've been more careful. Then they drove somewhere.
While one man drove, the second searched my 'unconscious' body with professional efficiency. Right. They took my music player again. If they dragged me up stairs too... Phew. No stairs. They brought me to a small mansion outside the city. I was carried into a room, placed in an armchair, and injected with an antidote to the sedative. I had to disable the armor in the appropriate place in a hurry. After waiting the couple of minutes the drug would normally need, I 'woke up' and looked around.
Spartan furnishings. A severe writing desk separating two armchairs. I occupied one. In the other sat Colonel Nick Fury himself. And here I'd been wondering when the local special services would finally become interested in me. Almost half a year since my appearance. Not exactly a compliment to S.H.I.E.L.D. or its director. Well.
Since he'd come so close, it would be foolish not to use the opportunity to rummage through some of his memories via my little cells. And perhaps have a heart-to-heart talk at the same time.
Nick Fury. Head of a 'Very Secret' Organization.
*******************
The colonel studied the young man sitting across from him. He didn't like what he saw. No fear. No panic. Only mild interest and perhaps a little boredom. As if S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director had been dragged here for interrogation by the boy's men, rather than the boy waking in an unknown place across from a grim one-eyed stranger. The old soldier knew very well what kind of impression he made on unprepared civilians. He sometimes used it deliberately.
This time, the method had misfired. The scar beneath his eyepatch began aching. It promised future trouble. The 'guest' continued to say nothing. He simply examined Fury as though the colonel were some interesting animal. Eventually Nick lost patience.
"Are you not even curious why you're here?"
"Well, you're the one who invited me, albeit by such an extravagant method. So I believe you should be the one concerned with explaining the reason for my presence in this charming house." The boy shrugged phlegmatically. "And I hope your people will be gracious enough to return my belongings."
Fury grimaced. Young people became more insolent every year. This one would speak differently if he'd awakened chained to a chair and surrounded by interesting tools. Nick disliked interrogation by such methods. Still, he had to admit that sometimes there was no alternative.
"Very well, Mr. Mayer, assuming that is actually your surname. We have a number of questions, and you will answer them."
"For example?"
"For example, how did it happen that you bought almost a controlling interest in a bankrupt company—something no sane person would ever do—and then, miracle of miracles, one week later Victor von Doom discovered a cure for cancer that made him one of the richest men in the world? And incidentally made you very rich as well."
The boy pretended to think.
"Well, what can I say? Perhaps I have prophetic gifts."
"Did those gifts also help you regrow your supervisor's arm?" Nick smirked. "Very interesting ability."
"What exactly do you want to hear, Mr. I-Haven't-Introduced-Myself? That an overly clever student working on a method to stimulate human regeneration discovered certain patterns that allowed him to look at cellular biology from a different angle, which ultimately led to a cure for cancer? And that this same student had enough brains not to run to the patent office—after which he'd probably have been buried behind that same patent office—but instead went to a man capable of defending his interests and who happened to be in a difficult situation? I can tell you that story if you'd like."
"How about the truth?"
The colonel studied the boy with new interest. A very interesting specimen. Under other circumstances, it might have been possible to build a respectable relationship with him. Even recruit him. Unfortunately, the brutal lack of time and mountain of crises forced Nick to act quickly and hard. Cruelly, if necessary. He didn't want to apply pressure. But if ordinary methods failed to produce answers...
"The truth?" Mayer snorted. "Everyone has their own. I can tell you I have no hostile intentions toward the United States, and that will be true. I can also tell you I am a student at a New York university, and that will also be true. Just as it's true that my arrangement benefited both Victor von Doom and me."
"We're drifting into philosophy." Fury shook his head. "Perhaps we should switch to history instead. Your biography, for example. Paperwork. School grades. We even found a few witnesses who remembered seeing you. But here's the problem... none of your 'classmates' knows any Walter Mayer. And in twenty years of life you've never even caught a cold. So who are you?"
"What difference does it make? The past is the past. Right now I'm a student with my own problems and difficulties, fairly loyal to the local government and entirely uninterested in revolutions, riots, and similar nonsense. Surely you have better things to do than interrogate an ordinary student?"
Fury was a very patient man. In his profession, one had to be. But even he had had enough of this boy. Seriously. Not only was Mayer behaving as though he controlled the situation and mocking him through polite phrasing, he was also implying that a colonel of the United States Army was wasting his time on pointless nonsense.
Enough coddling. Time to frighten him a little. Then they'd see whether his tune changed. The angry director of S.H.I.E.L.D. failed to notice that the scar under his eyepatch had begun throbbing harder.
"Listen, kid. I don't have time to coax you like a nun. Either you tell me everything I need, or I won't be able to guarantee your safety... or your girlfriend's. How is Miss Hardy doing, by the way?"
Colonel Nick Fury had never feared anyone or anything. But the transformation that came over the 'ordinary American student' made cold sweat break out across his skin. And then the 'kid' spoke. A gaze promising Hell itself. A voice frozen by the dead winds of the afterlife.
"Now you listen to me, Mr. Fury. If any 'accident' happens to someone close to me, I will turn Earth into a branch office of the Inferno. And for you... I will devise something especially interesting." Mayer leaned forward slightly. "For example, your lovely fifteen-year-old daughter Michelle. College in Florida isn't far away for her, is it? You know, the crime rate there is rather high. Maniac rapists practically roam in herds." Fury went still. "And some people would very much like to meet their old friend Natasha again. By the way, has she seduced Stark yet? Ah, right. He's still unavailable." Each word landed like a block of ice. "Remember this, Colonel. Never. Try. To use. My. Family."
Mayer leaned back in the chair. The oppressive aura vanished. So did the supernatural horror.
"I am willing to communicate with S.H.I.E.L.D. and even help... in certain matters. But I will not allow anyone or anything to pressure me. I hope we have clarified this point?"
Nick nodded heavily. The bastard had found the correct argument. Fury did not fear for himself. If Mayer had threatened him personally, he'd have achieved nothing except perhaps an immediate order for his elimination. But this... The 'student's' access to information indicated a powerful organization behind him. If he possessed information like THAT and could make promises like THAT, then his place in that organization was far from minor. Probably not the leader. But certainly close.
"Then I believe that's enough for tonight. If you want to contact me, do it in a normal fashion. Good night." The boy's voice pulled Fury out of his shock. "I'll find my own way out. Don't trouble yourself."
And he left. He remembered to collect his belongings on the way. Director Fury remained in the chair, trying to understand what he was supposed to do next. One thing he knew with absolute certainty: if he found the woodpecker leaking classified information inside his agency, he would strangle the bastard with his own hands.
Walter Mayer.
*******************
I returned home from my conversation with Fury without incident. Well. The masks hadn't exactly been removed. But they'd definitely been lifted at the edges. Perhaps I'd gone too far with the S.H.I.E.L.D. man. But his insinuation had made me so furious that restraining myself from killing him on the spot had been unbelievably difficult.
I might not care much about the majority of humanity. But for my own people, I would tear apart anyone. Even an implied threat was enough to put me into a rage. And not only host-me. Symbiote-me too. For a creature supposedly incapable of emotion, that was rather uncharacteristic. Perhaps it intersected with one of Symby's hard-coded directives?
Not important. Now I needed to look over my shoulder more often and arrange reliable protection for Felicia. The others shouldn't be forgotten either. Fury seemed to have understood the hint. But wounded pride can sometimes override common sense. Unlikely, admittedly. At his level, his brain had to keep functioning regardless of personal feelings.
Didn't make me feel much better. Who knew what he'd ultimately decide? Unfortunately, even his death wouldn't remove the problem. It would probably make things worse. Fine. To hell with Fury and his S.H.I.E.L.D. Hopefully they wouldn't go looking for trouble. Just in case, though, I'd feed them some information to think about. That's enough. Don't think about S.H.I.E.L.D. Yeah. About as effective as being told not to think about a white monkey.
Better to think about Christmas presents. And call Victor to ask how things were progressing with Toomes. During the conversation, Richards came up. More specifically, what to do with him. Victor passionately wanted his 'friend's' blood. My humanitarianism had already been overloaded for the day and wasn't accepting new requests. So I gave him permission. The one condition: no killing.
The magnate only chuckled into the phone and said he'd thought of something better for the traitor. He even invited me to take part. I promised to consider it. Speaking of blood, I asked whether Doom had samples from the Fantastic Four. And oh, happiness. The new heroes had been examined at Victor's hospital. So there were plenty of samples. Except the Thing's DNA. He had already transitioned to a silicon-organic body, and his 'samples' looked like ordinary gravel. Or perhaps not entirely ordinary gravel. And that was how the day ended for me.
A day that had begun so well. Christmas and New Year were ahead. Along with a whole heap of problems. The players now knew about one another. For the moment, they merely watched and assessed. The game itself had not yet begun. When it did... time would tell.
A young man walked through evening New York with earphones in his ears, quietly singing along to a song.
I was for them like a bone in the throat
I saw them right through
I paid back evil for evil Hey! I'm a villain for them
Knowing a secret
Of vile passions
Of beggars and princes both
I was violinist
My only sin is my talent
With my life and my bow
I was playing with fire
(Aria's 'Playing with Fire.' --- Ария. "Игра с огнем")