by Greg Cox
So much for my hardball negotiating tactics, Stark thought. Remind me not to tell Donald Trump about this incident—after I get out of the hospital.
Then, right as Iron Man braced himself for the mother of all headaches, something strange began to happen to Hulk. The color began to fade from his chartreuse skin, taking on a paler, pinker tint. Bulging muscles deflated, scaling down to less gigantic proportions. Emerald eyes turned brown, and his entire body shrank before the other heroes’ eyes. Tan whiskers sprouted from a face that grew less bestial by the second, forming a neatly-trimmed beard that failed to conceal the identity of the slender, brownhaired man who had taken the Hulk’s place.
How about that? Iron Man thought, letting out a sigh of relief through the vent in his faceplate. I got through to Banner after all.
The transformation clearly took a lot out of him. Banner’s raised arms wilted to his sides while his bare chest heaved as though he had just run a marathon. After a few moments, though, he lifted his sagging head to glance around at his surroundings. Weary eyes took in the impressive assemblage of Avengers and X-Men who waited for him to regain his composure. “Somehow, Toto,” he murmured, “I don’t think we’re in Niagara Falls anymore.”
At least his sense of humor’s intact, Iron Man observed. He sympathized with the man’s disorientation; he remembered too well what it was like to find yourself somewhere with little or no idea how you got there. “Hello, Bruce,” he said as gently as his electronically-distorted voice could manage, in case Hulk-outs left a hangover afterwards. “How much do you remember of what the Hulk’s been up to?” '
“Enough to know you’re right, Iron Man,” he answered, his voice growing stronger as his tumultuous metamorphosis faded into the past. Banner looked up at Iron Man, who now stood several inches taller than the scrawny scientist. “The Gamma Sentinels need to be stopped. If you need the Hulk in Scotland, I can get him there.” He held on tightly to the waist of his now-oversized jeans, lest the baggy trousers drop to his ankles. “Er, perhaps someone can spare a belt?”
“Allow me to fetch a change of clothes, Dr. Banner,” Jarvis volunteered. A couple of catastrophic clashes averted, the dutiful butler gathered up an assortment of used coffee cups. “Which reminds me, Master Cyclops, Mistress Storm, I’ve completed the repairs on your uniforms, which you’ll find waiting for you in the guest rooms.”
“Not bad service, sounds like. Don’t forget to leave the old guy a tip, Cyke.”
The unexpected voice came from the door, startling Jarvis so that he dropped his tray. Porcelain mugs shattered upon the steel floor of the conference. “My word!” the butler exclaimed, holding a hand to his chest. Iron Man spun around to see a short, stocky figure framed by the doorway. His blue-and-yellow uniform was instantly recognizable, but Cyclops identified him first....
“Wolverine!” Cyclops blurted. The missing X-Man had appeared without warning, taking them all by surprise.
Where in the world did he come from? Cyclops wondered. And do I really want to know?
Iron Man had another issue on his mind. “How did you get past our security systems and automatic defenses?” he demanded, sounding personally offended by the ease with which Wolverine had penetrated the Avengers’ headquarters.
“This is me you’re talkin’ to,” he reminded them. He leaned casually within the doorframe, picking at his teeth with a single adamantium claw. “I was sneakin’ my way into tighter tins than this before Shellhead’s fancy iron suit was even a gleam in Stark’s eye.’1’ He strolled into the conference room as though he owned the place; Cyclops didn’t know whether to be pleased or appalled by the rugged Canadian’s confident attitude. “Caught the news about you folks teaming up at Niagara Falls, so I hot-footed it here, figurin’ this is where you’d be heading.” He cocked his head toward the silent communications console. “From what I’ve been hearin’ the last few minutes, sounds like I got here just in time.”
He nodded at Banner, still struggling to hold on to his drooping trousers. “Hiya, doc. Give my regards to your hefty alter ego. We ain’t had a good scrap in too long.” “Just where have you been, Wolverine?” Cyclops wanted to know. He hated demonstrating how little he had his team under control in front of Captain America and die other Avengers, but he also wanted to know why and where Logan had gone AWOL.
“That’s none of your business, Cyke, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Wolverine sat down across from Cyclops, resting his heels upon the tabletop. “I was just payin’ a visit to old Ma Nature, out by the Adirondacks. Plenty of untamed wilderness up there, just the place for heedin’ the call of the wild, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Cyclops said brusquely. He had no reason to doubt Logan’s explanation of his whereabouts; Wolverine had always felt most at home in the great outdoors. In the long ran, Cyclops was just glad that Logan had shown up at all.
We may not know where Rogue or the Scarlet Witch are, but at least Wolverine is accounted for.
Wolverine was growling like an animal again, making Wanda almost glad that he was locked up like the rest of them. Not even Tigra the Were-Woman, possibly the Avengers’ most feral alumnus, had ever sounded so wild and untamed.
As berserk as he sounds right now, she thought, I’m not sure he could even distinguish friend from foe, not that I’ve ever been particularly friendly with most of the X-Men.
She could hear Rogue, two coffins away from Wanda, murmuring softly to her fellow X-Man, trying unsuccessfully to soothe the savage beast who no longer seemed to answer to the name of Logan. Maybe he’s just hungry for something besides an intravenous drip, Wanda thought. Too bad we can’t throw him a raw steak.
A mild headache weighed upon Wanda’s brain, making it hard to concentrate. Was it a hangover left over from whatever drugs their nameless jailer had pumped into her, or a lingering side-effect of Rogue's vampire-like power? The last thing she remembered, before waking once to the perpetual darkness of her blind captivity, was the awful sensation of the X-Man’s southern belle draining her mind and energy again, this time out through Wanda’s veins. Rogue had barely begun to explain about the involuntary transfusions before her voracious talent had sapped Wanda’s awareness, thrusting the Scarlet Witch into a
dreamless coma from which she had only just emerged.
What’s the point of these debilitating tests? she wondered angrily. If the idea was to uncover how their various mutant powers worked, she wished the unseen experimenters luck; she had devoted much of her adult life to trying to make sense of her peculiar abilities, with notably mixed results. Only months ago, in fact, the aged sorceress Agatha Harkness had presented the Scarlet Witch with yet another “explanation” of Wanda’s powers.
The venerable enchantress had told her one-time disciple that Wanda’s mutant heritage, a legacy of her father Magneto, the X-Men’s oldest and most personal enemy, had been imbued at birth with the primal magic of Chthon, an ancient mystical entity bound to the very mountain upon which Wanda was bom. Had it not been for Chthon, the Scarlet Witch would have developed relatively straightforward energy-based powers like her father and any number of other mutants; instead she had been granted a subconscious link to the underlying mystical energy suffusing all living things.
“Chaos magic,” Agatha called it. Wild magic. Nature magic.
Wanda had only just begun to learn how to master her chthonic gifts, yet she couldn’t help wondering: was there any way she could exploit her new understanding of her powers to liberate herself from her present entrapment? Judging from the sterile scientific ambience of her stay here, she doubted her mysterious captor(s) were prepared to cope with genuine magic. Even when those animated marionettes had attacked her at the folk art museum, she had sensed no supernatural energies at work. It seemed safe to assume the forces arrayed against her now were strictly those of science and technology.
But how, in such a cold, lifeless environment, could she call upon Nature to deliver her? She se
nsed no green growing things, no blowing wind nor freely running water, anywhere around her. The air she breathed was antiseptic in the extreme, completely devoid of free-floating microorganisms. Though she tried, she could not even establish any sort of bond with the Earth itself; its nuturing soil and seething, volcanic heart felt impossibly far away. Aside from herself, the only living creatures she was at all aware of were the two captive X-Men, cut off from her by their own entombment in this mechanized mausoleum.
Wait, she thought. As much as I resented it, couldn’t Rogue’s usurpation of my mind and powers, through the mingling of our blood, have forged a link of sorts between us? Perhaps, rather than letting my anger over that violation divide us, I can use that enforced affinity to create a bridge between our minds.
Blood to blood, heart to heart, soul to soul. “Sympathetic magic’ ’ it was called. Nature magic. And what could be more natural, more primal, than a bond of blood?
Although already shrouded in darkness, Wanda closed her eyes and visualized her own lifeforce flowing into Rogue. The blood is the life, so the Bible taught, and the Scarlet Witch held that image in her mind as she reached out across psychic and physical barriers to the X-Men’s empathic soulsucker. She had never tried anything like this before, Wanda knew, and the odds were against her succeeding. Then again, her mutant hex power had always been about skewing the odds and making the most unlikely of possibilities inevitable. Anything is possible, she thought, even if it only happens once in a thousand chances.
A familiar scarlet luminescence filled the empty blackness before her cloistered eyes and she felt her consciousness shift perceptibly. When the effulgent red glow faded, she discovered to her delight that she could see again— through the eyes of Rogue!
By shifting Rogue’s gaze to the right, Wanda could see her own imprisoned body, garbed in an unflattering orange jumpsuit, like a convict on a chain gang might wear, and blinded by a polished metal visor. No more, she vowed confidently, smiling grimly inside Rogue’s head. She felt her magic tingling within the X-Man’s fingers.
“Hey, what’s happenin’?” Rogue blurted as, to the female X-Man’s surprise, her fingers assumed arcane configurations, making occult gestures that meant absolutely nothing to Rogue. Wanda derived a tiny bit of satisfaction from the X-Man’s confusion.
For once, she thought, for the first time since coming to within the lightless sarcophagus, I’m not the one in the dark.
Calling upon her own mystical knowledge, and the faint echoes of her power still residing within Rogue, the Scarlet Witch hurled a shimmering hex sphere at her own reflection in the mirror, and was gratified to see sparks fly from the mechanisms embedded in the shining silver sarcophagus.
An unexpected power surge fried the intricate circuitry controlling her high-tech coffin. Wanda’s own eyes snapped open at the sounds, bringing her at once back to her own body. She tugged on the metal clamps confining her wrists, finding them loose and unlocked.
Thank you, Agatha, she murmured fervently, for every hour you spent to make me the witch I am today.
She worked her hands free from the clamps, then gladly pushed the metal visor away from her face. The harsh, fluorescent light of the testing chamber made her eyes water after so many hours in the dark, but she brushed the tears away with the back of her hand and quickly went about liberating the rest of her body from its entanglement within the coffin. She yanked adhesively-placed electrodes from her brow and elsewhere, then carefully withdrew the intravenous needle from her left arm, putting pressure on the site for a few seconds to make sure it wouldn’t bleed. The I.V. line dangled along the side of the sarcophagus, leaking saline onto the floor.
In less than a minute, she was no longer pinioned within the futuristic iron maiden that had held her for longer than she wanted to consider. Her bare feet dropped onto the cold metal floor. After so many hours of compulsory inactivity, her legs felt weak and rubbery. Her head swam dizzily and the entire chamber seemed to spin around her, but she soon regained her balance. I still feel light-headed, she thought, not to mention light in general. Was there something odd about the gravity ... ?
Sweeping a lock of auburn hair away from her eyes, she cast an anxious look at the long horizontal mirror running along one entire wall of the testing chamber. Was anyone viewing her escapc from the other side of the glass? She realized she had to hurry, before an enemy could arrive to nip her breakout in the bud. For all she knew, the entire Kree army was already on its way.
“Oh mah goodness!” a baffled-looking Rogue exclaimed, staring wide-eyed from the confines of her own sarcophagus. “How did you do that? What did you do?”
“Magic,” Wanda answered tersely. There was no time to give Rogue a fuller explanation, even had the Avenger felt predisposed to doing so. I may have helped myself to her eyes and hands, she thought, but I don’t owe Rogue anything, not after what she did to Carol—and me. She should just be thankful I’m not about to leave either her or Wolverine trapped in this unholy place.
The Scarlet Witch considered the shackled X-Men. Wolverine was nearest, so she stepped toward his coffin, only to jump backwards, heart pounding, when he suddenly snapped and growled at her like a rabid dog, one she found herself none to eager to unchain. Staring cautiously into his blood-streaked brown eyes, she discerned no light of sanity or recognition. He glowered at her like a caged animal, eager to rip out her throat the moment he got a chance.
Rogue first, she decided.
Freeing the young mutant renegade was child’s play compared to the improbabilities required by Wanda’s own escape. “Get ready,” she warned Rogue before she gestured at the other woman’s sarcophagus. A radiant hex sphere, which the Scarlet Witch now understood to be a sort of “chaos grenade,” enveloped the incarcerated X-Man, causing every one of the casket’s locking mechanisms to disengage simultaneously. “There. You’re free,” Wanda stated. “Careful of the I.V.”
Biting down on her lower lip in impatience, Rogue hurriedly untangled herself from the wires and tubing, wincing as she pulled the hypodermic needle from her arm. They must have employed an adamantium needle, it occurred to Wanda, in order to penetrate Rogue’s invulnerable skin.
“Thanks, sugah!” Rogue drawled as she flew free of the sarcophagus. Wearing an identical orange jumpsuit, she touched down on the floor beside Wanda, reeling a little as she did so.
“Are you all right?” the Scarlet Witch asked, worried despite her longstanding grievances with this woman. Rogue looked a bit shaky.
“Yeah,” the X-Man said unconvincingly. Swaying slightly, she wiped her brow, then massaged her temples with her fingers. “Wolverine’s healing factor got me through that transfusion reaction, just like it did him, but it’s not somethin’ ah want to go through again anytime soon.” She made an effort to straighten her posture, then looked down at her bare hands. “Ah don’t s’pose you got a pair of gloves on ya? Ah feel kinda naked without ’em.” A rueful smile saddened her expression. “ ’Sides, it’s safer that way.”
I suppose it is, the Scarlet Witch thought. The potential drawbacks of Rogue’s vampire-like power had never really dawned on her before. She can’t touch anyone. . . ever? Wanda was surprised to feel a twinge of sympathy for the younger woman.
Meanwhile, Rogue regarded the trapped Wolverine with a mixture of pity and indignation. “Well?” she asked Wanda eagerly. “Go ahead. Cut him loose.”
Wanda eyed the atavistic X-Man, who appeared to have regressed beyond the point of reason. The mindless intensity of his gaze made her flinch when her wary eyes met his. “If you say so,” she said dubiously, not entirely convinced this was a good idea.
Another hex sphere unbolted the locks restraining Wolverine. Not pausing to remove the medical accouterments still attached to his body, he lunged from the middle sarcophagus, snarling like a maddened wolf—or wolverine. His powerful leap tore the I.V. lines from both his arms; the plastic tubing whipped about like miniature firehoses, spraying the floor with a mixture
of blood and saline. Knife-edged claws came at Wanda, as she realized in horror that the crazed X-Man had perceived her hex sphere as an attack. She threw herself out of the way barely in time to avoid the slashing claws, grateful that Wolverine had been hobbled in part by his long internment inside the steel coffin. As is, the edge of one blade sliced through her left sleeve, right below her shoulder, nicking the tender skin beneath.
Ouch!
Wanda raised her hands to defend herself, but Rogue 1 58
tackled her unhinged teammate first, pulling his arms back with her superior strength and placing him in a full nelson. Wanda noted that Rogue took care not to touch Wolverine’s bare skin, just the fabric of his prison garb.
“Logan!” she shouted urgently. “It’s me, Rogue! You have to calm down!” Heedless of her words, Wolverine strained to free himself from her unbreakable hold. His eyes were wild and dilated. Foam sprayed from his lips. Looking on, aghast, Wanda was reminded of Tiger Shark, a card-carrying Master of Evil, in one of his bloodthirsty feeding frenzies, not of a veteran superhero respected by the likes of Captain America and the Black Widow. She had never seen Wolverine like this before.
For a long moment, she feared that they would have to render Wolverine unconscious to get him away from here, but Rogue refused to give up on her snarling comrade. “Logan! Listen to me! We’re not your enemies.” Despite her justifiable prejudice against the woman, Wanda had to admire Rogue’s determination, as well as her loyalty to her friend. “Snap out of it, Logan! We need you!”
To Wanda’s surprise and relief, Rogue’s heartfelt pleas had an effect. The unreasoning fury dimmed in Wolverine’s eyes and he seemed to come to his senses. His straining limbs relaxed, to a degree, and he looked on Wanda with cooler, less ravening eyes. A look of regret joined a frown upon his face as his searching gaze fell upon the gash in Wanda’s sleeve—and the shallow cut in her arm. “It’s all right,” he said hoarsely. “You can let go of me now, dar-lin‘, I ain’t going to hurt nobody who doesn’t deserve it.”