Gifted

by Peter David

  Good job, Eddie, he thought grimly.

  There was a soft footfall behind him and, even worse, a rustle of wings. He didn’t even have to look to see who it was.

  Jay Guthrie…Icarus…stood framed in the doorway. The room was dark, which was unsurprising since Eddie had closed the curtains and shut off the light.

  “Here to gloat?” said Eddie.

  “Why the hell would I gloat?”

  Eddie kept his back fixedly to him. “Because you won. Because I hauled off and punched you, and now I’m nothing. You can fly and I’m stuck here. I’m not Wing anymore, but you still get to be Icarus, which is, by the way, a stupid name. Icarus flew too close to the sun and got his wings burned off. And he fell to Earth.”

  “Technically he fell into the sea…”

  “Shut up,” said Eddie testily. “Point is, I should be Icarus. I should be the one who fell and died. You should be the other guy…”

  “Daedalus? His father?”

  “Right, him. Exactly.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Jay walked around the end of the bed and went to the window. Before Eddie could stop him, Jay shoved the drapes aside, allowing sunlight to fill the room like something cleansing. Eddie winced and put up a hand to protect his face.

  “First of all, I’m not happy about this at all,” said Jay. “How can I feel like I won anything when we’ve lost one of our own? Any diminishment in the ranks affects us all. Miss Pryde said something about it in class, something about islands and bells tolling and stuff like that. Didn’t understand it all, but I think it was kind of about this. And second, there’s no saying for sure this is permanent.”

  “It is.”

  “We don’t know that,” Jay said firmly. “Even the big brains in government haven’t figured out all the ramifications of this ‘cure’ thing. Something that can be done can be undone.”

  “There’s no hope. I’m never going to fly again.”

  “Bet’cha you’re wrong.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I only bet on sure things. You wanna fly?”

  “Well yeah. D-uh,” he said impatiently.

  “All right then.” He pushed open the window. The pleasant morning breeze wafted gently into the room. Jay put one foot up on the windowsill and extended a hand toward Eddie. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

  “Think of it as a down payment on your being cured of the cure.”

  Eddie wanted to tell him to buzz off. But the call of the sky, the temptation, was too strong.

  He reached out to Jay.

  Moments later, Icarus was airborne, his arms crisscrossed over Eddie’s chest, keeping a firm grip on his friend. His wings carried them higher and higher, and the two young men soared across the sky, free of worries or cares or cures, free of anything save for the urge to fly.

  Peter stands next to me, big and warm and muscular and alive. Part of me still wonders if this is all some sort of glorious dream, because it seems too good to be true.

  “I leave the world in terrible turmoil,” Peter says in his accented English. “I come back. Same turmoil. Nothing different. Well…outfits are a little different.” He turns to look at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. “It is funny that it was you who found me, don’t you think?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think it’s funny. I think maybe it’s important. I think it’s…somehow…I think it’s why I’m here.”

  My small hands disappear into his huge ones.

  I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

  I am no longer alone.

  The End

  SPECIAL PREVIEW

  NEW AVENGERS

  BREAKOUT

  BY ALISA KWITNEY

  based on the graphic novel by

  Brian Michael Bendis and David Finch

  Coming January 2013

  ONE

  THERE was something about the redhead that caught Clint Barton’s attention. It wasn’t her wickedly pretty face or her exceptional rear view, although those were certainly worth noticing. No, it was something subtly discordant, something that made Clint think Red didn’t belong up here in the command center of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.

  Clint furrowed his brow. He might only have a level-six clearance, but as he observed the shapely interloper move with unhurried ease through a room bristling with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, he didn’t see anyone else clocking her progress across the bridge. There were more than a few guys watching her, but they didn’t look like they had surveillance on their minds. Leaning back in his chair, Clint tried to figure out what it was about Red that didn’t fit. Unlike a lot of the glorified clerks in this room, he hadn’t gotten a bunch of degrees from some Ivy League institution, but what he did have was a circus brat’s skill in picking out the rubes from the roustabouts. At first glance, Red appeared to be dressed in a figure-hugging black jumpsuit identical to the ones worn by S.H.I.E.L.D. pilots and combat-trained operatives. On closer inspection, Clint noticed that her uniform had no insignia on the arm, and the weapon hanging from the holster on her slim hips didn’t have the shiny, streamlined look of something concocted by Stark Industries.

  So not a rube, but not a member of this particular traveling show, either.

  “Clint? You about finished with that report?” Jessica Drew glanced at him, still managing to tap away at her computer. Like him, Jessica was a field agent, but she had probably filed three reports in the time it had taken him to type his social security number. She was the only agent who never asked him about his criminal record, so he returned the favor by never bringing up the fact that she used to have super-powers. For Clint, being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was a giant step up in life. For the former Spider-Woman, he figured, it was something else entirely.

  “If you’re having trouble with the spreadsheet, I can help you,” she offered.

  “Nah, I’ll figure it out.” Clint had spent his school years perfecting his acrobatic and archery skills, so there were some pretty big gaps in his education. Computers. Grammar. Spelling. Fiction written before the 1980s. As far as history went, he knew an Assyrian recurve from an English longbow, but that was about it. Clint could calculate math problems in his head, though, and he understood basic physics. That went along with making sure your arrow hit its target.

  “Just remember, we’re supposed to check in with the new special officer at 1400.” Jessica turned back to her own work.

  Clint pretended to focus on his computer screen, punching in letters at random while he watched Red out of the corner of his eye. She had slipped into an empty seat and was typing something into the computer, which instantly responded. That was interesting. She must already know the level-three passwords. Maybe he was wrong about Red. After all, it wasn’t as if she could just stroll past a security guard to get into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. That was just one of the advantages to having a base of operations that was constantly mobile, and usually six miles off the ground.

  Red pulled up a schematic of the Helicarrier. Clint told himself there were all kinds of reasons an agent might do that. Maybe she was new to the job and simply trying to locate the ladies’ room. She could be a techie from engineering, looking for some faulty wiring. Yeah, and maybe she was searching for decorating tips so she could redo her living room in neo-futuristic polished glass and steel.

  Suddenly, the idea of Red being a foreign agent seemed a bit more plausible.

  Jessica leaned over. “I take it you meant to write ‘redhead’ under ‘purpose of trip’?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re anti-ginger, Jess.”

  “Don’t call me Jess, Hawkeye.”

  Usually, Clint would retaliate for this use of his old performing name, but right now, he didn’t have the time. Red was strolling toward the stairs that led down to the flight deck. All right, show time. Clint rolled his stool back from the desk and unsnapped a button on his right should
er, making it easier to reach for his bow. He was supposed to leave his weapon in the armory, but his recurve folded up so neatly that no one ever seemed to notice, and Clint felt naked without the familiar weight on his back.

  “You going somewhere?” Jessica sounded hopeful.

  “To see a man about a dog.” Red disappeared behind a couple of technicians, and it took Clint a couple of moments to find her again. Did she know that he’d made her, or did she always walk in a zigzag pattern, just to be safe?

  “Want me to go with you?”

  “To the head? Not really.” Clint reached for the quiver he always kept propped against his desk, only to find that it wasn’t where he’d left it.

  “Uh-huh. And what are you planning to do, shoot the soap puck out of the urinal?” Jessica was holding his quiver just out of reach.

  “Only if it annoys me.” He held out his hand.

  “You know, you don’t really need to practice shooting things,” said Jessica. “You need to practice doing expense reports.”

  She must be as bored with the paperwork as I am, thought Clint. Probably why she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place. Looking past Jessica, he widened his eyes. “What the—why is Iron Man flying around without his pants on?”

  Jessica turned, and Clint swiped his quiver just as Red reached the exit. She looked over her shoulder; for a moment, their eyes met. A jolt ran through him, the kind he used to feel before doing some trick that was liable to leave him seriously injured or worse if he screwed it up. Red smiled—her hand on the door, as if daring him to follow her—and then she was gone.

  “I can’t believe it. You’re actually leaving a week’s worth of forms in order to go hook up with that redhead.” Jessica sounded amused rather than offended.

  “Depends on your definition of hooking up.” Clint swiftly thought through the best arrowheads to bring to this party: magnetic, net, smoke, bola? Selecting the points with capture rather than killing in mind, he inserted them into the automatic loader in his quiver.

  “I thought you didn’t date co-workers.” Now Jessica did sound offended.

  “I don’t,” said Clint, breaking into a run. Around him, heads turned, and a guy in a suit said, “Agent Barton, don’t forget you agreed to talk to me about…” but Clint was out the door and charging down the stairs, so he never heard the rest of the sentence.

  Clint could hear footsteps on the stairs below him, and he was so focused on estimating how far ahead his target was that he almost ran into Agent Coulson, who was carrying a stack of files.

  “Slow down there, Barton,” said Coulson, nearly dropping his papers. “You know the rules about running in the ladders.” Like a lot of paper-pushers, Coulson always used proper Naval terminology.

  “Sorry, Coulson.” Clint grabbed the staircase railing and vaulted down onto the next landing. “Kind of in a rush, here.”

  “And you’re not wearing sleeves again, Barton,” Coulson added. “We’ve talked about that.”

  “Later,” said Clint, already turning the corner. He had a sudden sense of danger, but it came a second too late, and Clint took the full force of a boot in his face. He managed to recover in time to get another kick to the stomach, this one a roundhouse. God, she was fast—already running down the stairs and nearly at the next landing. Clint flicked his wrist and his bow unfolded.

  “Hey, what’s the rush?” Clint nocked his arrow and aimed it. “I thought we could spend a little time on small talk before getting down to the dirty stuff.”

  She gave a little shrug. “I’m not a big fan of small talk.” She turned, about to sprint down the next flight of stairs, but before she could move Clint sent a blunt arrow flying. The arrow hit the pressure point on the back of her leg, just below her knee, and for a moment, Clint thought she was going to fall down the stairs. He raced toward her, but Red was already recovering with a neat little backflip. She landed on her feet, lithe as any big-top acrobat.

  “I was kind of hoping to get your number before you run off again,” said Clint, joining her on the landing. He was too close to aim an arrow now, so he held his bow loosely in his left hand, ready to use it as a blunt instrument if she went for the gun at her hip.

  Red appeared bemused. “Do you always talk this much when you’re fighting?”

  “Not just when I’m fighting, sweetheart. I find talking always adds to the—ungh.” Clint moved just in time, so Red’s knee connected with his stomach instead of more sensitive parts. He grabbed her foot and she kicked up, wrapping her other leg around his neck and bringing him down on his back, hard. “Okay, now this is definitely a second-date kind of move,” he said, maneuvering so he could jab his elbow into the back of her knee, releasing her chokehold on his neck.

  “Not so much a second-date kind of girl,” she said, straddling him and landing a solid punch to his jaw.

  “Still, don’t you think I should know your first name?” Clint leveraged his weight, reversing their positions. It seemed a shame to punch that mouth, so Clint just pinned her down, immobilizing her with his arms and legs.

  “Sorry, but I don’t think this relationship is going anywhere.” The woman flexed her wrists, and underneath his palms, Clint felt her bracelets grow warm for an instant. Before he could react, a jolt of electricity sent him flying. When he came to, there was a metallic taste in his mouth, and Red was gone.

  Damn it. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it, then checked his watch. He hadn’t been out of commission for more than a minute, so she couldn’t have gotten far. He just had to think through the likeliest direction to pursue.

  He was one flight of stairs down from the bridge, on the same level as flight-deck control. Clint couldn’t see his unauthorized redhead going in there: The room was windowless and small and hard to enter undetected. For a moment, Clint considered going in there to alert Deputy Director Maria Hill that they had an intruder on board, but then another thought occurred to him. The hangar bay was on this level too, and it was a huge area filled with fighter planes, jeeps and other army vehicles. If Red had sabotage on her mind, the hangar bay was a gremlin’s paradise.

  Clint readied his bow as he ran, heading for the open metal stairs that led to the steel walkway. Some people had a fear of heights, but Clint was always most comfortable perched up somewhere where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the situation. He reached the walkway and quickly scanned as much as he could see of the room below. The hangar bay was basically a big garage, but instead of old cars and discarded toys it contained billions of dollars’ worth of Uncle Sam’s best fighter jets. Parked just below Clint’s booted feet, there were a couple of F/A-18 Hornets, which could fight in the air or take out targets on the ground. A little farther away, there was an F-14 Tomcat. Something about the shape of the Tomcat’s cockpit reminded Clint of the paper airplanes he used to make when the circus English tutor was droning about the subjunctive. Clint’s namesake plane, the E-2C Hawkeye, was mainly used to relay information on the enemy’s position and activity, but its propellers made Clint think of old World War II movies.

  No sign of Red. Clint continued scanning the room, tracking with his arrow. There. He caught a flash of movement, darting between a Seahawk helicopter and an S-3B Viking. Hell, that was a subsonic jet capable of taking out a submarine. If Red started messing around in there, she could bring the whole damn Helicarrier crashing down.

  Of course, a misplaced arrow could have the same effect. Good thing I don’t miss, Clint thought, as he sent his arrow flying. It hit the ground right in front of Red and released its cartridge of tear gas. Since she’d been careful not to inflict any lasting damage on him, he was going to try to return the favor.

  But Red had rolled free and grabbed hold of the bottom of the walkway. With a kick of her legs, she brought herself up onto his level. It wouldn’t have gotten a 10 from the Olympic judges—her feet were too far apart—but it was pretty elegant, all the same. “I should warn you—it takes a lot to make me cry,” she
said.

  “Tough girl, huh?” But while she had been in motion, Clint had been moving too, manipulating the joystick on his quiver, selecting a specialized head to cap the shaft of his next arrow. Now he had the arrow nocked and ready, and the bowstring pulled taut. “This arrow contains a hypodermic with a powerful sedative. I suggest you put your hands up, unless you’re in the mood for a little nap.”

  Red’s smile was gently mocking. “If you stare a little harder at my equipment, you might notice I’m wearing body armor.”

  “I noticed. Sorry to disappoint you, but arrows go through Kevlar.”

  “It’s not Kevlar. It’s Vibranium.”

  Clint raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little uncomfortable?” Vibranium wasn’t exactly standard issue for anyone, even a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Rare and extremely expensive, it was one of the few metals that could withstand super-powered levels of force.

  “You get used to it.” Quick as a cat, she spun and raced down the walkway away from him. A moving target might have posed a challenge for a different archer, but Clint had been shooting things on the fly since he was six. Tucking the hypodermic arrow into his waistband, he toggled the joystick on his quiver, selecting four new arrowheads. Within seconds, he had the first arrow nocked and sent it flying, followed by three more in rapid-fire succession. The arrows, made of Adamantium and equipped with powerful magnetic tips, passed through the taut fabric at Red’s wrists and ankles, pinning her against the metal bulkhead so that she was standing in the shape of an “X.”

  “Well, you’ve drawn first blood,” said his opponent, indicating a thin scratch on the exposed part of her wrist where the arrow had grazed her as it went through the fabric of her jumpsuit.