Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men and the Avengers

by Greg Cox

  A savage howl escaped his frothing lips as the points of the antlers dug into his ribcage. He slashed out wildly with his claws, but whatever wounds he inflicted on the buck’s neck and shoulders closed almost as fast as he opened them; it was like slicing through some sort of living jelly.

  An adaptoid? he guessed desperately. A new kind of organic Sentinel? The metallic scent of his own blood inflamed his senses, driving reason and intellect from his mind. He became an enraged animal, fighting to survive.

  His preternatural healing factor kicked in, the gashes on Wolverine’s back were already knitting up, staunching the flow of blood. But the lessening of the pain from those injuries was more than overpowered by the impact of two sets of hoofs pounding against the back of his head. While the buck stabbed him in the chest, both the doe and the fawn kicked at him from behind, their hoofs slamming again and again upon his skull. It felt like the Juggernaut was pounding on his head while Sabretooth clawed at his heart simultaneously.

  It was too much even for his legendary endurance.

  Funny, Wolverine thought, in one last burst of consciousness before darkness descended, I thought I was hunting them…

  CHAPTER THREE

  NO one knew her real name, and the woman now known as Rogue preferred to keep it that way. Truth to tell, she rarely thought of herself as anyone but Rogue these days.

  ’Cept when I’ve got someone else’s memories stuck in my head, she thought.

  At the moment, thank goodness, her mind was her own, although she could barely hear herself think over the noisy chatter and confusion of the crowded West Village street fair in which she was presently immersed. Milling New Yorkers, ranging from college kids to senior citizens, and packed shoulder-to-shoulder, jostled and nudged their way past each other, between rows of covered booths hawking everything from hot Thai food to used books and LPs. Hucksters called out to passersby, pitching free massages, cheap phone cards, Peruvian sweaters and pottery, cold lemonade, baby clothes, comic books, keyrings, wallets, refrigerator magnets, strawberry crepes, antique movie posters, ice cream, blue jeans, and just about anything else Rogue could imagine. The booths lined both sides of Waverly Place between Broadway and Sixth Avenue, blocking her view of aging brownstones to the north and Washington Square Park to the south. The fair on Waverly, which had been closed off to traffic for the afternoon, had drawn a sizable crowd of shoppers and sightseers, including at least one mutant heroine from the suburbs.

  Nothing like a little bargain-hunting to take one’s mind off the super hero biz, Rogue thought, pausing to admire some reasonably priced turquoise jewelry; she was glad she had taken the train in from Westchester that morning. The sky, which had threatened rain earlier that morning, had cleared up, bathing the entire fair in sunshine. Wolvie has the right idea going walkabout and all. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up at the Institute all the time. She had better things to do this afternoon than run through another training exercise in the Danger Room.

  Too bad I couldn’t talk Ororo into joining me, she thought, but the weather goddess had been too busy with her beloved garden to waste a day in the city. Still, it was nice to have some time on her own, especially after all the X-Men had gone through recently. Like that whole time-travel mess with Spider-Man last year, or that ugly business with Mr. Sinister…

  “See anything you like?” the jewelry dealer asked her, leaning forward over his wares. Despite the Native American designs of the rings and necklaces, the dealer looked more Pakistani than Apache. He raised a glittering trinket from a velvet-lined wooden tray. “Earrings are only $15 a pair. Very cheap!”

  It would take a diamond drill to pierce my ears, she thought, shaking her head. “No thanks. Ah’m just lookin’,” she added with a smile, her melodious drawl betraying her origins somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line.

  Rejoining the stream of pedestrians flowing by, she left the jewelry booth behind, blending in with the crowd, or so she thought. A couple of teenage boys, hanging out around a used-CD stand, looking for bootleg tapes of their favorite bands, whistled appreciatively as she walked past them.

  Trust me, sugar, y’all don’t want to be getting too close to me. Rogue sighed ruefully, running a hand through the bleached white skunktail running down the middle of her long brown hair; one kiss from her lips would sure suck the swagger from those boys, all right, along with what passed for their minds. Look, but don’t touch, honey. The story of my life …

  Even though her mutant body was immune to extremes of heat and cold, she had on a long-sleeved sweater and gloves. Manhattan was way too cramped to do otherwise; she couldn’t risk brushing any exposed skin against that of some poor stranger, not without taking a chance of absorbing all their memories and strength. Not exactly the kind of souvenir I was hoping to pick on this little shopping trip, she thought wryly.

  Rogue was treating herself to some freshly roasted corn-on-the-cob, the melted butter dripping between the fingers of her glove, when she heard the angry shouting. At first she thought it was just another streetside salesman trying to attract the attention of the fairgoers, but there was a harsh edge to the yelling, very much at odds with the festive atmosphere of the fair, that caught her ear.

  Some kind of trouble? she wondered, and began edging her way through the crowd toward the source of shouts. Maybe there was something she could do to help…

  Packed in with several dozen other people, including a young mother pushing a slow-moving stroller, it took her a couple of minutes to get close enough to the speaker to make out the words. As she did so, her expression darkening, an all too familiar rage awoke inside her.

  “Wake up, America!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Do you know what your children are? Don’t sit back and let mutants take over our world. This is your fight, too! Fight the mutant menace! Join now!”

  There were still plenty of firm yellow kernels left on the cob, but Rogue had lost her appetite. Can’t I ever get away from this garbage? She chucked the half-eaten ear of corn into a dented metal trash bin, then followed the venomous rant to its point of origin: a portable booth staffed and sponsored, at least according to the banner running along its top, by the anti-mutant hate group who called themselves the Friends of Humanity.

  Tee-shirts, pamphlets, buttons, bumper stickers, and posters adorned the booth and were also spread out on a tabletop facing the street. Rogue quickly scanned the slogans printed on the assorted paraphernalia, feeling her blood pressure rise with every malicious word she read:

  MEN WERE CREATED EQUAL, NOT MUTANTS.

  100 PERCENT HUMAN—AND PROUD OF IT.

  REMEMBER THE ONSLAUGHT!

  FIRST THE NEANDERTHALS,

  NOW HOMO SAPIENS?

  OPEN YOUR EYES—FOR HUMANITY’S SAKE.

  SECOND PLACE NEVER COUNTS IN EVOLUTION.

  SUPPORT THE MUTANT REGISTRATION ACT.

  Phony wanted posters sported slightly doctored news photos of Magneto, Apocalypse, Sauron, and even some of her fellow X-Men, especially the less human-looking ones like the Beast and Nightcrawler. (Granted, it wasn’t too hard to make Wolverine look scary.) Rogue was half-amused/half-disgusted to see a cartoonish artist’s rendering of herself that made her look like a horror movie vampire, complete with fangs and pointed ears.

  No fair, she thought. I haven’t looked like that since the last time I tussled with Sabretooth. Besides, my hips aren’t nearly that big… On a deeper level, she felt torn between anger and nausea at the sight of the same old lies and insults being dished out once more. You’d think people would be fed up with this stuff by now.

  The loudmouth manning the booth, a petition in one hand and a donation tin in the other, was hardly a prime specimen of ordinary humanity. Stuffed pretentiously into a three-piece suit that seemed one size too small for him, the man was red-faced and sweating, too full of simmering bigotry and resentment to possibly look at ease in his own skin.

  “You there, miss,” he said, making eye contact with Rogue. Thankfully, he
didn’t seem to be doing too much business right now; most everybody else looked more interested in snacking and shopping. “Would you like to support the Friends of Humanity?”

  You’re no friend of mine, she thought, fuming. She knew she should just walk away, leave this prejudiced peabrain to stew in his own stinking bile, but it was too late for that now. She strode toward the booth, clenching her fists. Why should she be the only one whose afternoon was spoiled?

  “You ever met a mutant?” she challenged him. The press of the crowd squeezed her forward until she was squeezed against the edge of the table, her face only inches away from the so-called Friend of Humanity. She rested her palm on a stack of folded tee-shirts, not worried all that much about getting excess butter all over them. “You ever got to know one?”

  “That’s not necessary,” the man said smugly, appearing all too happy to have an audience at last, even a hostile one. “I know everything I need to know.” He put down his petition and waved a pamphlet in her face. Heavy black letters advertised THE TRUTH ABOUT THE COMING GENE WAR. “The mutant menace is the greatest threat that humanity has ever faced. That’s a matter of fact. Every time a mutant is born, humanity as we know it comes a little closer to extinction.”

  Right now that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, Rogue thought. “You ever think that mutants are no different than anybody else, ’cept for a coupla extra powers or somethin’?” She glared at him with furious green eyes, and wondered if any other mutants, unknown to her, had come to the fair today, only to have this kind of senseless animosity thrown in their faces. She could just imagine how devastating this clown’s propaganda could be to some poor kid still coming to terms with his new abilities. I’ve been an X-Man for years now, and a mutant for even longer, and it still gets to me. “Some of the best people ah know are mutants.”

  “Then you’re either naive or foolish,” the FoH declared. His pig-like eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Or one of them.”

  “And what if ah was?” she shot back, seeing a hint of fear chip away at the man’s self-righteous demeanor. He stepped backwards away from the table, his gaze darting from the woman in front of him to the vamp-like caricature of Rogue emblazoned on one of the tee-shirts up for sale.

  At least, she acknowledged, giving the shocked hate merchant a conspiratorial wink, they got the white streak in my hair right.

  “Get away from me!” the man said, his ruddy complexion going pale as recognition sunk in. He backed away from the table until he ran into the plastic tarp at the rear of the booth. “You don’t dare hurt me. We have people everywhere. Friends in high places …”

  Tell me about it, she thought. Sometimes it seemed like half the federal budget was going to bankroll new Sentinel projects and mutant eradication schemes. Rogue was tempted to tear the flimsy booth apart with her (sort of) bare hands, then take off into the sky, giving this two-legged varmint the shock of his useless life, but, no, that would just confirm all his worst fantasies about berserk mutant monsters on the loose. Instead, she contented herself with wadding up the “Rogue” tee-shirt in her fist and hurling the offending garment at the cowering FoH with just a fraction of her superhuman strength.

  The last thing she expected was for the shirt to come flying back at her.

  Flapping its fabric like the wings of an albino bat, the white tee-shirt reversed course in midair and rocketed straight at Rogue, wrapping itself around her face. She reached up to pull it away only to discover that the shirts on the table had come alive as well, swaddling both her hands so that she could barely move her fingers. Blinded and disoriented, she flailed out with her arms—and heard one of the metal posts supporting the booth crumple before the force of her blow.

  “Ah don’t believe this!” she tried to exclaim, but the fabric stretched across her face muffled her words. She felt more of the anti-mutant tee-shirts attack her all too literally, wrapping layer after layer of animated cotton and polyester around her head, cutting off her air.

  I can’t breathe! she realized.

  Shouts and screams from the crowd penetrated the cocoon engulfing her head.

  “Watch out! She’s a mutant!” the Friend of Humanity hollered, like this was her fault or something.

  One corner of the canopy over his booth sagged forward, bouncing harmlessly off the suffocating shroud of shirts that had thrown her into airless darkness. She tried to grab at the wrappings, but her hands might as well have been wearing padded boxing gloves for all the good they did her. She swung one arm down violently, hoping to shake off the clinging garments, but succeeded only in splitting the plywood tabletop right down the middle. Pamphlets and pins spilled onto the toes of her boots.

  Careful there! she reminded herself, despite a growing sense of panic. Lashing out blindly like this, it would be too easy to injure some innocent fairgoer with her superstrength. I need room to cut loose.

  Figuring the sky would be less crowded than the street, she flew straight upward, using her innate ability to defy gravity. Her abrupt takeoff provoked another round of frightened gasps and shrieks from the teeming masses below. And still the obnoxious hate-monger manning the shattered booth wouldn’t give it a rest.

  “Mutant freak!” he called out. “They’re everywhere, just like I said!”

  I wish, Rogue thought. Frankly, she could use a little X-assistance right now. Although airborne, she still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. She wished desperately that Cyclops was close enough for her to grab onto; she wouldn’t mind borrowing his high-powered eyebeams for just a second or two, so she could blast her blindfolds to smithereens. Instead all she could do was paw uselessly at the enveloping hood with swaddled hands, while her lungs cried out for oxygen.

  Even Ms. Marvel couldn’t survive without air, she thought, recalling the unlucky heroine from whom Rogue had stolen her invulnerability and strength. I’m blacking out…

  Terrified pigeons, roosted atop and around Washington Square Arch, vacated the premises in a frantic flurry of wings, but Rogue was not awake to hear the panicky flapping. Unconscious, she plummeted to earth like a meteor, smashing through the top of the marble arch before carving out a crater, several feet deep, in the center of the park. The crater was still there, surrounded by smoking chunks of displaced pavement, when police arrived on the scene only minutes later. Shattered fragments of marble littered the ground beneath the broken monument, which now resembled two jagged pillars instead of an arch. Sculpted figures of George Washington, portrayed as both general and president, looked on in mute disapproval.

  But Rogue was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “AVENGERS Assemble!”

  The hallowed battlecry came readily to Iron Man’s lips as he came within sight of Avengers Mansion. The crimson and golden sheen of his metallic armor glistened in the sunlight, reflecting the blue sky above him and the bustling city streets below, where excited pedestrians stopped in their tracks to stare and point at the armored Avenger as he soared by overhead. Micro-turbine jets in his boots propelled him over Fifth Avenue until he was directly above the venerable townhouse that had long served as headquarters for “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,” as the tabloids loved to call the Avengers.

  Beats “Earth’s Lousiest Losers,” he thought. As both a veteran super hero and, as billionaire Tony Stark, a successful businessman, he knew the value of good publicity. Even Daily Bugle publisher J. Jonah Jameson, that inveterate campaigner against costumed vigilantes, seldom had a bad word to say about the Avengers.

  The mansion was only a short flight away from Stark’s corporate offices in the Flatiron district; still, he wouldn’t have begrudged the trip even if he had needed to fly across half the state to get here.

  I’ve made my fair share of mistakes over the years, he reflected, especially in my personal life, but one thing I can never regret is helping to found the Avengers.

  The team had done a lot of good for humanity, including saving the entire planet on more occasions than he could recall
. Iron Man looked forward to meeting again with his fellow heroes, even as he wondered what sort of crisis had inspired Captain America to call the team together today. Cap’s summons had not included any details.

  Iron Man’s boots touched down on the reinforced concrete heliport nestled amid the Gothic spires of the mansion. Moving with surprising ease for a man wrapped from head to toe in a state-of-the-art suit of combat armor, he approached a doorway a few yards away. Concealed security devices, designed by Stark himself, scanned Iron Man discreetly, confirming his identity before permitting him entry to the mansion. He descended a short flight of wooden stairs to the top floor, where he was greeted by a balding, middle-aged man clad in a conservative, impeccably pressed tuxedo.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Iron Man with an upper-class British accent, looking neither surprised nor intimidated by Iron Man’s robotic appearance. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Jarvis,” Iron Man replied. The butler had been an indispensable fixture of the old Stark family mansion since before Tony donated the house to the Avengers. Iron Man couldn’t imagine the mansion without him. “I hope I haven’t kept everyone waiting.”

  “That seems unlikely, sir,” Edwin Jarvis assured him. He glanced at his brass pocketwatch. “I believe the others are just now gathering in the meeting room.”

  Iron Man knew the way by heart, so he marched down a long, carpeted corridor lined with polished oak paneling and framed portraits of many of the Avengers’ most famous alumni, such as Hercules, Wonder Man, Tigra, and the notorious Black Widow.

  Wonder what Natasha is up to these days? he wondered as his eyes, peering out through two slits in his gilded faceplate, fell upon the latter portrait; he hadn’t seen the Widow since that nasty clash with the Mandarin several weeks back. The thick olive carpeting absorbed the heavy tread of his iron boots until he came to a pair of sturdy double doors. His crimson gauntlet closed gently upon a crystal doorknob as he let himself in.