Grimacing, he limped down the corridor toward the elevator. The Comm Suite, from which he could theoretically send for help, was two floors away and he was in no shape to bamf that far. Fractured ankle bones ground against each other, producing sharp, shooting pains that brought him close to fainting. His vision blurred and grew dark around the edges, while the floor seemed to sway dizzyingly beneath his feet. He couldn’t pause for a moment’s rest, though; he knew he had to keep going—for Iceman and Moira’s sake. To take the pressure off his injured leg, he kicked off from the floor with his good leg, lifting his body above his head, and started walking on his hands. “Jah, he murmured weakly, “that’s better. I think.”
Even for a mutant as acrobatically gifted as Nightcrawler, hand-walking at an urgent clip was tiring work, almost as hard as teleporting from one end of the Research Centre to another. A cold sweat broke out beneath his red-and-blue uniform, leaving him feeling damp and clammy. Although suspended in the air, his broken ankle throbbed mercilessly, and he wished for some serious painkillers, plus maybe an attractive nurse or two. The elevator, less than twenty meters away, seemed light-years distant.
How are Moira and Bobby faring? he wondered, concerned for his friends despite his own grievous situation. Could Iceman withstand a full-fledged Sentinel assault on his own? In truth, Nightcrawler had seldom fought beside the frozen hero, simply because their terms as X-Men had so seldom overlapped, so he had only a limited sense of Bobby Drake’s capabilities. Cyclops and the others spoke well of Iceman, though, which reassured Kurt somewhat. The refrigerated X-Man could have never survived against the likes of Magneto or Sauron, if he hadn’t learned something from his sessions in the Danger Room. Bobby can hold his own, Nightcrawler decided. I just need to have faith.
A deafening crash interrupted his worried musings. Still standing on his head, Nightcrawler looked back the way he came—and saw the phony Abomination emerge from the medlab in an explosion of flying timbers and plaster. Eschewing the convenient exit, the Sentinel simply bulldozed through the wall and into the hall, less than fifteen meters behind the shocked X-Man. “Tracking mutant designate: Nightcrawler,” it said. Infrared scanners glowed balefully from sockets beneath the robot’s troglodyte brow. “Target sighted.”
Instinctively, Nightcrawler cartwheeled forward onto his feet, then gasped out loud as his weight came down on his bad leg. Tears leaked from his eyes and he almost lost his balance. Half limping, half dragging his foot behind him, he lurched toward the elevator, all the time hearing the lumbering footsteps of the disguised Sentinel closing on him. As soon as the lift controls came within reach, he jabbed the UP button with his middle finger and waited for the metal door to slide open, which didn’t happen nearly fast enough.
“Come on,” he whispered impatiently. According to the display above the entrance, the lift was still among the Centre’s sub-basements, working its way up, floor by floor. ‘ ‘Schnell, schnell! ’ ’
“Beware the Abomination,” the Sentinel said mechanically, apparently programmed to perpetuate its fraudulent imposture for the benefit of whoever might be listening. “The Abomination cannot be thwarted.”
Nightcrawler could not be fooled. He knew a Sentinel when he heard one. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that the relentless robot was only a few meters away. To his vast relief, the elevator chimed, announcing the lift’s arrival. And none too soon, he thought, squeezing past the metal door as soon as it began to slide open. The point of his tail stabbed repeatedly at the close door button inside the lift even as he blurted out his destination to the voice-activated elevator system. “The Comm Suite,” he panted, breathing hard. “Now.”
To his frustration, the elevator door took its own sweet time in closing, pausing patiently for any further passengers. Unfortunately for the debilitated X-Man, one such passenger was even now bearing down on the elevator, its greedy claws reaching out for Nightcrawler once more. The light from the open lift poured out into the corridor, exposing the pseudo-Abomination in all its reptilian hideousness. Kurt flattened himself against the back of the elevator, then glanced at the emergency hatch in the ceiling of the lift. A possible escape route?
At last, the door leisurely began to slide shut, but it was too late. Scaly fingers caught hold of the door’s edge, halting its progress an instant before the entrance completely closed. With a harsh wrenching noise, the Abomination-Sentinel ripped the steel door from its tracks, then charged into the cramped confines of the lift, only to find its quarry missing. The escape hatch slammed shut above the robot’s head, granting the Sentinel only a fleeting glimpse of a pronged tail chasing its owner out of the lift compartment.
Nightcrawler heard the faux Abomination claw through the roof of the elevator beneath him, metallic green talons rending the flimsy steel barrier between the Sentinel and its prey. Favoring his injured ankle, Nightcrawler climbed even faster up the greasy elevator cable, confident that the massive robot could not easily duplicate his own agile ascent, yet eager to increase his lead on his indomitable pursuer. He swiftly counted off the floors as he climbed.
One. As he passed the closed elevator doorway that led to the laboratory where he had left Iceman and Moira, he thought he heard the muffled pounding of hammers upon steel, along with the cawing of... an enormous bird? He was sorely tempted to make his way back into the lab, to add what was ieft of his strength to his friends’, but, no, he realized, summoning reinforcements had to be his top priority. “Hang on, mein freunds,” he whispered. “Help will be on its way soon.”
Two. Moira’s security lockdown had also sealed the entrance to the Comm Suite, but, thankfully, Nightcrawler still remembered the appropriate security codes. Using all three of the fingers of his right hand, he rapidly keyed the correct numeric sequence into an access panel mounted to the wall of the elevator shaft. With a hydraulic whoosh, redundant layers of steel shielding slide aside to permit him entry to the chamber beyond. He hopped awkwardly from the cable to the floor of the Comm Suite, sending an agonizing pang through his injured leg despite his best efforts to shield the tender limb from the impact. “Mein gott, that hurts!” he muttered, wiping his greasy hands on his trousers. If he’d been a telekinetic and not a teleporter, his angry thoughts at that moment might have been enough to reduce the ersatz Abomination to so many nuts and bolts....
Faxes, modems, scanners, and other equipment filled the suite, all tied in to the high-powered satellite dish erected on the roof of the Centre. He limped over to the main communications console and gratefully dropped into a movable seat. His fingers danced over the control panel as he fired up the communications array and sent out a general SOS to the X-Men, X-Force, and even—why not?—-Generation X’s private academy in Massachusetts. “Attention, priority Alpha!” he stated crisply into the mike. “This is Nightcrawler calling from the Genetic Research Centre on Muir Island. We are under attack by Sentinels. Repeat: Sentinels. Assistance is required as quickly as possible. Please respond immediately.”
Too bad they’re all an ocean away, he thought, but the
X-Men could travel with amazing speed when they had to. He placed a pair of headphones over his pointed ears, and waited anxiously to hear if anyone had received his message. Just our luck if nobody’s home to take the call.
“C’mon, Ororo, Logan, Rogue, somebody. Let me know you’re there.”
The headphones muffled but hardly blocked out the startling sound of something crashing through the ceiling behind him. “Vas?” he asked out loud, rotating his seat to locate the source of the disturbance. Surely the “Abomination” had not climbed up the cables already, let alone taken a detour by way of the roof? That was impossible! Nonetheless, a gigantic green figure now stood between Nightcrawler and the open elevator shaft, casting an ominously large shadow over the surprised and crippled X-Man. Kurt Wagner gulped as he recognized the savage creature grabbing onto his chair and effortlessly throwing Nightcrawler across the room with just one hand.
It
was not the Abomination.
It was the Hulk.
-Chapter Three
This is more like it, Captain America decided. Now that the Beast had successfully called a truce between the various warring parties, the X-Men, the Avengers, and even the Hulk could work together to achieve a common goal. Hank McCoy definitely deserved a round of applause; as far as Cap was concerned, teamwork was always preferable to knocking heads together.
The assembled heroes had gathered upon the Rainbow Bridge spanning the Niagara River downstream of the Falls. Colonel Lopez and his Canadian counterpart guarded both ends of the bridge, blocking traffic and providing the heroes with a degree of privacy from curious sightseers and aggressive reporters. TV news copters, driven away by the Hulk earlier, had returned in force, however, circling low above the two-lane suspension bridge with their cameras aimed at what was undeniably an impressive collection of colorful individuals.
We ’re all of us looking a bit worse for wear, Cap reflected. With the notable exception of the Hulk, they were all soaked and more than a little banged up. One wing was missing from his own cowl and his sore jaw kept reminding him of its unfortunate collision with the Hulk’s fist. I’m lucky / still have all my teeth, he thought; the Hulk must have been holding back some.
The X-Men had not fared much better. Cyclops’s yellow bandolier was tom and his lower lip looked swollen, while Storm’s exposed arms and legs were marred by numerous nicks and scratches. The Beast’s dense fur largely concealed his injuries, but Cap noticed that the agile former Avenger was moving a bit more stiffly than he usually did, a pained wince occasionally dimming his characteristic smile. Poor Hank, Cap thought. He didn’t envy anyone who’d been on the receiving end of Cyclops’s eyebeams.
Only the Hulk, standing at least a head taller than anyone else on the bridge, appeared unscathed by the recent violence. True, his faded purple jeans hung in ribbons below his knees, but that was pretty much standard attire for the Hulk. “So what are we waiting for?” he rumbled ominously. A sullen expression seemed to have taken up permanent residence upon his neanderthal features. “I said I’d answer your stupid questions if everyone left me alone, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got all day. Let’s get on with it.”
Storm gave the Hulk a disapproving look. His bad attitude was getting on everyone’s nerves, but, thankfully, no one felt inclined to start another fight. “Hold tight a few more minutes,” Captain America instructed the Hulk in his most authoritative voice. Hopefully, his relative seniority would carry some weight with the impatient Hulk while they tended to a more urgent matter.
Cap leaned out over the pedestrian guardrail, searching the churning basin beneath the Horseshoe Falls. A foggy white mist concealed the surface of the pool, frustrating the Star-Spangled Avenger’s efforts to see any sign of activity below the turbulent white water. A rainbow arced through the mist. The weather, he noted, had improved dramatically since Storm joined the cease-fire, gray and angry clouds giving way to open blue sky. He just hoped the rainbow would prove a positive omen.
“C’mon, Shellhead,” he whispered to himself. “What’s keeping you?”
Another long minute passed before he thought he saw something break the surface of the misty pool. “Look!” Cyclops called out, pointing toward the water below. Cap followed his gaze and was relieved to see a gleaming metal figure emerge from the river. Iron Man shone in the sunlight, as he rose into the sky, cradling the broken body of the Vision. He flew slowly toward the bridge, the seemingly inert synthezoid weighing him down like ballast, until Iron Man’s boots touched down on the pavement near Cap and the others. Staggering beneath the obvious weight of his burden, he carefully lowered the Vision to the surface of the bridge. The android Avenger appeared lifeless except for a faint, intermittent flickering in the amber gem embedded in the Vision’s forehead. Even though he had been warned in advance, Cap was still shocked to see the Vision’s right arm lying separate from his body.
“Sorry for the delay,” Iron Man apologized. He sounded slightly out of breath. “It’s pretty murky down there. It took me awhile to find his arm. My spotlight was broken, so I had to rely on the sonar.” Cap noticed that Iron Man’s armor was dented in places and the beam projector in his chestplate cracked. Did the Hulk do that or Storm? he wondered.
The blacktop beneath the Vision cracked loudly, narrow fissures extending like spiderwebs through the pavement around the fallen synthezoid. “He’s heavier than he looks,” Iron Man explained, stretching his arms as much as his armor would allow. “He must have increased his density to its upper limit before he took the plunge from the Falls.” Storm felt compelled to apologize as well. “I’m so sorry, Iron Man. I had no idea what had happened to your teammate. No wonder you attacked the Hulk.” She shook her head, no doubt recalling how she had rashly come to the Hulk’s defense. “I was tired and wet and recovering from a severe psychic shock, but I should have realized you had been provoked.”
All eyes gradually turned toward the Hulk. It was he, Iron Man had explained to the X-Men, who had tom the Vision asunder, then tossed both pieces over the Falls. Unrepentant, the green goliath glared back at them, his arms folded across his chest, the massive biceps bulging like overstaffed sandbags. “Hey, I warned him to leave me alone,” he gmmbled. “Can I help it if he can’t take a hint?”
Cap clenched his teeth, biting back an angry retort. He couldn’t expect the Hulk to show any remorse. Helping the Vision was what mattered now. “How is he?” he asked Iron Man. The Vision’s plasticine body looked disturbingly still. Only the flashing gem in his forehead hinted at any degree of animation. Was he alive or dead? Cap wondered. Or did those words mean anything at all where, an artificial lifeform is involved? The Vision’s predecessor, the original android Human Torch, had “died” several times, but was currently up and running again. With any luck, the Vision was just as durable.
“I’ve seen him worse,” Iron Man said bluntly. He had a point; Cap recalled at least two occasions on which the Vision had practically needed to be rebuilt from scratch. “His primary operating system has gone into emergency shutdown mode to conserve energy, but I should be able to reattach his arm back at the mansion, then reboot him with only minimal memory loss. If he’s lucky, he won’t even remember the accident.”
Iron Man’s hopeful diagnosis elicited a skeptical expression from Storm and Cyclops. Cap didn’t blame them; the dismembered Vision sure looked like a seriously-wounded casualty of war. “Trust me,” Iron Man informed them, “this isn’t nearly as bad as the time the Feds completely disassembled him, or the time Morgan Le Fey blew him apart with a mystical blast. Now that required some major reconstruction work.”
“That’s our Vizh,” the Beast remarked. He crouched ape-like, his knuckles grazing the pavement, and inspected the synthezoid’s amputated arm. Unlike the rest of the Vision’s body, the disconnected limb appeared lightweight and gelatinous in texture. “He takes a licking, and keeps on ticking.” .
“Fine,” the Hulk snapped testily. “If Robby the Robot is going to be okay then, can we maybe get on with business? At this rate, my snazzy green hair’s gonna go gray again before I get away from this overrated tourist trap.” Iron Man had heard enough. “Listen, Hulk,” he barked. “I just spent fifteen minutes fishing your crummy handiwork off the floor of the river and the last thing I need is your lip.” He took an angry step toward the Hulk, the servomotors in his armor whirring audibly, but Captain America laid a restraining hand upon the Golden Avenger’s shoulder.
“Easy, old friend,” Cap said. His crimson glove was almost the same color as Iron Man’s shoulderplate. ‘'That’s not going to help the Vision—or Wanda.”
“Aw, let him go,” the Hulk urged, sounding disappointed by the Cap’s diplomatic efforts. He flashed a wide, malicious grin. “I’ll crack open that metal shell like a boiled lobster. It won’t take long, I promise.”
“No,” Cyclops said firmly, stepping bravely between Iron Man and the Hulk. ;�
�We’ve wasted too much time already.” He turned his visor toward the two surviving Avengers. “You mentioned the Scarlet Witch a moment ago. What sort of danger is she in?”
There upon the bridge, flanked by watchful armies on both sides, the two teams compared notes, sharing with each other the bizarre and unsettling chain of events that had brought both mutants and human heroes to Niagara Falls in search of the Hulk. Captain America was not too surprised to discover that the X-Men’s quest was very much like their own. The pieces are coming together, he thought, even if we can’t quite make out the big picture yet.
“Sounds to me,” Cyclops said, “like the Scarlet Witch was abducted not long before Rogue disappeared, and under similar circumstances.”
‘ ‘Living marionettes, animated tee-shirts ... this just keeps getting stranger,” Iron Man complained. He had earlier confided to Cap his concern that this case might end up involving sorcery, not exactly scientist Tony Stark’s cup of tea. “The common link here, besides the suggestively analogous m.o.’s, is the presence of gamma radiation at both sites.”
The mention of gamma rays caught the Hulk’s attention. For the first time, he seemed more than grudgingly interested in what the costumed heroes had to say. “Gamma radiation, mysterious disappearances,” he muttered, more to himself than to either the Avengers or the X-Men. His surly expression darkened further as he mulled over what he had just heard. “It can’t be. Not him again.”
“Do these clues mean something to you, Hulk?” Storm asked. Her striking blue eyes held a trace of hope. Perhaps their costly pursuit of the Hulk would prove worth the hardships they’d endured.
I hope so, too, Cap thought.
For once, the Hulk answered without argument and only a token amount of attitude. “Not all that weirdness about puppets and flying shirts,” he said, “but the rest of it? Yeah, that rings some bells. The way I see it, your buddies got beamed out of there after the puppets and all put the kibosh on them. Problem is, there’s only one slimeball I know who uses trans-mat technology powered by gamma energy: my old sparring partner, Samuel Stems. Or, as he likes to call himself these days, the Leader.”
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