by Stuart Moore
Jennifer raised an eyebrow at Natasha. “Good luck with that one,” she said to Cap, then turned on her heel and left.
Everyone was quiet for a while. Rocket picked at his food. It wasn’t very tasty, but he’d never been particularly choosy in that area.
“May I have your attention?” Drax said.
His voice was grave; they all turned to look. “I have learned much from the people here,” he continued. “They were dealt a terrible hand by the universe. Before they came to Earth, they were nothing: useful servants of the Kree Empire, worked to death and discarded by those they served. Now, astoundingly, they have even less.”
Rocket found himself nodding.
“They have become my friends,” Drax continued. “And I have found that they hesitate to speak of the destruction of their world. As if such a monumental trauma, such unimaginable carnage, is too much for them to bear.”
“On Earth,” Captain America said, “we call that PTSD.”
“But after speaking with my erstwhile teammates, I ventured to broach the subject with a few of my kitchen coworkers. They were appalled by your attack on this facility…”
“Sorry about that,” Quill muttered.
“…but they agree with the reason you have come. They, too, believe there is a person or force among them that caused the destruction of World Whose Name I Cannot Pronounce.”
“Praeterus,” Rocket said.
“That does not sound right.”
“It’s definitely Praeterus.”
“Regardless,” Drax continued, “this unnamed world–”
“Again. Praeterus.”
“I remain convinced that its destroyer does not reside at this facility. However, we must continue our search for him, or her, or them. Maybe for it. How many pronouns does Earth have?”
“A lot,” Quill said.
“If there’s a killer,” the Black Widow said, “we’ll find them.” Rocket looked up, startled; he hadn’t heard her approach.
“I think you and I better find the elusive Anthony Stark first.” Cap rose, nodded at his fellow Avenger, and then turned to Drax. “Thank you for the meal.”
As Cap and the Widow started off, Quill said, “Well. If we’re gonna be stuck here for a while, I suppose we could help look for the– “
“I was not finished,” Drax said.
Rocket, Quill, and Groot all looked sharply at him. Drax’s voice had been grim before; now it cut through the air like steel.
“I have become certain of something, these past months,” he continued. “The entity behind this killer, this destroyer of worlds – I believe I have deduced its identity.”
“What?” Quill stared at him. “Who is it?”
“And why didn’t you lead with that?” Rocket added.
Drax gestured for them to huddle in. He lowered his voice, speaking in a stage whisper. “It is too dangerous,” he said. “Only through my quick wits, with the help of my new friends, have I managed to escape his machinations. The web that tightens around us, this skein of evil spreading out to blanket the cosmos, can only be the work of…”
Oh no, Rocket thought. Oh, no, no, no.
“…of Thanos.”
Quill blinked. Once, twice. Then he just shook his head. “Dude. Oh, dude.”
“I am Groot. I am Groot.”
“Seriously,” Rocket added. “Seek help, buddy.”
Drax looked from one of them to the other. “My friends,” he whispered. “One day you will see. One day you will know.”
Then he shrugged, picked up another pierogi, and resumed his lunch.
Chapter 32
Kamala saw raccoons. Raccoons with guns. Six of them – no, eight – hovering in front of the sun, pointing their fat-barreled cannons straight at her.
“You know,” the raccoons said, their voices converging and overlapping. “You know you know nobody loves loves intimidating children more than.”
“Shut up,” she said, shaking her head. She knew it was a dream, or maybe a hallucination. Stupid concussion….
“Are you sure,” the raccoons sang. “Are you sure you sure this kid is kid is kid kid is is is.”
“Ms Marvel? Earth girl?”
She blinked. The raccoons were fading, replaced by a single blue face. Great, she thought, I’m really dreaming now. There is no such thing as blue people–
Oh. Wait. “Halla-ar,” she said.
She looked around, remembering where she was: the loading dock, built into the outside wall of the factory. She and Halla-ar sat alone under the bright sunlight. The Kree had all fled, gone back to the barracks.
He smiled down at her. “Don’t try to move too much. We should get you to a doctor.”
“No.” She struggled to focus on him. “My healing factor… it’ll take care of this. Just need some time.”
Kamala raised herself up on her elbows. Stars swam before her eyes; she immediately slumped back down again. “Maybe a lot of time,” she said. “What are you doing here, Halla-ar? Why did you come back?”
“I was worried about you.” He paused. “I owe you.”
With his help, she managed to prop herself up against the stone wall of the factory.
“My sister believes no one on this world cares about us,” he said. “She is wrong.”
“Well, you know. As an Avenger, I’m obligated to… owww. Oh, my head.”
“I really think you should see a doctor.” He glanced at the barracks, frowning. “Though the infirmary here is not very sanitary. Perhaps there is a facility for Earth people elsewhere in this compound.”
“Halla-ar, listen. Just listen to me.” She took his hands and smiled. “It’s super sweet that you’re worried, but I really will be fine. I’ve been hurt worse than this. All I need is… well, no more fighting while I heal up. I need to be normal for a while and eat something.”
“Normal?” He smiled. “In that mask?”
She smiled back.
He studied her for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Come meet my family,” he said. “Be normal with me. We’ll grab you something to eat on the way.”
“I’m… I’d like that,” she replied. “But I’m supposed to meet up with the Guardians. Tony… he told me to…”
She trailed off, thinking. Tony had indeed urged her – maybe even ordered her, as an Avenger – to work with the Guardians. But the green woman, Gamora…she really seemed to think Halla-ar was the planet-killer. What if she came after him again, while Kamala was off… Avenging?
In the end, it came down to a simple choice. What was she, first and foremost? A friend or an Avenger?
“Tony Stark,” Halla-ar said. “He wants to find the killer. The one who destroyed my world.”
“Yeah.”
“Perhaps I can help with that. My people… a few of them live in our housing project now. We could talk to them, you and me. See what we can find out.”
She winced. “I don’t think I’m up for any more fighting.”
“Just…” He smiled. “Detective work, do you call it?”
She nodded. A friend or an Avenger? Maybe she could be both.
With considerable effort, she dragged herself to the edge of the loading dock, dangled her feet over, and tested her legs. “I think I can walk,” she said.
He helped her down. When she stumbled in the grass, he wrapped an arm around her waist. That felt nice.
“No fighting,” he said, leading her off. “I promise.”
She shook her head, then leaned into his shoulder. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said.
•••
Gamora stood in the daycare room, staring at the mess on the floor. A pair of plastic dollhouses; a toy steamshovel with a missing wheel. Crayons, markers, whiteboards, construction paper. All of it crumpled, dirty,
used and reused and taped together to be used again.
The children had all gone now, back to their dirty rooms. To take naps, if they could. If someone else wasn’t using the room to talk on the phone, or to trade goods for food, or have a screaming match.
The caretaker sat in her chair, in the corner, dozing off. Phone clutched in her wrinkled hand.
Gamora had walked the entire complex, peered into every possible room. Every time she heard a high-pitched voice, she ran to look, hoping it was the little girl from Praeterus. The girl whose planet she’d promised to save; the girl she’d let down. She searched the dining area, knocked on doors, even ventured again into the laundry room. But each time, her hopes were dashed.
Other Kree haunted her too: the workers in the munitions plant. The wheelchair-bound woman, the blue man with prosthetic limbs. The young woman wired up to her station, almost a part of the machine she served.
One by one those faces came to mind, and one by one they faded. Replaced by the young Kree boy, Halla-ar – the kid she’d fought outside this building. The boy she’d almost killed by mistake, in her misplaced rage and guilt.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. One way or another, either way, the killer was still at large. Still out there, still scheming. Maybe even plotting the death of another world.
That was Gamora’s purpose. That was what she had to stop.
Rocket and the others wanted that too, she knew. But finding Drax alive had taken the edge off their quest. They were too concerned with repairing the ship, with taking things one step at a time. Even Peter, who she knew would crawl through an exploding nova for her, didn’t really understand the urgency she felt.
A wind-up robot paced against the daycare room wall, walking in place, bashing its painted face into the corrugated metal over and over again. She crossed over to it, picked it up, and turned it around. When she left the room, it was bumping its way around like a rubber ball, moving slowly but steadily across the room.
Outside, the sky was clear and bright. The Avengers’ quinjet soared overhead, shedding a few last drops of water into the air. Its underside was dented, hastily patched with sealant and metal plates.
Shielding her eyes against the sun, Gamora waved to the quinjet. The jet circled, as if hesitating, then wafted down. It bumped once and settled onto the grass between the factory and the bus station.
A hatch opened and Natasha Romanoff stuck her head out. Gamora ran over, keeping her distance, holding up her hands in a gesture of peace. The quinjet’s engines sounded rough; the craft had sustained some damage.
“You’re hunting the planet-killer?” Gamora asked.
“Maybe,” Romanoff replied.
“I want in.”
Romanoff frowned, then ducked back into the jet. Through the transparent cockpit bubble, Gamora could see her conferring with Captain America. Then Romanoff’s hand reappeared in the hatchway, beckoning.
Gamora ran to the quinjet and climbed inside.
Part Five
Skull Candles, War Stories, Whisky-73
Chapter 33
“Talk to me, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Where am I headed?”
“Stark Tower, Manhattan. Fifth Avenue between–”
“Uh, thanks, I know it. I know the address.”
Tony soared in over Manhattan, his thoughts swirling. He barely noticed the green expanse of Central Park spread out below.
“Run down the trail for me again,” he continued. “Pepper assigned the Kree project to Harrison…”
“Yes, boss. Who died shortly thereafter in–”
“In a plane crash, over the Andes. I remember. That was suspicious as hell. What next?”
“Oversight of the project passed to a Ms Li-Cooper, who, as best I can tell, does not actually exist. She, or whatever entity created her, delegated responsibility to a mid-level executive with… well, with an odd title. To say the least.”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., you know I hate it when you pause dramatically.”
“The gentleman’s title is Director of Diabolism and Parapsychology. His name is Jericho.”
“First or last name?”
“Nothing else. Just Mister Jericho.”
“Well, that’s not suspicious or anything.”
The park passed by underneath, giving way to the dense sprawl of Midtown Manhattan. Stark Tower gleamed dead ahead, its spire jutting up above the older surrounding skyscrapers.
“What about this so-called planet-killer? Any progress on that?”
“All dead ends so far. However, I am pleased to report that S.H.I.E.L.D. has recaptured the Melter.”
“Where’d they find him? Sabotaging an off-season ski slope? Never mind, I’m not actually interested.”
He touched down on the outer deck, just outside his penthouse office. The armor, following an automatic protocol, began to unlock and disengage from his body. He overrode the process with a quick mental command.
“Let’s keep the suit on,” he muttered. “Something tells me this might not be a simple human resources issue.”
The glass door irised open at his approach. That’s more like it, he thought. Compared to this place, the Long Island complex really was stuck in the past. He strode inside and through the office, passing an array of papers, displays, and softly spinning holo-schematics. So many projects, he thought. So many balls to juggle.
He came to a private elevator and keyed it open with one armored finger. “Floor?” he asked.
“Sixty-six,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said.
“Pretty high. Diabolism must be booming.”
“Sir, I’m not actually certain that–”
“Silent mode, F.R.I.D.A.Y. I’ll take it from here.”
Floor 66 seemed deserted. He clanked across the carpet to the office marked MR JERICHO, feeling vaguely foolish in the Iron Man armor. He opened his helmet and knocked twice, sharply.
No answer. “Hello?” he called and pushed the door open.
For a moment, he stood speechless. Well, he thought, I don’t know what I expected to find. But this wasn’t it.
A tall, muscular Black man sat at a wooden executive desk. He wore a jet-black costume with white sigils smeared across it, and a deep violet cape fastened at the neck with a gold clasp. His eyes glowed red; a short chain of shrunken skulls hung from the sash at his waist. One hand rested on a rough-carved staff, leaning up against the desk.
Tony knew this man; he’d fought alongside him. “Jericho,” he said. “Jericho Drumm. Brother Voodoo?”
The man didn’t look up. “It’s Doctor,” he said, a faint echo haunting his voice.
“Right, sorry. Doctor Voodoo.” Tony stepped inside. “Do you, uh, work for me?”
A faint smile. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Tony frowned, stepped inside. Something was wrong here. Voodoo’s tone was hostile, almost angry. And what was he doing here?
A radiation-style shield sat on Voodoo’s desk, hiding something from view. Tony edged around until he could see behind the shield where a large human skull glowed softly, the top cut open to reveal a dark red candle. At the base of the skull, several dozen microchips had been wired together in an unfamiliar configuration.
“What you got there, Doc?” he asked. “Model for some new kind of tourist souvenir? It’s a little off-brand for Stark Enterprises.”
Voodoo still didn’t turn to look. He touched a screwdriver to the microchip assembly, raising a brief spark. “It is for the Kree,” he said. Another brief echo: For the Kree.
“OK, yeah,” Tony said. “That’s actually why I’m here. What do you know about the Kree situation, anyway?”
“I know they are lucky to have found employment with us.”
“The conditions they’re living in are… well, shameful at the least. Dangerous and illegal, at the most.”
With thick, steady hands
, Voodoo lit the candle. A thin, odorless trail of smoke twisted up from it; the microchip assembly began to hum. He watched the tiny flame for a moment, then turned, at last, away from the device. His eyes blazed bright, with a fire that made Tony shiver.
“Would you prefer them to live on the street?” Voodoo asked.
“I would prefer we treat them like human beings.”
“The accommodations are temporary.” (Echo: Temporary.) “If the Kree work hard and make something of themselves, they will improve their lot.”
Tony shook his head, trying to clear it. He felt caught up in something, some force beyond his comprehension. This was… all wrong…
“Have you not always encouraged frugal business practices?” Voodoo continued. “Among your employees? Those who toil in your vineyards?”
“Not… always…”
He staggered, clutching for the desk. The smoke, he realized – the smoke from the candle. It’s affecting me, making it hard to think! He snapped his helmet shut, knowing it was too late; the smoke had already gotten into his system. He stumbled back a step, raised his hand to fire a repulsor ray–
–but Voodoo was faster. He rose to his feet and lifted the staff, chanting something under his breath. Fire shot forth, an eerie blue flame that struck Tony in the chest, spreading out to cover his armor.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”
“Heat shields holding,” the female voice said.
Tony activated fire suppressors, sending out jets of foam to quell the supernatural flame. He raised both arms, willing his repulsors to point five power – enough to knock a human enemy into the wall, but not strong enough to burn through flesh.
“Jericho?” he asked. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?”
Voodoo lunged toward him. Tony aimed and fired, just as Voodoo swung his staff in the air. In its wake, a trail of thick black smoke swept across the room.
Tony swore as his repulsor shots went wild. He couldn’t see the results, but the sound of breaking glass suggested one of them had hit a lamp. “Switch to radar targeting,” he told F.R.I.D.A.Y.
He stumbled around the room, momentarily blind, as a green-outlined grid faded up on his HUD display. Window, desk, and yes – shattered floor lamp. But where was Voodoo?