Then the pain hit her, twisting her insides so hard she could barely breathe. Part of her polyglot consciousness, the same part that suffused her with a ferocious hunger to strike back at her enemies, recognized the excruciating pangs wracking every organ in her body. The mismatched blood was clotting inside her, tearing her apart, starving her brain. Her head throbbed behind her eyes and darkness stole her sight. All she could hear, over the rapid-fire drumming of her heart, was an agonized howl that didn’t sound remotely human.

That howl was her own.

Chapter Five

There. That should do it.”

Iron Man stepped back from the operating table, where he had just finished reconnecting the Vision’s severed arm. A pen-sized laser wielder was gripped between the steel-sheathed fingers of his right gauntlet. Magnifying lenses, which had slid into place within his eye slits, receded now that the delicate work was completed. “I’m no Henry Pym,” he announced, referring to the Avengers’ premiere roboticist and the Vision’s putative grandfather, “but I think he should be good as new.”

The seemingly lifeless synthezoid rested atop a shining chromium operating table, located in a sub-basement of Avengers Mansion in Manhattan. The reattached arm remained softer and less incredibly dense than the rest of the android’s body. Adamantium supports held the surgical platform intact despite the extreme weight of Iron Man’s mechanical patient. An unlikely assortment of X-Men and Avengers looked on anxiously while the Golden Avenger waited to see if the Vision would spontaneously awaken now that he’d been repaired. Iron Man wished he could wipe the sweat from his brow, but he could hardly remove his helmet while the X-Men and the Hulk were present. That’s the problem with having company over, he thought wryly.

Several seconds passed and the Vision remained as inert 134

as before. Only the Hulk appeared unconcerned; the green goliath slouched against the far wall, looking bored and impatient. He cracked his enormous knuckles noisily. “Aren’t you done yet?” the Hulk rumbled. “For pete’s sake, he’s just a machine. Only you do-gooding Avengers could get this worked up over a piece of broken hardware.” Iron Man clenched his fists so hard the laser wielder crumpled within his grip. He started to reply angrily, but caught a warning look from Cap. Instead, to his surprise, Storm spoke up. “Our friend and ally Douglock is a machine as well,” she rebuked the Hulk, “but we X-Men consider his life to be of no less value than our own.” “Then you’re all a bunch of soft-hearted suckers,” the Hulk retorted. He glowered at them from beneath a sloping brow. “Trust me, when you’ve trashed as many killer robots and mandroids as I have, you get a lot less squeamish where smashing wind-up people are concerned.”

I’ve fought plenty of mechanical men, too, Iron Man thought indignantly. Dreadnought and adaptoids and so on. But that’s no excuse for callous disregard toward a hero like a Vision.

The android Avenger had proven his humanity and courage a hundred times over, no matter how cold and unfeeling he might seem to the outside world. You’d think a misunderstand monster like the Hulk could appreciate that, Iron Man thought.

Cyclops forestalled further debate by stepping between Storm and the Hulk. His glowing red visor and serious expression offered little hint of his own feelings on the subject. “How is your patient, Iron Man?” he asked. “When do you expect him to revive?”

“I was hoping that his cybernetic brain would reboot automatically once I restored his arm,” Iron Man admitted, “but it’s looking like I’m going to have to jumpstart his

entire system. Fortunately, I think I know how.”

Iron Man directed his chest projector at the Vision’s brow. Replacing the lens broken at Niagara Falls had been easily accomplished once he picked up a spare at the Mansion; the modular design of his armor made such repairs a simple matter provided the right parts were available. If only the Vision could be fixed as readily.

Solar power, absorbed via the amber gem in his forehead, powered the Vision. The sun was already setting outside, but Iron Man figured he could provide an adequate substitute. Using the vari-beam projector in his chestplate, he aimed a beam of energized photons directly at the Vision’s solar jewel. At first, nothing seemed to be happening, then the synthezoid’s pliable right arm hardened visibly, achieving the same uniform density as his entire artificial body. “Look,” he said, encouraged by this positive sign, “he’s achieving equilibrium.” According to gravimetric sensors built into the operating table itself, the Vision’s intensely amplified weight was rapidly returning to normal parameters, somewhere between 150 to 200 pounds. “He’s coming back on-line.”

“Thank heavens,” Captain America said.

“Praise the Goddess,” Storm seconded.

“Most felicitous congratulations!” the Beast enthused, bounding across the lab for a better look. “Once again you have proven yourself a maestro mechanic of unparalleled skill and ingenuity.”

Iron Man shook his head. “It’s nothing any qualified technician couldn’t handle,” he insisted, motivated less by false modesty than by a vigorous desire to conceal his civilian identity. He cut off the photonic beam, convinced the concentrated radiant energy had done its work. “Working for Mr. Stark for so many years, you can’t help picking up plenty of scientific kflow-how, especially when your life often depends on keeping a suit of complicated, high-tech armor up and running.”

The gem in the Vision’s brow flashed busily. Assuming a uniform density was just the first step in the Vision’s warm-up procedure. A low electrical hum came from the synthezoid’s supine body until, at last, red plastic eyelids flickered, exposing lighted amber orbs that stared with renewed intensity at the ceiling. The Vision sat up abruptly, provoking gasps of relief from the X-Men and his fellow Avengers.

The Hulk merely snorted and scratched himself rudely. “About time,” he muttered, not caring who heard him.

Twenty minutes, and several much-needed showers, later, the various heroes reconvened in the Avenger’s conference room. The Beast made himself at home, hopping over to the nearest communications console and tapping in instructions with both hands and most of his toes. The remaining X-Men stood around awkwardly, feeling distinctly out of place, until Captain America graciously insisted that both Cyclops and Storm take a seat at the round steel table in the center of the conference room. I wonder if this is Wanda’s chair? Cyclops wondered as he sat down. Over the years, the Scarlet Witch had been both a foe and ally to the X-Men. Now it seemed that she and Rogue faced the same dire fate, most likely at the hands of the notorious Leader.

“So, Vizh,” the Beast asked congenially, eyeing the once-more-intact synthezoid, “I’m curious. Now that you’re in one piece again, are you left-handed or righthanded?’ ’

“Neither,” the Vision answered. He sat calmly at the conference table, apparently untraumatized by his recent brush with demolition. His canary-yellow cloak was draped over his shoulders. ‘ ‘My creator, the mad robot Ultron, saw no functional purpose in the human preference for one side over another.”

“I see,” the Beast said. “You and I have ambidexterity in common then.” He wiggled his furry' fingers like a concert pianist, then pressed one final button with his big toe. “That’s that,” he proclaimed cheerfully as he left the communications station to join his comrades at the table. He nimbly perched atop the back of one of the silver eggshaped chairs. His blue fur still looked slightly damp from the shower. “Mission accomplished. I have successfully set' up a two-way link with our own computerized message center back at the Institute. Any incoming calls to our suburban domicile will be rerouted here and vice versa.”

“Any word from the Professor and the others?” Cyclops asked urgently. Like Ororo, he wore a voluminous terry-cloth bathrobe while the Avengers’ butler, Jarvis, generously restitched their tom and tattered uniforms. By contrast, Captain America had simply changed into a spare uniform. Cyclops suspected that Iron Man had done so as well; even though he couldn’t tell if the Golden Avenger was wearing the same suit of armor as before, the dents he’d received during his battle with the Hulk were now missing.

“I’m afraid not,” the Beast answered, “nor was there any recent communique from the perpetually peripatetic Wolverine.”

Cyclops scowled. He hadn’t really expected to hear from the Professor and the rest; their mission to the Savage Land had been of indeterminate length. He spared a second to hope that Jean was not in any danger, then worried about Wolverine. It bothered him that he had no idea where Logan might be, or when he intended to return. He could be anywhere from Madripoor to the Yukon. That’s just like him, though, he recalled, sighing in resignation. Wolverine would turn up when he turned up; that was the most he could hope for.

“I do not suppose,” Storm added, “that there was any ransom demand from Rogue’s abductor?” She sipped from a mug of hot herbal tea, more evidence of the Avengers’ hospitality.

“The Leader’s not interested in any stupid ransom,” the Hulk contributed roughly. Unlike the rest of the heroes, he had declined the Avengers’ offer of a shower and smelled like it. Cyclops’s nose wrinkled beneath his visor at the rank odor coming from the looming green gargantua. The Hulk still wore the same ragged jeans as well; Jarvis had bravely volunteered to provide. the Hulk with a change of clothing, but the coarse monster had merely sneered at the suggestion. Now the Hulk lumbered about the conference room, too obstinate and antisocial to even consider sitting down at the same table with the other heroes.

And I thought Wolverine had a bad attitude, Cyclops marvelled.

“Stems can get all the cash he wants, just by applying that swollen brain of his to the stock market, the races, lotteries, or whatever,” the Hulk continued. His deep hatred of the Leader was evident in his tone, as well as in the smoldering fury in his eyes. “Whatever he snagged your pals for, it’s not about money.”

There are other kind of ransoms, Cyclops thought, but chose not to press the point; they had spent too much time sparring with the Hulk already.

“Tell me more about these Gamma Sentinels,” Cyclops asked Captain America. The veteran hero sat across from Cyclops, between Iron Man and the Vision. “What makes them so special?”

Cap cradled a mug of hot coffee—black, with just a drop of milk—between his gloved hands. He nodded at Cyclops, looking like he appreciated Cyclops’s efforts to keep the focus on the problems at hand. “According to Nick Fury, the idea was plausible deniability. Each Sentinel mimics the powers and appearance of a well-known product of gamma mutation: The Abomination, the Harpy, Doc Samson, even the Hulk. The devious minds behind the Gamma Sentinels wanted anti-mutant weapons that did not point back to them; the plan was to blame any ‘necessary’ anti-mutant offensives on freakish monstrosities with a reputation for wanton destruction.” He paused to glance at the scowling Hulk. “No offense intended.”

The Hulk looked more disgusted than affronted. “Let them blame their dirty tricks on me. Like I care what John Q. Public thinks of me.” It occurred to Cyclops that the Hulk’s reputation could hardly get worse; he had the all the infamy he deserved, and then some.

The X-Men’s co-leader found Captain America’s explanation regarding the Gamma Sentinels depressingly believable. Previous generations of Sentinels had always proved to be public relations disasters for the governments and corporations involved; he wasn’t surprised to hear that a more covert pogrom was in the works.

“In any event,” Cap continued, “since these new Sentinels are also powered by internal gamma reactors, any residual radiation serves to perpetuate the hoax. Heaven only knows, though, what the Leader intends to do with the Gamma Sentinels. Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

The existence of the Gamma Sentinels still didn’t explain how or why Rogue and the Scarlet Witch were abducted, hours before the Sentinels were stolen from S.H.I.E.L.D., but it seemed safe to assume that the Leader was behind all three events. Finding the Hulk’s super-intelligent nemesis had to be their next move. “Hulk,” Cyclops addressed the surly giant, “you said earlier that you last encountered the Leader in Alberta. What else can you tel! us about that incident?”

The Hulk frowned at the memory. “Big-Brain had a whole underground city there, called Freehold, buried beneath the Columbia ice fields. He’d packed the place with gamma-powered super-types he’d created himself, along with lots of desperate humans he promised a better world to. Eventually, there was this big fracas between him, me, and some invading Hydra storm troopers. In the process, the Leader got shot full of holes, then blew up in the usual cataclysmic explosion. Like I said, he’s supposed to be dead, but I’ll believe that when I’ve crushed his wormy skull between my own bare hands.” He smiled vindictively at that image, then shrugged his colossal shoulders. “The city’s still there. Some wannabe Leader named Omnibus is running the show now.”

“I remember reading something about that very same subterranean sanctuary,” the Beast commented, “but I thought the whole kit-and-kaboodle was destroyed a few months ago.”

“That was merely a rumor,” the Vision stated, presumably calling up the relevant data from his own memory banks. Cyclops noted that the impassive android seemed to bear no animus toward the Hulk despite the Vision’s recent (if short-lived) mutilation, nor did he display any trace of discomfort in the man-brute’s presence. “The alleged destruction of Freehold was never sufficiently confirmed.” “Sounds like that’s the place to start if we want to track down the Leader and our missing teammates,” Cyclops declared, anxious to get on the move.

“I agree,” Storm assented promptly. Given her deep-rooted claustrophobia, Cyclops knew she could not be feeling enthusiastic about visiting any sort of underground stronghold; he admired her unhesitant willingness to brave her fears for the sake of Rogue and Wanda.

“It’s settled then,” Captain America said, rising from his seat and strapping his famous shield onto his back. ‘ ‘Vision, are you positive you’re up to this? There’s no shame if you need more time to recover from your injuries.” “Your offer is generous but unnecessary,” the synthe-zoid answered. Cyclops was struck once more by the eerie coldness of his voice; he’d met Sentinels with warmer personalities. “Unlike organic tissue, my artificial flesh does not require time to reknit itself. Now that Iron Man has repaired any ruptured instrumentation, I am quite fit for the mission under discussion. In fact,” he added, and here Cyclops thought he detected a hint of heat in the android’s voice, “I must insist on taking part in any attempt to rescue the Scarlet Witch.”

That’s right, Cyclops recalled. Weren’t the Vision and Wanda supposed to be an item of sorts, or was that over a long time ago? His memory on the subject was fairly fuzzy, but he could just imagine how irate he’d feel if someone tried to leave him behind while Jean was in danger, no matter what injuries he might have incurred. Maybe the Vision isn ’t so inscrutable after all.

“Very well,” Captain America agreed. “Glad to have you aboard. Vision.” He looked across the table at his mutant guests. “X-Men, I assume your aircraft can transport you to Alberta in a timely fashion. If not, you’re welcome aboard our quinjet.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Cyclops began. A high-pitched beep, coming from the comm station, broke into the discussion. All heads turned toward the console, where a flashing red light accompanied the audible beeping.

“Aha!” the Beast exclaimed with obvious satisfaction. “An incoming message, forwarded on from X-Men HQ.”

He loped over to the controls while Cyclops waited impatiently to discover who had contacted the Institute in their absence. It would be wonderful to hear that Rogue had somehow managed to rescue herself, but that was probably too much to hope for. Still, the call might be from Jean or the Professor, which would be good news in its own right. Between the Leader and the stolen Sentinels, he figured they were going to need all the help they could get. ‘ ‘Hold onto your proverbial hats, gentlemen and lady,” the Beast instructed as he fiddled with the comm controls. “Permit me to take a fleeting moment to adjust the volume.”

A second later, a familiar, German-tinged voice emanated from the speaker, causing Cyclops to leap from his chair in surprise:

“Attention, priority Alpha! 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.”

The Beast did his best to reply, instantly dropping his ebullient manner and manipulating the comm panel with focused speed and concentration. “Kurt! This is Beast. We’re with the Avengers. What additional facts can you give us? Kurt? Kurt!”

The concerned X-Man tried restoring communication with Nightcrawler for what felt like an endless minute, then reluctantly gave up. He came away from the comm station, shaking his bushy head at the other heroes. “It’s no good. The transmission has been terminated at the other end, which bodes ill for poor Kurt, not to mention Moira and Bobby, who should also be in residence.”

“Iceman and a scientist we know,” Cyclops translated, noting Captain America’s puzzled expression. “They’re with Nightcrawler on Muir Island, off the coast of Scotland.”

“That would be Dr. Moira MacTaggert, I take it,” Iron Man guessed correctly. “I’m familiar with her work, and her Centre, although I’ve never had occasion to visit that establishment.” Cyclops was impressed. “Sounds like we’ve located our missing Sentinels.”

“At the expense of our dear friends’ well-being.” Storm observed. She rose from her seat, tugging the bathrobe snugly around her. “We must go to their aid at once.” “Oh yeah, what about Alberta?” the Hulk protested belligerently. “I want the Leader, not a bunch of runaway robots.”

“Those Sentinels are almost certainly doing the Leader’s bidding,” Cyclops pointed out. He was shocked that the Hulk wanted to place his own personal vendetta over the safety of Kurt and the others. Then again, he thought, why should I be surprised? This is the Hulk we’re dealing with, “Which means the Leader is sure to be thousands of miles away from the brouhaha in Scotland,” the Hulk insisted. “That’s the way he works, sitting on his sickly green butt far from the scene of the crime, while his pawns run around doing his dirty work.” The lime-green titan slammed a fist into his palm, clearly wishing he could punch the Leader instead. “If you really want to find the Leader, Scotland’s the last place to look for him.”

“How can you be so heedless of our friends’ plight?” Storm accused the Hulk. “Common decency compels us to render whatever assistance we can.”

The Hulk just laughed at Ororo’s passionate assertion. “Says the white-haired weather girl in the borrowed bathrobe. What you going to do, Stormy? Rain on my parade?” Tension permeated the crowded conference room. The Hulk and the X-Men assumed body language better suited

to a back alley brawl than the onset of a rescue mission. Storm faced the Hulk resolutely, undaunted by his sizable height advantage and menacing attitude. Cyclops stepped to one side, making sure he had a clear shot at the Hulk, just in case. Even Captain America, he noted, had one hand on his shield.

“Oh dear,” whispered Jarvis, newly arrived to take away the empty cups and mugs.

The Beast sprang onto the conference table, taking them all by surprise. “At the risk of defusing what promises to be a truly explosive confrontation,” he said, “might I point out that both locales demand our prompt attention. We must assume that Rogue and the Scarlet Witch are in no less danger than the luckless inhabitants of Muir Island, which makes trailing the Leader to his clandestine lair arguably as urgent as providing succor to Nightcrawler and company.” The shaggy mutant searched the faces of the assembled heroes, looking for common ground, then held up two fingers. ‘ ‘I suggest we divide our forces evenly. Two teams, one to Alberta and one to Muir Island. Is that acceptable to all concerned?”

Sounds like a plan to me, Cyclops thought. Hank was certainly earning a merit badge in diplomacy during this crisis. He saw Storm, Captain America, and Iron Man nod their heads as well. But would the Hulk go along with the Beast’s proposal? That was the big question.

“I can live with that, I suppose,” the Hulk begrudged finally. “But I’m going to Alberta, after the Leader. The rest of you can split up however you like.”

That’s big of you, Iron Man thought sarcastically. From a strictly strategic point of view, he assessed, the Hulk’s caveat left something to be desired. His brute strength could be more valuable in a clash with the Gamma Sentinels than wasted on a fact-finding mission to the Leader’s last known address. Cap must have reached the same conclusion since a frown marred his chiseled, All-American features. I don't know about Cap and the others, Iron Man thought, but I’ve had enough of the Hulk walking all over us. He stomped across the room to stand head-to-head, more or less, with the recalcitrant giant. Even with his dense boots and armor, Iron Man still had to tilt his helmet back to look the Hulk in the eyes.

“Listen, Hulk,” he said forcefully, just as he would at any board meeting. “Didn’t you hear what Cap said? These Gamma Sentinels are robot duplicates of your old foes, even you yourself. We need you in Scotland, where your strength and experience can come in useful, not poking around for clues in Canada. Let somebody else handle that.”    ,

“What do I care what happens to those losers in Scotland?” the Hulk shot back. He shoved Iron Man roughly with one hand, hard enough to leave impressions of his fingertips on the Avenger’s metallic chestplate. “That’s not my problem.”

Iron Man refused to give ground. With a single cybernetic command, he magnetized his boots to the floor. “Really?” he challenged the Hulk. “There wouldn’t be any gamma reactors at all, let alone Gamma Sentinels, if not for Bruce Banner. That makes them as much your responsibility as anyone else’s. Or don’t you bother to clean up your own messes.”

“I’m warning you,” the Hulk snarled, shaking his fist in Iron Man’s face. “Don’t talk to me about Banner. Ever.” Looks like I hit a nerve, Tony Stark thought. Good. As an inventor himself, he knew all about the guilt a conscientious scientist could feel when his work was put to dubious purposes. Despite his best efforts, Stark had often suffered the anguish of knowing that technology he had created had been perverted to evil ends—and felt an obligation to do something about it. He had to assume that, somewhere deep inside the unfeeling monster that was the Hulk, Bruce Banner carried the same burden.

* ‘Like it or not, Hulk, you and I both know that Banner is part of you, which makes you accountable, in part, for whatever atrocities the Gamma Sentinels commit.” Iron Man kept his clenched fists at his side, relying on moral persuasion rather than threats to get through to the Hulk’s buried conscience. “Now you can smash me into a paperweight if you think you can, but that doesn’t change anything. And I’m betting that Banner understands that, even if you don’t.”

“Don’t call me Banner!” the Hulk bellowed, loud enough to hurt Stark’s ears even through multiple layers of armor. With a roar like a bull elephant, he raised his fists over his head, ready to bring them crashing down on the armored figure standing before him, who found himself privately wishing he were somewhere else, operating Iron Man’s armor by remote control.

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 sensed 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.”

Rogue released her hold on Wolverine, who stretched his arms experimentally. The silver claws retracted into metal shunts embedded in the back of his hands. Wanda felt significantly safer now that the deadly blades were safely out of sight, at least for the time being. “Sorry about the scratch,” he told her. “I’m sure it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Wanda accepted his apology, gruff as it was. “This,” she assured him, placing a hand over the minor injury, which smarted when she thought about it, “is the least of our problems. I suggest we find a way out of here as quickly as possible.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, witchie,” Wolverine agreed. He glanced around at the antiseptic white wall that curved around the back of the test chamber. The wall appeared completely seamless, with nary a door in sight. “I don’t know about you two, but I don’t see no flamin’ exit signs.”

“No problem,” Rogue chirped, drawing back her fist in front of the wall-length mirror. Impervious knuckles smashed through the silvered glass, showering the floor with shattered fragments—and revealing the control room on the other side. Rogue grinned devilishly. “Ah’ve been wantin’ to do that since we got here.”

She scraped away the remaining shards of glass with her bare hands, then clambered into the chamber beyond. Stepping carefully to avoid the jagged fragments on the floor, Wolverine and Wanda followed after her.

The control room was unoccupied, their anonymous torturer apparently taking a break from his or her heartless experimentation. Obviously intended to be operated by one person, the room barely held two X-Men and an Avenger, even though none of them were built like Thor or Giant-Man. Shaped like a semicircle, approximately six yards in diameter, the control chamber was built around a single steel throne, capable of rotating 360 degrees. Control panels circled the throne, except for a single wedge-shaped exit. Although the empty throne now faced the shattered oneway mirror, the curved wall behind the chair contained row

upon row of active video monitors, each turned to a different broadcast. Whoever works here, Wanda deduced, likes to keep well-informed.

Unfortunately, that description applied to just about every megalomaniacal control freak from Dr. Doom to Ul-tron to the High Evolutionary. They would have to look harder to find out who had abducted them.

“Wait a sec,” Rogue said, pointing at the bottom row of screens. “Isn’t that Moira’s lab on Muir Island?”

Muir Island? Wanda thought quizzically. Isn’t that somewhere near Scotland? She followed Rogue’s line of sight and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw, on four separate screens, what seemed to be live images of the Hulk, the Abomination, the Harpy, and Doc Samson, all apparently searching some kind of scientific facility.

There’s something wrong here, Wanda thought, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of the startling images. For one thing, Leonard Samson was a hero, not a pillaging villain. Plus, didn’t the Hulk and the Abomination hate each other, and wasn’t the Harpy supposed to be dead? So what were they all doing there on those screens, seemingly working together to raid someone’s lab? A name popped into her head, heard somewhere sometime before. Could “Moira” be Moira MacTaggert, the famous geneticist?

“Looks like we’re not the only ones this creep is interested in,” Wolverine remarked. He looked around the control room for clues to their kidnapper’s identity, then sniffed the air. “Don’t recognize the scent.”

Wanda started to admit that she was stumped, too, when her gaze was riveted by one of the upper screens, identified as belonging to CNN. There on the color monitor, caught by a telephoto camera, was the Vision, being tom apart by the Hulk! Wanda gasped and clutched her chest as the jade monster ripped the Vision’s arm from its socket, then shoved the dismembered Avenger over the brink of a tremendous waterfall. As she kept 011 watching, unable to look away, the same footage was shown over and over, sometimes in slow-motion. A caption at the bottom of the screen identified the horrifying images as old news footage recorded the day before at Niagara Falls.

Wanda’s throat tightened. Her legs felt boneless and she had to grab onto the silver throne to support herself. The Vision—destroyed? She didn’t know what to think, let alone how to feel. Their marriage had been over for a long time, but he was still the man/android/whatever that she had loved longer than any other. He had even been the father of her children, when she still had children....

Less emotionally affected by the shocking footage, Wolverine noticed something else. ‘ ‘Niagara Falls. Muir Island. The Hulk’s gettin’ around, if both of those really are the Hulk.” He sounded suspicious, reminding Wanda of her own doubts concerning the footage from Scotland. There was more here than met the eye, she was sure of it. “Let’s go,” she said to the others. Her voice faltered just a little. “I—I’ve seen enough.”

Did the X-Men recall, or even know, her history with the Vision? If so, neither Wolverine nor Rogue raised the subject, perhaps preoccupied by the evident danger to their friend Moira. Wanda didn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved by their silence.

Unlike the test chamber holding their empty sarcophagi, the control room offered a way out. Wolverine led the way, sniffing for trouble ahead. Wanda exited last, preferring to have Rogue ahead of her rather than behind her.

Just to be safe, Wanda thought, feeling a bit guilty for her doubts concerning the young X-Man and her parasitic powers. Maybe, when this is all over, I should talk to Rogue about that ugly business with Carol, give her a chance to explain her side of the story.

The door from the control room opened onto what appeared to be a ring-shaped outer chamber that circled a central cylinder formed by both the control room and the test chamber. Possibly, Wanda guessed, the layout of this entire complex followed a concentric design, leading her to wonder how many rings there were in total. In contrast to the cold, clinical feel of the inner circle, this outer ring had been furnished with comfort in mind. Simulated walnut bookshelves, packed with leatherbound volumes on an eclectic variety of subjects, lined the curving walls of the ring. Plush, wingback chairs and overstuffed sofas offered a series of cozy venues for reading and relaxation, while a soft orange carpet provided a pleasant change from the glass-strewn steel floor they had left behind. A treadmill, positioned before a blank video screen, presented an opportunity for exercise. As the heroes hiked counterclockwise through the ring, they even came upon an imitation fireplace whose holographic flames threw off real heat. What they didn’t find, however, was a quick way out. Also conspicuously absent were windows onto the outside world—or any hints to the elusive resident of this hermetic world.

“This is gettin’ us nowhere,” Wolverine muttered. “For all we know, we’re going in circles.” Halting in his tracks, he released his claws and slashed a large letter “X” across the spines of a random shelf of books. “Basic woodcraft,” he explained to his startled companions. “Always mark your trail.”

Not a bad idea, Wanda thought, but before she could say so, a sarcastic voice boomed from on high, freezing them all in place and drawing their eyes to the ceiling:

“THOSE WERE FIRST EDITIONS, I’LL HAVE YOU

KNOW. I’M AFRAID THIS AMUSING LITTLE ESCAPE ATTEMPT HAS GONE FAR ENOUGH. SUCH VANDALISM CANNOT BE TOLERATED, AFTER ALL.”

The snide, epicene voice, no doubt coming from hidden loudspeakers in the ceiling, sounded vaguely familiar to the Scarlet Witch, but the electronic amplification and distortion made it hard to identify. “I should have known this was going too easily,” she said, shaking her head. “He— or she—has probably been onto us ever since we smashed that mirror.”

Rogue looked about her warily, anticipating hostile action. “So how come he waited so long ’fore callin’ in the guards?” she asked out loud.

Wanda shrugged. “Perhaps he wanted to get us safely away from all his expensive scientific equipment and monitors, so his fancy control room wouldn’t get smashed up in the fighting.” She raised her hands in front of her. An eldritch red glow surrounded her fingertips as she concocted a hex. “Or maybe he just wanted to see how far we’d get. Another blasted test.”

“Fine with me,” Wolverine growled. He crouched in a fighter’s stance, his claws poised and ready. “Bring ’em on. I don’t mind fightin’ my way out.”

But fighting whom? the Scarlet Witch wondered. Hired guns? Alien soldiers? Puppets? We have to be ready for anything.

Vents opened in the ceiling, spilling a fine pink powder into the furnished ring. She backed away from the powder instinctively, yet it didn’t appear hazardous. Soon the powder had thoroughly dusted the carpet, making it impossible to avoid stepping on the minute particles. They felt dry and spongy beneath her feet, not corrosive at all. Pushing his luck, Wolverine scooped up a handful of the pink dust and sniffed it. “Nothing poisonous,” he reported unequivocally. “Smells like finely-ground rubber.”

“Rubber?” Rogue asked incredulously. The dust kept pouring from the ceiling until they were ankle-deep in the stuff. “What they tryin’ to do, build a padded cell from the ground up?”

Not exactly, the Scarlet Witch thought. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew what was coming next. This trick with the powder rang almost-forgotten bells in her memory; she hadn’t actually taken part in that adventure, years ago, but she’d heard about it later from Captain America and the rest.

If this ‘ ‘harmless ’ ’ powder is what I think it is, we could be in a lot of trouble.

Just as she feared, the tiny grains of dust began to clump together, moving of their own accord to form gummy masses that likewise came together to form recognizable shapes: arms, legs, torsos, heads. “Ah don’t believe it!” Rogue exclaimed, amazed by the miraculous process taking place before her eyes, the coalescing pink segments merging to form rudimentary bodies. “The dust—it’s turning into people!”

“No,” Wanda said, shaking her head. She knew precisely what these unliving creatures were. “Not people. Humanoids. ”

The plasticform figures grew rapidly from the spilled powder, each one identical to every other: pink genderiess bodies with smooth, pail-shaped heads. They had no faces as such, only a pair of white, photosensitive patches to serve as eyes. Lacking mouths, they neither spoke nor breathed; the only sound that came from them was the rustle of the congealing powder, followed by the squeaking of dozens of rubber bodies brushing against each other as they swiftly surrounded the three heroes, crowding the habitation

ring as tightly as a New York subway at rush hour.

They were just as Cap described them, which could only mean one thing. “I know who made these things!” Wanda shouted to the X-Men. “I know now who is behind all this. The Leader!”

“The Leader of what?” Rogue asked, not comprehending what Wanda meant. Newly-formed Humanoids jostled against her and she tried to elbow them away, but they were already packed too tightly to make much of a difference. Colliding with their teeming counterparts, the offending Humanoids bounced back against her with equal force. “Who are you talkin’ about?”

Wolverine, older and more experienced, recognized the name. “Another crackpot mad genius,” he explained succinctly. He stabbed his claws into the nearest Humanoid, but its rubbery body absorbed the sharpened tines without tearing. Unable to feel pain, its elastic body stretched around the blow, swallowing Wolverine’s entire fist up to his wrist. “Usually, he’s the Hulk’s problem,” he told Rogue.

“The Avengers have had a few run-ins with the Leader, too,” the Scarlet Witch emphasized. Not waiting for the fully-formed Humanoids to attack, she fired a hex bolt at the nearest cluster of artificial creatures. “Trust me, he’s no one you want to underestimate.”

Her hex sphere caused three or four of the humanoids to revert to powder. She smiled coldly, until she saw new bodies rise from the pink dust. Her spirits sank; she hadn’t stopped them at all, only slowed them down.

The Humanoids were everywhere, knocking aside the furniture and filling the ring with hairless pink figures for as far as the eye could see. “There must be dozens of them!” Rogue declared. She clasped her arms atop her chest, tucking her bare hands beneath her shoulders and shrinking from contact with the inhuman creatures. “They—they ain’t alive, are they?”

“Not really,” the Witch called back. She quickly realized what was worrying Rogue. “You should be able to touch them without becoming like them.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Rogue shouted, sounding enormously relieved. As before, Wanda got a fuller sense of just what sort of curse the young mutant had been forced to live with, and the Scarlet Witch’s heart softened a bit toward her former adversary. What a tragic way to go through life, afraid to even touch another human being ... !

The Humanoids gave her no time to digest this new insight. As if in response to a single invisible signal, the milling humanoids abruptly surged toward the outnumbered mutants, reaching out with plastic fingers to grab onto the escaping prisoners. “Here they come!” Rogue hollered. No longer adverse to touching the Humanoids with her uncovered hands, she charged into the oncoming tide of synthetic beings, swinging her fists enthusiastically.

Wolverine was no less aggressive than his fellow X-Man. His claws swung like machetes, trying to slash a way through the humanoid horde. “Instant cannon fodder, huh?’ ’ he grunted. “Guess you don’t even need to add water.”

He kicked a Humanoid in the chest, only to bounce backwards as though he had just slammed his foot into a trampoline. Snarling in frustration, he managed to slice the Humanoid’s arm like salami, then gnashed his teeth as a fresh limb immediately grew from the truncated stump. “Cripes,” he muttered with obvious disgust. “It’s like fightin’ silly putty!”

Rogue was getting equally aggravated. Her super-strong blows sent packs of Humanoids scattering like plastic dolls, yet the unfeeling creatures kept on coming. A powerhouse punch squashed an unlucky Humanoid’s head, but it sprang back into place as soon as Rogue drew back her fist. She stretched, flattened, twisted, pummeled, and otherwise deformed their malleable plastic bodies, all without inflicting any permanent damage on a single humanoid. “How the heck do you stop these stupid things?” she cried out irritably, even as another wave of Humanoids flowed over her. She couldn’t even use her secret weapon: her parasitic touch. For better or for worse, the Humanoids had neither minds nor lifeforce to steal.

The Scarlet Witch watched the X-Men’s fruitless struggles with growing alarm; her own hex bolts were faring no better. No matter how many times she used her hex bolts to reverse the Humanoid’s creation, disintegrating them back into harmless powder, the unliving beings instantly reconstituted themselves, none the worse for the experience. She searched her memory, trying to remember how the Avengers had defeated the Leader’s Humanoids before; unfortunately, as she swiftly recalled, the solution had involved exposing them to the vacuum of space, which hardly seemed like a viable option under the circumstances. There must be another way to stop them, she thought desperately. There has to be!

More powder spilled from the ceiling, adding to the humanoids’ oppressive numbers. They crowded against her, pressing, cramming, smothering, until there was no more room to cast any hexes and she had to use her bare hands to try to push the never-ending flood of Humanoids away from her, feeling the rubbery texture of their synthetic flesh against her sweaty palms. Plastic hands grabbed onto her arms and legs while more hands groped her face and pulled on her hair. A petrochemical reek filled her nostrils. She bit down on an intrusive finger, then spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting plastic. More fingers tugged on her lips, taking the first one’s place. She felt like she was drowning beneath a sea of anthropomorphic rubber.

Wanda braced herself against both Rogue and Wolverine. The embattled trio had been squeezed together by the relentless press of their mindless foes. Back to back to back, they faced the crushing swarm of Humanoids, whose ductile bodies effortlessly absorbed whatever force was directed against them. Wanda realized the three prisoners were fighting a losing battle and knew that the X-Men had to know that, too. The thought of going back to that sightless sarcophagus filled her with dread.

“YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE UP,” the Leader’s amplified voice informed them. “MY FAITHFUL HUMANOIDS NEVER TIRE, NEVER EXPERIENCE PAIN OR FEAR, AND NEVER, EVER STOP UNTIL THEY HAVE COMPLETED THEIR ASSIGNED TASK, WHICH, IN THIS INSTANCE, MEANS SUBDUING YOU. YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY OUTLAST THEM, SO WHY WASTE YOUR TIME AND MINE IN POINTLESS HEROICS? I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU, BUT I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN WATCH A TRIO OF OUTMATCHED MUTANTS MAKE THEIR LAST STAND AGAINST THE INEXORABLE CREATIONS OF A SUPERIOR MIND.”

“Then change the flamin’ channel!” Wolverine barked at him, by no means ready to surrender. Sinking his claws into the pliable torso of yet another indefatigable Humanoid, he turned his head toward Rogue. “Only way out is up, darlin’. You game?”

“You kiddin’?” Rogue asked exuberantly. A half dozen Humanoids piled onto her, but she threw them back into the crushing throng of resilient pink bodies. “I’m feelin’ so light on my feet I could fly to the moon.” She grabbed onto both Wolverine and the Scarlet Witch by their sleeves, being extra careful not to come into contact with their skin. “Hold onto your seatbelts, y’all!”

Letting out an ear-splitting rebel yell, Rogue flew straight up with the force of a cannonball, hanging onto her two passengers with a grip of steel. Wanda felt like her arm was being yanked from its socket but Rogue’s high speed blast-off tore Wanda free from the grasping hands and suffocating pressure of the Humanoids. A determined pink fist clung to her ankle, only to be stretched like taffy by Rogue’s unstoppable ascent before finally slipping away.

Rogue’s invulnerable skull smashed through at least three layers of ceilings before they burst free of the confining walls of the Leader’s headquarters, emerging into open space at last. We made it! Wanda thought jubilantly. We’re free!

Her euphoria lasted less than a second, about the time it took for her to become fully aware of their new surroundings.

Rising in the sky above them, shifting clouds veiling portions of mighty continents and oceans, the great blue globe of the Earth shined down on them, casting its reflected sunlight on a barren lunar landscape marked by still and silent craters. Peering down past her feet, the Scarlet Witch saw the perforated roof of a domed moonbase, constructed within the circumference of one of the larger craters. The atmosphere gushing from the breach in the dome blew a column of swirling debris after the rising heroes, whose lungs suddenly cried out for air.

Good lord, Wanda thought, gasping for oxygen that was nowhere to be found. Blackness rushed over her, along with a fearsome cold—or was that heat? Rogue didn’t need to fly us to the moon.

We’re already there!

Chapter Seven

The full moon shone into the cockpit of the Avengers’ quinjet, waking Storm from uneasy slumber. Blinking her large blue eyes, she found herself strapped into a passenger seat to the right of Iron Man, who was busy piloting the supersonic aircraft. “Excuse me,” she apologized, “I appear to have dozed off.”

“No problem,” he replied. “In this business, you’ve got to grab a nap when you can. You never know when you might get another chance.” A yawn escaped his gilded faceplate. “We’ve been on the run ever since Wanda disappeared yesterday. I imagine it must be the same for you X-Men.”

“Indeed,” Storm agreed. Through the tinted windshield of the quinjet she saw the rippling surface of the Atlantic Ocean stretching beneath them and she wondered how long she had slept.

Are we almost to Scotland? She hoped, rubbing her eyes. She peered back over her shoulder and saw the rest of the rescue team, Bruce Banner and Wolverine, seated behind her. The cursed scientist, now clad in fresh clothes provided by the Avengers’ butler, looked to be resting as well, while Logan stared balefully out a side window, maintaining a grim silence as he methodically polished his claws on an adamantium whetstone. No doubt he was anticipating the dire battle ahead. As are we all, Storm thought, fearing that the Gamma Sentinels would prove formidable adversaries. But defeat them we must, for the sake of Kurt cmd the others, Bright Lady, she prayed, ensure that we arrive in time to protect those in jeopardy.

“Not that I wouldn’t mind a little conversation, now that you’re awake,” Iron Man commented. “Especially with such an attractive lady as yourself.”

Storm raised an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me, Iron Man?” she asked, amusement in her tone. Funny to realize that, only hours ago, she and this same Avenger had dueled in the skies above Niagara Falls, hurling thunderbolts and repulsor rays at each other, but such was the peculiar world in which she lived.

“Force of habit,” he explained, not sounding terribly chastened. “I’ve always had a weakness for a pretty face.” His electronically-distorted voice took on a more serious edge. “Hope you don’t find that too frivolous, while your friends and teammates are in danger.”

Ororo smiled and shook her head. “Not at all,” she said generously. “As you suggested before, in this precarious life that we lead, we most hold onto our humanity and good humor, even in the face of overwhelming peril.” She gave the armored Avenger a closer inspection and noted, with a touch of surprise, that his metal gauntlets were not upon the navigational controls but instead inserted into matching, glove-shaped depressions in the control panel. “You can link your armor directly to the ship itself?” she asked, more for the sake of small talk than out of any urgent scientific curiosity.

“Exactly,” Iron Man confirmed. “I prefer a direct cybernetic interface whenever I have occasion to fly the quin-jet. It eliminates one degree of instrumentality, increasing its responsiveness by a factor of .833, which never hurts in a tight spot.” Clearly proud of his advanced technology, he increased the quinjet’s acceleration without moving a finger. “Besides, I’m just used to flying under my own power, as you must be, too.”

The increase in speed briefly pressed Storm against the back of her seat. “In truth, I also prefer flying on my own to riding in an aircraft, yet I have always relied more on the elemental power of Nature than the wonders of science. No offense intended,” she added quickly.

“None taken.” He sounded like he was enjoying the discussion. “Myself, though, I’ve always considered the human talent for technology and invention to be part of nature. Fish swim, birds fly ... we’re built to build things.” “An interesting point of view,” Storm admitted, “one I had not fully contemplated before.” She began to wonder what Iron Man looked liked beneath his robotic helmet. Curiously, her imagination pictured him as resembling Forge, the brilliant mutant inventor and engineer. Forge spoke just as passionately about machines and their intricacies; she suspected he and Iron Man shared a kinship of sorts, that of like souls. A stab of melancholy snuck into her heart; she and Forge had been more than friends, yet the call of their individual destinies had kept them apart more often than not. “And still, for all of humankind’s unquestioned ingenuity, can any mechanical marvel truly compare in splendor to even the commonest sunset?” “You ever seen some of da Vinci’s original blueprints and sketches?” Iron Man challenged her good-naturedly. “We’re talking pure elegance in design and execution.” The quinjet banked to starboard, smoothly responding to the Avenger’s control. “You may have a point, though.” So we agree to disagree, Storm reflected. If nothing else, perhaps this shared mission of mercy would help bridge the rift that circumstances and conflicting priorities had wrought between the Avengers and the X-Men.

She wondered if the second team, comprised of Cyclops, Captain America, and the Vision, had arrived yet in Alberta, site of the Leader’s former headquarters. The Beast had volunteered to remain behind at Avengers Mansion to coordinate the two teams’ efforts; he would undoubtedly contact them as soon as there was news from Cyclops and the Avengers accompanying them.

May the Goddess grant that they find our missing comrades, or at least some hint as to their whereabouts, she thought. Every hour that passed heightened her sense that their friends faced terrible danger.

“Maybe you can clear something up for me,” Iron Man said, changing the subject. “Who exactly is in charge of your team, you or Cyclops?”

“We share co-leader status,” Storm explained. The group dynamics of super-powered crusaders, it occurred to her, was another subject on which they shared expertise. “We have found it the most effective arrangement.” “Really?” Iron Man sounded skeptical. “The Avengers have always worked best with a designated chairman in charge, like Captain America is now. Otherwise you end up with too many ringmasters trying to run the show.” A pensive tone crept into his voice. ‘ ‘Ran into some problems along those lines not too long ago, when I convinced Stark to subsidize a whole new team called Force Works. Sort of an alternative to the Avengers, set up to my own specifications. The problem was, I appointed the Scarlet Witch to be team leader, but kept taking charge anyway, undercutting her authority.” His helmet shook slowly atop the articulated cables of his armor’s neck attachment. “By the time Force Works eventually dissolved, absorbed back into the Avengers, it’s a miracle Wanda was still speaking to me.”

Storm could tell the memory troubled him, no less now 1 75

that the Scarlet Witch was missing and presumed the captive of a ruthless foe. “I cannot deny that Cyclops and I have had our occasional clashes,” she confided in him, “but those days are largely past. In the long run, neither of us would wish the X-Men to be deprived of the leadership abilities each of us brings to the team.”

“Hard to imagine a corporation working that way,” Iron Man commented, and Storm recalled the Golden Avenger was also a paid employee of billionaire Tony Stark, “but I guess there’s always room for another paradigm.” Storm glimpsed determined blue eyes through the slits in Iron Man’s mask. “Heaven help whoever snatched Wanda if I get my hands on him, though. I owe Wanda that much, after all the aggravation I put her through.”

“We shall find her, my friend,” Storm said, laying her hand atop of the Avenger’s recessed right gauntlet. “And Rogue as well.” No matter how diabolically brilliant the Leader was, she thought, surely he could not long elude the combined efforts of the X-Men and the Avengers?

A surly voice broke into the conversation. “If you two are done yappin’ up there,” Wolverine said, speaking up from his seat in the rear of the cockpit, “looks like we’re heading up on ground zero.”

Wolverine’s keen eyes had not deceived him. On the horizon, a rugged green island rose from the ocean, within sight of the distant shore of Scotland. Rocky cliffs towered above stone-strewn beaches while rural villages with names like Kilmory and Blackwaterfoot nestled in the shadow of the rolling hills carpeted in purple heather. As the quinjet zoomed nearer to Muir Island, Storm spied a futuristic complex, composed of sleek structures of steel and glass that seemed distinctly out of place among the bucolic atmosphere of the rest of the isle, poised atop a high cliff overlooking a well-maintained pier. “The Genetic Research

Centre, I take it?” Iron Man said, gliding the quinjet in toward an amphibious landing in the harbor below.

“Yes,” Storm stated. She stared anxiously at the familiar buildings, looking in vain for conclusive evidence of what might have transpired since Nightcrawler’s desperate SOS hours ago. Although it was well past midnight, local time, she spotted lights on in the primary science building, a six-story edifice at the very brink of the cliff. Forbidding steel shutters covered most of the windows in the science building, except for one of the upper floors, where the shutters appeared to have been tom asunder by some manner of explosion or energy blast. Through the ruptured shutters, bright green flashes occasionally showed, competing with the glow of ordinary fluorescent lights. “There,” she pointed to the others, “something’s happening in one of the labs.”

Brace Banner, roused from sleep by the activity in the cockpit, stuck his head between Storm and Iron Man, gazing out at the Centre. “I read Dr. MacTaggert’s papers on genetic mutation while trying to find a cure that would rid me of the Hulk. I can see where her work might have value to unscrupulous men wanting to create artificial mutants for their own purposes. Men like the Leader.” Storm gathered from his tone that, for whatever reason, he had come to abandon his quest for normalcy.

“Better settle back into your seat, Bruce,’’ Iron Man warned the Hulk’s alter ego. “We’re touching down.” His gaze fixed straight ahead, the Golden Avenger piloted the quinjet to a surprisingly gentle landing on the waves. Pontoons inflated from the aircraft’s landing gear and the ship bounced only twice upon the waves before cruising to a halt next to a long, wooden dock. With a mechanical click, Iron Man detached his gauntlets from the quinjet’s control panel. “You think the Leader might have raided the Centre just to steal her data?” he asked Banner.

The scientist’s lean face, haggard and haunted at the best of times, assumed an even more somber mien. ‘ ‘The Leader once nuked a city of five thousand, just to create a handful of gamma-irradiated henchmen. He wouldn’t pause for a nanosecond before ransacking some laboratory in Scotland, not if he thought your friend had something he could use.”

A grim assessment, Storm thought, but not one she had any reason to doubt. Past experience with the likes of Apocalypse and Mister Sinister had left her with few illusions regarding the depths to which brilliant, twisted minds could sink.

“Enough flamin’ talk,” Wolverine snarled. His claws sliced through the seatbelt holding him in place. “Let’s get on with it.”

Another phosphorescent green flash came from the building above them, boding no good fortune, she suspected, for Nightcrawler, Iceman, Moira, and any others who chanced to be residing at the Centre when the Gamma Sentinels struck. Unclasping her own seatbelt, she was no less eager than Wolverine to engage the enemy. “Very well,” she stated. “Follow me.”

Inside the battle-scarred ruins of the once pristine laboratory, the copious sheets of ice left behind by the defeated Iceman had begun to melt, flooding the cold steel floor upon which Moira MacTaggert futilely struggled to escape her bonds. Elastic steel cables, thin as copper wire but too bloody strong, at least as far as Moira was concerned, were wrapped around her from her neck down to her ankles, pinning her arms to her sides and digging into her flesh despite the welcome padding of her labcoat and ordinary civilian wear. Shivering upon the increasingly slushy floor,

Moira could see Bobby Drake lying equally helpless less than a meter away. No longer protected by so much as a sliver of frozen armor, the defrosted Iceman had yet to recover from the brutal electrical shock administered by the restraining wires enveloping him.

I should count m’self lucky, I suppose, that these accursed contraptions didn ’t judge me in need of the same sort of shock treatment they inflicted on poor Bobby, she thought.

But it was hard to feel too blessed whilst a pair of cunningly-camouflaged Sentinels helped themselves to years of her work, to say nothing of plenty of expensive equipment....

Moira had deduced the true nature of the invaders hours ago, when “Doc Samson” first approached a bank of deep-frozen computers. She had watched in amazement and horror as the emerald-tressed muscleman melted away Iceman’s handiwork with a set of ocular heatbeams that Moira had never known Leonard Samson to possess, but her mounting suspicions were not fully validated until Doc Samson detached the end of his left index finger, revealing a miniature electronic probe, then inserted the probe into a matching data port in Moira’s main Cray supercomputer. “Recording: all files and systems,” he announced mechanically at the same time that Moira had realized that Doc Samson, and presumably the “Harpy” as well, were actually machines, manufactured, for reasons she couldn’t guess, in the image of well-known specimens of gamma mutation. From there, it had taken but the slightest of deductive leaps to come to the conclusion that these rampaging intruders had to be the latest and most duplicitous generation yet of the mutant-hunting mechanical monsters known as Sentinels.

Will we never learn? she had thought bitterly, appalled to see the same hateful idea come round again. If half the money and technical know-how that have gone into building Sentinels had been spent on something worthwhile instead, say, biomedical research, we could have surely cured the Legacy Virus by now, and Lord knows what else besides.

Since that revelatory moment, hours past, the Doc Samson-Sentinel had not budged a centimeter. A steady hum came from his brawny chest as he took advantage of her linked computer network to prowl through years of accumulated data and theories. Many of her most important files were doubly encrypted, of course—ever since that stink with the Xavier Protocols a while back, Moira had taken care to make sure her work was unintelligible to prying hackers and other snoopers—but she had the sinking feeling that the Sentinel’s electronic brain was a match for her own encryption software and computerized security checks.

The most I can hope for, she thought, is that it slows him down long enough for help to get here.

One thing Moira knew for certain, she sure as blazes wasn’t going to provide the Doc Samson-Sentinel with any of her passwords, not that he had even bothered to ask. That can’t be a good sign, she admitted gloomily.

While the Doc Samson-Sentinel robbed her via cyberspace, the Harpy-Sentinel took a more tangible approach. The counterfeit bird-woman flapped about the trashed laboratory, selectively placing flashing electronic tags on various items—on the hard copies of her notes and on assorted items of equipment. The tags evidently provided a signal to some variety of transporter device, since the objects selected subsequently disappeared in a flash of eerie green light. Granted, it was also possible that the items in question were merely disintegrated, but Moira considered that unlikely; the Harpy’s actions were too deliberate and specific to be simple acts of destruction. If the avian Sentinel had merely wanted to destroy the objects of her search, there were doubtless easier ways to do so. Her hellbolts, for instance.

Were additional Sentinels pillaging the rest of the Centre? Moira had no idea what had become of Nightcrawler; she had not seen Kurt since he had teleported away to investigate what was happening downstairs. Since he had not attempted to rescue them, Moira had to assume that he had run afoul of a Sentinel or two. She just hoped that he’d managed to call for help before another relentless robot captured him.

Moira gave thanks, for perhaps the thousandth time, that Rahne was away from home. Had she been here to witness this assault, that dear lycanthropic lass would have felt obliged to defend Moira with tooth and claw—and would have almost certainly fallen victim to the Sentinels as well. Be well, my sweet bairn, she silently wished her foster daughter, in the event she never saw her again.

“Recording: complete,” the Doc Samson-Sentinel announced. “All pertinent files have been assimilated.” He disengaged his finger-probe from the supercomputer, then drew back a mighty fist. “Proceeding to demolition of premises,” he reported, then slammed, his right hand into the heart of the CPU. Metal and molded plastic tore noisily and sparks flew as his impressively-thewed arm sank into the machine up to his elbow. His fraudulent features maintaining the poker face to end all poker faces, he withdrew his arm from the violated computer, leaving a gaping crater in the side of the Cray. “Have no fear, Doc Samson is here,” he intoned with nary a speck of human feeling.

Oh, give it a bloody rest! Moira thought indignantly. At this point, the Sentinel’s rote attempts to maintain the imposture had become little more than an insult to her intelligence, She winced as the Doc Samson-Sentinel crushed a delicate electron microscope with his bare hands. It wasn’t enough that they had stolen her data, she lamented, they had to go and wreck her equipment too?

A loud, flapping noise distracted Moira from Doc Samson’s wanton vandalism. The wind from the Harpy’s wings blew flecks of ice and snow against Moira’s face as the flying Sentinel landed on the floor between Moira and Bobby. Bird-like talons sank into the melting slush as the human half of the Harpy leaned toward the ensnared scientist, another badge-sized electronic tag clutched between emerald fingernails. “Oh no!” Moira gasped, realizing that the Sentinel meant to tag Moira herself for transport.

Looks like I’m going to find out the hard way where all my apparatus and notes have disappeared to, she thought.

Before the Harpy-Sentinel could finish affixing the tag to Moira’s person, however, a deafening crack of thunder sounded right outside the sundered metal shudders. Moira’s heart leaped hopefully, especially since the daily weather report had said nothing about any nocturnal storms. Could it be... ?

Yes!

Carried by a powerful blast of wind, Storm flew into the laboratory through the shattered window. The wings of her black uniform swelled beneath her arms and her riveting blue eyes searched the icebound chamber, widening in recognition as she spotted Moira and Bobby, bound and helpless upon the floor. “Thank heavens!” Moira gasped in relief. The X-Men were here—and Iron Man?

So it seemed. The Golden Avenger followed Storm through the punctured metal screens. Rockets in his iron boots carried him above the floor as readily as Storm’s obedient winds. Moira had no idea why the armored hero had arrived with Ororo, but she didn’t much care. Under the circumstances, she thought, I’m not about to look a gift Avenger in the mouth. . . .

Three stories below, on the ground floor of the science building, Bruce Banner and Wolverine found definite signs of forced entry; namely, a steel-framed glass door that had been ripped from its hinges. It looked, Banner thought, like the kind of excessive property damage the Hulk usually left behind, except that heavy tracks in the nearby lawn bore the unmistakable impression of something with only two toes on each foot. Banner knew of only one creature, as strong and savage as the Hulk, who left tracks like that.

“The Abomination,” he said tersely.

It seemed that the Avenger’s classified information was correct; the mechanized monsters allegedly attacking this isolated scientific outpost were indeed the so-called Gamma Sentinels. Banner shook his weary head in disgust. Bad enough there was already one Abomination loose in the world; why in the world would anyone want to build another one?

Not that I’m one to talk, he admitted privately. If not for his own attempts to harness gamma radiation, there would be no Hulk nor Abomination. Nor any Leader, for that matter. He could hardly sit in judgment over other scientists, not after all the heartache and havoc his own discoveries had inflicted on the world. The best I can do now is try to clean up the mess I helped to create.

“Not wantin’ to tell you your business, bub,” Wolverine said gruffly, “but maybe you ought to be changin’ into your tougher half?’ ’ These were the first words the laconic X-Man had said to him since they left the quinjet down by the docks. Wolverine placed his own boot beside one of the Abomination’s footprints; the disparity in size was impressive. “Don’t take it personal, but I’d rather have the

Hulk backin’ me up when the fur starts flyin’.”

Banner looked down at the scruffy, stocky mutant, which was something of an unusual perspective. Wolverine was the only superhero he had ever met, this side of Ant-Man and the Wasp, who was shorter than the scientist in his ‘ ‘puny’ ’ human form. He shared enough memories with the Hulk, though, to know that Wolverine’s lack of height was no reflection on his fighting abilities. Wolverine was one of the most formidable adversaries the Hulk had ever faced.

As much as Banner hated to admit it, the X-Man had a point. If there was a robotic replica of the Abomination prowling about, there wasn’t much ordinary Bruce Banner could do to stop him. He would have to let his monstrous counterpart out of the box once more. “All right,” he told Wolverine. “Give me a minute,”

The late night air was chilly enough that he was grateful for the borrowed sweater and jacket Jarvis had provided him. Nonetheless, he stripped down to his jeans in a brisk and efficient manner, removing his shoes, socks, shirt, sweater, and polyester jacket, then placing them neatly in a pile on the off chance that the Hulk would think to retrieve them later. Goosebumps broke out all over his exposed arms and chest, but that was nothing compared to bodily changes in store.

Very well, you damn green albatross, he thought. Come on out and play.

Once he’d had little or no control over his transformations, but he’d learned enough biofeedback techniques over the last few years to be able to trigger the metamorphosis at will. He pictured the Hulk in his mind, remembered how the brutish creature had made a travesty of his life, destroying his career and turning him repeatedly into a hunted fugitive, and, sure enough, he soon felt his blood pressure rising, his pent-up anger and resentment initiating a metabolic chain reaction that buried the skinny scientist’s scholarly physique beneath a couple tons of augmented bone and muscle, and that sank his mind and personality into the seething substrata of a more volatile and elemental identity. A narrow leather belt snapped like a rubber band as his torso expanded to fill the waistband of the oversized jeans. Goosebumps gave way to rippling layers of muscle and sinews. Massive knees tore through tough denim.

“I’m back!” the incredible Hulk bellowed triumphantly, shaking anvil-sized fists at the starry sky above.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Wolverine said, scowling, irritation in his raspy voice. Shining silver claws sprang from the back of his clenched fists.

The Hulk was not at all intimidated by Wolverine’s gleaming claws. “Bah!” the jade giant said. “The Hulk doesn’t skulk through shadows like a sneak thief. I go where I like, and smash anything that gets in my way!” He stared down at the irate X-Man, having gained at least a yard in stature. “See you finally decided to make it, pipsqueak.”

“Yeah, nice to see you, too,” Wolverine snarled sarcastically. “This flamin’ reunion makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” He spit a mouthful of chewing tobacco onto the lawn. “C’mon. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The door to the science building would have been too small to accommodate the Hulk’s gargantuan frame had not something equally immense already busted its way through. Fluorescent lights in the ceiling spared them any need for flashlights. With Wolverine leading the way, his adaman-tium claws extended before him, they stalked through the deserted lobby of the building, passing an overturned cedar desk and other evidence of the Abomination-Sentinel’s passage. But had the good-for-nothing robot already come and gone?

How the heck am I supposed to know? the Hulk thought grumpily. I can bust heads, sure, but I ain’t no blamed detective!

“Hey, shorty,” the Hulk addressed Wolverine. “You smell anything worth fighting?” He remembered that the feral X-Man had a nose like a bloodhound.

“Er, not at the moment,” Wolverine answered vaguely, not bothering to look back at his gigantic companion. The Hulk’s sloping brow wrinkled in puzzlement. Wolverine was a lot of things, he knew, but evasive wasn’t exactly one of them.

“What’s the matter?” the Hulk taunted. “Your sinuses clogged or something? I ain’t ever known that ugly snoot of yours to let you down before.”

Wolverine spun around and glared at the Hulk, his claws held up in front of him like a boxer’s mitts. He bared his teeth as threateningly as his vicious namesake. Murder glinted in his cold brown eyes. “Listen, mister, I’ve had enough of your lip. If we didn’t have a job to do, and good people dependin’ on us, I’d teach you a lesson in manners right here and now.”

“Oh yeah?” the Hulk answered, flexing his bulging biceps. That phony Abomination could wait; he’d like nothing better than to throw down with Wolverine more time. It had been too long since he’d last enjoyed a knock-down-drag-’em-out brawl with the scrappy Canadian. He raised his own titanic fists, his knuckles itching to knock Wolverine’s block off. “I don’t see anybody stoppin’ you.”

At the back of his mind, a squeaky little voice, sounding suspiciously like Banner’s, argued that he didn’t have time for this, that there were more important things at stake. Tough luck, he thought. The sneer on his face turned into a merciless smirk, and he swung a roundhouse punch at Wolverine’s adamantium skull.

The X-Man must have seen the blow coming. He ducked beneath the swinging fist and lashed out with his claws. All three blades on his right fist skewered the Hulk right through the giant’s left wrist. The Hulk roared in pain and yanked his arm back, shaking his wounded wrist free from the razor-sharp claws on which it was impaled. His gamma-irradiated flesh quickly restored itself, healing so fast that the puncture marks disappeared the instant his perforated wrist slid off the points of the claws. “Hah!” the Hulk laughed, unscathed even though the X-Man had drawn first blood. Compared to his own miraculous regenerative powers, Wolverine’s mutant healing factor might as well be hemophilia.

But the feisty little mutant wasn’t about to surrender. “All right, big guy,” he dared the Hulk, crouched over in a defensive posture, rocking nimbly upon the balls of his feet. Emerald blood dripped from his claws. ‘ ‘Show me what you’ve got.”

The Hulk wouldn’t have it any other way. Arms outstretched like logs hurled by a hurricane, he charged Wolverine, who dodged to the right a split-second before the Hulk could grab onto him. A dark blue boot caught the Hulk beneath the kneecap, a blow that would have crippled any other foe. Coming up behind the jade giant, Wolverine raked his claws across the Hulk’s massively muscled back, carving gouges that healed before he shed another drop of blood.

“Arrgh!” the Hulk hollered, more in fury than in pain. The little punk was fast, he’d give him that, but that wouldn’t do him any good once he’d broken the pint-sized X-Man in two, adamantium skeleton or no adamantium skeleton. Turning on his opponent before Wolverine could once again slash him from behind, the Hulk connected with a backhanded swat that sent Wolverine skidding on his backside down the length of an empty hallway lined with closed office doors. The heels of the X-Man’s boots left scuff marks on the linoleum floor that stretched over fifty yards before Wolverine came to an abrupt halt, slamming into an aluminum storage cabinet at the end of the hall. His back and shoulders hammered a Wolverine-shaped dent into the metal door of the cabinet.

Stop it! cried out that same tinny voice from the Hulk’s undernourished superego. Stop this now!

The Hulk just grinned harder.

Looking dazed, Wolverine shook his head back and forth violently, perhaps to forcibly expel any cobwebs, before springing to his feet and stampeding like an enraged bull at the Hulk, who had to throw up his arms at the last minute to avoiding being stabbed through the chest by half a dozen adamantium daggers. The claws sank into the rock-solid flesh of his forearms and the Hulk stamped his bare foot down on the linoleum hard, igniting tremors that sent the mutant berserker staggering backwards across the quaking floor.

The Hulk stomped only once, but the tremors continued for several seconds thereafter. Momentarily distracted by the stinging scratches upon his arms, it took the Hulk a second to realize that something else was causing the floor to quiver beneath his feat. Wolverine froze in his tracks as well, also taking note of the strange phenomenon. “What the hey?” he blurted, looking from side to side.

Their brutal struggle had carried the two champions midway down the empty corridor. Now two huge figures joined them—from opposite ends of the hall. Glancing from left to right, the Hulk found himself trapped between what looked like the Abomination ... and himself!

“How ’bout that,” the Hulk muttered. Captain America and his Avenging buddies had been right after all; somebody really had been building duplicates of the Hulk and the rest of the gamma bunch. No wonder the Leader had taken an interest in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s latest dirty tricks. This was right down his alley.

The Gamma Sentinels, each as tall as the Hulk himself, advanced on Wolverine and the original Hulk. “Identified: target designates: Hulk and Wolverine,” the bogus Abomination stated. His coarse, gravelly voice sure sounded like the Real McCoy, even if Emil Blonsky, the true Abomination, had never talked like a stinking robot. “Deadly force is mandated. Take no prisoners.”

“Confirmed,” the other Hulk said. “Adopting termination protocols.”

It was like listening to his voice on an answering machine. Do I really sound like that? the real Hulk wondered briefly.

A whirring sound, like a tape recorder rewinding, came from the hulking, green-skinned Sentinel. “Hulk will smash! Hulk is the strongest one there is!”

Now that’s just insulting, the Hulk thought, frowning. Who does he think he’s fooling?

“Hey, Jade Jaws,” Wolverine said. “What you say we settle between us later.” He kept a close watch on both approaching Sentinels. “I think these bozos just moved to the top of our dance cards.”

“Fine with me,” the Hulk agreed. Playtime was over; it was time to get some serious stomping in. * ‘The Abomination is mine. You take my evil twin.”

Frankly, he would have enjoyed tearing his computerized double to pieces, but that might get too blasted confusing, for Wolverine, if nobody else.

The last thing I want, the Hulk craftily considered, is a well-meaning Canuck jabbing me with those adamantium pigstickers of his in the mistaken impression he’s saving me from the clone.

“Works for me,” Wolverine grunted, then launched himself at the Hulk-Sentinel. Silver claws glistened beneath the overhead lights and a low, predatory growl issued from the X-Man’s chest. The real Hulk caught only a glimpse of Wolverine’s attack on the artificial Hulk before his own chosen opponent came at him, scaly green claws tearing at his face.

“Beware the Abomination!” the Sentinel bragged, as his dinosaur-like talons dug into the Hulk’s scalp, right behind his ears, and tried to twist the Hulk’s head from his shoulders. His reptilian face was less than an inch away from the Hulk’s own primeval features. “None can escape the Abomination!”

Forget that! the Hulk decided. He’d had his neck broken once before, thank you very much, and once was enough; it had taken him literally weeks to recover last time. He wrenched his head from the mock Abomination’s grip and shoved the Sentinel’s scale-encrusted chest with both hands, with enough force to send the creature reeling backward a few steps. Too bad it’s not the real thing, the Hulk thought vindictively. He was always up to clobbering the Abomination, especially now that he’d learned that Blonsky was responsible for Betty’s death. “Tell you what,” he growled at the saurian Sentinel, “I’m going to pretend you’re the genuine article.” He slammed his fist into the Abomination’s face. “It’ll be more fun that way.”

He had to admit this Abomination sure looked authentic. He had the same scalloped ears and bony skull, the same scaly hide and yellow fangs. He even punched as hard as Blonsky did.

My tax dollars at work, he thought mordantly, even 1 90

though neither he nor Banner had actually drawn a regular paycheck, let alone paid taxes, for years.

His fists as rough and abrasive as a gator’s skin, this Abomination pounded the Hulk with seismological force, with the original green goliath giving just as good as he got. Their exchanged blows shook the building as they grappled at close quarters. Scaly hands locked around the Hulk’s bull-like neck, squeezing with enough force to reduce a diamond to dust, but the Hulk merely pummelled the Abomination’s ribs until the other monster was forced to loosen his grip. The Abomination’s fang-filled jaws snapped at the Hulk, trying to tear a great, chunk of muscle from the Hulk’s right shoulder; the sharpened incisors actually pierced green skin, in fact, yet tendons stronger than the thickest steel cable held the Hulk’s flesh to his bones. He retaliated by grabbing onto the wing-like flaps of the Abomination’s ears and yanking his misshapen head back so far that all the Hulk could see was his enemy’s upraised chin. Seizing the moment, the Hulk butted that chin with the top of his head. The sound of his foe’s teeth rattling was music to the Hulk’s ears.

The homicidal monster was forced to release his death-grip on the Hulk’s throat in order to peel the Hulk’s fingers away from his ears.

“Unhand the Abomination,” he recited. “The Abomination cannot be stopped.” One meaty finger at a time, he managed to pry the Hulk’s left hand away from his ear, but the Hulk refused to release the other ear. Holding onto the membranous flap so tightly that his chartreuse knuckles turned white, the Hulk gave the ear a vicious twist. There was a harsh, ripping sound and the entire ear tore away from the left side of the Abomination’s head, revealing a peek at the gleaming metallic skull beneath. Concentric circles of small blinking lights radiated out from the Sentinel’s exposed auditory receptor. Shreds of synthetic skin and scales hung in tatters around the telltale glimpse of chromed silver.

Scowling in disgust, the Hulk tossed the limp ear to the floor and ground it beneath his bare heel. The Sentinel’s unsightly injury spoiled the satisfying illusion that this was the real Abomination, Emil Blonsky himself, the slimy, nogood crumb who had poisoned the Hulk’s—that is. Banner’s—wife. It’s just another stupid robot who doesn 't have enough sense to get out of my way. the Hulk thought.

His fun ruined, the Hulk decided to get things over with. “All right,” he snarled, “no more Mr. Nice Guy!” Catching the Abomination-Sentinel’s thrashing form in a head-lock, he spared a second to see how Wolverine was doing:

The indomitable X-Man had somehow got onto the Hulk-SentinePs back, straddling him piggyback, his short legs locked around the Sentinel’s throat, while he hacked at the duplicate’s head with his flashing claws. Locks of unruly emerald hair littered the floor, but so far the other Hulk’s skull seemed to be made of sturdier stuff, perhaps even some new adamantium alloy. Wolverine had to duck his own head to avoid colliding with the ceiling, probably not a problem, the real Hulk reflected, that the pint-sized X-Man had to worry about very often.

Rather than try to pull Wolverine from his shoulders, the phony Hulk bent his enormous knees, then launched himself straight up—through the ceiling and all the floors above. Peering up the newly-created shaft while wrestling with the relentless Abomination, the real Hulk spotted a satellite dish on the roof of the building, silhouetted against the full moon. Debris from every floor in-between, including, oddly enough, bits of ice and snow, fluttered down through the chasm carved out by his doppleganger’s stupendous leap.

Six stories above, a pair of overly familiar green hands wrenched the satellite dish from its housing, then heaved it at an unseen target on the roof. Wolverine? the Hulk speculated. Or just Storm or Iron Man instead? Either way, it looked like the robot Hulk had his hands full.

As did he. “Release the Abomination!” the stubborn Sentinel commanded fruitlessly. He tugged on the Hulk’s arm, determined to escape the headlock. ‘‘The Abomination will destroy you all!”

“Give it up, tin man,” the Hulk snorted. He could not resist giving the captured Sentinel the world’s most high-powered noogies, brutally rubbing his knuckles over the bony protuberances atop the fake Abomination’s cranium. “How you like them apples, robot?”

Unable to extricate his head from the crook of the Hulk’s immovable elbow, the Sentinel took a page out of the Hulk’s own recent playbook and stomped down on the Hulk’s bare foot with tectonic force. The Hulk’s toes survived the impact, but the floor did not; gravity seized hold of both green monsters as they fell into a pit of their own creation. Caught off-balance by the collapse of the floor, the Hulk let go of the Abomination as he fell, landing with a thud upon a hard cement floor one story below. Broken chunks of plaster and linoleum rained down on his head.

The basement where he had landed was dark, but enough light shined down from the hall above to let the Hulk see that his robotic adversary had also survived their crash landing. “Warning! Structural integrity of floor supports under critical strain,” the Abomination-Sentinel announced belatedly. “Disintegration of immediate infrastructure imminent.” One of his crimson eyes had cracked down the middle, exposing hidden circuitry. Dust and debris coated his olive-green scales. He tottered uneasily upon his twotoed feet.

Okay, the Hulk thought, rising to his feet and shaking off the residue of the collapsed floor, now you ’ve made me mad.

And, as the genuine Abomination knew too well, the madder Hulk gets, the stronger he gets....

Trampling fallen chunks of flooring beneath his feet, the Hulk ran across the shadowy basement and delivered a mammoth punch, backed up by all his headlong momentum, to the Sentinel’s midsection. The ringing impact echoed through the basement, followed by the gratifying sound of delicate machinery breaking apart somewhere deep within the Sentinel. The robot did not fall, not right away, but it swayed drunkenly atop unsteady limbs that appeared to have lost their gyroscopic equilibrium.

“I am the Abomination ... mination ... mination ...,’’ the Sentinel stuttered, like a scratched vinyl record, until the Hulk put it out of its mechanical misery by smashing his fist down on top of the robot’s skull and driving its head halfway into its chest. The tiny lights around the Sentinel’s exposed eye and ear went dead and froze in place like a wind-up toy whose spring had come unwound.

The Hulk stepped back to admire his destructive handiwork. Satisfied that the scaly mannequin was not going to start moving again, he looked around to inspect his new surroundings. What have we got here? he wondered.

The basement appeared to hold some sort of prison or zoo. Parallel rows of locked iron doors, each with a barred window installed at eye level, advertised the existence of at least a dozen cells, six on each side of a wide central hallway.

Looks like the X-Men’s own private Alcatraz, the Hulk thought, although the cells looked comfortably furnished enough, with beds, desks, computers, televisions, and other amenities. He stomped down the corridor, peering into each cell as he passed. Most appeared unoccupied at the moment, although in one cell he spied a huge, shaggy figure lying unconscious upon the carpeted floor. A hand-written label on the door identified the inmate as “Spoor,” and he looked dead to the world, snoring loudly and twitching occasionally in his sleep. Across the hall, in the opposite cell, was a bizarre, feathered creature that didn’t even look humanoid. The name on the labeled identified it simply as “Unknown Mutant #9.” It, too, was out cold. Probably dragged or gassed, he guessed, to keep them from escaping during the chaos upstairs.

Growing bored with Moira MacTaggert’s underground mutant menagerie, the Hulk turned to leave, then heard something stirring in the last cell on the left. A voice, with a pronounced German accent, called out from behind the closed door. “Hello? Vas is das? Is anybody there?”

His eyes adjusting to the gloom, the Hulk peeked through the small, square window in the door. To his surprise, the cell appeared empty, even though the disembodied voice grew louder and more demanding. “Moira? Bobby? Is that you?”

Either he's invisible or he’s one heck of a ventriloquist, the Hulk concluded. His beefy fingers groped along the wall beside the locked steel door until he found a manual switch.

CLICK.

Lights came on inside the cell, the sudden illumination making visible a writhing figure trapped in some kind of metallic netting. Bound but obviously not gagged, the newly revealed figure had dark blue fur, pointed ears, and a tail that was currently trying to wriggle its way free of the thin metal cables that had ensnared it.

Hah, the Hulk thought, recognizing the frustrated prisoner now that the shadows had been dispelled. If it wasn’t the X-Men’s resident smurf... !

I know Scotland is supposed to be cold, but this is ridiculous!

Zooming into the lab in Storm’s wake, Iron Man was surprised to find that the spacious facility looked like it had been hit by a blizzard. Melting ice slides crisscrossed the room, along with, alarmingly dismembered pieces of Iceman. For a moment, he feared the X-Men’s human popsicle had met a ghastly fate; then he realized there were enough frozen limbs around to assemble a small army of Icemen, and he surmised the nature of the ruse the real Iceman must have attempted—unsuccessfully, it appeared. The chilling effect of all that ice and snow could be felt even through Iron Man’s armor, but a quick cybernetic adjustment to his internal thermostat maintained a comfortable temperature inside his iron suit.

Wary eyes, as well as on-line targeting programs, observed and evaluated the situation as he cruised below the high ceiling of the lab. Two hostages, enmeshed in wire nets, and two potential threats: Gamma Sentinels, just as Nick Fury described. The craftsmanship was impressive, Iron Man gave them that; the Sentinel impersonating Doc Samson was a dead ringer for the world’s strongest psychiatrist, while the Harpy, for all her feathers and giveaway green skin, bore a noticeable resemblance to the late Betty Banner. Then again, there was no reason not to expect the Gamma Sentinels to be near-perfect replicas of the beings they were modeled after. S.H.I.E.L.D. had long ago perfected, with more than a little help from Tony Stark, the art of making believable Life Model Decoys. It galled him to think that some of his own discoveries and techniques might have gone into the creation of these destructive, mutant-hunting monstrosities.

As for the hostages, Iron Man guessed that the attractive, middle-aged woman tied up on the floor was Moira MacTaggert. By process of elimination, he swiftly deduced that the unconscious young man lying not far from her, trussed up like a Christmas tree whose branches had been tied down for easy transport, was Iceman, de-iced. One thing for sure, the downed youth didn’t look at all like Nightcrawler. No tail, for one thing. His sensors picked up strong life-signs coming from both captives. That’s something to be thankful for, he thought, although it worried him that Nightcrawler was nowhere to be seen.

Storm was more than worried. The sight of her friends, bound and left to shiver on the icy floor, while their captors despoiled Dr. MacTaggert’s work at will, seemed to spark a righteous fury in the mutant weather goddess. “Sentinels,” she denounced them with fierce dignity. “I know your kind too well, and I will not suffer to let you abuse these people or this place a heartbeat longer. Feel the wrath of the elements at my command!”

Thunder boomed indoors and crackling lightning wreathed her head like a halo. Radiant energy suffused her eyes, hiding their distinctive blue coloring, and jagged bolts of electricity leaped from her fingertips. Iron Man’s environmental sensors instantly registered a sizable spike in the barometric pressure along with an unnatural increase in the ozone level. Talk about storm warnings, he thought, impressed by the lady’s manifest power. Having been on the receiving end of that power only just this morning, Iron Man was glad he and Storm were on the same side now.

Twin thunderbolts singled out both the “Harpy” and “Doc Samson,” striking the two Sentinels and engulfing each in a shower of sparks. With the two hostiles on the defensive, Iron Man took advantage of Storm’s literal blitzkrieg to look after the defenseless hostages. Activating the vari-beam projector in his chestplate, he used a magnetic attraction ray to lock onto the metal filaments binding the prisoners and lift both MacTaggert and Iceman off the floor and draw them to his waiting gauntlets. “Don’t worry, doctor,” he assured the wide-eyed woman. “You’re in good hands now.”

His chin sagging limply onto his chest, the unconscious Iceman muttered something that sounded like “Sentinels, gotta stop the Sentinels....”

First things first, Iron Man thought. Making sure he had a firm grip on both hostages, he retreated through the shattered window into the chill Scottish night. He hated leaving Storm alone with the Gamma Sentinels, but, with any luck, he could get back to the fight before too much precious time passed. Shooting past the edge of the seaside cliff, he dove at a 45 degree angle to the pier below, then executed a last-second change in his trajectory that let him touch down on the dock rightside-up. A diamond-edged precision blade emerged from the index finger of his right gauntlet, and he carefully sliced through the wires binding Dr. MacTaggert and Iceman. “About time!” the scientist said, with a definite Scottish burr. She shook her hands and feet to restore the circulation to her extremities. “Thank you, Iron Man. I have to say, I never expected to see you here.”

“The X-Men don’t have a monopoly on helping mutants,” he told her. “I’ve tangled with more than a couple Sentinels in my day. Now then, if you’ll excuse me.” Iron Man helped her into the quinjet, then laid Iceman across two of the passenger seats. “You should be safe here,” he said. Locking the aircraft behind him with a remote-control signal, he fired his boot-jets and accelerated back toward the lab.

Hang on a few more seconds, Storm, he thought fervently. I'm on my way.

When he reentered the razed and refrigerated laboratory, he found the whole place shaking like it was on top of the San Andreas fault. At least a 3.0 on the Richter scale, he estimated, and his seismic sensors quickly confirmed his ballpark figure. Crystalline ice slides vibrated to pieces, tinkling like a chorus of wind chimes, while whatever test tubes, slides, and petrie dishes had managed to survive the super-powered strife that had laid waste to what looked like a well-designed lab, succumbed at last to the violent tremors rocking the very walls of the science building.

Meanwhile, Storm was still making a valiant stand against superior numbers of Gamma Sentinels. The Harpy-Sentinel had taken to the air to fight the mutant heroine in the cramped airspace of the lab, blocking Storm’s lightning bolts with her own radioactive hellbolts. Polarized filters slid into place within Iron Man’s eyeslits to shield him from the strobe-like flashes being generated by the two women’s respective energy blasts. Granted, the Harpy-Sentinel wasn’t really a woman, but if it looked like a harpy, and acted like a harpy, Iron Man was more than willing to take the mythological she-creature on her own terms.