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 Hu
lk 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.