FIRE!

By DarkMark

Part 28

Iron Man was on his feet as soon as Firebrand began speaking. His repulsors were pointed towards his foe, just as Gary Gilbert's fire-dealing hands were stretched out in the Avenger's direction. But Firebrand had a word of caution.

"Just a minute, running dog," said Firebrand, calmly. "Don't you know what cargo this plane is carrying? Don't you know what a single impact in the wrong place, or a spark gone awry, could touch off?" He smirked. "It could start the Fire."

"I know what you have here, Firebrand," said Iron Man. "Take the plane down, land it safely, and I swear...I swear...that you won't be harmed. If you surrender."

"If. I. Surrender." Gilbert laughed, loudly, shortly. "Listen to you, man. Do you think, after what took place in Seattle, that any man, especially me, would trust the American government? Ask Dr. Octopus. Ask Dr. Doom."

"You can ask me, Gilbert," Iron Man said, his palms still full out. "You can depend on my word."

Firebrand sighed. "Is that why the Air Force and SHIELD haven't tried to shoot me down yet? Because they're afraid for you, or afraid of what I'm carrying?"

"Let's just take our blessings where we can find them, Gilbert. Nobody's dead yet. It's in our mutual best interest to keep things that way."

"I'm sorry, old friend. Very sorry. You know it can't end like that."

The man of iron thought Firebrand, behind his metal mask, looked sad. "Maybe you can tell me something, Gilbert. Maybe you can tell me what brought you to this."

"Oh, God, Iron Man, Iron Man." Gilbert laughed mirthlessly. "I thought you, of all people, would understand. You've been so close to the wheels of power in this country for so long, you can't be that ignorant."

"Ignorant of what?"

"Ignorant of the price the world's paid to keep us on top. Do you know how much of the Earth's resources is used up by the United States, let alone the rest of the First World? Do you know how many people starve in India, go cold and hungry in Africa, just so about two hundred million people in America can go to bed under central heating and wake up to a nice bowl of Cheerios in the morning? Do you know how much we use up?"

"I know," said Iron Man. "I've been in a lot more of the world than you could imagine. You also ought to know, if you've been keeping up with us, that Stark was one of the first companies to take heed of the pollution problem and act on it. That we've been instrumental in seeking alternative power sources, building factories in underprivileged nations to help the local economy. That we've worked with the United Nations to try and improve methods of farming, of..."

"Oh, shut the hell up." Firebrand leaned against the side of the cockpit. "That's the same eyewash every American industrial entity deals out these days. What does it amount to? Cosmetic changes. We try and put filters on smokestacks, but we still drive the gas-guzzling internal combusion engines on wheels that make the air unfit to breathe. We build factories in Third World countries, and still keep our nukes pointed at them."

"Yeah, and their nukes are pointed at us, often as not. You know that."

"Who had them first?"

"Who used them only twice, and then never again, even against the Russians?"

"Semantics, Iron Man. Only semantics."

Iron Man stood up, carefully. "More than semantics, Firebrand. Reality. A condition you seem to have a problem grasping."

"Oh? Really? I think I've got a pretty good grip on reality, Iron Man. After all, look how much of it I've managed to restructure in the past few weeks. Could you do the same? Could Tony Stark?"

Tightly, Iron Man said, "Construction takes time and effort. Destruction takes a lot less, just the sweep of an arm to knock over a stack of blocks. But you never seem to think about picking up your toys after you've made the mess."

"As in Viet Nam?"

"I know more about Viet Nam than you'll ever know, son. I was there."

Firebrand's eyes blazed, and he took a step forward. "Don't call me son, damn you. Don't call me son, don't ever call me son! Do you hear me?"

Iron Man's repulsors were ready for activation. Firebrand caught himself just in time, and stood there breathing heavily.

"I was there, Firebrand," said Iron Man, quietly. "I was there before Lyndon Johnson ever committed troops. I got my chest ripped open by a hidden grenade. The Viet Cong found me. They recognized me, so they patched me back up enough to save my life. But that wouldn't have been enough if a prisoner in the same camp where they took me hadn't helped me build my first iron suit, to keep the shrapnel away from my heart. I had to wear a chestplate for seven years after that, or die within an hour. That's what I've had to live with, Gilbert. Now do you know who I am?"

Firebrand's eyes went wide. "You're Tony Stark," he said, in a whisper. Then, much louder. "You're Tony Stark!"

He threw back his head and laughed, riotously. "Oh, God, my God, you're Tony Stark. It can't be. It's just too, too perfect. You. Tony Stark. I should have guessed, I really, really, should have..."

"Firebrand! Stop it!"

Instantly, cool descended over Gary Gilbert's mien. "It's too late to stop anything, Iron Man. History will have its way. You should know that."

"Oh, come off it, Gilbert. History is in our hands, every day. In the choices we make. To kill, or to have mercy. To destroy, or to build. To condemn, or to forgive. And for all my life..."

"For most of your life, you built weapons of mass destruction," answered Firebrand. "To fight off the big bad Russians, the godless Commies who wouldn't let us keep a nuclear monopoly. Myself, I'm kind of glad they kept us from having one."

"You scum."

"Ah-ah. No, my friend. Do you really think that if Stalin hadn't gotten the Bomb, someone else in the Oval Office wouldn't have acted with a little less discretion? We dropped two bombs to end a hot war. Do you think we wouldn't have dropped a few more to end a cold one?"

"So why are you putting yourself in that catbird seat, Firebrand?"

The other almost surged forward. "Because I can. And because somebody has to. Next question?"

"I have a lot of them. Such as: what kind of twisted mind could see the physical destruction of the United States as a humanitarian act?"

Firebrand shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you'd better ask Nixon and Breshnev. They've had their nuclear arsenals pointed at each other for years."

"And you want to press the button."

"No, Mr. Stark. I'm afraid I have to press it. And I'm afraid I have to tell you why. Would that be all right with you?"

"Keep talking."

"I know your feeling, Tony. May I call you Tony? Thanks. You think, as long as he's talking, he's not releasing his cargo. Actually, I'm just not releasing it yet. I want...I want someone to know what I'm doing, to understand it, to understand me, even if it's only an audience of one. After all..." Firebrand chuckled. "I suppose the movies do have that right. The villain always wants to boast of his plans."

"I'm listening."

"It takes more than the average mind to understand the problem of humanity, Tony. How we got from point A to this very deadly point B...or point Z, more likely. We have two uberpowers, swords at each other's throat, both of them daring the other to make the first move. That's how it's been for over twenty years. With all the other little nations running around frightened, asking each other, 'Are they gonna do it? Are they gonna do it?' And all of us digging our little fallout shelters that fall in when a little fire comes near them, or thinking that putting our head between our legs is going to save us when the bomb drops. Good Lord, Choke, as the comic books I read when I was a kid put it. Good Lord. Choke."

Iron Man waited.

"The world...the world just couldn't go on as it was, Tony. Not if we were going to save any of it. Neither one could win in a nuclear confrontation. Hell, the entire world would lose in that, all the people who never had a beef one way or the other. And if one did win, what then? Russia? Be looking forward to Stalinist tyranny from then on. America? The rapacious depradations of capitalism, forever."

"Seems to me you've been pretty good at rapaciousness, these days."

"That's true, Tony. I have. I learned so much from you and...I simply wouldn't have been able to do what I did without you. I wouldn't have been able to raise the money, to learn the secrets of leadership, to think big, as a businessman must, in order to make things work. Nobody ever organized super-villainy before, and put it on a mass, paying basis. They were just gangs before. Never an army."

"Your army lost," said Iron Man.

"They lost all the battles," said Firebrand. "The war's still going on."

"How much did it cost you, Gilbert?"

"The villains, or what I'm carrying?"

"Both."

"Oh." Gilbert considered. "That's what we have accountants for, really. Suffice it to say, if things were to continue as they have, Gilbert Industries probably wouldn't be able to pay its employees next year. But...that's all right. We're going out of business, anyway."

Iron Man shook his head. "This is megalomania. I've seen people with similar designs before. The Mandarin. Kang. Midas. But you..."

"Not bad for a one-time, second-string villain from New Rochelle, eh, Iron Man?" Firebrand grinned. "America really was the Land of Opportunity."

"It'll still be, long after both of us are dust."

"Not really," said Gilbert. "I had planned for the Silver Surfer to cripple Russia's defenses, and a good part of their sustaining system, to take them out of the picture. If he failed, the Thinker's Android was to be a backup."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind. I don't think that came off, anyway. But this will be enough to upset the applecart. Without the United States in the picture, the powers will realign themselves. No more First World marauding, no more Third World poverty."

"No more anything," said Iron Man. "Russia and China will be at each other's throats in no time. You ought to know that."

"Iron Man, my responsibility ends with what I do here. It is up to the rest of humanity to determine what they do after this Gotterdammerung. This Fire. We should be at an altitude sufficient to sweep the cargo over the United States. Now, if you please..."

A repulsor was pointing straight at Firebrand. "Don't move."

"Supposing I don't. What do you think will happen then? There's an autopilot on this craft that has been bringing us higher. It won't take very much longer for a dead man's control to release the contents all by themselves. And as I've said, just one spark in the wrong place..."

A repulsor blast hit Firebrand in the chest, smashing him against the controls in the cockpit. The plane dipped, then righted itself.

"Well, if that's the way you want it," said Firebrand, and lunged at Iron Man.

-M-

Nick Fury was trying to contact Iron Man through the latter's in-suit radio. The Golden Avenger had left his set on so Fury, and the Oval Office (which was patched in), and the Kremlin (which the president had patched in through the hotline) could hear the proceedings. "Iron Man. Iron Man! Are ya there? Can ya hear me? Iron Man!"

"He can't talk, Nick," said Gabe Jones. "He's busy."

Fury turned back to the others in the office. "We've gotta keep that plane from going any higher. But we can't let it blow up or crash. Where's the Interceptors?"

"Closing, sir," said Sitwell, looking up from a control panel. "But they won't be there in time."

Val looked at Nick. Usually, this would be the time in which he swore. But he didn't seem able to do it, under the circumstances.

"Where are the FF and Avengers? What happened to the Defenders, for cripes' sake?" Fury bit down savagely on his stogie.

"We lost contact with the Defenders after they took the Surfer," Dum Dum said. "The other guys just vanished. So did the X-Men. No contact, yet."

"Have we even heard from Spider-Man?"

Jimmy Woo said, "Actually, Nick, I think Spidey's been sighted."

"Where at?"

"I think he's in the general vicinity of the George Washington Bridge."

-M-

PARKER

So there I was, swinging past everything, with twice as many web-cells in my belt as I'd normally use. There was no way I was even gonna think of running out, with what was at stake.

I didn't think the Goblin would have been there very long. That would have been risking interference by police helicopters. I was right, as it turned out, but one of them had already been dispatched, and he'd shot it down. The crew managed to escape, but the chopper is still there in the Hudson.

What was I thinking? I've already told you what I thought before I got there. Traffic was stalled out on one side of the Bridge. I didn't have to guess why.

When I got close enough to see which bridge support had two people on top of it, one of them looking like she was lying on her side and unable to move, the other one standing up and looking green and purple even from a distance, I don't know if I could think. I do know I saw red.

Then I probably went into automatic.

-M-

The Green Goblin looked at the approaching Spider-Man and smiled.

The woman on the bridge support beside him was conscious, terrified, gagged and bound. The Goblin couldn't tell whether she was aware or catatonic. Really, it didn't much matter. She wasn't going to move around a lot, because that might pitch her dangerously near the edge. Whether you fell on the bridge or in the water, from this height, the results would be pretty much the same.

For a moment, he had to reconsider. What was it all about, after all? He had power. He had wealth. As Norman Osborn, head of Osborn Chemicals, he controlled over a million dollars, personally. Why did he bother with the Goblin thing? Why had he made the attempts to control the underworld?

Why indeed?

Power. That was the answer. Power and the Game. His financial status as Osborn didn't compare a bit to the physical might he had as the Goblin. His business and technical achievements couldn't match the feeling he had, riding a jet engine with wings...one of his own creation!...or firing finger-missles or plasma bursts from gimmicked gloves he had designed and manufactured himself. As a weapons maker, he often fancied himself in the Tony Stark league. It was just that they specialized in different areas.

As the Goblin, he could get his hands in things. It was hands-on power, not executive power. He could see the face of the man he destroyed.

Spider-Man had made it personal. Befriending his son Harry, using him against the Goblin psychologically. That was what had enabled Parker to survive their climactic confrontation, when he'd had Spider-Man trapped like the laboratory specimen he really was. Parker had thrown Harry up at him in the conversation, and the Goblin had been psychically unmanned. The fight after that was almost anticlimactic.

He'd lost the battle, and lost his Goblinhood.

Twice since then, he'd regained it. Twice, he'd been beaten, and forced to forget anew. Not this time. This time, Spider-Man was going to lose the Game. It would be direct, final, and fatal. No tricks, no delaying, no artsy gambits to give the prey a chance to make counterplans. No. This time, Spider-Man was going to die.

His wife would witness his demise.

What would he do after that? Oh, probably kill her. That would be the merciful thing to do, after all.

It wasn't like the Goblin was a villain, after all. He was just a player, in the grandest game of all.

And this time, he was going to win.

-M-

PARKER

When I got close enough to the Goblin, he let me have a pumpkin in the face. I webbed up a net between my hands and bounced it back at him. Good thing, too: the gas it was filled with was probably poisonous. He blasted it away with one of his finger-rays and it went over the side of the bridge and popped. After that, he tried sparklers, boomers, heat and cold blasts, all his regular party favors.

They didn't work, and he didn't expect them to. My eyes were shut when he started that. I ran on Spider-Sense until I sensed that he wasn't firing the stuff anymore. My web had snagged the top of the bridge support. I pushed off from the side of it, gave a big swing, went over on top of it, let go of the web, and touched down.

He was grinning.

I told him to let the woman go, and I'd let him live. I meant it, too. Also the alternative.

He grinned even wider, and he said something:

-M-

"Oh, why be so formal, Spider-Man? We both know you're Peter Parker, and this is your wife Gwen. I know her too. Remember?"

Gwen Stacy, her wrists bound behind her by a polymer she had no hope of breaking, her mouth stuffed with a gag, sat bolt upright and stared at the Goblin in horror and amazement. She didn't think she had any capacity left for shock in her, but she had been wrong.

"This is your last chance, Goblin," said Spider-Man, in a voice of deadly softness. "Let me take her to safety, and I'll come back here, or anywhere you want, and fight you. You name the trap. I'll walk into it. If you don't..."

"If I don't?" The Goblin laughed. "You'd actually kill me? Perhaps, Peter. But it wouldn't come naturally to you. You'd have to convince yourself to do it. You'd have to fight yourself. Whereas, for me..."

Even spider-sense barely warned Spider-Man in time to duck the line of glowing plasma from the Goblin's glove.

"...it just comes naturally," finished the Goblin.

Gwen Stacy watched in horror...no, worse, in agony...as her husband dodged, ducked, leapt, stuck to the sides or the top of the bridge support, using his adhesive hands and feet. The Goblin was sending an incredible array of weapons at him from his pouch. Spider-Man shot webs at him, but the Goblin touched his fingers to the center of his palms and put forth a spray that dissolved them.

"A little trick I picked up from Mysterio," he commented. "Good for cleaning out the cobwebs."

Then he released another weapon: something that looked a bit like a flying handkerchief with a face on it. It seemed drawn to Spider-Man, and was, attracted by his body heat. The web-slinger tried to dodge. He couldn't quite manage it. Even though he tore at its substance, it wrapped itself around his head, constricting, suffocating.

And a plasma burst caught Spider-Man full in the chest.

With her eyes, Gwen Stacy screamed.

Spider-Man tumbled backwards off the bridge support.

The Green Goblin laughed. He threw back his head and laughed uproariously as if he'd heard the full repertoire of Bob Hope, Bill Cosby, and Bob Newhart combined.

Gwen, still wearing her flats, kicked out at his ankle as hard as she could. It tripped him, made him fall flat on his green-masked face.

The Goblin got back up and turned to her, looking not at all pleased.

"So," he said, almost reasonably. "The little woman wants to play the Game too, eh? Well, that's all right. Equality and all that. Besides..."

He began to walk towards her.

"...it won't take all that much effort to make your child an orphan."

That was the approximate time that two red-gloved hands appeared above the edge of the bridge support.

They were shortly followed by a familiar masked head and a blue-and-red-clad body, the uniform of which was burned off around the chest, which itself showed some severe burning. The Goblin barely had time to notice before he was attacked.

"It'll take more than you've got," grated Spider-Man.

-M-

PARKER

I usually hold back in my fights. If I hadn't pulled my punches a little, a lot of normal-powered thugs would've been dead. I've crushed solid bricks with my hands, kids. I've lifted a mass of metal with the weight of a locomotive off my back. I've shaken the Chameleon out of a car with a bunch of guys hanging off my other arm.

Strictly speaking, I am not in Thor's class, but neither am I a lightweight.

This was different. The Goblin's strength and durability had been enhanced by that chemical explosion he'd been in, and maybe he'd done something to himself since then to enhance it. Also, that thing I was fighting had endangered my wife.

I could not forgive that.

Quite bluntly, I was in the process of beating him to death.

It wasn't like he wasn't fighting back. He slashed at me with some kind of blade in his glove, tried to use more blasters. I tore the things off his hands and threw them over the side of the bridge. He was under me, I was on top of him, and I was beating him to a pulp. You could see the blood leaking out through the holes in his mask.

I didn't care.

Gwen had never seen that side of me. I don't know that I had, either. I know she was terrified, but she'd been in that state, or near it, since she woke up gagged and bound on top of the bridge, with the Green Goblin for company.

She'd just have to live with it, until I could get the thing finished.

The beating stopped when something hit me in the back. Something very hard, very metallic, very fast. It knocked the breath out of me, and I was lucky it didn't take a couple of ribs with it. Or maybe even my spine.

The Goblin had summoned his bat-glider and hit me with it.

He managed to kick me off, lurched to his feet, and staggered over to where Gwen was. Everything in me was trying to draw in breath, to get up, to hit him again, to save my wife.

And nothing in me was capable of it.

The Goblin didn't say anything. I don't know if he could, at that point. He just went over to the place where Gwen was lying. She tried to squirm out of his grasp. That put her even more near the edge.

From the angle I was at, I couldn't tell whether or not the Goblin grabbed her, or whether she just made one squirm too hard. That's me trying to be fair. But I know what I know.

The Green Goblin went and threw my wife Gwen off the side of the George Washington Bridge.

-M-

Iron Man slammed into Firebrand as hard as he could, under the circumstances. He delivered a powerful, brass-knuckled blow to the red-armored face before him. It was obvious the punch hurt. But so did the knee that Firebrand gave him, and the burst of flame that heated his faceplate and made him back off.

The two champions of chaos and order crashed about the cabin of the plane, doing more damage than Tony Stark wanted to do to the craft. If it was harmed enough, it might discharge its deadly cargo. For the past 24 hours, he had known exactly what Firebrand had bought from AIM. He knew what it could do, too.

Inferno 42.

The deadliest incendiary weapon ever devised by man.

A microscopic amount, under carefully controlled conditions, could devastate an entire building. A bit of it about as big as the end joint of a human thumb could lay waste to half of New York.

There was no telling how much Firebrand had purchased, but it had to be in the hundreds of pounds. Maybe over a thousand.

AIM had manufactured Inferno 42, intending it to be a blackmail tool against nations, but wound up being too scared to use it. Captain America and Sharon Carter had kept Batroc from getting his hands on a canister of it. SHIELD had neutralized it, just barely. It had to be kept in a storage container stronger than those used for nuclear waste. Whether or not it would outlast Man on the planet was not known.

Now, the least spark penetrating its closed container could touch it off.

Iron Man wanted to spare Firebrand's life, if he was able to. He had only killed once, and that was when he executed Wong-Chu, the Red terrorist who had killed Professor Yinsen, with whom Tony Stark had built the Iron Man armor. Wong-Chu had died to keep him from executing the South Vietnamese prisoners he held. There was more at stake here, but Stark wanted to save Gilbert, if he could, to stand trial.

The problem was that such a measure was secondary to saving the United States.

If the plane achieved sufficient altitude, its deadly spray would be spread across the continental U.S., and possibly part of Canada and Mexico as well.

That was Gary Gilbert's ultimate plan: to murder the population of the United States of America.

In the sight of that, Iron Man would do whatever he had to, to thwart Firebrand. The Fire must not be unleashed.

The problem was that Firebrand was crowding him, grappling with him, grasping his wrists and turning his burners up high enough to threaten to melt Iron Man's armor.

"You're dying, Stark," whispered Firebrand. "You're dying like America."

"Never," declared Iron Man, and blasted Firebrand with his repulsors.

The burst smashed Gilbert away. Iron Man leaped at his foe, but Firebrand kicked at him, slamming him against the cockpit wall...

...and sending Gilbert through the doorway.

Iron Man swore mentally and, with the plane lurching ever higher, grabbed the side of the plane and dug his hand into the metal for support. He made it to the controls, found the autopilot, and disengaged it. Then, sitting in the pilot's seat, he grasped the control yoke and began to point the nose of the plane downward. With any luck, he could find some airport at which to ditch this thing. From there on, FEMA and SHIELD could take care of it.

A burst of flame from the doorway enveloped him, blinded him, threatened to roast him in his shell.

The thermocoupler was on, but it was threatening to overload. His cooling system was doing everything it could to keep his body at a survivable temperature. Iron Man pushed forward on the yoke. It broke off in his hands.

The heat had fused it.

Iron Man felt Firebrand's metal fist slamming into his faceplate and knocking him out of what remained of the chair. The impact was terrific. Obviously, Gilbert had improved his armor.

But then, what less could he expect of him?

"Damn you! Stay down!" rasped Firebrand, blasting at him with both burners. Staggered, Iron Man fought for consciousness, his armor steaming, parts of the plane already on fire. Gilbert would be on him in a second.

Perhaps that would be the best thing.

In his eagerness to be at the enemy, Firebrand stepped closer, still unleashing the maximum power of his gloves' flamethrowers at Iron Man. The entire cabin was heating up. As well shielded as the Inferno 42 was, there was no telling how much heat its casing could take.

At this point, Gary Gilbert didn't care.

Until Iron Man's hand reached out and grabbed him by the ankle in a crushing grip.

Firebrand felt the pressure even through his armor and cried out in pain. He stamped at Iron Man's head with his free armored foot. Despite that, the Avenger wrenched upward on Firebrand's trapped leg, sending his foe onto his back. In a trice, he was atop Gilbert, one hand on his foe's throat and the other on his wrist, both of them exerting as much power as was left to him.

"You fool," gasped Gilbert. "Don't you see, none of this matters? The Inferno's about to be released. It doesn't matter if I die. I intended to. All that matters is the Fire."

"That's always all that matters to your kind, isn't it, Gilbert?" Iron Man said, in a gutteral voice. "Hitler. Stalin. Mao. All that matters is your moment of power. You don't care how many people you kill getting there. Well, not this time, mister. Never again."

"We stand...on the brink...of a new world, Iron Man," Firebrand said. "Like Moses...neither of us will get to see it. But...it shall be. Triumph is at hand."

"Yeah," said Iron Man. "America's."

Then Iron Man's eyes widened in absolute horror.

Firebrand's free hand was pressed to the floor of the cabin, burning a hole in it.

"No!" The shout was involuntary, but Stark stood back up, keeping his hold on Firebrand's neck and wrist. Gary Gilbert was laughing.

"It's too late, Stark. One spark is all it takes. And I've burned through the casing. Shouldn't be long now."

"You—"

Firebrand stuck his free hand in Iron Man's face and triggered all his flaming power, just as the armored Avenger grabbed Firebrand's wrist and crushed it. The inflammable fuel and heating coils, one building up and the other damaged beyond repair, performed a predictable function.

They exploded.

Gary Gilbert screamed.

Iron Man thrust his foe away from him. The aircraft lurched. Firebrand fell away, through the open door. He did say something that Iron Man heard, briefly:

"It hurts. Daddy, it hurts!"

Then, about forty feet beneath his plane, Firebrand exploded into uncontrolled flame.

Afterward, there was only enough ash to be scattered in the wind.

For his part, Iron Man didn't have time to reflect on the death of his foe. The controls of the plane were damned well useless. He could smell the fire blazing beneath his feet. A shot of extinguisher from his belt didn't seem to make much difference.

There was only one way left.

Iron Man got to the doorway, grasped its edges, thrust himself outside, and, digging handholds in the fuselage with his own power, climbed atop the plane and began pushing it downward.

The slipstream clawed at him. He could see the coast of California ahead, see the sea beckoning. No one could tell what the reaction would be, of Inferno 42 with water...hell, thermite burned even underwater, and it didn't have a tenth of the power of Inferno...but it was the only thing he could think of.

The Air Force planes were still tracking him. It wouldn't do a bit of good now even if they shot him out of the sky. If he thought it would, he'd get on the horn and order them to.

Iron Man poured all of his jet-power into directing the plane downward at a trajectory that would bring it into the ocean. From what he could see of the landscape below, he was near Los Angeles.

But he could feel the flame beginning.

Swearing, Tony Stark held on as long as he could, felt his gauntlets beginning to melt, felt his hands beginning to burn. He would have held on as long as he had to, directing the flaming thing into the water, if it would have cooperated, like Casey Jones dying with his hands on the wheel of his locomotive.

But the plane burst into flame and blew him off.

Iron Man screamed, half-aware, triggering his jets to take him away from the plane. The Air Force fighters converged on it, sending missiles toward it. He activated his radio, shouted at them not to do so.

It was too late.

Much too late.

Now, there was only time for...

FIRE!

-M-

The Inferno 42, almost a ton of it, detonated probably somewhere between the city of Los Angeles proper and the beaches by the sea, several hundred feet above sea level. The reactions of the citizenry were recorded for a nanosecond by the network and local news crews which had been on the watch since the USAF sent word to FEMA and FEMA started trying to evacuate the area.

A nanosecond after that, cameras, reporters, citizens, and Los Angeles proper ceased to exist.

This was followed by similar destruction more than a hundred miles up and down the coast and well inland. The sea itself boiled, causing ecological disaster which was not quantifiable decades after the incident.

Major earthquakes along the San Andreas were triggered by the incident. California did not lose that piece of itself which abutted the Fault to the sea, but it might as well have.

Millions upon millions died.

The news spread across the country in minutes, as quickly as word of the death of Kennedy nine years before. It leapt across borders, across oceans, until no continent on Earth was unaware of what had taken place in America.

All Earth now knew about the Fire.

-M-

Across America, battling radicals and authorities learned of the disaster, and faced aghast towards California.

Weapons were put down. Conflicts were forgotten. Silence reigned in many places, but only for a moment. It was replaced by the wails of mourning.

In terror, Leonid Breshnev assured Richard Nixon that the Soviets had nothing, repeat, nothing to do with the conflagration. For his part, Dick Nixon, remembering a farm in California, wept uncontrollably in the Oval Office. Henry Kissinger took the Hot Line and spoke to Breshnev.

Men of every color, formerly foes, suddenly forgot what they had been fighting over and turned towards the West.

Walter Cronkite was struck dumb. David Brinkley tried to explain things, and was unable to form words. Howard K. Smith, through his own tears, stuck by his post at ABC and did his best to let the nation know what had happened to it, what was happening to it, and what, perhaps, would happen to it.

Fidel Castro almost exulted. The Russian representative on duty hit him in the mouth. A guard shot the Russian rep. Castro rubbed his mouth, spat, and wondered what the next gambit would be.

There was no danger of war. The military knew, from the time their jets were scrambled, what the nature of the threat was and who it came from. Disaster had been wrought not by a Russian, a Chinese, or a Cuban, just by one malcontent American with too much of an eye on History and not enough on Humanity.

Within minutes, everyone watching television in America knew the name of Gary Gilbert, and damned him.

They damned him for the Fire.

But where was Iron Man?

-M-

"Where's Shellhead? Where's Shellhead?" screamed Hawkeye.

On the other end of the communications line, Ant-Man said, "Clint, how should I know? I don't have a...don't have a..."

It was too much for him. Hank Pym sagged, his arm against the wall of the Thinker's hideout, and wept.

The Wasp put her arms about him. "Hank. Tell us what happened."

Hank thumbed down the volume level on the hand-held comm unit to reduce Hawkeye's scream level. "Only...what I got from Clint, Jan. It may not be accurate. I pray to God it isn't." At that point, Henry Pym gave up his scholarly agnosticism.

"Tell us, Ant-Man," said Reed Richards, softly. "We have to know."

"Aye," said Namor. "Speak, helmeted one."

By this time, Hank was sitting with his back against the wall. "Apparently. There was. Some kind of. Conflagration. In California. A fire. A Fire."

"A fire?" said Thor, bewilderedly.

Ant-Man nodded, briefly. "A Fire. A big one. Maybe atomic. I don't know. No more Iron Man. No more Firebrand. No more...Los Angeles."

"What?" This from Dr. Strange.

"Good God!" This from Cyclops.

"Uhhh?" This from the Hulk.

"California?" gasped the Black Widow. "California?" She turned to Daredevil, buried her head against his chest, and cried. For his part, his lawyerly mind went, mercifully, blank.

Hercules grasped Ant-Man and dragged him to standing position. "What meanest thou, Henry Pym? Hath the fires of Vulcan been loosed on your world?"

"Peace, Hercules," said Sif, unable to say more. "Let him be."

The Thing, a terrible light in his eyes, turned towards the Thinker and the Puppet Master, and advanced. "We had nothing to do with it! We had nothing to do with it!" shrieked Philip Masters.

"That's the only reason you guys are still alive," said Ben Grimm, grabbing each by their shirtfronts and slamming them against the wall, pressing them there. "That's the only freakin' reason."

For a long moment he held them there, then released them to slide down the wall. He went to a corner, turned his eyes to the wall, and did what strong men do when they feel no one is watching them.

In a few seconds time, he was joined by the rest of the assemblage.

The Thinker and Puppet Master didn't even consider trying to escape.

-M-

"My...God. My GOD."

Nick Fury was probably the one who said it. But everyone else in the room was echoing it. Dum Dum Dugan, Val, Gabe, Sitwell, Jimmy Woo.

Watching the blackened screen, Nick Fury tried in vain to say something. Then he threw down the phone, and walked towards the door.

"Nick." Val was on her feet, trembling, following. She caught up to him in the hall. There were guards, but they kept quiet.

"Shut up," he demanded, still walking.

"I can't," she said, grasping his arm. "Nick, what are you going to do?"

"Do?" He wheeled on her with a mien far beyond savage. "Do? What the hell is there to do? What the hell is there for anybody to do? It's done, honey. It's done."

"You couldn't have prevented it, Nick."

"I could! I coulda shot down the plane."

"You would have touched off the Inferno."

"Shut up!"

"I won't! Nick, you can't expect...you can't be God."

Nick Fury was silent for several seconds. Then he said, "This time...I shoulda been."

He turned on his heel and went to his quarters. Val followed.

The two of them were ensconced together for a good long while.

-M-

In concert, the Crazy World of Arthur Brown were about to start up their opening number. Arthur led off with his patented scream of, "I am the god of hellfire, and I come to bring you..."

One of the techs turned the amp system off. Arthur Brown and his band were astonished. Then angry. Then Arthur himself was screaming, running backstage, trying to find the one who was responsible for this and to have him divided into as many component pieces as he could be and still survive.

"Arthur. Arthur," one of the stagehands said. "It's over."

"What?"

"It's over. You hear about the Fire?"

Within five minutes, he was made aware of the situation. Within ten, he was out front again, trying to explain the situation to the audience.

And as he did, he knew he would never sing "Fire" again.

-M-

Those who had torched their neighborhoods in Atlanta and Detroit now joined the fire departments to help extinguish the blaze, pull survivors out of the wreckage, and contain the damage. Black men helped white men, white men helped blacks, men of other colors and faiths or no faiths at all pitched in.

There was no talk of revolution. Change had come. Death had come with it.

There was only time now for the things human beings do when other human beings suffer, and that was to try and help alleviate that suffering.

Those who had followed Gilbert renounced him. Those who had opposed him now embraced his followers.

The president managed to get on television and, haggard, addressed the nation as to what had happened. He explained, as best he could, in simple language, who Gary Gilbert was and what he had wrought. He called for national unity in the face of the disaster.

He didn't have to, actually.

That was one of the legacies of the Fire.

-M-

The Goblin didn't know what to expect when he heard the crashing noise behind him. A smashing, a tinkling, a splintering. Nonetheless, he had to look.

Spider-Man was there, his chest heaving, his body crouching, and before him, on the stanchion of the George Washington Bridge, was the remnants of a destroyed bat-glider.

"No way out, Goblin," Spider-Man said, very softly. "No way out."

"Stay back," warned the man in green. "Stay back."

"No way out, Goblin," said Spider-Man, rising to his full height. "No way out."

The Goblin backed away, but there was precious little left to back away towards.

"No way out," Spider-Man repeated, advancing. "No way out no way out nowayoutnowayout NO. WAY. OUT."

The villain shot finger-bursts at his enemy, and Spider-Man almost brushed them away. He tried to unleash a pumpkin-bomb, but his foe knocked it away with a web-blast.

"NO WAY OUT."

Spider-Man shot a burst of webbing at the Goblin's feet to try and anchor him to the bridge support. The Goblin, frantically, leapt above it.

That was the worst move possible, actually.

He was too near the edge and his feet came down on solid air.

He waved his arms, airplaning them, trying to gain a grasp on something, anything. It was useless. Unlike Spider-Man, he could not stick to a wall.

The red haze over Peter Parker's mind retreated and, almost on automatic, he sped forward, unleashing more webbing to try and catch the Goblin, to try and save him. But the webbing shot over the Goblin's gloved hands. Just by a fingerbreadth, but that was enough.

Sprinting around the webbed area wasn't any more useful. Spider-Man reached out, over the edge, but it was far too late.

The Green Goblin fell.

On the way, he smashed against the bridge support several more times, and left part of himself with every impact. There were screams from below, from the motorists who were watching an apparent suicide, the kind of thing that lives in urban legend but whom very few people get to see.

What was left of the Goblin splattered across two cars and the bridge area between them.

Above, looking downward, Spider-Man saw it all.

-M-

PARKER

What am I supposed to say right now? I still can't tell you, kids.

There was nothing coherent in my mind, at that time. Two people had just fallen off the Bridge. One that loved me, one that hated me. I saw what happened to the Goblin. If I'd had enough in me left, I probably would have thrown up all over the inside of my mask.

But I didn't.

I stood there, on the very edge of the bridge support. You don't know how long a long way down is until you've been on the very top of the George Washington Bridge, looking down at the concrete and the automobiles and the sea below it and the cables and everything and something more than vertigo takes over and you know two people have taken the plunge and it only makes sense for you to make it three.

I was standing there, but I wasn't going to be standing there for long. I could leap. I could leap out far enough that I wouldn't have anything to grab hold of, anything to stick to, and I could keep myself from spurting out my webline. It'd only take a few seconds. Maybe only a second. I could shut my eyes and within a minute I'd be reunited with Gwen again. I did believe that.

So I gathered what was left in me and got ready for the biggest jump of my life.

That was when I heard a very familiar voice behind me calling, "Spidey..."

-M-

"...are you looking for her?"

Turning so quickly even the man he faced was astonished, Spider-Man came away from the edge.

Before him, two figures hung in the air.

One was his wife Gwen, tears in her eyes, a gag still in her mouth, but otherwise unharmed.

The other, holding her by the wrists, was the Human Torch.

Johnny Storm was in flame, except for his hands. Gwen hung from them like the wooden trapeze artist on a string that Peter had seen among Aunt May's memorabilia. The Human Torch was in flame, and flying, and bringing Gwen Parker back to a comfortable two-point landing in her stocking feet on the top of the George Washington Bridge.

The Torch had already taken care of the bonds between her hands and feet. Gwen ripped the gag from her mouth, running towards Spider-Man. Spider-Man, standing as moveable as Lincoln's statue for a moment, broke and ran towards her as well.

They met in the middle of the bridge support, and, for what they felt, there were no words.

Only embraces and tears.

The Human Torch, knowing enough to keep his peace, touched down on the stanchion and flamed off. Being up this high didn't sit well with him, either, but at least he could flame on and fly off if he had to. When the time was right, he was going to talk to Spidey.

He had to.

There were whisperings and murmurings between the two other people on the bridge. Johnny Storm heard both of them crying. He had never heard Spider-Man do that before. He had never known Spider-Man was married, or beloved, before, though there could be no mistaking it now.

He thought of Crystal, and knew the decision he had to make.

Spider-Man had only one arm around the woman, now. She still looked scared, tears were still in her eyes. But she also held onto her man in great relief, reassurance, and what looked like the knowledge that everything would somehow right itself. Despite the horror, despite the death, something would still remain. And be worthy.

"Torch," said Spider-Man. "Torch. How?"

"You mean, how did I get here?"

"How? How did you know?"

Johnny Storm ran both of his hands through his hair. "I guess...I guess it was the Watcher. He appeared to us, to Ben and Reed and Sue and me, and he showed us someplace we had to go, and we tried to go there. But I don't know what happened. I showed up here, over the Bridge, and saw you and the Goblin fighting, and him throwing her off. I...well, I caught her. I didn't hurt you any, did I, ma'am?"

Gwen sniveled and smiled. "No. No, I'm all right. Thank you. Thank you."

He tried to say, "You're welcome," but it was cut short by Spider-Man's powerful hug.

After a few seconds, Spider-Man murmured, "Torch. I've got something to show you."

"Uh, Spidey. I've got a girlfriend."

"Numbskull." The web-slinger turned him loose, looked to make sure no news helicopters were on the scene with prying cameras, and, facing the Torch, put one hand to the top of his mask...

...and pulled it off.

The Torch's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Gwen was astonished, too. Peter had vowed to her that she would be the only one other than him to know the true face of Spider-Man, and both of them would have to take that knowledge to their graves.

But now, a third was in the circle.

"Peter Parker," said Johnny Storm, incredulously. "You're Peter Parker. Can't believe it. Are you really..."

"Yeah," said Spider-Man, mask in hand. "We've met, without the mask. Several times."

"We sure have," said Johnny. "Spidey, ah...I know we've had our blow-ups, right?"

"Yup." Peter Parker was grinning.

"But you know, uh, that I..."

"I know you won't tell, Torch. I just didn't know any other way to pay you back." He pulled the mask back over his head, and held out his hand.

The Human Torch grasped it, firmly.

"Till death," Spider-Man said.

"Till death," Johnny Storm echoed.

Then the Torch said, "That's some Watcher."

"Yeah."

"You want me to take her down for you?"

"Nope. Some things I like to do myself. But you'll hang around and make sure we get down okay, right?"

"You know it, Spidey. You know it."

Gwen stepped closer to her husband. "Peter," she said. "The baby."

"In good hands," said Spider-Man. "The Goblin saw to that. Ready to go?"

Gwen looked down. "I guess so. Uh, what did you have in mind?"

"Get behind me and wrap your arms around my back."

She did so. Spider-Man webbed her arms firmly to his chest. When she put her legs around him from behind, he did the same to her ankles.

Then, with the Human Torch in flame and flight, the two of them made the journey down the bridge support. At least till they got to a place where Spider-Man could unleash another web and begin swinging the long journey home.

Gwen shut her eyes for the entire trip.

-M-

PARKER

And that was the end of it. Or our part in it. Almost.

Osborn had given May to Mrs. Watson, Mary Jane's mother...left her on the doorstep, really. Mrs. Watson didn't know what to think, but she was glad as heck when both of us came to her door and took charge of our little girl again. And yes, I was dressed in my civvies by that time.

The three of us got home, the Torch having taken off as soon as we were safely on our way home, and we made sure May was in fine spirits (which she was, screaming her little head off, as usual, and don't tell her I said that). I collapsed in the front room on my favorite chair. I just didn't know what to think anymore. I don't think I had the capacity to think much, about what I'd already been through, about its implications. Somebody once said words to the effect that one of the most merciful things about the human mind is the inability to assess all of its contents. I think I can second that one.

While Gwen was in the other room, I turned on the TV.

I saw something. Something that made me turn it off right there.

Something about Fire.

Gwen asked me from the other room if there was anything wrong.

I pulled the electrical cord out of the back of the TV, hid it in my pocket, and said, "No, honey. Nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong here at all."

Then I went to her, and you youngsters don't need to hear the rest of it.

I said you don't need to hear the rest of it, kid!

But I'll tell you the rest of the story.

-M-

On the Avengers communicator, it was Thor who heard it first. "Hello? Can anybody hear me? Can anybody hear me? Over."

The thunder god, and those about him, recognized the voice. Thor snapped open his communicator. "Aye, Iron Man. Thou speakest with Thor. Where art thou?"

"I am..." There was a cough on the other end of the line. "I'm in the desert. California. Can't move too easily."

The other heroes began to gather about Thor. "What be your condition, Iron Man? Are you hurt?"

"Been better. How's my signal?"

"We shall track you down at once," Thor said, readying his hammer. "How is your foe?"

"Dead."

"Then thou art triumphant."

There was a hacking cough. "Triumph? Triumph?"

The comm unit fell silent.

Thor looked up. The Silver Surfer was before him. "We shall travel together, Thor."

"And I," said Sif.

"And I as well," demanded Hercules.

"You're not leaving us behind," said Ant-Man, stepping towards them.

The Thing said, "Guess it's settled, then. We all go."

Medusa asked, "How will it be done? We have no vehicles?"

"Like this," said the Surfer.

With one hand, he gestured towards the ceiling, and split it open, revealing the sky without.

With the other, he pointed at his surfboard, and expanded it until it shoved aside almost everything in the room. Another gesture bound the Puppet Master and Thinker in bonds of cosmic energy.

"Climb aboard," said the Surfer.

The host of heroes did, finding a strange power binding their feet to the board. Then it rose into the sky, and they were off.

-M-

Within his shell, Tony Stark wept.

A triumph? Was that what they called it?

When the whole coast of Southern California goes up in flames, is that one in the win column?

When you could have saved untold millions of lives if you'd caught the madman who killed them when you first fought him? Or even, God help us, killed him? Even if that was never Iron Man's way?

If he'd only have known.

And how could he have known?

Why didn't he?

Why?

Why?

Iron Man, lying on the sands where he had fallen, looked at the horizon and saw flames and smoke. The pyre of California. The pyre of America.

No. No, that must not be. Whatever else, America must survive. With all its flaws and injustices, with all its inequities, it was still the greatest, grandest nation of all, the shining city on the hill. He had given his life to it. He would give his life for it.

Perhaps he already had.

His body was burned. How badly, he had no idea. Most of his armor systems were shut down. The radio still worked. He didn't know how long it would be before dehydration or exposure took his life. That might be a mercy...

(Stop thinking like that, Stark!)

(Why not? WHY NOT?)

Then there was something between him and the sun. A great, shining something. Probably an hallucination. Or perhaps a fabled chariot, comin' for to carry him home.

He heard Thor call his name. That was the wrong theology for him.

Looked like he was going to live, after all.

Whether it was worth it, or not.

-M-

The Surfer had to open Iron Man's armor to heal him. All present saw the face of Tony Stark. Most were surprised, but a few thought that it was only logical. With a burst of Power Cosmic, Iron Man's burns and wounds were healed.

Then the Surfer said, "The others will tend you. Thor and I have work to do."

With that, the Surfer boarded his now normal-sized surfboard, Thor swung his hammer about his head, and the two of them took off in the direction of the Fire. Not even the Power Cosmic and Thor's storm-making abilities were enough to totally douse the conflagration. But they helped.

The Avengers summoned a rescue helicopter for Stark and transport for the rest of them. While they waited, Sub-Mariner noticed the Hulk looking at the fire in the distance.

"Burning," said the Hulk.

"Indeed," said Prince Namor, softly, behind him.

"What does it mean?"

"It means," said Namor, choosing his words carefully, "that Man finally lost control of his anger, his reason, and his toys. That one man acted too much like a selfish child. Like a selfish, dangerous child. That is what it means, Hulk."

The green goliath turned towards his ally. "Will they blame this on Hulk?"

Namor said, "No. No, Hulk. I doubt anybody will blame anything evil on you again." He put his hand on the Hulk's shoulder. "Let us join the others."

They did.

-M-

PARKER

That was the end of the age, kids. The end of the Second Age of Heroes.

Even the bad guys knew the war was over. Dr. Strange and Thor gave 'em a choice: stay here, and deal with a government that was sick and tired of them and blamed well ready to execute them, or go to another dimensional world they'd picked out for 'em. Just about all of 'em made the second choice. We haven't really heard from them since. Maybe they're doing well, where they're at. Maybe they're the founders of a whole new society. It's happened before.

The millions of people who died in California...nobody can say anything about that. I hate to think it took something like that to bring us together. Maybe it did. Whatever it was, nobody seemed very interested in making a revolution after that. Everybody was looking to the West.

Everybody was looking to California.

The movie industry, and what TV there was out there, died with it. They operate mainly out of New York now, and Seattle, and Dallas, and some in Northern California. A lot of famous people died that night. But I weep more for the people who weren't famous, whose names we probably won't ever know. They don't even have a mark like the Hiroshima lovers left on a wall before they were vaporized. There's just a big black hole in the Earth that's been partially filled in by the sea, now. It's still dangerous. They say it's decontaminated now, but they say a lot of things.

The Japanese were the first to offer aid. I think I can understand why.

AIM and HYDRA, their parent bunch, got tracked down and tried like the Nazis at Nuremberg. Not even the guys against the death penalty seemed to much mind when a lot of them went to the gas chamber. At that, I guess they got off better than another branch of their company, the one called the Secret Empire. President Nixon made a point out of having those guys hunted down and shot. He claimed that they were the brains of the entire operation, after Gilbert. I don't know if they were or not.

I do know he didn't run again. That surprised a lot of people, but so did Johnson when he said he wouldn't in 1967. He just retired to San Clemente, and a few years ago he passed away. Whatever secrets he had, he probably took with him. Unless he has some other memoirs the government has under lock and key. I wouldn't put it past them. I'll probably never know.

We pulled out of Vietnam. Didn't have the energy or desire to spend on the war anymore. We needed the troops home. The Commies took over, until the Second Revolution threw them out. I don't know how it is over there and have no desire to find out.

You know what happened in Russia, China, Cuba, and South America from your history books. Europe, too. I'll just tell you about the heroes.

Captain America was dead. So was the Red Skull, but that wasn't much comfort. They found what was left of the both of them, identified them by dental records, and gave Cap a tomb in Arlington that people still put flowers on every day. Some people, a lot of them, wondered if somebody else would try to be Cap, the way they did after World War II. It hasn't happened. At least, not yet.

But there's more than a few out there who insist that Cap is still alive, that he'll rise up like King Arthur to defend America in its darkest hour. There are worse things to believe in.

The Falcon, his former partner, recovered from the beating the Red Skull had given him. For about a year, he continued on as the hero of Harlem. Then he gave it up. He said he couldn't do what Cap did, but he could do what he could do better. So he revealed his secret identity, Sam Wilson, and went to work as a social worker. Later, he became a politician, and did pretty well for himself. He's married, like the rest of us.

Cap's girlfriend, Sharon Carter, never quite recovered emotionally from his death. She left the United States and lives in Europe now. She never married.

Rick Jones, who used to be Cap's partner, was in California at the time of the Fire. He's presumed dead.

Nick Fury was changed by the Fire, too. Still a tough guy, but you could tell that the Fire haunted him. No...it was his failure, as he saw it, to do anything about the Fire that changed him. They all told him there wasn't much more he could have done than what he did, but I don't think Nick ever accepted that. Nonetheless, he got married to his lady, Val de Fontaine, and raised a family. Stepped down from SHIELD directorship and gave the post to Jasper Sitwell. He's done well with it. Married a woman named Laura Brown.

Clay Quatermain recovered and took a desk job with SHIELD. I made sure I found that out, too. Jimmy Woo led the fight against a baddie named the Yellow Claw, killed him in battle, and wound up marrying the Claw's daughter, Suwaan. Apparently they'd had a thing going for some time. Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones eventually retired. The Heli-Carrier was dismantled and a lot of it was sunk at sea. The part that didn't have the big secrets, that is. Nobody wanted to pay the fuel bills for keeping another Heli-Carrier in the air anymore. SHIELD has another headquarters, but I don't know where it is, and neither does anybody else who doesn't need to know.

Iron Man kinda faded out of the picture. The Avengers showed him alive, to reassure everybody, but announced that he was retiring. So were Ant-Man, the Wasp, and a few others. Hawkeye stayed on. So did the Vision, the Scarlet Witch, and Quicksilver, and a few other cats. But Hawkeye was the leader, and he did Captain America proud.

The Black Panther went back to Wakanda and stayed there to be its king. He married a woman named Monica Lynne, from America.

As for Thor, he, Sif, and the Asgardians went home and weren't seen too much around these parts. He did come back for an Avengers reunion, along with Sif, and they announced they'd gotten married. What happened to Loki, who was his worst enemy, I have no clue. It was handled up in Asgard, and that's where they stayed.

The X-Men gave the bad guy mutants the choice of joining with them or going to the other world with the rest of the villains. They chose the latter. Cyclops and his pals were never the same after Professor X died. The old X-Men went back into retirement. The new crew soldiered on for some time, and even picked up some new members from other countries. There's still a bunch that calls themselves "X-Men", but they aren't the same guys and they don't much operate in the open.

The Fantastic Four got out of the hero business. The Torch went back to school, got his degree, became an auto designer for GM. He married Crystal, and Reed got her out of her breathing problems. The Thing married his girlfriend, Alicia Masters. They had a normal son who looked a lot like Ben Grimm used to look, before he changed. Even the Puppet Master mellowed a little, after the baby arrived. But not by much. And Reed and Sue continued raising Franklin, who started a whole new hero group when he got older. I don't know what happened to the woman who was his nanny. I understand there was some friction there, but I don't pry.

I don't know how many years Reed and Ben have got in them. I hope they've got a lot.

Of course, it was Reed who gave the Hulk his famous treatment. That was the gimmick he'd worked out with Bruce Banner, a ray that gave the Hulk intelligence and let him control his changes. They'd done it once before, but the Leader had bollixed that up. This time, they fixed that flaw, and the Hulk turned out just fine. Got a pardon, married Betty Ross, who was his old girlfriend, and kept working for the government. Sometimes he makes public appearances as Banner, sometimes as the Hulk. Depends on how he's feeling each morning, I guess.

The Leader tried to crash the wedding, like he'd done before. The Hulk clobbered him, zapped him with a gamma ray gun, and changed him back to whoever he'd been before he was the Leader. That, apparently, was that.

The Silver Surfer wasn't exactly loved, despite the fact that he'd done his part to put out the Fire and that he'd been controlled by the Puppet Master. Nobody could forget the devastation he'd wrought, even if he was somebody's pawn. It wasn't fair, but that's the way it was. He kept a lower profile until the day Reed Richards found a way of getting him past the barrier that kept him on Earth. I think he went back to his homeworld. I do know we've never seen him here again.

Sub-Mariner got Atlantis recognized by the United Nations and hasn't given anyone too much trouble since then. He's still married to his Lady Dorma, from what I hear, and their son is reportedly grown up and married to some blue-skinned girl, too. Namorita got hitched to somebody and is a princess of Atlantis now, too. I'm told that Namor had a reunion with his father before his dad died, but I couldn't tell you if that was true or not.

The Inhumans got much the same recognition. They're still out there in Attilan, which is a protected zone. Black Bolt and Medusa got married, and had children who grew up, as children do, as you will. Their kids are royalty, which is something you'll have to work on.

What happened to Dr. Strange, I have no idea. He and Clea left their brownstone a long time ago. Maybe they're still out there, somewhere, fighting the good fight, doing whatever they do. I don't suppose there's any way of telling.

Daredevil kept operating for awhile, but faded from sight after a few years. I think it was because his woman, the Black Widow, married Matt Murdock, a blind lawyer. They both live in the Apple, have kids, and, from what I hear, don't talk too much about Natasha's hero or spying days.

I told you Iron Man quit the scene. His boss, Tony Stark, didn't. He married some woman named Whitney Longfellow, who seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Nobody seemed to know a lot about her background. But she and Tony were happy, and he didn't end up selling his company to Howard Hughes, after all. As a matter of fact, he took over Gilbert Industries in the wake of the Fire.

The Fire...

Sorry, kids, you know how it is. Didn't mean to zone out there.

Nope, Tony took it over more or less because he felt he had to. He and his wife have a son and a daughter, too. But, I'll tell you. In those news photos and film footage, I've never seen a man that looked more haunted, at times, than Tony Stark. He did fight a battle against alcoholism and won it. I think his wife told him that if it was her or the bottle, and she won out. There's only so many things a bottle can do, after all.

But Gary Gilbert.

They've damned him as worse than Hitler, and well they might. He killed—murdered—in one day, in one hour, more millions of people than we can even estimate. He didn't delegate the responsibility to some other slugs, like Hitler did.

He did it himself.

Why?

Because he thought he'd be getting a better world, and that was worth the sacrifice of everybody in the old world we had.

Never let anybody con you with that argument, kids.

Ever.

And they WILL try.

Conversely, Gilbert's father is a martyr figure now, and that's slight repayment for what happened to him. But I guess it's his due.

I guess I should tell you what happened to me and Gwen, too, although you know some of it.

Well, I couldn't keep the knowledge of the Fire away from Gwen forever. She looked drained after she found out about it. But she had a child to raise, and a husband to look after, and there's only so much horror you can register. After all, we'd managed to make it through the Goblin trying to kill us both.

But she made me promise never to put on the blue-and-reds again, and I haven't. The hero thing was over, for me. I had what I always wanted: a family.

Most of the rest of us knew it was over. Our age was the Sixties. That was gone, now, in substance and spirit. We couldn't keep going forever, into our forties and beyond. That's just for the comic books.

Of course, that didn't stop a new crop of heroes from turning up, guys like Iron Fist and Shang-Chi and Nova and Ghost Rider and Moon Knight and Moondragon and Valkyrie and Luke Cage, and probably a bunch of others I forget. There were still villains out there popping up, too, like
Fu Manchu and Dracula and the Sphinx and a few others. I didn't keep up with them. They weren't what we were, and they seemed to be handling things pretty well on their own.

That age passed, too.

We had another child. A son. That was your father, George Benjamin Parker. When he was your age, I told George and his sister May the story I'm telling you tonight. I've told May's children the same story.

It's a family secret. We have to keep it a secret.

With great power comes great responsibility. I hand this responsibility to you. Are you ready to take it?

Good. Good.

All right. Let's join the others.

But never forget the Fire, young ones. Never forget the Fire.

-M-

The door opened. The old man looked up.

In the doorway, his wife, Gwen, stood there in her dress, apron, sensible black shoes, and glasses. Her hairstyle was a compromise between the early-Seventies 'do she always favored and a contemporary cut. It looked good on her, but almost everything did.

Gwen's age showed. But she was still, all things considered, a beauty.

"Have you finished talking to them, Peter? Dinner's ready."

Peter Parker, bespectacled and gray at the temples, smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I just gave them our Perils of Pauline moment. We'll be there, Gwen. Honest."

Rick, the son of George Parker, practically leaped up. "Granma! You really did that? That thing really happened to you?"

Gwen Parker looked sternly at her grandson. "What thing?"

Quieting, Rick, all of 5 years old, said, "Nothing. I mean, nothing, Granny Gwen. That's right, isn't it?"

Solemnly, Gwen nodded. "The secrets Peter reveals in this room must stay in this room. And in your hearts. Understand?"

Rick nodded.

Gwen looked at Mary Parker, a young blonde girl in jumpers. "How's about you, missy?"

"I won't tell nothin' either, Granma. But, gee. That nothin' sure musta been somethin'."

"It was," said Gwen. "Oh, it was."

Peter ruffled Mary's hair and took his two charges in hand. "Let's go, young 'uns. Food awaiteth."

On the way to the dining room, Peter was met by George, his son. The boy was doing all right for himself as an investment broker. No need for him to peddle photos to the Daily Bugle, which was continuing on under the editorship of Robbie Robertson. "Dad. You told them the story, right?"

"Right," said Peter.

George smiled. "That's good. That's very good, Dad. Heritage. Everyone has to know about it, and we've got something to be proud of."

Peter Parker smiled. "They didn't seem to think so in the Sixties."

"They didn't think about a lot of things, back then."

"Or maybe they thought about different things. That's over, George. Let's grab some table space."

George put his arm around his father's shoulders. "It'll never be over, Dad. Never as long as man endures."

Dinner was had, then, and stories were told of what had transpired since their last meetings. May Parker Riley, Peter's daughter, made sure she sat across from her dad. She was flanked by her husband, Frank, and her two children. To Peter, she said, "When do you think you'll be telling my kids the story, Daddy?"

After forking down some of Gwen's turkey and dressing, Peter said, "Would next year be too soon?"

"Next year would be just fine," said May, beaming. Gwen smiled, as well.

Veronica, May's young daughter, piped up. To Rick and Mary, she said, "Grampa told you a story?"

Both of George's children looked at each other, and nodded, finally.

"What about?"

"Uh...the Three Little Pigs," said Rick.

"And Rapunzel," put in Mary.

"That's it?" asked Jerry, May's son.

"Well, you just gotta hear the way Grampa tells it," insisted Mary.

Ronnie shrugged. "Okay," she said, with a tone of disgust. Thankfully, Rick and Mary kept their smiles to themselves.

The presents were had that night with much uproar, and then, after much more talk and eggnog, everybody went to bed.

After breakfast next morning, the gathering was ready to break up. Goodbyes were said. The last of these was between Peter, Gwen, George, and Mary. But Rick ran up to them and tugged on Peter's pants leg. "Grampa," he said. "I just gotta ask you somethin'."

"Well, ask away, youngster. We've probably got all of five minutes before you have to go."

Rick whispered his question. "Do you ever think there'll be another Fire?"

Peter looked soberly at him. "You promised not to tell."

"I'm not," he said. "Don't Dad and aunt May know?"

"They do," said Peter. "That's the only reason you're getting away with it. But. Fires burn out, Ricky. Just be glad we haven't had one in a long time."

George and May exchanged a glance. Gwen caught it, but said nothing. "Let's go, youngster," said George, and herded his son to the car.

Thus ended Christmas, 1999.

-M-

By New Year's Day, things were a bit different.

In New York City, the Positivists, an ethical terrorist group, were threatening to botch city-running computer systems and steal documents from the Justice Department. Two citizens were determined to prevent that.

The Mediator, a costumed heroine who swung on a cable of her own design, met on the rooftop of the Daily Bugle with her partner, the Ombudsman, who favored an exoskeleton that augmented his strength and jumping power.

May Parker smiled at the Ombudsman. "Fires burn out," she said.

George Parker smiled back at the Mediator. "But sometimes they start up again. If nobody's watching."

"We've got work to do."

"We always will," said the Ombudsman.

The two of them left the building roof and were lost in the night and distance.

=M=

For the following:
Stan Lee
Jack Kirby
Steve Ditko
Roy Thomas
Archie Goodwin
And all the others, without whose work we would never have had a Marvel Universe.

'Nuff said.

–DarkMark, 4 / 16 / 04