Next Best Thing
The fanfic with a free guest-star in every box!

by Jim Smith

Chapter Six! "...And the Eagle Flies with the Dove!"

***

Once upon a time there was a man named Erik Josten, and one day he fell in a vat of "Cream of Wheat" and developed the ability to grow to superhuman size.

OK, I stole that joke*, but it'd take all damn day to explain exactly how Erik Josten could grow to superhuman size. Despite an obvious role for him in the adult film industry**, he'd used his newfound powers to continue his career as a mercenary, until he ended up working for the Masters of Evil. The Masters had no long and cherished tradition of anything except being a name used by criminal cartels, and it was very rare that more than two or three members of one incarnation to appear together in any future rosters. Josten and five others did, however, disguising themselves as superheroes so no one would find out. Ever since then he had abandoned his various aliases and settled--for better or for worse--on a new codename: Atlas.

[* From BLACK PANTHER #13] [** That one's mine, thank you.]

At the moment, he was just Erik, a patron at the Down Slope--a sports bar in Burton Canyon, Colorado--where he spent his spare time making conversation with a bartender named Wilma.

Just to make his life more complicated, Wilma was in fact Man-Killer, yet another alumnus of the Masters of Evil--a different, more recent team than Erik's. His group--who renamed themselves "Thunderbolts"--had defeated her group as part of the Thunderbolts' campaign to impersonate heroes. The Thunderbolts eventually reformed and began acting like nice guys out of the goodness of their hearts. They got a new leader, an established superhero called "Hawkeye," and broke up the Masters' schemes once and for all under his command. The T-bolts settled down near Burton Canyon, and apparently so had Man-Killer when she escaped capture. So there they were, Erik and Wilma, facing each other again, only there was no reason to fight. Or was there?

On the one hand, Atlas often thought when he visited the Down Slope, there was a sort of "honor among thieves" that suggested he shouldn't reveal his identity and bring her to justice. On the other hand, the whole point of being a Thunderbolt right now was that he wasn't supposed to _be_ a "thief" anymore, so that old line didn't really apply. Or did it? It was at that point of the internal debate that Erik always gave up and asked Wilma to give him another beer. And Atlas could hold a lot of beer.

"So," Wilma said as she wiped the counter (mostly as an excuse to chat with Erik), "you haven't said much in the last couple of hours..."

"Huh?" He'd been so lost in thought that the question reminded him he was, indeed, sitting at a bar on the planet Earth. "Aw, I ain't been payin' much attention to the TV."

"That's a first." She held her hand out and Erik handed her his mug to fill up. "Every time you come in here you've got something to say, even if it's just asking about the stuff you don't follow--like tennis, that one time.

He shrugged. "Yeah, but those are _sports_, Wilma. Every time the manager of this place turns on that pro wrestling, I nod off."

"I guess. My attitude is, so what if it's fake? _I_ don't know who's rigged to win."

Erik smirked. "I got a friend that used to be in the business, and she's real savvy on all the stuff that goes on 'behind the scenes." He stopped and reminded himself that his teammate, Songbird, was indeed a former wrestler, and made a point not to criticize her former line of work too much. "I ain't knockin' the guys who do it; I just ain't into it."

"I used to be, back when UCWF started," Wilma admitted as she topped off Erik's beer. "I remember when the Thing was their world champion...that was something..."

"Ahhh, he ain't that tough, really..." Erik trailed off and decided not to elaborate on his opinion. He kept forgetting that, although he knew Wilma was Man-Killer, she didn't seem to realize he was Atlas. He had to keep up appearances, and explaining that the Thing's best punch only knocked him out for a few minutes*** wouldn't help...

[*** In the blowoff that was THUNDERBOLTS #12]

"Heh...I'll drink to that, big man." Erik was relieved to be interrupted by the man sitting next to him, although he was surprised since he didn't _know_ someone was sitting next to him up to that point. He didn't ask (no point in awkwardly discovering the stranger had been under his nose all night) and just nodded. The man tipped his weather-beaten cowboy hat to Wilma. "I ain't too picky, but what's this place got on tap?"

"Uh...let me think." Wilma honestly hadn't been working at the Down Slope long enough to have their selection memorized. "Schlitz, Labbat's, Steveweiser..."

Erik could see the man slightly turn his nose up at the brand names. "He looks like a guy who can tell the difference, Wilma--I'm thinkin' he'd want somethin' imported..."

The stranger shrugged and gave Erik the closest he came to a smile. "If I'm just lookin' to get drunk, I'll settle for paint thinner...but you're speakin' my language..."

The Thunderbolt relaxed as he found a common ground with the man. "I grew up on this Kool-Aid in Wisconsin," he noted about his own drink, "but I spent enough time over in Europe to know the real stuff's in Germany or whatever."

"You don't say," the man replied thoughtfully. "What brings you down here?"

Erik searched for a plausible response. "Startin' over." Then he tried to turn the tables, just to show the mysterious barfly what it was like having someone snoop into his personal life. "How about you?"

He seemed to understand why the big man had asked him this, and almost looked respectful of the way he stood up for himself. It didn't take him nearly as long to find a way to obscure his answer--a skill that came with practice at being vague. "Lookin' for a friend of a friend."

"You make it sound like he might be in trouble," Wilma mused, handing the man his Molson's Export.

"May be," he snorted. "I ain't fond of him much, but I got my reasons to find him. He sticks out in a crowd, thought I might catch wind of him in here..." Wilma and Erik both failed to notice his head shift slightly in Erik's direction as his nostrils subtly flared. "...But I guess not."

Wilma felt a slight shiver from the vibes this newcomer was sending, and changed the subject. "So, Erik...first you know a pro wrestler and now you used to live in Europe...you're more interesting than you let on..."

Erik's eyes shifted nervously and he wondered if he'd said too much tonight. "Well, I don't like to be the center of attention much, y'know. Wouldn't want to bore nobody spillin' my guts..."

The stranger shook his head. "Ain't borin' me, bub..."

***

As long as he could remember, Warren Worthington III had loved the Rocky Mountains. He saw them for the first time as a boy, when his parents decided he was old enough to vacation with them in Aspen. He spent most of the first trip sitting in the lodge enjoying the view. The peaks went on and on forever, it seemed. His mother finally convinced him he'd get a better look if he actually got on a ski lift, which meant he'd have to get back down again and he was finally forced to give skiing a try. He learned quickly, but it didn't hold much appeal to him--a mountain just wasn't as awesome when he was standing on it looking down. What he really wanted to do was fly over them. By the time he grew up, he could--his mutant x-factor bestowed giant wings upon him, and his family inheritance allowed him to set up estates all along the range. He had one place in Alaska, under the pretense of making it more convenient to see a couple of friends there--in truth, he mostly just liked to go up there and be amazed at how far the Rockies really went.

He learned in school that the world was divided into different biomes where the climate, terrain, and so forth varied according to their distance from the equator. It worked very similarly with altitude--the top of Mount Charteris was considerably colder than the foothills near Burton Canyon--and Warren had always envisioned that factoid to mean mountains were like little worlds all to themselves. There were hundreds of these worlds in the Rockies--hundreds for Warren to explore, dozens nobody paid much attention to, and even a few where he could just get away from it all. If this was God's country, he was glad he called himself Archangel.

Today, though, the mountains were the furthest thing from his mind, and instead of flying over them, he was content to sit on a ledge near the peak of Mount Charteris, admiring the view of a young woman. Songbird was flying--not with mutant powers like Warren, but a cybernetic apparatus that created wing-like force fields from the power of her voice--and it was a sight to behold. Her "sonic carapace," as she called it, had died out on her in mid-air recently, and it Warren had asked her to come out here and try to put her blind faith back into the golden device harnessed to her shoulders. It had taken an hour or two to get her airborne without holding his hand, but it was worth it to see her this happy for the first time since the accident in San Francisco.

"You're doing great, Melissa!" he shouted. "Keep it up!" He wasn't sure she would answer him. He knew the bionics in Songbird's larynx allowed her to perform multiple complex tasks with the carapace _and_ speak simultaneously. Even so, she was probably still going easy on the carapace, trying not to overload the systems so they wouldn't fail again. It didn't matter, as long as he could see her enjoying the gift of flight he took for granted--

"I--I--of course I'm doing great, Wings! I'm the Magnificent Mistress of Sound!"

He grinned at Songbird's unexpected burst of confidence. "I thought that was Klaw's tagline," he taunted.

"It might have been," she said as she attempted a loop-de-loop, "before I kicked his ass!"* She landed next to Archangel and sat beside him. "You know, maybe you oughta get a cute name for yourself. 'The Avenging Archangel' will never get you over..."

[* Klaw--the _Murderous_ Master of Sound that Songbird's powers are derived from--was one of those Masters of Evil the Thunderbolts defeated in THUNDERBOLTS #3, #18-20, and #24-25.]

"What did you have in mind?" he chuckled.

She thought about it for a moment. "What's your last name? I can't remember if I ever caught it..."

He sighed. "Warren Worthington...the _Third_," he announced, using the stodgy tone someone would expect of anyone with a name that self-important. "A _pleasure_ to be at your service, I'm sure."

"You're making that up."

"No, Warren Worthington the _Second_ made it up, really..."

She giggled. "But it makes you sound like such a pretentious...rich boy!"

"I _am_ a pretentious rich boy, Melissa!" He paused. "Oh, I guess I forgot to have my Mercedes collection airlifted to this base when I joined the Thunderbolts...no wonder you didn't notice. Still, I can't just go changing my name if it doesn't reflect my personality. Can I help it," he said, tongue firmly in cheek, "it if I went from a 'snooty American blueblood' to a member of a gang of 'filthy degenerates--'"

"That's it. We'll call you Triple-W. It's perfect."

"I'm sorry, wha--"

"It's _perfect_ I tell you. The Marauders, the Brood, the Acolytes--

"Melissa--"

"--the New World Order, the Nasty Boys--hell, the Radicals for all I know--"

"Melissa--"

"--they'll all cringe in fear when they hear _Triple-W_ is in town! Booyah!"

"My name is Warren _Kennedy_ Worthington."

"Warren _Kennedy_ Worthington," she repeated, with a tone a child might use to say "There is no Santa Claus."

"The Third," Warren added, facetiously.

"You know, you'll have a hard time being 'not for the innocent' if you're hung up on details...Warren "Wings" Worthington..."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, _I_ get it now...whatever. Sell the T-shirts, then."

"Yessir," Songbird said as she leaned back against the rock face, "Stick with me, Wings, you'll go far."

Neither of them heard the avalanche bury them in falling rocks.

***

I slept peacefully upon the earth, its soft grass comforting my weary body like an obedient slave offering itself to its goddess. Indeed, I might well have slumbered past the sunrise, except that this could not be permitted to occur. Thus, I stirred from my rest and took note of the starry night sky, and waved my hand to summon the fiery orb and begin the dawn.

I moaned softly, feeling the remnants of my exhaustion and recalling the events that caused it at nightfall. Was I not the Firegoddess, queen of the flame and the world that thrived on its warmth? Was I not she who first gave life to the land by cleaving its once-barren womb with Vranphell? At the thought of my sacred spear, I instinctively reached for the weapon and found I had not laid it at my side. It was then my sleep-addled mind began to fully recall that I had found a new companion to replace the shaft.

For uncounted eons, I and my fever-sisters had made war with the armies of the winds. From the earth we attacked with fire, while from the air the aura-men rained down waters. Such were the oceans filled and the continents forged by our conflicts, until both myself and the lord of the sky agreed to fight the final battle in single combat. For twenty years we had fought in this pasture, and I slowly realized and slowly convinced him that we were too equal to achieve naught but peace. We mated in the night under his stars--a small measure of victory I conceded to him--and the new era of our union began beneath my sun.

"My betrothed is not accustomed to awakening in the dawn," I mused to him as he awakened.

+I shall do so hereafter, so long as you yield to me in the dusk,+ he replied. His mouth said nothing, yet I heard him plainly in my mind. +As you did last night.+

"Yield?" I scoffed. "I yielded nothing to you."

+I cannot allow my maidservant to contradict me, she-god. Surely you see your skin is moist with the dew, as is your pasture. The mists and rains are mine to command, and you have allowed them to caress you and your fields.+

I looked sternly into my mate's blood-red eyes, never letting their fiery beauty deter me from my conviction. "Believe as you will, husband. But I see your lust is yet unsated, and even now your eyes covet what the morning dew has tasted. Know that you will not have your desire during my day; I will 'yield' to you when I decide to."

He looked fiercely at me, his snout curled into a snarl. +And if I do not accept these conditions?+ he growled.

"You have set the terms, my liege," I said with a trace of irony. "Heed me: Our war ended when we lay together here, but you and I have begun a new war of thought and reason. Prove yourself my equal, as you did in the last war, and I may deign to 'surrender' to you once more." His harsh face softened, and we laughed at the oddities of our new battlefield. "Now come, my love. Let us make our peace throughout the universe, for it will be many hours before sunset..."

***

She was Karla Sofen, and she'd been waking up from dreams like this for months. She called herself "Moonstone," after a strange lunar gem which she had acquired to give her superhuman powers and abilities. More than once her self-interested use of those powers had brought her into conflict with those who used their abilities to be heroes. One of those people was Hawkeye, the renowned, long-time member of the Avengers who left that team to lead Moonstone and her fellow Thunderbolts to redemption. She was stubborn, and slow to accept his leadership and his outlook on using their gifts responsibly for the good of mankind. At best, Moonstone and Hawkeye didn't like each other; at worst, she had tried to kill him once or twice.

So it didn't make much sense that they'd just slept together.

She was in his bed. She remembered briefing Hawkeye on the Thunderbolts' last outing, since he had been injured recently and confined to the base. Archangel, an ally of the team who had joined them to round out the roster during Hawkeye's rehab, had come into the room. There had been some yelling, and then he left and...something. Moonstone was feeling it come back to her like a childhood memory, even though it couldn't have happened more than two hours ago. The _dream_, on the other hand, she remembered almost perfectly, although it made as little sense as sleeping with Hawkeye.

He moved. Moonstone's heart jumped at the unexpected activity. He was waking up, and she was here in his bed with him and--she looked under the sheets--_naked_ in his bed with him and she didn't have the foggiest idea what she'd hoped to gain by sleeping with him. With her powers, she could have phased through the molecules of the bed and silently left before he saw her. She could have floated up and created a costume to avoid embarrassment. Or she could have used her superhuman strength to crush his head like an overripe tomato. But that wouldn't change the fact that something made her lose control and sleep with...with _Hawkeye_.

He turned over and met her disturbed gaze. "Hi babe," he mumbled sleepily.

She froze. She panicked. She liked the sound of that. "Uh, hi...babe."

What was _happening_ to her?

***

The government had told Captain America they'd be telling him what to do, and he quit. They found the next best thing--a Captain America wannabe who'd do what they told him as long as he got to wear the red, white, and blue outfit. Then he became unstable, and the long and short of it was the real Captain America took back his identity, and he wound up wearing a cute little black number and calling himself "the USAgent." He took the law into his own hands; when that didn't pay the bills he let someone else hire him to take the law into his own hands. And Edwin Cord, billionaire industrialist, only had had one menace to hire USAgent to deal with in all of Colorado--the Thunderbolts.

That was where she came in. Wysper was one of six vigilantes who comprised "the Jury," and Cordco Industries had paid her and her teammates to serve under the USAgent. For each Thunderbolt that USAgent and the Jury brought to justice, they'd be paid a million dollars. It was only a matter of time, Wysper had realized, before they started running out on unauthorized solo missions, trying to earn the money all for themselves. So as soon as the team regrouped from their encounter with the Thunderbolts earlier that day*, she headed out to do it first.

[* Back in chapter 4.]

She guided the anti-grav disks on her feet and slowly descended Mount Charteris. The Jury had always been armed to the teeth with advanced equipment, but Cordco had financed an upgrade that allowed her to disrupt the sonic vibrations of her surroundings. As such, she made no sounds as she glided down the mountain, just as she had quietly triggered a rockslide and removed any noise it might have made before it hit Songbird and Archangel. The mutie wasn't worth much to her--Cord had made it clear before she left that the original Thunderbolts were who he was paying them for--but Songbird alone was enough to retire on. So what if the Jury would be honked off at her for hogging the cool mill? They'd be busy scrambling for the other T-bolts, and she'd be relaxing in Cancun living off the profits from her stock portfolio.

She found a cliff with a large pile of rubble on it and decided this had to be where the Thunderbolts had landed. She pulled off her helmet and wiped her brow, inspecting the scene. Her sonic weapons weren't going to help much with digging the bodies out, but it wasn't like Cord planned to give them an open-casket funeral. Maybe she'd just grab something to prove Songbird was dead. She could tell stories to her broker of how she made her first million with a hunk of white hair with red streaks. Yeah, why get obscenely rich on her own? She'd have a broker in Cancun.

Named "Biff."

But first she had to dig her evidence out of this mess. Setting the helmet aside, she took a deep breath and began hefting rocks over the ledge, slowly uncovering what appeared to be a...pink...sonic...field.

Wysper silently mouthed an expletive as she realized Songbird and Archangel were alive, encased in a sonic field, and had been just waiting for her to discover them. Before she could defend herself the field was shifting shape, pushing the remaining rubble away and opening up for the two Thunderbolts to subdue their attacker. As the blue winged mutant grabbed her arms and forced them in the air for his teammate to restrain, Wysper imagined Biff the broker sitting on the beach alone in Cancun, wishing a moderately attractive mercenary was around to give a backrub to.

Songbird snarled at her, never letting a bit of slack into the sonic cocoons pinning her forearms in the air. "You got a bounty to collect, Jury-lady? I could give a piss. You try killing me again, and Cord'll find your head in his mailbox. _Got it?_"

She glared at the Thunderbolt, transfixed by the kindly face that was spewing this vitriol. "You never let Hawkeye see this side of you, do you, Songbird?" Wysper grumbled. "I bet he doesn't know his little T-bolts make death threats when they aren't in front of the public." Songbird began to tremble a bit, and she realized this was her only way out. "Me? I don't care who sees me do my job. I never pretended not to do ugly things. But you...you're trying to make everyone believe you're so sweet and heroic, and it sickens me enough that I'm happy to do ugly things if it'll put you away.

Songbird stood there for a long while, exchanging menacing stares with Wysper, unsure of what to do next. Part of her wanted to make good on her threat, just to end the stalemate. But she was no killer--it must've been obvious enough that Wysper was using it to goad her. Still, she kept wondering if what the Juror was saying was true...

Finally, Archangel put his hand on her shoulder. "You're better than this, Melissa," he told her. "Let her go. We'll deal with her later." With that, he picked up Wysper's helmet, and threw it to her almost as soon as Songbird released her arms to catch it. She took off immediately, leaving the Thunderbolts to ponder the situation.

"I know how you feel," he said. "The hate-mongers do whatever they can to make mutants so furious that they'll lash out with violence, and justify the fear and hatred. I think Jean called it a 'self-fulfilling prophecy.' Jean's a friend of mine, by the way."

Melissa sighed uncomfortably, facing what she had wanted to do to Wysper, and hugged Warren. "You earned what you get from the people," he continued, "you lied to them, you gave them hope when they were desperate and then yanked it away, now you're asking them to show you more compassion than you showed them--and they'll forgive you, I know it. But people like the Jury are just looking for an excuse to be spiteful, and they don't want to let you prove yourself to them. Don't worry about their kind."

"She'll tell them we're living out here," she sniffled. "The Jury will be all over these mountains until they find the base. What'll we do?"

"We'll think of something," he assured her. "Now, who's this 'Cord' you mentioned? Edwin Cord?"

She nodded. "He hired the Jury to eliminate us. What difference does that make?"

Archangel smiled. "Lots. How far can you fly at a time?"

"I've carried the others as far as Fort Worth one time..."

"Beautiful--we don't have to go nearly as far to get to my place in New Mexico." Giant, eight-foot wings spread from the mutant's back and stretched to catch the wind as he stepped off of the cliff. He held out his hand to Songbird, inviting her to take flight with him. "But we'll get there faster if we fly too fast to talk, so I'll explain later!"

She smiled--she had no idea what he was planning, but he seemed confident--and darted off into the night with him. He'd made flying fun for the first time in weeks, and as she playfully raced him to the state line the trip seemed to take no time at all.

Ahead of them, the Rockies lay ahead as far as even Archangel's eyes could see. All they'd need to do is follow the gorgeous view of the snow-capped peaks in the moonlit sky and they'd be at the Aerie before dawn. Ordinarily he'd relish the chance to navigate that way, but he found himself distracted from his beloved mountains. Songbird in flight was a vision to behold. She didn't have to work to keep herself aloft, like he did; rather, like his comrade Banshee, she simply floated on the sound of her voice, her lithe figure only subtly tensing and flexing to point herself in the right direction. Of course, with all due respect to Sean Cassidy, Melissa looked better doing this in tight spandex than he did. Sometimes he'd let her get ahead of him just so he could appreciate her from all directions, and he'd lose track of the mountains and get lost for a moment. All these different little worlds, and suddenly they couldn't cut it compared to one beautiful young woman.

He tried to focus, and wondered what was the matter with him.

***

"OK, Erik, last call." Wilma came back from the office to find her favorite patron in a trancelike state and/or watching SportsCenter. "You gonna need a ride home, or...?"

"Huh? Oh, I'll walk home. I don't live too far." Not far for him, at least--once he was out of town it was only a short hike to Mount Charteris...if you could grow to giant-size like Erik Josten. "I didn't even notice how late it was....we'd been watchin' the TV and talkin'--"

"'We'?"

"Yeah, me an'--" Erik turned and found the barstool next to him as empty as it had been when he first sat down. "Well, hey--what happened to...what was his name, anyway?"

Wilma shrugged. "I don't think he said. Maybe he's the Lone Ranger."

"More like Dirty Harry." Erik ran his hand through his hair and tried to make sense of the evening. "I don't guess it makes no difference. Seeya around, Wilma."

As Erik left he didn't think to look on the roof of the Down Slope for the answer to his questions. From there his mysterious stranger kept a close watch, allowing the larger man a considerable head start down the street before he climbed down and followed.

Erik was an okay guy, as far as having a couple of beers with, the man had decided. But he was also a lead. The scruffy Canadian hadn't been sure at first, but after spending the whole evening with him, there was no mistaking who he was. He'd had his face and voice changed--and apparently his current set of powers had left him nearly a foot taller as well--but the smell was definitely the same "Power Man" he and Alpha Flight ran up against years ago*.

[* As revealed in the 1992 ALPHA FLIGHT SPECIAL]

That meant he was Erik Josten--Atlas of the Thunderbolts, nowadays--and that explained another smell lingering on the big man. The X-Men hadn't heard from Archangel in weeks, and all they knew was that he'd been seen running around with these renegades. So the man trailed Josten, intending to find out why. Then maybe then he'd find out what had happened to his friend--Archangel's lover--and why the X-Men hadn't heard from her either. And then maybe...just maybe...he'd like the answer.

And maybe Wolverine wouldn't have to do what he was best at...

[next part]

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