Avengers

Once upon a time, on a perfectly ordinary Thursday afternoon, Hank McCoy's laboratory telephone rang.

He was hanging upside down from the ceiling pipe — it had become his very favourite reading position — and he reached over without looking, took the receiver, and said, "McCoy."

"Stark," said the voice on the other end. "Tony Stark. I need a scientist who can also punch things. You interested?"

Hank thought about it for forty-five minutes. Then he called Tony Stark back and said yes.

And that was how Henry Philip McCoy became an Avenger.

The Avengers Mansion stood on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan — tall, formal, with brass fixtures, a butler named Jarvis who always had fresh tea ready, and a monitor system tracking every threat on Earth in real time. It was grander than the Xavier Institute, more visible to the world, expected to answer crises at the highest possible scale.

Hank liked it enormously.

He liked Tony Stark, who was brilliantly clever and sometimes insufferable, in ways Hank found endearing because he recognized the particular kind of someone who thinks very fast and has to work hard not to leave the room behind. He and Tony had thundering arguments about materials science and the thermodynamics of energy conversion that cleared the common room in under ten minutes. They both considered this a satisfactory outcome.

He liked Steve Rogers — Captain America — who thought about strategy the way Hank thought about science: carefully, from first principles, with genuine respect for what could go wrong. They talked late into the night about planning and preparation and the difference between confidence and recklessness.

He liked Thor, who was enormous and gold-haired and had a laugh that could rattle the mansion windows all the way from the rooftop.

And then, about three weeks after Hank arrived, the call came about the Absorbing Man.

His name was Carl Creel, and his ability was this: he could touch any material and transform his entire body into that substance. Stone. Steel. Wood. That afternoon he had grabbed a bridge support beam in Manhattan and become sixty feet of solid iron, towering above the East River and causing considerable disruption.

You cannot punch sixty feet of iron. You simply hurt your fist.

Hank was already working.

He had asked Tony to install a laboratory bench in the back of the Avengers' Quinjet three days after joining the team. Tony had done it without complaint, because Tony Stark recognizes someone who knows exactly what equipment they need. Hank mixed compounds, tracked color changes, followed a chain of reactions through in his head.

A chemical inhibitor. Dispersed evenly across Creel's enormous surface, it would interrupt the electromagnetic bond holding his transformation together. He would revert to human form. Immediately. Harmlessly.

The challenge was delivery. The inhibitor had to cover every inch of Creel's surface simultaneously.

Hank looked at the small round capsule he had produced. He looked at Thor, sitting across the Quinjet with Mjolnir resting on his knee, watching the New York skyline.

"Thor," said Hank. "May I ask a favor?"

He explained the plan in three sentences. Precise, clear sentences, because Thor was a better strategist than people generally assumed, and did not need things explained more than once.

Thor looked at the capsule. He looked at Mjolnir. He smiled the smile of someone who appreciates a well-conceived plan.

"Gladly," he said.

They flew in over the bridge. Hank stood at the open Quinjet door and judged the distance. He judged the wind. He threw.

The capsule arced up, hanging in the blue autumn air for one still, suspended second.

Mjolnir swung.

CRACK.

The capsule shattered. Chemical mist expanded outward in a perfect sphere and settled across every inch of Carl Creel's iron surface at once.

Creel made a sound like a filing cabinet falling down a long flight of stairs. He shrank rapidly. He returned to human size and sat down on the bridge in the November cold, staring at his hands with an expression of total bafflement.

Eleven minutes and forty seconds from first contact.

On the Quinjet home, Thor sat beside Hank and regarded him with genuine admiration.

"You are a very unusual warrior," he said.

Hank pushed his glasses up.

"Thank you," he said. "You are a very good delivery system."

Thor's laugh shook every window in the vehicle.

Jarvis had the tea ready when they landed.

Hank settled into the armchair in the Avengers Mansion library, warm mug in hand, book open on his knee, and thought that this was an excellent place to be.

He turned the page, and the evening settled around him, comfortable and full of possibility.

Being an Avenger was going to be excellent.