The Raft

Leonard Samson sat in a chair just outside the massive chamber. The windows were made of an unbreakable glass, which was necessary to contain the behemoth within. Taking out a notebook and a pen he set both on his lap. Then he pushed a button on the armrest, turning on the two-way intercom.

“Good morning,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

From behind the glass, he saw the red eyelids rise. Those yellow eyes turned and focused on Samson for a brief moment, and the gamma-powered psychiatrist felt a chill. The eyes rolled to the opposite side, the creature apparently already bored with his new guest.

“Do you remember who I am?” asked Samson.

The monster huffed, rapidly and angrily expelling air through his nostrils. Samson recorded the action.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Samson. “I have to tell you, I was more than a little surprised when Colonel Kraig called me. Said he had the Hulk in captivity, found somewhere up in the New England area. Weren’t you out west?”

Silence followed. Samson scribbled the word UNRESPONSIVE in his notebook. He looked up again. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

The creature shifted, turning his back on the psychiatrist. Samson tapped the pen against his chin. “Why the new skin tone? Did you get a sunburn? I heard the original Human Torch went supernova on you. Was this a result of that?”

Again, no response.

“I see,” said Samson. “You know Bruce, I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

At the mention of Bruce Banner’s name, the behemoth quickly shot a glare over his shoulder. Samson made a notation of it. “Bruce? You’re going to have to tell me something. It’s the only way I can help you. And if I can’t help you, my recommendation could determine whether or not the United States military destroys you.”

“Hulk.”

“Come again, Bruce?” Samson heard what the beast said, noted it, but wanted to see where this would lead. “Could you repeat that? I didn’t hear you too clearly.”

The Hulk turned around fully and slammed his fist against the indestructible glass. “I’m not Banner!”

Samson wrote MPD TRAITS. “So who are you?” he asked.

“Who the hell do you think I am, you lime-haired hippie? I’m the Hulk!”

“Lime-haired hippie, that’s a new one…” muttered Samson. “But Bruce Banner is the Hulk. They’re the same person. So you can understand my confusion when you tell me you’re the Hulk but you deny being Banner.”

“I’ve got nothing to do with Banner!” said the Hulk. “Banner is a weakling! If he had any stones, he would’ve killed himself years ago!”

“And you say you’re the Hulk? But who else are you?”

The Hulk seemed to hesitate, pondering the question. Samson leaned forward in his chair.

“Well?” he asked. “Who are you? Who were you before you became the the Hulk?”

“You’re trying to screw with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“They didn’t say it would be like this.”

“’They’?” asked Samson. “Hulk, who said it wouldn’t be like this? Who are ‘they’?”

“…I don’t remember.”

THE BEST DEFENSE

Part II: Sanity is Irrelevant

By Dino Pollard

“Samantha? Can you hear me?”

Her eyes simply darted from side to side as she sat in the corner of her padded, tiny room. The bearded man with glasses knelt down in front of her, watching her carefully.

“Samantha listen to me. I’m trying to help you, but I need you to look at me, okay?”

She began mumbling something. The doctor leaned closer to try and understand it, but he couldn’t. He shook his head. “What are you saying?”

She repeated the words, louder this time. And then she kept repeating them, each time her voice growing louder and louder until she began screaming them. The doctor placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Okay, just calm down, Samantha. Please, just…you need to relax.”

“RAGNAROK IS AT HAND!” she cried out, thrusting forward and headbutting the doctor. He fell back and the door opened. Two large orderlies held her down, but she flung one of them away, throwing him against the opposite wall.

“WE NEED SOME HELP HERE!”

More orderlies ran in, trying to hold her down. Another doctor came in as well, sticking a needle into the end of a tiny bottle and filling the syringe with the liquid. As the orderlies held her down, he administered the shot and she slowly began to relax.

The image on the screen paused. The doctor turned from the television set and dropped the remote on a small table. His nose was bandaged and he sat down before the older couple.

“I think you can see our problem here, Mr. and Mrs. Parrington,” he said.

“What…what did you inject her with?” asked Mrs. Parrington.

“Enough tranquilizer to put down a bear,” he said. “We have to keep administering doses like that every few hours or else she’ll wake up and try to break free.”

“What was she saying?” asked Mr. Parrington.

“We had a linguist examine the tape, apparently she’s speaking in a Nordic language,” said the doctor. “And an old one at that. We weren’t able to translate most of it, but she mentioned Ragnarok, which is the twilight of the gods in mythology. And she referred to herself as a chooser of the slain.”

“What’s all that mean?” asked Mr. Parrington.

“It’s a reference to something out of Norse mythology,” said the doctor.

“So what’s wrong with her?” asked Mr. Parrington.

“We’re not sure exactly,” said the doctor, sitting down and facing the couple. “One theory is that she’s used a very potent form of MGH—mutant growth hormone—and it’s altered her genetic structure far past the usual duration. That would account for the enhanced strength. And there have been reported cases of MGH altering a user’s brain chemistry, which would describe the visions she’s been having.”

“And the language?”

“That’s something we’ll have to look into—she may be the victim of some sort of assault or manipulation by an outside force,” said the doctor. “But we won’t know anything until we’ve had a chance to examine her. Unfortunately, our facility isn’t equipped for this kind of testing. So we need your permission to transfer her to another facility, one where Samantha can get the treatment she needs.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Parrington. “Just tell me where to sign.”

The doctor smiled. “Of course. I’ll be right back with the necessary paperwork.”

He stood and left his office, walking down the hall to another office and knocking once before he opened the door. The man behind the desk looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I have the Parringtons in my office, Mr. White,” said the doctor. “They’ve agreed to the transfer.”

The man behind the desk smiled. “Excellent. We’ll have our little Valkyrie soon enough.”

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

“What is your sin, my son?”

The disheveled young man sat in the confessional, elbows propped on his knees with his forehead resting on his fists, eyes tightly shut. The long, blond hair fell like strips of hay over the sides of his head.

“I was the world’s greatest hero.”

“I’m sorry?” The priest’s voice carried a tone of confusion.

“I was to be the Messiah, the Second Coming,” said the man. “God granted me incredible powers, told me to use them to save the world. But he didn’t tell me what the catch was.”

“And what was the catch?”

“The Beast…”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, father. The one who is to bring about the Apocalypse. The Lord failed to warn me about him.”

“Son, I think you are worrying too much. The Book of Revelation can be vague at times, its meaning difficult to decipher.”

“No father, you don’t understand. This is beyond what was written in some book.” The man raised his head and opened his eyes, which were completely pitch-black. “You see, when I say the Lord failed to warn me, I mean that the Lord didn’t tell me that the Beast is inside me.”

The priest started to get worried. He stood and his hand reached for the door to the booth. This man was unstable, he should contact someone, see that the poor soul got the help he needed.

“Where are you going, father? Don’t you want to hear the rest of my confession?”

The booth exploded outward in a burst of golden light. The priest fell hard between two of the pews and looked up, seeing this man dressed in raggedy clothes, his beard and hair straggly and unwashed. The kind of man you would simply step over if you saw him sitting under a bridge.

But this man hovered above the priest, his arms out to his side, his eyes an impenetrable darkness and his hands crackling with beautiful, golden energy. He turned his gaze down at the priest and smiled.

“You see, father? You see the simpering I have to deal with every single day? At one point, he and I were perfection incarnate—an eternal, ongoing struggle between good and evil. But he thought he could keep me out. He thought he could make the world forget about us. But by doing that, he simply gave me strength. All he did was fuel the Void.”

Sanctum Sanctorum

John Blaze looked up once he heard the sounds of the large doors opening. Wong stepped in first and following him was the man Blaze came all this way to see—Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme himself.

Once Strange’s eyes fell on Blaze, it seemed as if he were surprised. However, that look quickly faded, Strange’s same stoic—almost bored—expression returning. “Good evening, John.”

“Not so good, I’m afraid,” said Blaze. He turned his wheelchair and moved towards Strange. “You have any idea how much of a pain it is to get here when you’re an amputee?”

“No easy feat, I’m sure,” said Doctor Strange. “What can I do for you?”

“I want my legs back,” said Blaze.

“That, I can’t do.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” asked Blaze. “You’re the Master of the Mystic Arts, right? Just wave your hands around, speak some gibberish and bam, I’ve got new legs.”

“That isn’t how it works,” said Doctor Strange. “I am sorry to hear of your predicament, but there isn’t anything I can do. I will allow you to stay the night here but tomorrow morning, I must send you on your way. Wong will be at your disposal in the meantime.”

The Chinese man bowed slightly.

“I didn’t come here for a goddamn bed, I came here because demons tore my legs off and I want them back!”

“You have other mystical connections, John. And I know from your aura that you have not yet exhausted those.”

“What are you saying?” asked Blaze.

“Have you tried summoning your other half yet?” asked Doctor Strange.

“I just got rid of Zarathos and now you want me to invite him back into my life?” asked Blaze.

“Let’s be honest with each other, John—you’ve already done so recently,” said Doctor Strange.

Blaze was now surprised. “How did you know?”

“Do not waste my time with secrets.”

“That was different,” said Blaze. “That was to save my family.”

“And because of your actions, they are now more damned than they were before,” said Doctor Strange. He turned to leave the room. “Good night, John. I trust we won’t speak of this matter again.”

“Fucking prick,” muttered Blaze once Strange had gone. He looked at Wong. “How the hell can you stand working for someone like that? Family obligation can’t be worth all this crap.”

Wong shrugged. “It’s a living. And he’s always been good to me.” He set a cup of tea on the table beside Blaze. “But maybe that’s because I don’t insult him behind his back. You are aware he could hear you, right?”

“Ask me if I give a damn,” said Blaze.

“If you say so,” said Wong. “Is there anything else you need? You know, before you become a newt?”

Blaze grumbled as he sipped the tea. “Everyone’s a comedian.”

Doctor Strange returned to his personal study and a tarot card immediately flew out in front of him. This one featured a flaming skeleton and the Sorcerer Supreme’s fingers went to his chin, stroking the goatee he sported.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” He laid two fingers on his forehead and closed his eyes, concentrating a brief telepathic message to his manservant. {Wong, prepare some herbal tea. Use the herbs from the small garden patch.}

{Are you sure about that? I thought you only used those—}

{—when the situation is called for, which is why I need them now.}

Fire Lake, Massachusetts

A portal from Hell tore open inside the foyer of the Fire Lake manor belonging to Daimon Hellstrom. He removed the fedora and placed it on the hat rack. Not a few moments after he did, he heard groaning coming from the sitting room and ran over there, the trident of the Lord of Hell emerging from his hand in immediate response, the mark on his chest burning brightly.

What he found there was trashed furniture and the prone form of his old teammate and houseguest, Isaac Christians. An old man who made a deal with a demon to save his hometown. In response, Christians was transformed into a human gargoyle.

Now, his orange form was sprawled out, blood dribbling from his mouth. Daimon went to his side and carefully nudged him. “Isaac?”

Isaac moaned as Daimon turned him onto his back. He slowly opened his eyes, looking up at his old friend. “D-Daimon?”

“What happened?” asked Daimon. “Who did this to you? Where’s Jaine?”

Jaine Cutter, Daimon’s lover or consort in official terms. Isaac tried to sit up and Daimon eased him up, a hand on the Gargoyle’s back to support him.

“I-it was Gabriel,” said Isaac.

“Gabriel?”

Gabriel Rosetti, another of Daimon’s houseguests. A man who had been corrupted by Heaven into being their hitman thanks to the mystical Sacrament K.

“He…he just snapped,” said Isaac. “Went insane. His strength, Daimon, it was unreal.”

“And Jaine?”

“She tried to restrain him, but he wasn’t having any of it. He disabled her quickly and he was about to kill her. I tried, Daimon, believe me I did. But it was no use. And then I…I’m sorry, Daimon, I blacked out.”

“He took her,” said Daimon, his eyes burning with hellfire.

Isaac sat up. “What are you going to do?”

Hellstorm held his trident in both hands, standing upright. “What do you think? I’m going to find him. And this time, he’ll see what sort of mercy Hell has in store for him.”