In the forbidding depths of the Pacific Ocean, war had been declared.

The waters of a vast hydrothermal vent seethed with relentless eruptions, geysers of hot liquid churning amid a murkiness brightened only by sporadic fluorescence. A legion, twenty soldiers strong, had been dispatched into this hostile wilderness, dwarfed by the gigantic ziggurats of crystallized volcanic rock stabbing up through the fractured seabed. Now, of those twenty, just three remained – and any strategy for dealing with their enemy they’d hitherto displayed had given way to panic.

Having just emerged from the chasm below and knowing their adversary to be close behind, the last three Lemurian legionnaires turned and acted with one aim in mind. They leveled their rifles and discharged a volley of concussive pulse bolts, deliberately destabilizing a cluster of volcanic pillars rising from the gaping vent beneath them. The rocky columns quaked as the attack resulted in immediate seismic upheaval, and as the vent erupted the temperature of the surrounding waters abruptly began to escalate. One of the ziggurats splintered, sending tons of crumbling stone and crystal sulphide sliding and tumbling through the depths; another cracked at the base and commenced a slow but unstoppable collapse against its fellows, like the slow motion fall of a giant sequoia in one of Earth’s ancient land forests beyond the ocean.

Far above, a stretch of tropical islands would be battered by tidal waves. Here, in the depths, the seas burned and the vent ruptured, and chaos reigned. It was all the legionnaires could think to do.

But it wasn’t enough.

“You can bring this entire reef crumbling down around my head,” Namora of Atlantis declared in a low snarl, “but you will not prevent me from taking revenge on the villain who has wronged me…”

She emerged from the heat and swirling clouds of volcanic ash like a bullet, slicing through the dark waters with madness in her heart. She was lithe and powerful, her beauty timeless. Her hair was a cascade of pale gold, her peach skin tinctured with hues of blue and green, denoting her unusual heritage: half human, half Atlantean. She was a fallen empress. In some corners of the world’s oceans she was revered as a minor goddess.

But, above all, she was a harbinger of retribution.

She reached the first legionnaire before he could flee, grabbing him about the throat and wresting his weapon from his grasp. Namora was clad in a midnight blue toga that left her arms bare and her long legs similarly exposed, whilst her enemies were encased almost entirely in armor of scale and thorny coral, but it was the legionnaires who were vulnerable. Namora battered the first of them senseless with one blow of his own gun, then turned on the second.

He raised his rifle, ready to unleash a point-blank burst of concussive obliteration. Unflinching, Namora punched him so hard she dislocated his jaw and nearly removed his head from his neck. As it was, the Lemurian would likely never swim again without acute pain: a deserved fate, Namora decreed, for any scum who allied himself with her adversary.

“I already died once,” Namora hissed, brandishing the legionnaire’s weapon. “But, slay me a thousand times, and I will still. Not. Stop.”

She turned her head, her sapphire blue eyes searching the murky fathoms despite the all-encompassing absence of light at this depth, but there was no sign of the third soldier. No matter. The Lemurian with the ruined face wouldn’t be helping anyone, but the first could still talk – and that was all Namora required.

“You’ll tell me where to find her,” Namora demanded, dragging the first weeping legionnaire close. “Your black-hearted mistress, the treacherous witch Llyra. You tell me where she’s hiding. Or else I’ll visit sorrow unimagined upon your sacred city, and anyone else who dares defy me.

“For I am Namora, the Avenging Daughter of Atlantis… I have returned from the cold and the dark of the eternal abyss… and now, wherever I swim, all hell’s coming with me!”

THE ABYSS

Part I: The Water, Like A Witch’s Oils, Burnt Green And Blue And White

By Meriades Rai

“If you don’t mind me saying, Lady Falsworth, that’s the most hideous piece of ornamental sculpture I’ve ever had the misfortune to set eyes on.”

Reverend Green leaned upon the garden gate and peered over his half-moon glasses, his expression one of utter disdain. He glanced at the handsome blonde woman standing before him and sniffed. “French, no doubt,” he added, in a tone that suggested he held that particular nation responsible for most the world’s ills, artistic or otherwise.

Lady Jacqueline Falsworth smiled weakly, lingering on the edge of her lawn with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her overcoat. “Yes, vicar,” she said. “You know me, can’t resist a bargain down the auction houses.”

“Bargain? Tuppence ha’penny would have been daylight robbery,” the Reverend snorted. He glared at the enormous stone monstrosity that was planted in the middle of one of the Falsworth mansion’s lush side gardens, obscuring the far more pleasing flowerbeds beyond, and shook his head again. “Not that a young thing like you would know what I’m talking about, harping on about old money,” he said, ruefully.

Jackie almost laughed. John Green was getting on a bit, it was true – he’d turned seventy-three years old this spring just past, and with his balding pate and white tufts around the ears, as well as his weathered complexion, he looked every day of it. In was incredible to think that Jackie, all golden hair and rude health, appeared as fresh and beautiful as a girl a third of the Reverend’s age when in fact she’d been born twenty years before him. John Green had been a local resident for five decades, and as far as he knew there’d been three Lady Falsworths in his parish in that time, from grandmother to granddaughter. He could never have grasped the truth, that it was just Jackie all that time, never ageing, just holidaying in Europe at regular, carefully planned intervals to help perpetuate the charade. Twenty-five eternal, or as good as.

The elderly Reverend glanced up at the graying skies overhead and sniffed again. It was a dark and chilly October afternoon, and summer had well and truly ceded to autumn. “There’s a storm rolling in,” he said, gravely. “You’d best be taking shelter by the hearth, girl. You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

Jackie suppressed another smirk.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m… hot-blooded.”

The Reverend bid farewell and hitched his collar, then wandered away along the road that led past the Falsworth grounds and down into the village at the bottom of the hill, just as he did every day at around this hour. Sometimes Jackie would invite him in for a cup of tea and a biscuit, but not today. Tea and biscuits were a good answer to most problems, especially if you were English, but she had more important matters to concern herself with: namely the unresponsive husk of the alien creature that had attacked her the previous day.

The hulking stone monster presently embedded in the middle of Jackie’s lawn was indeed an eyesore, but it was no ornamental sculpture. It was a living creature – or at least it had been up until Jackie had subdued it in a brief but brutal clash that had caused considerable property damage to her bedroom and roof. Chances were she herself would have ended up in a far worse state if she hadn’t managed to bodily ignite with a hot enough flame to burn the creature into some strange, senseless state from the inside-out.

The beast was a mostly shapeless mass, with stumpy arms and legs and a huge lump of a head that connected to its shoulders without the aid of a neck. Its face, if it could even be called that, was featureless save for a narrow, horizontal gash that stretched from side to side and which wasn’t truly a mouth or an eye but something in-between. There wasn’t a flicker of unearthly energy to be seen smoldering away inside that aperture, not any more, and considering its motionless state Jackie wouldn’t have been out of line to believe the monster dead. In her heart, however, she was certain that it was simply dormant, recovering in its own alien fashion.

“What are you?” she breathed, eyeing the creature nervously. “And are there more where you came from? Because-”

“They have many different names, depending on which dimension you happen to be visiting,” a woman’s voice unexpectedly interjected. “In Earth English, the most appropriate translation is Mindless Ones.”

Even as Jackie turned to face the stranger at her shoulder she was evaluating. With her dramatically accelerated metabolism she wasn’t just able to react with swift reflexes and to move at incredible speeds; her perception and ability to process sensory information was also enhanced. Inside two seconds she had correctly deduced that the mysterious woman in the violet and indigo hooded cloak who now stood behind her had literally materialized from thin air. She couldn’t have approached by conventional means, else Jackie would have noticed her crossing the lawn. Fortunately Jackie was also able to gauge the stranger’s stance and demeanor, and to conclude – again correctly – that she was wholly unthreatening.

Still, that analysis didn’t mean that a girl shouldn’t be careful; appearances could be deceptive, even to someone with such a keen eye. Jackie tensed, ready to take flight at the first sign of menace, and removed her hands from the pockets of her coat. They were already hot, trembling with an imperceptible vibration and ready to ignite.

The other woman bowed slightly, a gesture of serenity, then reached up slowly and pulled back her cowl to reveal a beautiful face dominated by shy, exquisitely bright eyes beneath a tumble of silver-white, coral shell curls and ringlets. The woman smiled at Jackie, but when she glanced back towards the motionless stone beast – the Mindless One – her expression was one of naked concern.

“That shouldn’t be here,” she said, softly.

“On my lawn?” Jackie replied. “Bloody right it shouldn’t.”

“I meant in the Earthly realm.”

The silver-haired woman fixed Jackie with an intense gaze. “My name is Clea,” she said. “I’m an extra-dimensional sorceress, heralding from far beyond your reality. And I’m here to warn you that the world as you know it is in terrible danger.”

Lady Jacqueline Falsworth blinked.

“Well, I imagine you will be wanting tea and biscuits then,” she said.

“Not out saving the world, Ms. Van Dyne?” said the ghastly woman with the fuchsia crepe hat and the perfumed hair and the Chihuahua under her arm. “I thought that was your raison d’être again these days… what with your flirtation with fashion design foundering so pitifully, I mean.”

Janet Van Dyne glowered over the lip of her cappuccino, forcing herself to remain icy cool as she stared up at the unwelcome guest who had just approached her patio café table to deliver a missive of undisguised antipathy.

“Svetlana,” she said, sweetly. “Now, isn’t this a surprise? I thought you were dead and buried.”

“Oh no, darling. Just Vienna. Klaus opened a new private health clinic, and I must say he fully deserves my ringing endorsement.” The woman, Svetlana, touched gloved fingertips to her neck. “Immaculate, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. You can barely see the join.”

Svetlana smiled, thinly. So thin her lips had disappeared. Or she’d had them surgically removed. Perhaps that was all the rage in Austria.

“We make do, don’t we?” she sighed. “You must try cosmetic enhancement some time, darling. Growing old disgracefully just doesn’t suit you, and you won’t always be able to get by with that well-meaning Audrey Hepburn look, especially now you’ve added a few pounds. By the way, I saw that newsreel footage of your unfortunate involvement in that Milan debacle… such a pity about your hair. You will get that fixed now, won’t you?”

Janet clenched her teeth so hard that she made an involuntary noise of pain. Svetlana’s Chihuahua barked as if it was laughing, its eyes wide and black and utterly devilish. The animal was a cross between a guinea pig and a hyena. As Svetlana bade a curt farewell and turned to leave Janet couldn’t resist the urge to flick out a finger, but before she could unleash a vicious wasp’s sting to the dog’s waggling buttocks the woman who was sitting on the other side of the table raised a hand of warning.

“You’ll regret it,” said Shuri of Wakanda.

“No I won’t.”

“You will.”

“No, seriously, I won’t.” Janet let her finger drop anyhow, but the scowl remained.

“I had my hair re-styled yesterday,” she said.

“I know. You told me. Drink your coffee.”

“Does it still look singed?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“I hate Lava Men.”

“They speak very highly of you. Apart from the ones you blew to smithereens in Italy, obviously.”

Janet snorted and sipped her cappuccino. “You know, I was beginning to wonder if you had a sense of humor.”

“Beginning to wonder? Isn’t it a little quick to be making personal judgments?” Shuri asked, frowning. “We’ve barely known each other ten minutes.”

“I make it fifty actually,” Janet murmured, checking her watch. Shuri leaned back in her chair, her arms folded and her eyes narrowed. They were a contrasting pair, these two; one petite and curvaceous, with a chestnut bob and petticoat fringe that was indeed classic Love In The Afternoon vintage Hepburn, and possessed of an open, forward manner; the other tall and sharply elegant, with black hair threaded close to her scalp in tiny, intricate braids, and with body language so defensive it should have come wearing armor. Both attractive, confident women, but there was a greater division between them than a circular café table on a corner patio on the King’s Road in West London.

“T’Challa said you could be… feisty,” Shuri murmured. Janet grinned.

“I bet he did. But I’m thinking waspish is more appropriate, if a little obvious.”

Shuri shook her head, then glanced away. Janet rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed. “Listen, you already know about me, mostly thanks to Madame Evil and her Dog of Death. To recap: I’m a failed fashionista, I’m fast approaching middle age, I worry about my hair, I can’t make it through an hour of small talk without getting bored… I’m easily bored, you should make a note of that. And I have a failed marriage too. Amicable break-up, et cetera, but still. I’m single but not fancy-free, mainly because I don’t have time to date. And I’m not going to mention that again because, contrary to the popular misconceptions held in the gloss media regarding my general character, I’m not a Sex And The City airhead who gets distracted whenever she sees something shiny and goes winging after it like a debutante faerie. What else? Oh, I’m a Libra. I love shoes. My favorite movie is Sleepless In Seattle. I buy my underwear at an understated little boutique in Monaco, and some of it’s so disgraceful it probably should be banned. Not that I ever get a chance to wear it because of the dating thing. That I’m not mentioning.”

Janet paused, then tapped out a tune with her coffee spoon. Shuri looked on suspiciously.

“Is there a point to all this gibberish?”

“I’m being personable.”

“And now it’s time to talk about me, right?” Shuri said.

“Right.”

“But, hairstyles aside, you’re not really into girly talk.”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t think. Maybe I did. To be honest I lose track. But, in this instance… no, not especially.”

Shuri cocked her head. “So, you call me up out of the blue and you invite me to lunch because…?”

“Because I’m in London,” Janet said. “And because you’re here too. And I know you’re here because T’Challa calls me up late last night and tells me the new Black Panther is on my doorstep, geographically speaking, and how, considering the old Black Panther – which is to say, him – and The Wasp were teammates in both the Avengers and in X-Corp, it may be appropriate that we meet. Which, I have to say, is bizarre in the extreme, as the last time T’Challa and I met up – a couple of weeks ago, in Niffleheim of all places* – there was no mention of a new Black Panther, you or otherwise. So, naturally, I’m intrigued. And he gives me a number to call you, and I call you.”

* In Marvel Omega’s recent Lady Liberators mini-series!

“He asked you to check up on me?”

“Not in so many words. But, as I said. Teammates for a long time. So, yes, I picked up on some tension there.”

Shuri leaned forward, her eyes very dark and clear. “You realize this is none of your business?” she said, softly. “That any relationship between you and my cousin doesn’t directly translate to a working association between us?”

“I do. But you have to ask yourself, what does it mean to you, being the Black Panther? If you want to be part of the superhero community at large, I’m a good place to start.”

“Really? Interesting. Because all I’ve witnessed so far is you being referred to as some kind of has-been. Not to mention the fact that it’s your fault Wakanda needed a new Black Panther in the first place.”

Janet pursed her lips, then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she murmured. “So, maybe coffee wasn’t the best idea.”

“Maybe not.”

Janet fished a ten-pound note from her purse. Shuri looked across at her, her gaze still cool.

“Did T’Challa also tell you that the injury you inflicted on him isn’t healing?” she asked. “Something about a magical infection incurred during this off-worldly jaunt you spoke of…?”

Janet paused. Her eyes were downcast, her expression unreadable. For a moment she said nothing.

Then, just as she was about to answer, the exterior fascia of the café detonated in an explosion of brick and glass and brightly painted wood, and everything went to hell.

In the gardens of Falsworth mansion, beneath increasingly stormy skies, the mysterious woman with the mesmerizing cobalt eyes – Clea – regarded her companion curiously. “You aren’t what you seem,” she said. “I sense great longevity about you. And power. And heart.”

Jackie pursed her lips. “Is this where you tell me I also had an Aunt Gertrude and she’s looking down on me from Heaven? And that she hid a fortune in diamonds in a secret hollow in the cellar?”

“I’m not psychic,” Clea said, blushing. “It’s just that you humans have a way of projecting yourselves towards anyone with an inclination to interpret your auras. Unfortunately it’s not possible to glean someone’s name from their spiritual emanations, Miss…?”

Jackie suddenly grinned. “Well, there’s a chat up line and a half,” she laughed. “It’s Lady, actually. Pompous, I know, but we go in for that kind of thing around here. The Hertfordshire set, I mean, not us ‘humans’ in general. You’re addressing Lady Jacqueline Falsworth,” she said, with mocking authority. “But it’s okay. You can call me Jackie.”

“Thank you. For what it’s worth, I’m sometimes known as the Ice White Heart of the Pentacular Star Winds and Princess of Kha’Mor’Aii’Ner, the Dark Dimension of the Chaos Peninsula.”

Jackie arched an eyebrow. “Really? Well, the Reverend will be sorry he missed you. Unless, of course, that’s all just a fancy suburb of Paris.”

“Like you, I’m also older than I look.”

“But more so, right? Good job I’m not the competitive type.”

Clea glanced at the Mindless One again, obviously agitated. “My apologies, Jackie, for visiting uninvited,” she said. “But time, although not as explicitly linear as many would have you believe, is occasionally of the essence, and this would be one of those occasions. As I said, your world is in terrible peril. Can you tell me where this creature entered your reality, which exact point in space? It would have been a gateway of some kind, an inter-dimensional portal or-”

“It came through a mirror in my bedroom,” Jackie said. “It’s not dead, is it?”

“No. Severely compromised, however. Mindless Ones are genetically engineered to be resistant to most forms of harm, including the gravitational effects of neutron stars. To incapacitate this one must have taken great power and fortitude. This was you?”

Jackie nodded. Clea beamed.

“Very impressive. I’m delighted to have met you, Jackie. But please, quickly, if you could take me to your bedroom…”

“Oy, oy,” said Jackie.

Clea looked confused. Jackie groaned and shook her head, her hands over her face.

“Sorry. Sorry. It’s an English thing.” She peeked through her fingers. “Okay. You did say quickly, right…?”

Clea opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a word her new acquaintance was moving – and when Jacqueline Falsworth moved, it was truly an experience. Inside three seconds of sudden and extreme velocity Clea found herself a significant distance from the mansion gardens, having been transported in Jackie’s arms to her bedroom in the upper floor of the west wing of the grand house itself. Clea gasped, heart pounding and eyes wide, as she staggered. Jackie placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Sorry,” she said, although her quirky grin suggested this wasn’t entirely sincere. “I went slowly so you didn’t, you know, catch fire or suffer internal organ compression. But you did say time was of the proverbial, right?”

“That was slowly…?”

Clea returned the other woman’s cheer half-heartedly, then turned to regard the full-length mirror in its hefty bronze frame that was resting against a nearby wall. She reached out tentatively towards the glass, and green sparks shot from her fingertips like electrical charge.

“What did you do?” Jackie asked. Clea shook her head, her eyes sharp.

“That wasn’t me. It’s dimensional residue. This is definitely a gateway of sorts, although only fractionally opened. Enough for a Mindless One to squeeze through, figuratively speaking.” Clea moved her hand and more sparks danced upon her skin. “How long have you owned this mirror?”

“A few days. It came from a private auction house in London. Heirlooms, or something like that. I’m not sure why I purchased it, I have to say; I’m an impulse buyer, it’s true, and I’m also filthy rich, which is always a bad combination… but this isn’t usually my style. In fact it’s downright ugly, don’t you think?”

“It’s old is what it is.”

“It was an antiques auction, yes.”

“Not that kind of old. Old old.”

Clea leaned in close to study the bronze frame. “Do you see these engravings?” she asked. “A sophisticated blend of Lemurian hieroglyphics and even more ancient mystic sigils.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m afraid.”

“In truth, it barely means anything to me, and historical study of Earth sorcerous evolution is usually one of my favorite subjects,” Clea admitted. “But I recognize much of the language at least. Lemuria was a small continent located in your Pacific Ocean. It was sunk beneath the waves some twenty thousand years ago as a result of a conflict beyond the scale of our comprehension, between beings known as Celestials and Deviants. It was the same cataclysm that caused the fall of Atlantis. It’s likely this mirror was fashioned in Lemuria circa that period.”

“I know an Atlantean,” Jackie said. “Namor, the Sub-Mariner? We fought together many years ago.”

Clea turned, fascination evident in her expression. “Truly? How intriguing. A friend once told me that all things are connected and that there’s no such thing as coincidence. He, too, was an acquaintance of Namor…”

Jackie looked across at the mirror and shivered. “I’ll be honest, I was barely able to sleep last night. Not that I need much as a rule, but… I couldn’t help wondering if another one of those creatures was going to come through into this world. I didn’t want to get rid of the mirror altogether, just pass the problem onto someone else, but-”

“You were right to be concerned. I don’t know where the Mindless One fits in, but there’s something beyond that dimensional glass. I can feel it, even though I don’t think it’s ready to manifest just yet. Still,” Clea said with a smile, “you have me now. I won’t leave you to face this threat alone.”

Jackie blinked, taken aback. The other woman’s genuine benevolence was… touching.

“I have a request, however,” Clea murmured. “This auction house you spoke of. How far is it from here…?”

The young assistant stood in the doorway of Airlume’s, a new but increasingly popular auctioneer’s on the King’s Road in West London, and stared along the street with an expression of concern. She was convinced that she’d just heard an explosion of some sort, and could now discern shouting and cries of alarm emanating from the same general direction. Of course it was difficult to distinguish much outside noise over the awful muzak that was pumped on continual loop throughout the main foyer via artfully placed speakers – all that whalesong and other ambient ocean nonsense – but if she stepped out onto the pavement and craned her head…

“What’s going on? What’s that commotion?”

The assistant squeaked, startled, and in truth she looked exactly like the kind of girl who would squeak. She was small and slight – tiny in fact – with vaguely oriental features and big, bright eyes of a cognac-amber hue that brought cute, undersized furry animals to mind. She wore her black hair in a long ponytail and tried to hide those eyes, unsuccessfully, behind a pair of unfashionable spectacles that would seem old on someone five times her age. She wore a neat black pinafore and neat ivory blouse, and neat black shoes that were sensible in every way, yet she still managed to look remarkably… not very neat at all.

The contrast between the girl and the woman now standing behind her was marked, the latter being tall and elegant in an olive green suit, and just broad enough in shoulder and hip to be visibly imposing without seeming unfeminine. The woman’s hair was short and dark and swept back from a severe, aquiline face that was nevertheless utterly stunning. There was something of the 50s movie star about Ms. Airlume. Her assistant looked on, both anxious and eager to please.

“There was an explosion, I think,” she said. “Maybe.”

The older woman sniffed, her eyes narrowed. They were a curious shade of green, almost too luminous to be true. Contact lenses, no doubt. She glanced past the girl and stared away into the distance. She sniffed again, more demonstrably now. Her jaw clenched, and – oddly – her throat seemed to pulse.

“I want you to go and see what’s happening,” she murmured. The girl paled.

“But what if it’s a bomb? Terrorists? Or someone-”

“Go, now, or I shall fire you on the spot,” Ms. Airlume said, her tone still low and amiable. She looked down then, and smiled darkly. “Which would be terribly sad, wouldn’t it? This being your first day here. What was your name again? Saskia, Katie…?”

“Skadi, ma’am,” the young assistant said, in a tiny voice. “My name’s Skadi.”

Ms. Airlume’s smile grew. There were teeth in there, and they looked sharp. “How unusual. Well, run along and do as you’re told then, Skadi. You’re not a child any longer. It’s time to be a big, brave girl…”

Janet was experienced enough to appreciate a simple but fundamental truth: if one wanted to survive in the superhero business, one had to give free rein to one’s instincts. It was pure intuition that saved her, therefore, when the café fascia exploded and she was suddenly faced with a torrent of deadly shrapnel – and she faced it at the size of an insect, having automatically shrunk down from five feet tall to five inches at the first sign of danger. Taking to the air on her beautiful, gossamer wings as The Wasp and still reacting entirely on impulse, she dodged the initial flow of splintered brick and glass – even though some shards were now far larger than she was – and then, when she’d gained a measure of control, she started to blast the larger chunks out of the air with a rapid-fire barrage of bioelectrical pulses from her hands: her Wasp’s sting.

She should have been imperiled at miniature size but instead she was glorious, her skill and composure absolute and her courage formidable. She didn’t suffer a single blow. The same couldn’t be said for Shuri, unfortunately.

When the last of the blast shrapnel was done and the air was filled with nothing more than a swirl of dust, the Wasp descended, every sense alert. The café frontage had been devastated by some manner of an exterior energy impact – not a bomb, then, but something more specific – and there were numerous injured parties in the vicinity. The spiteful Svetlana was one of them, upended on the curbside with her ruined fuchsia hat in her lap and wailing for her missing dog. Shuri was another casualty, lying flat on her back with an upturned table on her chest and blood and glass peppering her braided hair. Her eyes were open, unseeing.

Wasp gasped. Oh. Oh, no…

At that moment there was another energy discharge from close by, and amidst the general cacophony of screams and clattering feet and screeching wheels there came a sequence of guttural snarls in some unfamiliar language. The Wasp whirled in mid-air, her expression fierce. She zipped forwards, wings humming and arms stretched out before her, her fists already glowing with vengeful sting.

There was a distinctive figure standing in the middle of the street further along the King’s Road: a woman, tall and powerfully built, with long, summer-blonde hair and skin oddly tinged with a cast of bluish-green. Judging by the sharp set of her beautiful features, not least the arched brows and pointed ears, she was quite obviously Atlantean. She also bore the characteristic demeanor of her race – fury mixed with a cold air of superiority – and she was armed with a fearsome looking energy rifle.

That was all the indication the Wasp required that this was her enemy, and that she needed to be taken down as swiftly as possible. She shot forward…

…at the exact moment that the air shimmered and two figures suddenly materialized out of nowhere, stepping from a magical haze directly into the Wasp’s path.

The Wasp yelped and veered. The Atlantean woman also staggered backwards in astonishment at this unexpected arrival – and, in her surprise, she discharged her weapon. The first of the two women who had just manifested, Lady Jacqueline Falsworth, dodged the oncoming concussive blast with instinctive ease. Her companion, the sorceress Clea, was nowhere near as intuitive, but that didn’t matter; she was protected by an automatic ward that deflected most types of energy, and although the unwitting attack caused her to gasp and stagger she was otherwise unharmed, and the blast was instantly repelled.

When the concussive pulse struck home, it downed a civilian. A small, nervous, mousy girl in sensible shoes and wearing unfashionable glasses; a girl not blessed with super speed, or gossamer wings, or mystic wards.

The girl screamed, slammed backwards into a brick wall with enough force to reduce every bone in her body to dust. She glowed, and spasmed, and fell.

For a moment there was just terrible silence, and realization at what had just occurred. The Wasp wheeled, her pretty brown eyes ablaze with ire. The object of her wrath, the golden-tressed Atlantean, was staring down at the gun in her hands, apparently stunned. Jackie and Clea simply looked on, uncomprehending.

And then, just as the Wasp was about to unleash a sting powerful enough to conquer an adversary born from any corner of land or ocean… that was when things turned strange.

Because that was when a ferocious roar echoed overhead, and everyone turned to look up and see a forty-foot high woman with blue skin and ice white hair, clad in the shredded remnants of what had once been very neat and sensible clothes, staring down at those who had harmed her mortal shell.

And Skadi the Jotunheim Frost Giantess was not pleased…

NEXT: Skadi the Frost Giantess at large! Don’t miss HERALDS #2 as “The Abyss” continues…