Somewhere in Time…

“Ignorant cretin!”

Doom lashed out, the back of his metallic gauntlet swiping across soft pink flesh, a contemptuous slap that was generally reserved for servants and lackeys who had crossed his path in error. He smiled with satisfaction as blood sprayed from bruised and battered lips, the crimson droplets swiftly sizzling once passing through the protective aura that surrounded his person. He relished in the slightest moan, pain washing through the clod, his huge blue eyes watering at the sudden sting that sent his senses reeling no doubt. Yet still the fool held fast.

“Release me dolt!” he shouted again, his anger starting to wax at the perfidy of the thorn still digging deeply in his side. How dare he? How dare he lay hand on the royal personage that was Doom? Once perhaps the audacity was founded. The brute was strong and canny – in a thuggish manner to be certain. Now however…

All too human.

He felt Grimm’s grip tighten within the folds of his cloak, the man’s arm wrapping into the thick cloth as his fingers dug in, trying to gain purchase. His face was swelling already, discolored in swaths of violet and blue, his cheek bulging as though his mouth were filled with cotton packing. He was weak, yet still clinging stubbornly, knowing perhaps his fate if he chose to relinquish his grip. Beyond the protective sphere of Doom’s Time Bubble, Benjamin J. Grimm would wither and die, reduced to the dust whence he came, lost on the raging currents of the Time Stream. Not so much the fool perhaps, or merely too stupid and stubborn to admit defeat.

And what then of Victor Von Doom?

The armor of Doctor Doom was a marvel, the most advanced blend of scientific technology and arcane wizardry that could be conceived and produced, and then only by the mind of Doom. He could have slain Grimm a million times over, in a million ways with but a thought, his merest whim, under normal circumstances. Far too easy to blame events on the haphazard journey through the Time Stream however. It was Grimm’s fault in truth that the situation was in the slightest way dire, perhaps desperate. It was his interference, his added mass that had thrown Doom’s delicate calculations and circuitry to the wind, sending both men on their wild and harrowing ride through time itself. Far too simple to err on conservation, concern of diverting power to slay the brute, mayhap leaving Doom lost in time, satisfied but impotent and at the mercy of whichever savage reality he might become stranded within. The battle with the Dark Rider and the Avengers had left him weakened to the point where uncertainty reared at the edge of reason. Had he the power to slay his foe and still save himself?

Or was there more?

Doom reached out and wrapped his fingers about the other man’s throat. He did not squeeze, rather simply held the man up, letting him struggle, trying to keep his lolling head erect, his bleary, swelling eyes focused. Grimm looked the fool in his tattered and oversized blue shorts, his body pale and slightly overweight from his pompous lifestyle as one of Earth’s so-called Marvels. There was still a fire though, a stubbornness and disdain at the least for his adversary. There was no love lost between Grimm and Von Doom and in a way a kind of respect.

Far too often Grimm had been the cause of Doom’s… setbacks. Sheer luck of course, and all too often the result of Richards’ interference, but regardless. It had been Grimm who had shattered Doom’s hands, so long ago now it seemed, though still they ached at times. One of his few frailties, though one he would never announce aloud, rather suffer in seething anger. It was Grimm who had defeated Darkoth. It was Grimm; Richards’ lackey and stooge who always stood ignorantly, blindly to the last, a rock-encrusted monster with not intelligence enough to know when he was beaten. As now…

Doom could see the ire there, that spark of hatred boiling and burning within his eyes. Even now, beaten and battered, bloody and broken he would not admit defeat. Grimm would never bow down, never kneel to Doom, and that was what rankled the most. It was not power, nor desire for vengeance – not fully at least.

It was a matter of right, and in a simplistic, brutal fashion, a thing of honor between foes. Ben Grimm, the Thing must not only be beaten and broken, but humbled. His will had to be shattered beyond repair to fully admit the ultimate loss. Nothing less would suffice, and then only victory by the means that Grimm knew best; savage fisticuffs.

Doctor Doom adjusted his grip, his metal shod fingers tightening enough to get his foe’s attention as he drew back his free hand slowly. He watched as Grimm’s eyes cleared, realizing that the killing blow was on the wing, heartbeats away. Lightning flashed in the background, some explosion in the swirling shifting kaleidoscope of confusion that was Time passing them by. There was a low hiss, the collected voice of the world streaming past, screaming their indignities to the soulless void. Both men ignored their surroundings, the ever-shifting reality lost in the intensity of that moment, their eyes locked, searching for finality at last.

“Do… it…”

Victor Von Doom blinked, actually surprised to hear the thin and rasping voice of one of the three men he hated most in the world. He felt Grimm’s free hand rest on his arm, the weight if not the grip, feeble yet oddly firm in resolve. Grimm was trying to smile, but his swollen and bloody lips twisted the effort into a conceited sneer.

“Do it, Vic…” Grimm spat, a trickle of translucent crimson drooling from the corner of his mouth. “Ya know ya want to. End it.”

Doom hesitated, his arm dropping slightly as he considered his foe, sagging and weary in his outstretched grip. Had he won? Had Grimm actually given up? No. The fire and determination remained within. Doom could sense it, feel it. What then was his goal? What –

He felt it. There was something on the back of Grimm’s neck. Something small enough to avoid detection at a glance apparently, and only noticed at the intimacy of Doom’s embrace. Metallic and circular, studded at the center, it was a disk of some sort, and seemingly familiar.

“Sandhurst…” Doom whispered as all suddenly became clear. Grimm’s enhanced brutal attitude and loutishness in the recent battle against the Dark Rider and Cotton Mather in old Salem. The Avenger Moondragon’s efforts to clear Grimm’s mind of some outside influence. Obviously the Priestess from Titan had failed, or was there more?

Doom knew that this Grimm was some shadow from an alternate, future Earth that may or may never come into being. He had seen glimpses of the brute’s world when Moondragon had linked the minds of the ‘heroes’ for a final assault against the primordial Arch Magus; a dark and twisted reality full of hatred and unadulterated violence. Doom had thought the Thing just a byproduct of his alien environment, but now it seemed there was more.

He was being controlled by Basil Sandhurst, the Controller, though obviously that link was severed within the Time Stream. It appeared however that Grimm had been twisted enough that his baser instincts were brought to fore. There was a savagery within the now frail frame that had risen and taken control. An almost sociopathic lack of concern beyond his own self and surroundings. Doom had seen it during the battle, but otherwise occupied, had not made the connection. All too apparent now, however.

Grimm’s fist bounced off of Doom’s faceplate with a resounding, hollow echo, bringing Doctor Doom back to the moment at hand. Still fighting, Grimm would never admit defeat though the purpose was not even his own. Doom’s victory could be swift and sure, but unfulfilling in the end. It would be like snipping the strings of a marionette, defeating Sandhurst rather than Grimm. And in truth, there would be no joy in gloating before a shadow Reed Richards, presenting the head of a Thing that would never be. Still…

“Cretinous clod!” Doom snarled as he gripped the mind control disk imbedded in the thin flesh at the nape of Grimm’s neck. His armor’s sensors flared as he employed the slightest force, warnings flashing on internal displays as his armor shifted to compensate against a potential backlash of energy. Too he saw Grimm’s biological statistics shift into a dangerous area, mostly in the cerebral range, his mental faculties. Removing the disk thus might kill the man, or simply leave him a blithering idiot. A mindless vegetable to be ignored and cast away beneath the notice of Doom. A step up in certain aspects, to be certain.

Doctor Doom laughed as he ripped the disk from the back of Ben Grimm’s throat. Blood spewed forth in a wide stream as the man screamed, finally sagging in Doom’s grip. Von Doom held fast, watching as the pale imitation of his foe kicked and spasmed, his eyes rolling back as his tongue lolled awash with viscous saliva. He whined and whimpered like a mad dog, his whole body shaking as his mind slowly began the tedious process of shutting down. Doom sealed his armor against the stench of excretion, then calmly began to unfurl his cloak from Grimm’s twisted grasp.

The body trembled, occasionally jerking in reflex. Putrid air escaped the chaffed lips in a long hiss. Doom considered, then quietly opened his hand, watching only a moment as Benjamin J. Grimm was scooped up like a brittle, dead leaf in an autumn wind and tossed into the tempest to disappear…

With time…

NOT QUITE THE… END GAME!

By Curtis Fernlund

Paris, France
Spring, 1942

There was something wrong.

Ben Grimm moaned as his eyelids fluttered, his sight blurry and dim. His entire body ached as he struggled simply to move, and still he felt the scratch and burn of grit against his skin, rock digging into his nearly naked flesh. His head was swimming as he tried to raise it, craning his neck in hopes of getting his bearings. The air smelled strangely fresh and sweet with just a hint of smoke lingering in traces in the background. There was an odd cracking sound, shouts and curses to focus on however.

He rose to hands and knees, shaking as his stomach rebelled, heaving dryly of spittle onto the grayish cobblestones beneath him. The retching spasm lasted eternity before he sagged again at last, reveling in the cool breeze that swept past, touching his forehead to the chill ground again. He took deep breaths, trying to regain composure, counting silently the throbbing in his brain that echoed the beat of his heart. It would have been so easy to simply lie down and embrace slumber at least, if not the big sleep itself. But death was never an option for Aunt Petunia’s favorite nephew, Benjamin J. Grimm.

He tried again, opening his eyes slowly this time, focusing on the swath of red that had smeared where he fell. It was blood, but his own? He eased back, crawling almost to squat on his folded knees, still taking long, and cleansing breaths. And again he realized that something was wrong.

He raised his arms, staring at his hands; battered and scarred, his knuckles bruised and ripped but of pink flesh and not orange rock. He blinked, trying to remember what had happened, turning his hands as he gazed in wonder at the blood staining his fingers and palms. He had scars all along his arms, and too his legs as he glanced down, wincing. His hand flew to the back of his neck, his head swirling again as he touched the damp wound that burned at the edge of his hairline.

“What the…”

Florida…

He had been in Florida, visiting Alicia in some little wide spot in the road called…

Her stepfather had been there. Masters, the Puppet Master and that had explained a lot. The town folk had been strangely friendly, even for the South. And Alicia…

She had hit him. Alicia had knocked him out with a frying pan like Fred Flintstone in some Boomerang rerun. It must have been Masters, controlling her with his radioactive puppets. Controlling him too, if half the flickering, fleeting images dancing through his head were real. It would not have been the first time that Phillip Masters had taken over a whole community simply with the warped dream of making life perfect for his stepdaughter. But…

He remembered anger and rage, an unbridled hatred of Reed that he had not felt since…

Since Geiger had twisted his mind and made him a member of the original Frightful Four. Images of the Wingless Wizard and the Trapster came to fore, and the Hydro-Man and Madame Medusa too. And the Controller; that explained the gaping hole in the nape of his neck, though from all he had heard he should have been drooling for his next bowl of rice pudding by now. And there was more, but vague snippets, visions of sugarplums dancing in his aching, spinning head.

Grimm moaned again as he finally struggled to rise. Thinking hurt his head all the more, and wherever he was, he needed to get home, back to Manhattan to find out just what in the name of Irving Forbush was going on. He reached out as he moved, bracing against the rough brick of the nearest wall as he slowly eased his legs beneath him. Finally he fell back against the wall, trying not to heave again, forcing his head to clear enough so that he could at least get moving.

He was in an alley it appeared, so he knew that he was not in Manhattan. The only real alleys in the city were down Chinatown way, and he did not smell the perpetual odors of exhaust off of Canal Street, nor the stale scents of sour herbs and sauces that lingered in the air. It did not smell like New York City at all. The air was way too sweet and clean.

Finally Grimm staggered towards the light at the far end of the alleyway. It was near noon he could tell by the angle of sun and shadow, but despite the time of day there was a slight chill in the air. Glancing about the alley as he walked he noted the general cleanliness too. There were metal trashcans lining the walls, but there seemed to be little by way of garbage on the ground and the walls were free of graffiti. No, definitely NOT Manhattan.

He winced as the light grew, edging towards the mouth of the alley, savoring the slight warmth of sun on his bare skin. He was glad that the alley was relatively clean as he looked down his frame, staring at his bare feet and wiggling his toes. There was always broken glass underfoot in Manhattan, along with wads of gum, dog droppings, scraps of paper and newsprint, plastic bottles and aluminum cans and God knows what else. It was a far cry from the old days, growing up on Yancy Street in rags and shoeless, running the blocks without a clue or care.

Grimm concentrated. He had been hesitant in trying to change back into the ever lovin’ blue-eyed Thing the way his head had been spinning, but he figured that he had to try. Wherever he was, odds are the population would recognize the world-renowned member of the Fantastic Four before the dashing good looks of bashful Benjamin Grimm. Heck, he wasn’t Cap, but he was almost a household legend. Besides, it would be easier on the dogs.

Ben grimaced as he concentrated. Sweat beaded on his brow and under his arms despite the chill in the air. His body started to quiver, slightly at first, but then racked with full-fledged shakes as he staggered and stumbled backwards. His arms flailed, wind-milling as he groped for the wall again, finally slamming back against it and heaving in agony. His stomach was churning wildly and he felt a warmth oozing down his legs as he gasped for breath and willed away the swirl of gray snowflakes blotting his vision.

“Jesus…” he sighed, digging his nails into the crumbling mortar between the old bricks behind him for support. He felt sick and weak, and worse. He felt human.

“Wie ist…”

“Halt!”

Ben heard the distinctive clack of two gun bolts snapping into place. He looked up, moving his head slowly and focusing on the three men standing just a few yards from the mouth of the alley figuring that they looked as bewildered as he probably did, staring at him in his over-sized FF boxers.

They were Germans. He had recognized the language even before he had glanced up to the gruff voices. What he had not expected however was to find the three men dressed in World War Two regalia; the semi-dress uniform of the German Infantry complete with gray field jacket and jodhpurs, jack boots and squared helmet. They looked as though they had stepped out of The Longest Day at the very least, the typical rank and fodder of the Third Reich and the pride of the Aryan nation. Worse, the two flanking soldiers of lesser rank had their rifles trained on Grimm, the man in the middle stepping forward and easing a Luger from its jet leather holster at his hip.

“Euer heines… oben!” the leader of the trio commanded, leveling his handgun at Ben’s chest as the three approached. Not being an idiot, Grimm quickly ducked back into the alley.

He heard the stomp of boot heels as the three Nazis ran after him but gave it no thought as instinct swiftly took over. All the aches and pains forgotten, Grimm dashed for the shadows at the rear of the alley, his hand straying along the trash cans in passing, tipping them over behind him. He flinched to hear the rapport of the Luger, felt the spray of brick dust as a bullet chipped into the brick right beside him. He ducked, running serpentine and crisscrossing the alley towards the dead end at the rear.

He could hear the soldiers kicking through the debris that he had left in his wake. He heard their shouts and curses between gunshots; the automatic firing quickly between the louder roar of the rifles. It was only a matter of time before they got lucky, less time that he would be cornered. He needed a weapon.

In a fit of inspiration Grimm grabbed the circular lid of a trash can and spun, hurling the thing wildly. He didn’t expect to hit anything but the wall, but to his wide-eyed surprise he saw the dented metal disk bounce off of the brick and careen right into one of the riflemen, smashing into his hand and knocking away the gun. The soldier cursed, shaking his hand apparently numb from the impact much to the amusement of his fellows.

“Hans, dich idiot!”

“Ich nicht mein fehler! Das Jude – ”

Ben Grimm was flying through the air, his arms outstretched and body pumping, ready for impact. In his day he had been one of the best linemen at State University, his number of tackles a record that no one had ever come close to breaking. He slammed hard into the trio of Nazis, taking them unawares and confused that anyone would dare attack a soldier of the Master Race, let alone a man naked but for a pair of raggedy underwear. He dragged them down, bowling them over with the force and mass of his impact without the slightest bit of regret at hearing the sound of snapping bone. These were Nazis, lower than Skrulls in the cosmic pecking order.

A quick glance showed that it was the second rifleman whose neck had broke; his head twisted at an odd angle where he had come to rest against the wall. Oddly an image of Blackbolt’s brother Maximus popped into his head, though he quickly dismissed it as he heard a gasping sound beneath him. He had landed on the leader – a sergeant he thought – and had knocked the wind from the man. That left Hans.

Grimm scrambled forward even as the lesser ranking soldier fumbled at his holster. Too slow though, as Ben dropped onto the man and slammed his fist across the Nazi’s face. Blood spurted from the soldier’s nose, and he was stunned as Grimm ripped the man’s helmet free, then smashed the back of his head against the cobbled stones of the alley. He turned then, even as fire lanced through his shoulder.

The sergeant had regained his breath enough to level his handgun, catching Grimm with a bullet. Ben winced, seeing red and spots of gray as a new pain crowded his head. By rote however, he struggled on, still moving forward. He heard the hollow click of the empty gun, thanking his lucky stars as he twisted and slammed his good shoulder into the sergeant. He felt a gush of foul breath as the two tumbled to the ground, Ben’s fist hammering over and over until the third German soldier finally stopped thrashing and kicking beneath him.

Then finally, he collapsed…

The uniform was tight and confining around the midsection and shoulders. He had put on some weight apparently, but it would have to do. The stale smell of sweat was worse, but as long as he kept moving he figured that he could ignore it.

His shoulder throbbed, but luckily the bullet had passed cleanly through his body leaving a bloody mess that he half-packed before dressing in the sergeant’s uniform. His neck still burned, and the wool collar scraped and itched at the open sore, but again he would simply have to ignore the pain and keep moving. As best he could; God how he ached.

He was following other soldiers, running through the streets of occupied Paris in March of 1942 if his little bit of German was accurate. He could not begin to read anything beyond the date of the newspaper; a German propaganda rag that one of the Hitler Youth had been handing out with a horrible glee. His history was choppy at best as well, especially after whatever Masters had done to him, but for some reason the date and place seemed to nag at the back of his mind. Not that it mattered he supposed. He was here and now and there was little that he could do about it but try to blend in and follow along.

He had no idea what was happening or where everyone was heading but there were dozens of soldiers of every rank and file running towards the Eiffel Tower just a few blocks distant. It seemed like a human stampede, and Grimm simply let himself be swept up in the pandemonium. He knew well enough that time had a way of righting itself, and whatever was happening at the final destination would probably concern him in the end.

A flare of light overhead and away caught his eye and he looked up even as a series of shots rang out.

“Johnny?” he whispered, seeing the blazing form of the Human Torch arch up above the buildings, only to dive down out of sight again.

“Gott in Himmel!” the closest Nazi swore, and that was enough to set Ben thinking right again. He was in The Big One, so no way that was Johnny Storm, but Jim Hammond instead; the original, android Human Torch. Ben started moving again, a spark of hope kindling in his head.

He racked his brain trying to recall when exactly that the FF had traveled back in time and met the Invaders. It was all a blur thanks to Masters though, and he knew that even if this time period was after that, that this was probably a divergent timeline from the second he popped into it. Lord his head was starting to spin again.

But if Hammond was in Paris, odds were that Cap and the rest were as well, and that alone gave Ben hope. If anyone would believe that he was a hero from the 21st Century it would be Captain America. Ben just had to hope that he could get close enough to the star-spangled Avenger to tell him before he threw his mighty shield.

It was as he was nearing the final corner before the plaza that he felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise up. He paused, focusing on the low, droning buzz and turned finally, his eyes growing wide. Bees by the hundreds if not thousands were swarming, coming closer and following the surge of soldiers towards the tower. He could hear the screams of the men as they were stung in passing, the swarm sweeping down the street like a dark cloud of fog. Grimm dropped to his knees as gunshots echoed, ripping open his thick jacket and pulling it over his head as he huddled against the closest wall.

His skin crawled as the swarm passed. He could feel the insects hitting his body, thankful now for the thick wool uniform that offered him protection from the countless stings that he would have otherwise received. The drone swiftly grew to a roar of static as the swarm engulfed him, broken only by perpetual screams and staccato bursts of gunfire.

And as quickly as they attacked, the bees moved on. The din diminished with distance, and when he finally dared uncover his head and face, Ben saw dozens of soldiers lying about him, most writhing in agony as their exposed skin blotched red and swelled. Ben rose to his feet, watching the tail end of the swarm as it rolled about the far corner, heading towards the Tower, and he suddenly had a nasty suspicion of just where, or rather when he was.

Sure enough, at the corner Ben saw just what he expected to see. Mentally he thanked Clint Barton for being such a stickler and forcing Grimm to read through the years of Avengers’ logged files back when the Thing had briefly been on the roster of the West Coast Avengers. It had not been an easy read, especially sitting on the already boring monitor duty, and add to that that most of the entries had been written by Captain America and later, the Vision. Neither the star-spangled Avenger or the synthezoid could turn a phrase to save their lives, and all too often Ben had been awakened the next morning for his shift replacement. Still, he had waded through the logs and thankfully now had a clue as to the scene that was playing out before him on the plaza before the Eiffel Tower – namely, the Avengers battling the Invaders!

Closest to the corner and most apparent was the Sub-Mariner. He looked younger of course, and was sporting a pair of black swim trunks trimmed in gold, but it was definitely Namor. He was preoccupied however, as what was left of the swarm of bees had engulfed him, making him stagger and curse as though speaking to some invisible foe. Or shrunken, Ben mentally corrected himself, remembering that in this particular battle, the participants had squared off and Namor had drawn Hank Pym, then in his guise as Yellowjacket.

“But, when they’re finished, Nazi… so are you!”

Ben Grimm almost laughed at the Sub-Mariner’s words, and more. The attitude and arrogance was still there, but he sounded young, maybe just out of his teens –

“I’ll echo those tender sentiments, Fish-man!”

Ben looked up, gazing at the flaming trail of the original Human Torch again as the android arched up and then started a swooping dive right towards his chosen foe – the Vision! This battle was not all that long after the other android had actually joined the Avengers, and was actually the first of many times that the pair would meet. It was odd to say the least; ironic, coincidental maybe? It turned out years later – as best as Ben could follow anyway – that the Vision had been created from one of the Human Torch’s android bodies by Jim Hammond’s creator, Phineus Horton and some early version of Ultron. Ultron had used the psychic foundation of Simon Williams, Wonder Man to complete the set and sent the Vision to slay the Avengers. Things had worked out in the end, but Ben could never get past the thought that the whole story reeked of a Soap Opera.

“And by the way, my red faced friend, don’t bother trying to fight fire with fire!”

Grimm followed the Human Torch’s line of attack and saw that the Vision was standing his ground and blasting away with those nutty heated eye beams of his. It did seem pretty stupid to Ben, but then the Vision was one of the smartest men on the planet and as the Torch soared closer it became obvious that the Avenger had a plan.

“Those heat blasts of yours don’t bother the Human Torch!” Hammond gloated as he sailed into, and through the Vision’s suddenly wispy body.

“And I have an equal amount of advice for you, Torch!” the Vision replied in his old, cold monotone. “I am as much an android as you… But I am one you cannot touch!”

“Flaming fireballs!” the Torch squawked as he altered his flight to compensate passing right through the Vision’s desolid form. “I streaked right through him… Felt so strange! But, what’s the strangest is that I still don’t know how we got here… or why!”

But Ben Grimm knew. It had all been a game, at least at the start. One of the Elders of the Universe, the Grandmaster had approached that Machiavellian dictator from the far-flung future, Kang the Conqueror for a game of chess played on a cosmic scale. It was the Grandmaster’s first noted appearance, though the Avengers had dealt with his ‘brother’ the Collector a time or two already. He proposed the game to Kang – that was his schtick – and offered the conqueror the power of Life and Death, if he won of course. And Kang, being the humble monarch that he was, readily accepted and of course he chose the Avengers as his champions.

There was to be four battles; Four Avengers versus the Grandmaster’s flunkies, the Squadron Sinister. As expected, Cap, Thor, Iron Man and Goliath made swift work of Nighthawk, Hyperion, Dr. Spectrum and the Whizzer respectively. Unfortunately the then non-Avenging Black Knight interfered in Goliath’s battle forcing a second round starring the Invaders against Yellowjacket, Vision and the Black Panther –

As if on cue, Grimm’s reveries were cut short as he heard the slam of metal on flesh echoing across the plaza. His gaze followed the sound and saw the Black Panther sprawling backwards after having just been shield-slammed by Captain America himself. Grimm was too far away to hear what Cap was saying, but he could imagine. The red, white and blue clad hero was sporting his original triangular shied; red and white striped beneath a tri-pointed star-spangled blue field. Seeing that, Ben knew that this was a less experienced Cap, true, and that gave the Panther an edge. But this was also a Captain America caught in the fervor of war, and unlike his future counterpart, this Cap did not always fight nice. He had Nazis to bash and a war to win after all.

Grimm started forward as he saw Yellowjacket appear beside the stunned Black Panther. He had to help the Avengers somehow, though exactly how he had no idea. Stuck as he was as flesh and blood Ben Grimm, he was way out of his depth to go against a group of savage Invaders in their prime and smelling nazi blood. He drew the Luger from the holster at his side, not even certain that it still had bullets, or even if he could still shoot worth a damn. It had been years since he had fired a gun, during his own stint in the Air Force.

He saw Cap charging forward as well, and raised the handgun to something close to level. It was going to be hard to shoot even at this version of Cap, but he had to remember that his presence here, and hell, even the presence of the Avengers had diverted the original Timeline from its course. These were all shadows of some divergent timeline now, and…

Grimm stopped short, shame washing over him in a sudden wave. Shame and guilt. Images flickered through his mind as bits and pieces of his memory started to fall into place little by little.

He had killed Moon Knight. In the land and time of Rama Tut he had killed Moon Knight and stranded Hawkeye, probably dooming Mockingbird for good measure as she was trapped hundreds of years in the future of the old American West. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have forgotten…

“Maximus…”

An explosion rocked his senses back to the present as he saw the Sub-Mariner plow headlong into a wall, the Black Panther and Yellowjacket narrowly dodging to either side of the Atlantean Prince. And no sooner did Namor crash than Captain America leapt at the Panther, using the sudden attack as cover for his own assault. The Panther leapt up and over Cap, much to the latter’s surprise, but Ben could see that the fight was telling on the older Avenger. Both men landed nimbly, and Cap quickly turned to press the attack –

“Namor! To my side, and we’ll finish off this pair!”

“It looks as if they’re already finished, masked man!” Namor answered as he moved to Cap’s side. “Look at them run… like two petrified puffer fish!”

And sure enough, Ben saw Yellowjacket and the Black Panther running away. Grimm knew that the pair was just biding for time and breathing room. They were worried – as the Vision’s log stated several times – that they had been fearful of harming the Invaders, perhaps even killing them. This fight was years before Reed Richards had developed and proved his theories on Divergent Timelines. And it looked as though Cap was thinking the same thing –

“Are they, Sub-Mariner? I’m not so sure! I’d stake my spanking new career that they’re not yellow!”

Grimm knew what was coming, and was glad. It was the Panther’s plan; lead the Invaders to a side street and line them up proper so that the Vision could do his thing, namely passing through the WW2 trio of heroes and solidify just enough to take them out so that victory could be declared and the Earth would be saved from the Grandmaster’s schemes. And it worked, or would work, and that would be Ben’s out. All’s he had to do was join the victorious Avengers before they were yanked back to Kang time and get home after they then kicked the conqueror’s butt… again. Simple enough –

“Ratzi scum!”

Ben saw stars as a hardened fist connected upside his temple. He spun fully with the impact before staggering a few steps and finally sprawling on the cobblestones. He shook his head, trying to clear it and trying equally to figure out what had just happened when he felt himself jerked to his feet and off the ground.

“Figured you could shoot us in the back, Nazi? Well I’ll teach you what we do to back-shooting crumbs like you!”

Ben Grimm stared at the angry face of the Sub-Mariner as he reared back to deliver what would probably be a fatal blow. He knew enough that the Namor of this era did not care squat about human life, with just a few exceptions. Especially not a Nazi’s life, and unfortunately, that was just what Ben Grimm looked like right then.

“Namor!” Cap shouted, pausing from his charge after the Avengers to see what had diverted the Atlantean. “C’mon! We have bigger fish to fry than a Nazi foot soldier. Those other Ratzis are up to something.”

Diverted. This had not happened before. Ben Grimm’s presence had changed things… again. Just what the hell was going on?

“One second, Captain!” Namor replied with a wicked grin. This won’t take long – ”

Ben raised his gun and fired.

He knew that the Sub-Mariner had just taken a dip in the Seine to get away from Yellowjacket’s swarm of bees, so he was at his peak and no bullet was going to pierce that thick, Atlantean hide. But that was not what he was counting on. At point blank range, the muzzle flash and powder would blind Namor same as anyone, and it did. Namor screamed in shock and searing pain, stumbling backwards and – thankfully – releasing his grip on plain old Ben.

Grimm landed on his feet and started to back away even as he heard Captain America’s exclamation, and saw the Living Legend of World War Two do an about face and come charging to his ally’s aid. But he was Cap, and even barely in his twenties he was already a master fighter and strategist; always thinking five steps ahead of his opponent. Ben watched as if trapped in slow motion as Cap reared back and suddenly flung his triangular shield, straight at him!

“This is the second time today I wished I had my disc-shaped shield,” Cap said as he threw his weapon. “But you’re an easier target than your black-clad boss, Nazi, so I’ll take the chance!”

Ben Grimm saw death spinning his way. The triangular shield was not balanced and wobbled in flight even with the force of Captain America’s strength behind it. Still, Ben saw the sharp edges flashing in the sunlight as it unerringly teetered in his direction. He felt an odd sensation, and realized that it was panic as he ducked, then dove to one side. He hit the stones hard, unaccustomed to fighting so in his human form. He felt his stolen uniform rip in the knees and elbows as his tender skin scraped. He tumbled then, rolling and heard an explosion as he finally stopped –

The gun in his hand was hot and smoking. It had fired when his hand had hit the ground. Ben looked up, expecting the two Invaders to be bearing down on him and saw instead a black-faced Sub-Mariner cradling the limp form of Captain America in his arms. Blood was pouring from Cap’s left eye socket, and Ben knew immediately that the super soldier was dead.

He had killed Captain America!

“Bastard!” Namor shouted, his head snapping to the side to glare at Ben. His face was twisted in rage and blushing a fiery red to match the Vision. “Nazi scum! You’ve just killed one of the few humans that I respected enough to call friend. Now you die in turn!”

Grimm fired again, knowing it was pointless, and even more as the Luger ‘clicked’ on empty. The Sub-Mariner paid no heed as he stalked forward, uncaring and snarling his rage. Ben knew he was going to die, and for killing Cap – even accidentally – he probably deserved it. But damned if he would die on his ass without a fight.

But even as Grimm struggled to rise, aching as his joints popped and muscles screamed he caught the slightest hint of a pale green breeze swirling behind the Atlantean Prince. He saw a golden gloved hand poke through the Sub-Mariner’s chest, and a few moments later the future monarch screamed and collapsed to the ground in a heap. Ben almost joined him…

“Who are you?” the Vision asked, striding purposefully forward, actually stepping over the still form of the Sub-Mariner. “Your visage seems remotely familiar, as though I have seen it but in some other situation far removed. Improbable of course, as I have never had the opportunity to visit this past era before, and yet…”

“Vish!”

Both Grimm and the android turned at the harried shout of Yellowjacket. They saw the Avenger along with the Black Panther carrying the inert form of the Human Torch between them. They all noted then a sparkling blot of energy that seemed to be growing out of thin air between them all.

“Foul!”

There was a flicker in the energy field, and suddenly two forms stepped from the ether. The first was tall, balding and blue-skinned, dressed in a long shimmering gown of gold. The other was dressed in armor obviously hobbled together by a colorblind blacksmith in greens and purple and sporting a bright blue facemask. The Grandmaster and Kang the Conqueror come to tally the final score.

“I cry foul!” the Grandmaster repeated, striding forward as though he owned the world, and just possibly did after Ben’s interference. Grimm knew that he had done just what the Black Knight had done in the first round. Could be that the Elder was about to pull rules out of his ass, or maybe declare a third and deciding round, except that by Ben’s count, the only Avenger left was the Wasp. The Grandmaster stopped not so far away, glancing at his three downed champions and finally pointing a long and bony finger at Ben Grimm.

“You have interfered in the Game, human! You who are not an Avenger! Even as did the Black Knight in the first encounter, so too have you robbed Kang’s champions of a clear-cut victory. I declare this round a draw, and shall now send the combatants back – ”

“Hold, Elder!” Kang said, his voice clear and sure as he stepped forward with an upraised hand. “You presume interference wrongly. There has been no foul, as this man before you is indeed an Avenger!”

“What?”

Kang smiled at the grandmaster’s confusion, nodding smugly even as he drew a small, fist-sized and futuristic looking gun from the folds of his tunic. “Not an Avenger in the time of these others to be certain, but you forget that Kang is a master of time itself, and the Avengers have ever been a… passion of mine. I know this man for who he truly is. Benjamin J. Grimm…”

Kang raised his weapon and fired. Ben screamed as he was bathed in a burning, golden light. It was like fire and ice all at once, and seemed to permeate his every cell, every fiber of his being. He staggered in that unholy glare, his body seeming a burden, weighing him suddenly down. And even as he collapsed under his own mass, he knew what was happening…

“… the Thing!”

Kang laughed as the Grandmaster stood solemnly staring at the strange rock-skinned man-monster struggling to rise before them. The thing was heaving against the sudden mass of his own body, his muscles rippling and contracting as his skin shifted through a series of mutations until it became hard and chiseled. Finally it grunted, almost a scream as it convulsed a final time and shuddered. Grimm was struggling to rise as the Grandmaster turned away.

“Explain yourself, conqueror. I recognize the Thing of the Fantastic Four, not the Avengers.”

“Not yet, Elder.” Kang chuckled, glancing at the three Avengers as though considering. Finally he shrugged. “The Thing will join a branch of the Avengers established on the West Coast of North America some years in their future. It is knowledge to me. And as we did not specify a specific time frame as to whence I plucked my champions, unlike the intervention of the Black Knight who was not an Avenger when he interfered, the Thing most definitely is. I declare victory, Grandmaster. I win!”

The Thing saw that it was the Elder’s turn to consider. The blue-skinned alien was a survivor, the last of his race so the story went and, bored, sought to while away the eons by chasing sport across the universe. It was supposedly the first time that the Grandmaster had lost. Grimm knew it would not be the last.

“Of course,” the Vision said, stepping forward. “I recognized your image from the Avenger’s files. The image of Ben Grimm of course. That is why you seemed so out of place.” The android looked the Thing up and down and Grimm glanced down at his rocky form as well. He was draped in the tatters of the German uniform, but that was not what caught his attention. He could feel the change, oh so subtle, but one he was well acquainted with. He was trapped again.

Trapped in the body of the Thing…

“Very well,” the Grandmaster conceded. He waved his hand and Ben saw the still Invaders as well as the three Avengers vanish in a flare of crackling energy. He turned back to Kang. “We shall discuss your prize back in the future. A future where this one does not belong.”

Again the grandmaster pointed at the Thing, but Ben was recovered enough to stand his ground this time. “Bring yer best, Little Boy Blue. I beat yer brother, an’ I figure I can take you too.”

The Grandmaster raised an eyebrow at that, but before he might respond, Kang stepped between them. “Hold, Grimm. You have done me a great service and laid victory in my lap, and a power beyond your comprehension. Never let it be said that Kang does not show his gratitude. What boon might you ask of me?”

Ben tried to ignore the conceited smirk that crossed the Grandmaster’s lips as he thought. Kang was the alleged ‘Master of Time’, at least to hear him tell it, so his first thought was to save Captain America. But why stop there? If Kang was all that, why not have him fix all the things that Ben had messed up in his trip through time; save Hawkeye and Mockingbird, revive Moonknight. Hell, Kang could reset time and save Maximus…

No.

Ben knew that he had fucked up. No matter the reason, whatever he had done, and he was sure that there was probably more, he would have to face up to it in the end. Having Kang wipe the slate clean was not an option, no matter how appealing. Too, he knew Kang for what and who he really was and knew that whatever he might ask would somehow come back to haunt him.

“Just send me back where I belong,” Grimm finally answered with a sigh. Kang smirked –

“Done, monster,” Kang said as he replaced his weapon back within the folds of his tunic. He then placed one hand upon his belt and held the other out towards the Thing. “I send you back…

“Where you belong!”

And as Paris of 1942 slowly faded away, Benjamin J. Grimm realized his mistake. Kang was a villain after all, and just like asking wishes of a Genie…

It was all in the words.

NEXT: The final chapter of the mini as Ben makes one last unscheduled stop on his sojourn through the Time Stream. If you haven’t figured out what’s going on yet, you will next time as the Ever Lovin’ Blue-Eyed Thing finds himself meeting for the first time? You guessed it…

Captain America and Bucky!

Be here! Buy Bonds!