Here is part two for you true believers, and since I recieved no negat-
tive responses (well, no responses at all, actually), I'll take it
that you all love it unconditionally, despite the fact that few, if any,
actual X-Men appear in it. This installment features a surprise guest
star, whose inclusion may puzzle a few of you. But anyone who can recall
the great DC/Marvel crossovers of years ago will understand...

THE HAMMER AND THE CROSS
Chapter Two: "Cry Havoc"
by Jim Cannon

      As soon as Teresa ended the conversation, I was moving, describing
the situation to Tasha as I prepared to go. Teresa Ilyich, Morning Star,
was a former teammate of mine, and a mutant. Her family line included
several such genetic aberrations, and her sister had showed potential
for mutant abilities as well. A few days ago, Stephanie was kidnapped,
and Teresa managed to trail the captors to Rio de Janeiro. But here she
hit a snag, and, with no one else to turn to, she tried to contact
Tasha, unaware that I recently returned to Earth.
      She asked for my -- our -- help. And despite my vow to give up
my spandex and my powers, I acquiesced. Teresa needed me, and I had
failed too many of my friends of late. I would not fail any more.
      Tasha understood, and, in moments, was packed to go. A heavy
suitcase concealed her suit of power armor. I shrugged into my leather
jacket, grabbed Frostfang, my enchanted warhammer, and placed a few
calls. A half hour later, a Tolken, Inc. mini-jet hurtled through the
stratosphere, heading for Rio and Teresa.

      Customs tried to give Tasha and I a hard time, but I waved my
Avengers membership card in their face, and they let us through without
checking our bags. A good thing that they didn't, since Tasha was carry-
ing enough firepower to level most of the city. It's my guess that the
authorities would not have been pleased to learn that.
      As we left the terminal it occurred to me for the first time that
I had no idea how to reach Teresa. You would think that I would have
gotten such a vital piece of information before rushing off to a foreign
land, but five subjective years lost in the dimensions ruined my common
sense. At least, thats my story. Luckily, Teresa is much sharper than I
am, and she was waiting for us in the terminal. Packed as the Rio
International Airport is, it was not difficult for her to find a blond
giant and a redheaded supermodel.
       Teresa, a blond haired blue eyed woman with a severe case of
myopia and the fashion sense of a Deadhead, shoved through the crowd
when she spotted us and pulled Tasha into a tight embrace. "God, I'm so
glad the two of you are here," she said, hugging me. Her azure eyes met
mine. "Did you --?" she said, unable to finish what she wanted to say.
She didn't have to; I nodded once. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there,
Teresa."
        She shook her head and swiped a tear out of her eye. "Well, we
can talk about that later. Right now, we have more pressing concerns."
       "Aye."
       "Lets go," Natasha said, shouldering her heavy bag.
      "Follow me, dears," Teresa said, leading the way out of the
terminal.

      I ceded the front seat of Teresa's tiny rent-a-car to Tasha and
attempted to stretch out in the back; I gave up after a few moments,
convinced that even Reed Richards couldn't do it.
      "Tell us what happened," Tasha said.
      Teresa took a deep breath. "A week ago I went to New Orleans to
work some things through in my head. Spend some time with myself in my
favorite city. But two days into my 'vacation' my mother called me,
screaming that Stephanie had been kidnapped by strange men in armor. I
rushed home right away, but my parents' and neighbors' descriptions of
the attackers didn't jive with any super-types I've heard of before.
The police chief -- he's a family friend -- insisted it wasn't the
government. I wasn't sure what to do. Here I am with all this power and
I can't even protect my own little sister." Boy, did I know this tune.
       "But I know Atlanta," Teresa continued. "I know who to talk to,
whose palms need to be greased and who hears about those kinds of
operations. And, after a polite inquiry, the individuals in question
yeilded up the information I needed. The guys in armor did some
freelance work for a crime-boss in Miami. I tracked him down and cut
into him; the armor-guys had been there and took a liner to Brazil. So
here I am, and now I'm lost. I checked the waterfront, but I couldn't
find the ship they took.
      "They *have* to be somewhere in or near the city though. If
they're not...I don't know what I'll do. I'm about ready to take the
place apart building by building."
      "Don't worry, Teresa," Tasha said, a reassuring hand on Teresa's
shoulder. "We'll find her." I know I should have added my own
assurances, but my confidence in my own abilities was at an all time
low at that point. I could not lie to Teresa; I didn't know if we would
find Steph or not. But I knew where to start.
      "Head for the waterfront, Teres," I said with my knees drawn up to
my chest.
      "But I just told you, I couldn't find anything."
      "That doesn't mean it isn't there. I want to take a look around."
Teresa looked back at me, then guided the car through the crowded
streets of Rio, heading for the docks.

     Energy: thats the best way to describe the docks of Rio.
Everything is moving, hustling, spinning, running, jumping, lifting,
dropping, sailing, and sinking. Everywhere one looks, one sees activity
of one kind or another. Ships being unloaded, warehouses being loaded,
trucks carrying crates, men cursing, sailors drinking, and all around,
the whine and thunder of heavy machinery. A man could get lost here
very easily.
     "Where should we start?" Teresa said over the din.
     "Well, what kind of ship did they take? A cargo ship, a cruise
ship, what?" Tasha asked.
     "Cargo. The name was Thor's Hammer," came the reply.
     I arched an eyebrow. "Its a Norwegian ship," Teresa said. "Hauling
scrap metal and fertilizers."
     Tasha grinned. "An interesting combination."
     Meanwhile, I was thinking. I don't normally believe in fate, but I
have met coincidence too many times to discount it. Was there any
signifigance in the ship's name? I thought back to my recent trip to
Asgard. Men in armor...a kidnapped mutant...a ship named Thor. But does
it mean anything, or is it just a red herring? I asked myself. I
decided that if I thought about it too much, I would go mad. I needed
to act. With that in mind, I began to raise myself off the ground.
     Teresa noticed out of the corner of her eye, and quickly pulled me
down. "Don't!" she growled. "I don't want to scare them off, or let
them know we're here."
     I looked at her a moment, then met her eyes and said, "Teresa,
that won't help matters at all. When the trail dries up, the only thing
you can do is tip your hand, make the bad guys nervous. Chances are,
they'll do something stupid, and then you have them. If they see me
flying around, they could move or attack, and that could lead us to
Steph."
     "And what if they see you, do nothing, and fade away?"
     "Thats a possibility," I said, "but not likely. Most bad guys
aren't as bright as you might think. The Hobgoblins far outnumber the
Doctor Doom's, for example. Trust me, Teresa." She looked like she
didn't want to, and I couldn't blame her, really, after the bangup job
I did leading the Warders. But she nodded, and I lifted off.
      I wasn't exactly sure of what I was doing, or what I expected to
find. I kept my Immortal-enhanced senses pealed for any sign of of
Thor's Hammer, never actually expecting to find it. What I didn't tell
Teresa before was that men in armor who kidnap young mutants and then
cause cargo ships to disappear are, generally speaking, the Doctor Doom
type of villian. Someone out there had a master plan, and for some
reason it included Teresa's little sister, a girl with potential to be
a mutant, but who had not demonstrated any mutant abilities at all. It
was the kind of caper that showed extensive planning, and no doubt
allowed for the presence of a hero or two.
        Who had those kinds of resources? Doom, of course, but he's too
proud and arrogant. The trail would have led to Latveria, not South
America. The Red Skull? Possibly. But I think a Nazi would just
exterminate a mutant, not kidnap her. Baron Zemo and the Masters of
Evil? I snickered. *Now you're tugging on straws* I told myself.
       But...there's always Loki. He's shown interest in mutants in the
past. And he wasn't too happy with me when I left Asgard...could the
attack on Steph been a way to draw me out? Do something stupid like fly
around the harbor in broad daylight? Suddenly I wished I was as smart
as Captain America or Batman; someone with real tactical skill. My
penchant for blundering through a case might end with Steph -- or me --
dead.
      Then it hit me.
      The missile, that is. My mind, distracted by thoughts of
villiany, had a moment to register the slim shaft of metal hurtling
towards me, and then I was engulfed in flames and a crushing blow
hammered into my chest. I spun out of control, my leather jacket
blazing, and plunged into the water below me. It was freezing, but it
doused my jacket. Nontheless, it was ruined, and I left it behind when
I exploded out of the water, looking for an enemy to pound.
      The bad guys, as usual, obliged me. They had stayed around for a
while to ensure I was finished. Dumb. Really dumb. I reminded myself I
wasn't aces in the gray matter department either, and launched at them,
an Asgardian battle cry on my lips.
      Looming on the rusted prow of a heavy cargo ship -- not Thor's
Hammer, by the way -- were two beings in garish purple armor. Fat
beehive heads sat atop massively built robot frames, bristling with
weaponry. Heavy guns were placed on each shoulder and wrist.
Mini-missile tubes projected from the back. The shoulder plates, knees,
and shins were adorned with thick, sharp looking spikes. And these were
the obvious armaments. I couldn't wait to find out what else they had.
      As I flew towards them, one opened up with his guns; the
shoulder weapons were gatling guns, emitting long bursts of armor
piercing bullets that bounced off my super dense skin, while the wrist
guns were high powered blasters that, while a bit hot, were nothing to
worry about. The second one, however, unleashed a volley of missiles.
That *was* something to worry about.
      The many years dodging dragon-fire and worse had honed my battle
skills to their peak. I dodged and weaved, hurtling out of the path of
the missiles as they spun past me. I didn't have time to worry about
what they would hit; I was too busy pile-driving into the second
walking tank. I knocked him down, but the armor held, and he struggled
to get up.
      Then the missiles slammed into me from behind, searing my flesh
and throwing me up and over the tanks to crash into the deck, several
yards away. My hair burned and and my costume peeled away, taking flesh
with it. My sunglasses, which survived the first explosion, shattered
and fell off my nose. I gritted my teeth, ignored the pain, and let the
tanks understand my anger. "Smart missiles are *not* fair," I growled,
heaving Frostfang on the gun-happy one. The hammer smashed his right
arm, destroying the blasters on his wrist and cracking the carapace. He
cried out in pain, while the other one got to his feet. He tried to
tackle me, no doubt assuming his superior weight would crush me.
       No doubt, he might have done some damage had I stood there like
an idiot and let him. I sidestepped out of his path and backhanded him
across his neck with my left hand, catching Frostfang on the return with
my right. As the armored thug crashed to the deck, I swung Frostfang in
a wide arc, bringing it down on his helmet. It split like a grape,
falling away to reveal a very frightened looking man of Northern
European stock.
         Meanwhile, his partner was carefully aiming his vulcan cannons
at both of us. Grinning, I took off towards him, my powerful legs
carrying me across the deck in a (ahem) single bound. I landed right
next to him, and, as he frantically attempted to recalibrate his weapon
systems, I let him have it. A flurry of punches to the head and
midsection shattered his armor and left him quite vulnerable to any
further attack.
          The fight pretty much went out of him after that. Natasha and
Teresa, garbed for battle, appeared, landing on the deck softly. "Nice
of you to join me," I said through gritted teeth as my body repaired
itself.
       "My fault," Tasha said, the barest note of apology in her voice.
"It took a while to get my armor out, and then I needed to strap it on,
and, well, by that time you were done."
        "Uh-huh." I grunted, appraising her armor. She had modified it
since last I saw her, giving it a more streamlined and more fluid look.
The helm was now more than just a mere mask, it was heavier and
protective, and her voice came through a speaker. The wrist blasters
were heavier and more obvious, as was the lightsaber that was
magnetically locked to her belt. Still, it had the familiar black and
silver coloring, and had the curious attribute of looking both
comfortable to wear, and dangerous to face.
      Tereas had changed into her usual skintight uniform of blue and
green with heavy wrist and shin plates. Thick goggles corrected her
vision and enabled her to participate in a fight without worry of going
blind.
         I turned to the man cowering on the ground, reached down and
picked him up. I pulled his face close to mine, making sure he could
see the burnt and blistered flesh on my face as it healed, and said,
"Now tell me where I can find the girl."

***********************************************************************

      In a dimly lit room decorated with computer screens and machines
of advanced technology, a man in a pale cloak sat, his face all but
hidden by the hood he wore. He sighed, and leaned forward, his face
suddenly illuminated by the screen below him; revealing a waxy skin
stretched tight over his skull, naked, lipless teeth, and eyes that
bulged deep in their cavernous sockets.
       The screen showed a blond giant, scarred by flame and flanked
by two females, interrogating his men. A white gloved hand snaked out
and punched a code into the keyboard at his elbow. Nothing happened.
The skull-faced man cursed. The self-destruct sequence was not working;
apparently the beating the blond man had given served to scramble the
armors' circuits.
         "Damn and double damn," the man said. Surprisingly, it was not
the defeat that vexed him, nor the malfunction, nor even the presence
of the hero. What gnawed at the man was the fact that he simply did not
know who the giant was. And the man made it his business to know who
his enemies and his potential enemies were. It was how he stayed alive
and free and employed in a business that aggressively sought to kill,
imprison, or impoverish him.
       He had fought Avengers before, always managing to escape, even
when his schemes were foiled. Several times he had been favorably
compared to Slade Wilson, the mercenary known as the Terminator. In his
heart, he knew he was better. Better than Hawkeye, the Black Knight,
Daredevil. Better even than Captain America. And why? Because he could
do everything *they* could do. Everything *any* of them could do. That
was why he billed himself as the Taskmaster; he could do anything he
set his mind too, copy any move a hero made, no matter how complicated.
        Still, he knew his limitations. He was a strong guy, a man of
action, not planning. So he sold his services out. First, he ran a
business trying to train mercenaries and hitmen. But Hawkeye and
Ant-Man had foiled that. After he lived down the humiliation of that
one, he began to sell himself to any villian interested in hiring him.
He pulled a few jobs for the Kingpin, but felt too much like an
exercise trainer with a mask. He quit. The Red Skull tried to hire him,
but he had some morals, damnit. He wasn't going to work for no Nazi.
       Then he received an offer from a very smart man, a man
Taskmaster actually respected, and, he admitted, feared. A man with a
plan. Not just a plan, he reminded himself, THE plan. All he had to do
was what he was born to do: be the muscle. Organize the attack and
defend against any heros. He figured he could do that. He knew almost
every hero in the book.
        And wouldn't you know it. When the heroes finally show up,
it's someone he didn't know. That was frustrating. But he was anything
if not adaptive, and he knew what to do. The information gleaned from
the altercation might not be enough to identify the hero, but it would
serve well enough to devise a plan to deal with him. Powers could be
neutralized, strengths countered. This was not over yet. He turned and
rose dramatically (because, really, what's the point of the suit if you
can't act dramatic?) and went to call his boss. *Let the man with the
plan figure out what to do next* he thought. Then he sighed again.

***********************************************************************

      The man tried to sputter something about retribution, and that I
wouldn't get away with this. I grinned and tightened my grip. "Urk!" he
said.
      "Uh, Siphon, you'd better hurry up. The crew isn't happy with us.
I bet the harbor patrol will be joining us shortly," Tasha said through
her mask, her voice sounding metallic. I glanced behind me, and indeed,
the crew of the ship were milling about, looks of wonder and
consternation on their faces. Up on the bridge, I could just see
someone, probably the first mate, on the phone. Harbor patrol, indeed.
      I loosened my grip on the bad guy slightly. "If you tell me what
I want to know, I'll let you go, and you'll spend a relaxing evening in
jail. Fuck with me and we'll find out how well you swim in this
suit. Understand?"
      He paled noticebly, edged a look over the side of the ship at the
murky water below, and then examined me. Probably trying to decide if I
was bluffing or not. I smiled, and it was a Logan smile. "Well, since
you're not co-operative, down you go. I'm sure your friend's tongue
will loosen after that." I took a step over to the lip of the
precipice, lifting the armored man over my shoulder for a prodigious
toss.
      "Wait!" he screamed, grabbing at my arm with his only functional
hand. I lowered him a bit and met his eyes, waiting. Sweat poured down
his thin face and he gulped. "A deal...I tell you what you wanna know,
and you let me go. Okay?"
     I grinned. "How 'bout I just let you go?" I thrust him out over
the water.
     "Okay! Okay! Put me down! The ship! The ship!" he screeched. I
pulled him back and dropped him on the deck. He flopped like a fish.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied two boats, low on the water, with
flashing lights and speakers blaring orders in Portuguese. I had a
moment to regret never learning that language, and then the crook was
babbling. He told us the kids -- yeah, I noticed the plural -- were
being held on a sugar plantation several miles north of the city. I
flexed and he gave us precise directions.
      "Enjoy your stay in prison, son," I said, and then luanched into
the air. Tasha and Teresa followed.
      "It looks like you were correct, Tolken." Teresa said. "Thanks,"
she smiled.
      "Thank me later, when you and Steph are home and safe," I
growled. I wasn't feeling too heroic. My new skin itched, my leather
jacket -- along with my Avengers communicard -- was destroyed, and, to
top it off, I took a dive into the waters of the harbor. Ugh. Bad
stuff. Worse than Boston, definitely. I just knew Captain America would
have handled it differently. And he wouldn't have had to threaten those
thugs just to get directions.

***********************************************************************

     The grounds outside the plantation were heavily forested, a
veritable jungle, a wide arc of green that surrounded the demesne and
served as a preliminary defense. But it was designed to keep out large
numbers of attackers, not individuals. The designer had not thought any
individual would be foolish enough to tackle the house alone.
     The designer had not reckoned with the man in black who wove a
path through the jungle, sidestepping traps and cameras with apparent
ease, moving like a jungle cat. He danced over fallen logs, pirouetted
around shafts of sunlight, and made no sound as he walked across the
forest floor, strewn with branches and leaves.
     When the man in black reached the edge of the forest, and rows of
sugar cane were all he could see, he paused. Under the heavy canopy of
the jungle, he was all but invisible, but in the fields, a sharp eye
could spot him and make him dead very quick.
     But it was late afternoon, and the sun would be gone soon. He
could wait for the cover of darkness...but no. He had to get in the
mansion soon, and free the children imprisoned there. He slid forward,
gliding with preternatural grace into the field, disappearing within;
only the occasional rustle of a cane showing that he was there at all.
     But he was visible for a brief instant, and a careful,
knowledgeable observer would have realized who he was instantly. Garbed
in a black and midnight blue suit, the image of a bird in flight
stretching from shoulder to shoulder, his eyes hooded by a black domino
mask, and long black hair tied into a severe ponytail, any man or woman
from Gotham or New York would have tagged him easily.
     Nightwing, formerly of the Titans, once partner to the Batman, was
in Brazil. And he was hunting.


TO BE CONTINUED...
***********************************************************************

Avengers, Doctor Doom, Taskmaster, and all related characters are
(C) Marvel comics, used without permission.
Nightwing, Batman, and all related characters are (C) DC Comics, and
used without permission. But since I'm not making any money off this,
why should they?

Siphon, Mars, Morning Star and all related characters are
(C) James M.G. Cannon who is not a large corporation, but is still
possessive about his characters.

Any comments, criticisms, or suggestions should be sent to me, Jim
Cannon at the following address:
X8CG@MUSIC.STLAWU.EDU