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  o    Kristen's collection                                         o
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  This is the Super Hero Archive. These stories were sent to me by
  friends. I did not write these stories. 

  Many have no author name attached. If you are the author of the
  enclosed work please let me know and I’ll remedy the situation.

  This story, and all the stories in this archive are meant to be
  free. They where sent freely and should remain public domain.

The Comedy of Eros
By Author Unknown


 The colorful tents.   The whinny of the horses.  The roar of the crowd. 
The smell of the freshly spiked earth.  Even the dung and ceaseless
complaining of the filthy, caged animals.  Most of all, the big black sky,
pricked with a thousand tiny lights.  These things were home to Kurt
Wagner.  Kurt lazed in the grass and watched the circus unfold itself
before him.  He was a slender young man-- perfectly toned muscles, bright
eyes, tousled dark hair-- he was handsome.  The women who traveled with
the circus, the magician's assistant, the Ringmaster's daughter, the gypsy
fortune teller, the freakish sideshow ladies-- they all had paid him their
compliments;  some had paid with their eyes, some with their lips and
tongues-- and some with their bodies.  For a precocious lad of fifteen and
a half-- fifteen and five months, his foster mother Margali would have
been happy to remind him-- he was extremely well learned.  And this
despite being born with two fingers on each hand-- a similar number of
toes--- a long pointed tail-- and a dense sheen of indigo fur!  Ah, the
fur.  He stroked his muscular chest gently.  How they loved the fur.
 Beside him, Vlad studied him intently.  Vlad was a handsome youth too. 
Taller, more muscular-- a thin roguish mustache.  Dark like a gypsy with
quick black eyes.  Vlad was one more of Kurt's admirers.  He was more than
that-- he was a friend.  And he had taught Kurt a few of the more useful
tricks of staying alive as a blue-furred freak among the peasants of
Eastern Europe.  Knife throwing, for instance.
 "You're in love," said Vlad.
 Kurt shook his head slowly.  His eyes turned slowly away from the tent
that she had entered with her brother.  He looked squarely at his friend. 
"I'm not in love.  I'm just curious."
 "You're in love," said Vlad.  Vlad's knees were pulled up against his
chest, his long arms folded across his knees.  
 Kurt sighed.  He laid back all the way, placing his head in his hands. 
He breathed in deeply.  "I'm a little stricken, maybe.  She's a gem.  You
must admit it-- she's a prize.  In all my years of roaming, I've never
seen her equal."
 "Not even Amanda?"
 There was a pause.  "Not even Amanda.  And if she ever hears that, I'll
kill you, Vlad.  I swear it."
 "Here she comes," he hissed.
 Kurt may or may not have been in love-- but he sat up like a shot.  The
tent entrance opened and her brother stepped out first.  Another young
thin man-- with a perpetual frown.  He too was dark like a Gypsy, and he
had a noble, crooked nose and high cheekbones-- but his hair was chalk
white.  He was dressed in his a green tunic embroidered with silver
lightning bolts and green hose with sturdy leather slippers.  The young
man held the tent flap and his sister put her leg out daintily.  Kurt
gasped as the rest of her followed.  She was wrapped in red fishnet, her
entire body-- with long crimson silk stockings on her slim arms and long
full legs.  She also wore what appeared almost to be a slip of bright
scarlet, which strained to hold in her impressive cleavage and didn't
quite cover her round hips-- Kurt could make out the bottom of her red
underwear.   It drove him wild.
 "She's a little plump, don't you think?"  Vlad clucked fastidiously.  
 "She's a woman, Vlad-- a woman!  She has a woman's body!  Not like these
spindly Romanian girls!  Ugh!  Look at her-- a true classical figure."
 "You're in love," said Vlad.
 "You're tiresome," said Kurt.  "And I'm not going to listen to you any
more."  Kurt rose up.  He wasn't going to miss this.  Not for the world.

 Pietro watched his sister perform.  She was a flawless performer.  She
raised her arms and the pigeons erupted from her robe.   She cast off her
red cape and stood proudly in the tawdry, whorish costume.  Pietro winced.
 He could see the men slapping each other on the back and demonstrating
crudely with their fingers exactly what they'd like to do to his sister. 
He knew that Wanda could see it too, but she paid it no heed.  He wondered
if she enjoyed it.  Was it possible?  All those filthy men, lusting for
her-- forgetting their wives and daughters and farm animals and looking at
his sister-- stripping her-- touching her--- raping her-- with their eyes.
 It was almost more than he could bear.  The drunken Ringmaster couldn't
drag his eyes off her either.  Nor could the wrinkled, withered "strong
man."  Even the clowns made a few obscene gestures behind her back and a
few loud extra whoops of applause rang out.  Wanda's smile brightened. 
She thought it was her last trick that made them yell like that.
 When it was time for Pietro to race the horses, he did as he did every
night.  He raced them and won.  The whole huge tent fell silent.  He left
the big circle without looking back.  The applause was scattered.  He
smirked: he knew what they were feeling.   They had gone from their cruel
stupid lusts to quite another experience altogether:  shock.  And with it:
fear.  Pietro didn't want to be their friend or their host.  He gave them
a performance too-- a dry rehearsal of his superiority over them.
  Tonight at their taverns, the illiterate peasants would tell each other
that the horses had been old, that they had been trained to run slowly. 
No man could outrace horses at a full gallop.  Then they would tell a few
crude jokes about the red-garbed trollop they had seen-- then they would
drink themselves into a mild stupor and stumble back to their hovels, and
none too late.  Because these peasants had never known the luxury of
German masters, or French ones, or even Russians.  These were Latverian
peasants.  And they rose cheerfully, every morning, very cheerfully, every
morning-- to till the fields of Doom.

========
Chapter 2

In the tiny tent that had served them so well throughout years of
traveling, Pietro watched his sister disrobe.  They hid nothing from each
other.  Wanda carefully removed the stockings and the fishnet, handling
the clothes gingerly.  The Ringmaster's wife had crooned long and late
about the precious costume she had sewn-- and about how it was worth at
least two months of both their wages.  Wanda carefully folded the entire
ensemble and set it aside.  She huddled down next to her brother in her
faded red night-dress, pressing herself against him for warmth.
 "Pietro, why are you so unhappy?  Can't you try to be a little less dour?
For me?"
 He looked at her sullenly.  "How can I be happy when my sister-- my only
love-- my flesh, my blood and bone-- is forced to parade herself around
like a common tart in front of a huge tent full of toothless, grimy farmers?"
 "Pietro-- we're eating!  We're sleeping in peace!  We're seeing all of
Europe!  What more do you want?  After-- what happened-- at the village--"
 Pietro nodded grimly.  He could remember the choked voices of the
children trapped inside the burning wooden building.  He could remember
the red faces of the men who had chased them with clubs, axes, knives,
stones-- chased them from one of the few places they had ever found
refuge.  Had they not proved once again that he and Wanda were alone--
utterly alone-- in the whole wide world?  The villagers, who had liked her
embroidery-- who had complimented him as "not so bad" and "hardworking--
for a gypsy" had been the first to rush to accuse Wanda of starting that fire.
The fact that they had been accepted enough for Wanda to start acquiring some
marriage propositions made no difference.  When those poor children died in
that hellish building, they had known-- known-- that Wanda was responsible.
 Their certainty had enraged him.  If not for his sister, he would have
fought them with his bare hands.  If not for his sister-- and his gray
eyes softened as he looked up at her for a moment-- if not for her, he
would have died a long time ago.  Of course, he never made any secret
about it; she knew that he considered her the only reason he had for living.
 "You're right, Wanda.  I'm sorry."  He mumbled the words but they were
words no other living being could force from him.  "You do your best.  I
know you do."
 Wanda pulled her closer to him.  She pressed his head down upon her soft
chest and combed his silvery hair with her long fingers.  "You're right
too, Pietro.  You are.  One day, this will all be over.  We'll go to
America.  I swear it.  We'll never have to wear those stupid costumes again."
 
 Later, as they lay next to each other, Wanda lifted the blanket and
stroked Pietro's flat belly slowly.
 "Wanda-- no--"
 "Shhhhhh," she whispered.  Her hand descended in slow, ever-widening
circles until she brushed it against his stiffening sex.  He sighed and
tried to push her hand away but her hot slim fingers grasped the shaft and
cupped his testes lightly.
 "It's not right, Wanda," he said.
 She rolled onto her side, stroking his penis very slowly, very gently. 
He could feel her large breasts pressing down on his chest as she shifted
herself on top of him.  Within a few seconds, she had slid his erect
member into herself, slowly using her weight to bury it deeper and deeper
inside her-- then bringing her lips down lightly on his own.
 Pietro suckled her gently, probing her large hard nipple with his tongue
and tried to concentrate-- slowly.  Slowly.  If he went too fast.  If he
went even the slightest bit too fast, he would hurt her, perhaps injure
her.  She sat up atop him, giggling in her deep throaty voice, and his
hands roamed her breasts.  His fingers pinched her stiff nipples, still
wet with his saliva.  Sit back, he reminded himself.  Relax.  Let her do
it.  Let Wanda do it.
Let Wanda do it.  Let Wanda do it.  Let Wanda do it.  Let Wanda do it. 
Let Wanda do  it.  Let Wanda---
 
 "See?  I told you."  Vlad was smiling triumphantly, whispering to Kurt,
who crouched beside him, a few feet away from the tent's entrance. 
 "I don't see what difference it makes," said Kurt.
 "What difference it makes?  That she is enjoying her brother carnally
right now?  I guess only you can be the judge.  You heard him protesting. 
You tell me what kind of woman she is."
 "We don't know that he is really her brother."
 Vlad shrugged.  "True.  But they're old enough to be happily married. 
Why wouldn't they introduce themselves as a young couple? Why don't they
have any children?"
 "If I didn't know better, Vlad, I'd say you were jealous."
 "Jealous?  Of course I'm jealous!  Think of a plump cow like her running
those greasy hands over that lean, beautiful young man.  It's enough to
make one sick."
 Kurt shook his head and stood up.  Vlad followed, and after a while, he
sighed. "They could at least do a little bit better job trying to keep it 
quiet."

 Kurt surprised Wanda early the next day as she was leaving her practice
sessions with the Circus magician.  She was dressed only in a shapeless
woolen sweater and a heavy skirt-- she rarely went to all the trouble of
attiring herself entirely as "The Red Witch" for her rehearsals.  Kurt
came to her between tents, knowing full well that he needed to catch her
somewhere far away from the watchful eye of her brother.
 "Good day, fraulein," said Kurt, inclining his head, almost formally.  He
wore old fashioned breeches, a loose white shirt and a headband to keep
the thick almost blue hair out of his eyes.
 "Good day," said Wanda.  Her large full lips blossomed into a smile.  She
paused for a moment, unsure as to whether the boy would talk to her or not.
 With all the grace of a master swordsman drawing a blade, he held forth
some freshly picked wildflowers.  He frowned a little inwardly as he
noticed that his small bouquet looked puny and not even especially
colorful beside her mountain of auburn curls and huge brown eyes and
patchwork skirt.  But he kept his eyes steadily on her, his thin blue lips
pressed into a trim, gentlemanly smile.
 "My goodness," she said.  She put out her hands as if she wanted to take
them but then pulled her hands back again.
 "They are for you, fraulein," he said.  She smiled again and put her
hands out.  Kurt saw her fingers were thick with cheap gaudy rings-- no
stones that were truly precious but little flashes of color that were
beautiful nonetheless.  She took the flowers and bent her head delicately
to smell them.  When she looked back up, Kurt could see that she was pleased.
 "Thank you," she said.  Her eyes said so much more.
 "I wish that you would go with me, beautiful one, and share a lunch with
me, out there."  He gestured out into the surrounding forest with a thick
blue finger.
 "I--"  She radiated heat and light for a moment, like a star.  Then was
eclipsed.  She bit her lip gently and looked down.  "I'm sorry.  I may
not.  My brother..."
 "Yes, my dear.  Your brother.  Did you know that he is, at this moment,
learning all about the fine art of knife-throwing?"
 "What do you mean?"
 "What I mean," he said, "is that my friend Vladimir, the Knife Thrower,
is out with Pietro in some distant spot right now, teaching him how to
throw knives."  More like how to swallow swords, thought Kurt, if Vlad had
his way.
 Wanda bristled.  She straightened herself and looked him squarely in the
face.  Kurt was surprised by her ability to not turn away when she looked
at him-- her ability to look unflinchingly at him.  "You--- are trying to
seduce me."
 This time Kurt did a full bow.  He was so limber that his head nearly
swept the ground as he bowed as effortlessly and as beautifully as a
ballet dancer.  "My darling--- that is exactly what I intend to do."

========
Chapter 3

In a small clearing, somewhat screened from the rest of the world  by
ample bushes and tall strong trees lay two plates, littered with a few
chicken bones and cherry pits and crumbs of dark bread.  A few feet away
lay an empty wine bottle, which once had held a cheap Greek wine,
exquisitely bad and yet pure nectar to the two innocents who had consumed
it.    A few inches away from the wine bottle was a hand, a white hand, a
woman's white hand, adorned with many rings, most of them embedded with
rhinestones.  The hand kept clutching itself together tightly and then
unclenching, clenching, unclenching, clutching, unclutching.  This
movement corresponded roughly to the sounds of two people breathing
heavily and the faint shrill grunts of a woman.  The hand was attached to
a woman, a young woman, a drunk woman, who had lost her woolen sweater and
was currently holding up her own skirt to enhance the efforts of her young
lover.  That young lover, a blue furred acrobat and part-time sideshow
freak was enjoying himself immensely atop the aforementioned woman. 
Kisses drifted down wetly from his lips onto hers.  His long thick fingers
kneaded her breasts gently.  He shoved his sex deep into hers with a
passion that had long since become less involved with personality and
descended (ascended?)  to the level of animal instinct.  The marvelous
prehensile tail of said acrobat was wrapped around the bare leg of the
woman, but she hardly noticed it.  All she could feel was Kurt moving
above her, strongly, passionately, holding nothing back.  He was not
afraid to let himself go wild within her.  His canines, which had looked
so ghastly and bestial when she had first seen him were now being used to
great effect nibbling on her neck and cheek and ears and shoulders and
yes, her great breasts, which received no small measure of attention since
Kurt was quite convinced that they were the largest, most beautiful and
perfectly shaped breasts that he had ever seen.
 And a few minutes later, that same hand had twisted itself in the tall
stalks of grass that served them for mattress, bed sheets and blankets. 
Kurt rode her hard and long from behind, his normally agile hands unable
to find a purchase for long on the stunning woman that had given herself
to him so totally, inexplicably.  This is a dream, he thought.
 And then the grass was mingled with Kurt's dark hair: the grass, the
weeds, the clover, the vegetable debris-- all the richness and waste that
was spring was at his back and above him towered the naked woman, her
hands pressing down on his strong hips, her full breasts shaking slightly
with each thrust.  She was not afraid to look at him as they enjoyed each
other.  There was no darkness for her to hide that body in-- there was no
sheet to screen his own strong, young body.  Gracefully, as he did
everything, he began to writhe beneath her, to pitch and shake and wheeze
and within a few moments he had culminated within her.  He lay exhausted,
panting, mouth wide open.  There was a fine sheen of sweat on her nude
body but Kurt had fur.  He did not sweat.  The magnificent crown of brown
curls bobbed down toward him and he felt his mouth caressed by hers.
 "Again?" she was saying.  
 But Kurt was already falling, falling away into a dark peaceful slumber
made only blinder and blacker by the bright intensity of the April sun. 

 --and was suddenly aware of a lean figure standing above him, hands on
hips, white brow furrowed.  Kurt blinked his eyes.  It was Pietro.  That
sounded familiar.  Pietro...
 Then he felt the damp warmth of the woman beside him, her heat pressed
against him, her arm slung across him.  She was snoring lightly, a gentle
sound.  Her name was Wanda.  Kurt realized that they had been making love
and he had drunk far too much wine again.  Wine, the woman.. Wanda. 
Wanda...  he looked up again.  Pietro.  His heart crawled into the pit of
his stomach.
 "Get up, freak," hissed Pietro.
 Kurt turned his head gently and looked at the sleeping woman.  He sighed.
 He essayed to remove her arm without waking her up and he succeeded.  He
stood up a little unsteadily before Pietro, naked and unashamed.  
 "I should kill you now," said Pietro.  "But I want you to dress yourself
first and die with your clothes on."  Pietro handed his clothes to him.
 Kurt dressed silently.  He tried not to look at Wanda.  He felt a little
stronger, a little surer of himself, when he had finally gotten his
clothes on.  The two men surveyed each other.
 "Perhaps you're getting a little carried away," said Kurt.
 "She's my sister."
 Kurt nodded.  He sighed.  "I do not want to die, Pietro.  And I don't
want to hurt you."
 "You have profaned her body, freak!  You'd better not have gotten her
with child!"
 Kurt shook his head.  "No.  She knows her own seasons.  But you know
that, don't you?"
 Pietro eye's shrank to slits.  "What do you mean?"
 Kurt shrugged.  "I know why you two are so close."
 Pietro flushed red, so red that his face clashed darkly with his stark
white hair.  If Kurt hadn't known better, he might have thought the other
young man was about to go up like a firecracker.  "You have no right to
judge me, demon!  God has made you in the image of the devil!"
 ".. and I lead a virtuous life," said Kurt.  "But I'm not trying to judge
you.  You're right, Pietro.  What I heard last night was two people giving
freely whatever they would to each other.  Who knows?  In similar
circumstances.. with a similar sister..."  Kurt looked over at her.  It
was fantastic to think that their exchange had not woken her, but she was
probably not used to the exertion or the alcohol.
 "I don't need your sympathy," spat Pietro.  Then he smiled.  Kurt had
seen the faces of men by torch light, lips curled into inhuman smiles--
looks meant never to be contained on the faces of civilized people.  He
had seen those smiles many times.  Pietro wore one now.  "I can hammer you
to death with my bare hands-- in seconds."
 Kurt wondered if he could.  But what if he could?  What if he couldn't? 
Kurt could acquit himself pretty well in a hand to hand skirmish.  But
what if he won?  Would he kill Pietro?  He could not.  Then fighting him
and winning would only make his opponent more bitter, more committed to
their mutual catastrophe.  And fighting him and losing-- Kurt remembered
how those legs literally blurred as he raced the horses every night-- and
Kurt knew those were strong horses, fast horses.
 So Kurt simply popped out of the air.  Pietro started and coughed, waved
his arms frantically, Wanda woke and sat up.  "Pietro?  What--?"  He
quieted her with a fierce look.  About twenty yards away, Kurt slowly
started creeping back to the circus camp.  He found Vlad waiting for him,
sitting on a stump, rubbing a bruised jaw.  He looked a little more
handsome, more rugged, with the blemish.
 "I think he figured it out," said Vlad.  "Glad to see you're still alive."
 "Oh, I'm alive," said Kurt.  Wanda beneath him.  Wanda above him.  The
encounter with her brother was already like a bad dream, one half-remembered. 
"I'm alive.  Quite."
 "Did he find you?"
 Kurt nodded.  "Yes.  I left him... my way."
 Vlad's eyes met his.  Vlad had long ago accepted Kurt's physical
uncanniness.  But to even speak about the teleporting made him uneasy. 
For that reason, Kurt didn't do it often.  But once again, it had come in
quite useful.  Vlad shrugged his shoulders finally.  "You did what you had
to.  I hope you're not too rattled to perform tonight."
 "Tonight?  There's no performance tonight."
 Vlad smiled.  "Oh yes.  There is.  It seems that everybody in Latveria is
talking about that beautiful young Gypsy woman.  It seems we've attracted
the attention of the mighty king himself."

========
Chapter 4

The circus performers had never put on a show quite like that one-- a big,
grand show, with all their acts, the finest costumes on, the most daring
stunts-- nothing was too extravagant for that show in honor of the King of
Latveria, who sat on a raised platform and watched the grim proceedings in
total silence, surrounded by a platoon of armed guards.  The dull green
cloak he wore swept the ground and the heavy gray armor caught no light. 
No one else was admitted to the circus that night.  Only Doom looked on,
solemn as a statue, his face hidden by the blackened, inscrutable mask.
 If it was a spectacle, then both sides did the watching.  From the small
darkened area behind the rings where the circus performers stripped
themselves of their costumes or prepared to step into the show, Kurt
watched the King of Latveria with horror.  Was he truly a man?  How could
he sit so still?  Nothing that Kurt had heard about in advance of
journeying down through Southeastern Europe, nothing about wolf-men and
vampires or dark sultry women who poison the men they bed, nothing had
prepared him for the static Gothic horror who sat on the plain wooden
platform, his bloodshot eyes forming the only link with the rest of the world.
 And halfway through the show, as Wanda completed her first few magic
tricks, smiling nervously and attired as outrageously as she had ever
been, Doom stood and put his hand in the air.  Wanda stopped and the whole
tent was silent for a moment.  Doom said in a loud voice, "I will have
her."  A chill washed down Kurt's back, from the base of his neck to the
tip of his pointed tail.  The performers were stunned, they looked at each
other in mute disbelief.  But Doom's guards knew no such shock.  They
stomped down the platform steps and surrounded Wanda at once.  
 Doom himself stepped down the wooden stairway more cautiously, and walked
toward Wanda with slow, regal determination.  Wanda did her best to ignore
the men around her, uniformed in bright purple.  Kurt looked over at where
Pietro had been standing just a second ago-- as far as he could get from
Kurt, as it turned out, since the Ringmaster had told them that any
further quarreling would result in both of them being dismissed in the
middle of Latveria.  And he had, in the interest of fairness toward
Pietro, told Kurt to stay away from Wanda as well.  Kurt supposed he would
comply-- for now.  Or at least until they had gotten out of this
Godforsaken barbarian land.
 Now Pietro was gone-- 
 --or not gone!  Kurt saw a blur of green heard a buzzing and then
suddenly the dull, loud thump of impact!  Where Doom had been, striding
slowly toward Wanda, Pietro sat, legs splayed out, looking dazed.  Doom
was about twenty meters away, sprawled limply on the big tent floor.  Kurt
had never dreamed any human could move so fast.  But what was more amazing
was that Doom actually got up, shaking his masked head about as if groggy.
 Within a few seconds, he was walking toward Wanda again, purposefully-- a
little shakier than before, but completely undeterred.  Pietro, rubbing
his arms, sprang to his feet and prepared to ram him again.  Kurt may have
been the only one to notice Doom's gauntleted hand slip down to his
leather belt.  
 "Pietro--" he yelled.
 The young Gypsy hurled himself at Doom again, faster than the eye could
follow, but this time he smashed into something in front of doom-- some
kind of force that absorbed the terrible impact and delivered a terrific
shock to Pietro.  Kurt saw the young Gypsy stumble away and finally fall
down on the rough trampled dirt floor and lay still.
 "Pietro!" shouted Wanda.
 Doom strode forward and gestured again, this time with his other metal
hand.  "You see the fate of all who would oppose Doom.  Do you wish to
resist my command?"
 Wanda looked about the big empty tent.  Her brother lay still on the
ground.  Kurt and the others were frozen where they stood-- they all knew
that they were at Doom's mercy.  The disappearance of a few wanderers and
circus freaks would hardly cause an international incident.  Kurt was
forced to accept the cold facts-- Doom had them all at his cold iron mercy.

 Nick Fury glared at Victor Von Doom, the King of Latveria.  What kind of
maniac was this man?  Only a few years earlier, this eccentric armored
man, by all accounts a young man, educated at Harvard, had returned to his
homeland of Latveria and orchestrated its takeover in less than eighteen
months.  The oppressed peasants had celebrated the overthrow of their
tyrants and practically worshipped, with a good dose of almost pious fear,
their strange iron-clad ruler.  Now, in the middle of the vast
never-ending monolithic maneuvering of the United States and the Soviet
Union, he had the audacity to offer an alliance to the U. S.  Of course,
it was well known that the U. S. supported many tiny countries ruled by
ridiculously savage dictators-- Central America being the prime example. 
Fury was sometimes bothered by the unsavory characters with whom he had to
curry favor for the CIA's benefit.  At first, Latveria, aside from the
unusual eccentricity of this masked Doom character, seemed no different. 
That was before he learned that this crackpot self-styled monarch had
invited a Soviet representative too-- the sly bastard was going to play
them off against each other the entire time, and probably double deal as
well.  And there was nothing he could do about it.  Sometimes, Fury dreamt
that he might one day have an organization in which he might dispense with
the finer points of diplomacy...
 "Is your dinner satisfactory?" asked the masked monarch.
 "Yeah.  Sure it is," Fury said.  He started to eat the food again.  It
was very satisfactory.  In fact the veal, the baby peas, the light red
wine sauce-- it was all quite a bit more "satisfactory" than he was used to.
 "I am glad," said Doom.  He wasn't eating, just sipping  dark wine from a
tall stemmed wine glass.  He looked at a servant and inclined his head. 
"You may bring in Mrs. Romanov."
 Fury almost dropped his fork as the servants led in Natasha Romanov, one
of the deadliest Soviet spies alive.  The audacity!  He looked at Doom in
disbelief and was sure that the smug king was smirking under his mask. 
Romanov herself was gorgeous, slim and pretty with dark black hair and
bright red lips.  She beamed at Fury as she was led in and Fury couldn't
help remembering what the CIA boys had nicknamed her-- The Black Widow. 
She was one woman you couldn't mess around with.  And has she took her
place at the long elaborately carved wooden table, heaped with succulent
foods, surrounded by liveried servants, he could see why she was able to
seduce them so easily.  She had that deadly combination of sharp good
looks and easy confidence that made a spy so attractive-- and so deadly.
 "I don't believe you two have met," said Doom.  "Natasha Romanov, Nicholas
Fury.  Mr.  Fury, Mrs. Romanov."
 "I've heard about some of your exploits though," said Natasha, giving him
a gentle half-smile.  "Especially the wartime ones.  Very impressive."
 Fury almost missed his cue to respond.  "Well I've always tried my best
to serve my country."
 "As have I," said Natasha.  "It's almost a pity that two resourceful
individuals such as ourselves would have to work at cross-purposes."
 Doom nodded and interrupted.  "We have another guest.  She is staying
with me temporarily--  a Gypsy woman I have been thinking of making my
bride."  He turned to his servant again.  "Bring in Miss Maximoff."
 A few seconds later, Wanda entered the dining room.  She was clothed in a
maroon dress, which hugged her prodigious curves tightly, leaving very
little to the imagination.  A wealth of diamonds littered at her neck and
hung down over her generous bust.  Her arms were wrapped in matching
gloves and she walked a little uncertainly in the high heels that she was
still getting accostomed too.  Emerald earrings flashed below her auburn
curls, which she wore up, leaving her soft neck and shoulders completely
bare.  Fury almost dropped his fork again.  Romanov was  a real looker but
this woman was the most beautiful creature he had seen in years!  Maybe
being a crackpot king of a backward country wasn't so bad after all!  He
looked over as subtly as possible at Natasha, who wore the thin, dry grin
of a woman who knows she's been upstaged.  What was Doom playing at?


========
Chapter 5

 It didn't make any sense.  Deep in the bowels of Doom's castle, Fury
stared up at the ceiling of his clammy bedchamber.  The room was
exquisitely furnished, true.  But it was three stories underground and the
door had a lock that looked sturdy enough to be on a New York apartment. 
No matter how many Persian carpets you threw down on the stone floor, it
would still feel something like a cell.  
 There was a tap on the door.  It was so light that Fury initially thought
that it was a noise from another room, or down the hall, or that he hadn't
heard it at all.   But there it was again, this time, twice:  Tap.  Tap.
 Fury stood and put on his robe.  This whole scene made him uneasy, he
thought, the castle, Gypsy princesses, ominous men in iron masks-- why
couldn't he be sent to work in the Phillipines?  Now those boys had some
fun, he thought.
 "Who is it?" he growled.
 "Let me in, please."  A woman's voice.
 "Who the Hell is it?"  Fury wasn't opening that door for anyone who
refused to even give him a name.  As if she could see him and be daunted
by his nonchalance, he struck a match and lit a cigar.
 "Wanda," the voice said.  "the girl-- from dinner."
 "What the Hell do you want?"
 "Please-- I must talk to you."
 Fury sighed.  What was going to happen to him?  At this point, he was
totally in Doom's power anyway.  He didn't need to send this girl to kill
him-- there were much easier ways.  And there were totally unreasoning
stirrings from the old dog below too.  He unlocked the door and swung it
open.  Wanda stood in the dimly lit hallway, wearing only a black negligee. 
She darted inside his room, shut the door and locked it quickly.
 She pressed herself against him at once.  Fury had to take the cigar out
of his mouth so as not to burn her face or her hair, which was now flowing
freely down past her shoulders.  Her soft body was suddenly against him,
her young soft body.  How much younger is she, he wondered.  Fifteen
years?  twenty?  Twenty-five years?  Her perfume was stronger than the
rank odor of his cigar.  And her clean, curly hair had a smell too-- like
a kind of flower-- he couldn't remember the name.  
 What the Hell am I doing in this madhouse, thought Fury.  I'm an old
soldier.  Everybody knows what an old soldier does in a situation like
this.  Beneath his robe, he could feel his sex rising and he wondered if
she could feel it.  What if she does, he thought.  Who would blame him? 
What did she expect?
 "You must help me," said Wanda.  "Take me back to America with you."
 "That's not going to be in my power," said Fury.
 Wanda looked up at him with her huge brown eyes.  "Please, Mr. Fury. 
I'll do anything!  I must leave this crazy man!  He keeps me here, locked
in, like an animal.  I don't care what I have to do-- just help me escape.
 "I'm not in a position to help anybody escape," said Nick, pushing her
back gently.  "I feel kinda  like a prisoner myself."
 "You are here on a diplomatic mission-- but unofficial, yes?  Doom has
told me that the details are not known in your country-- make me one of
your demands!  He will give me up!  I'm just an asset to him, a bargaining
chip, a chess piece!"
 Fury just looked at her lips as she spoke.  He was harder than any old
man had a right to be and she kept putting those magnificent breasts up
against him, smelling like a hothouse full of flowers--- it  was a little
more than he could take.
 "Why did you come here?" he shouted.
 "I want-- I want you--"  Wanda paused and stopped.  She put a finger to
her lips and she whispered.  "I want you.  Mr. Fury, please.  He keeps me
like an animal, but he won't indulge me.  He keeps me like a plaything but
he won't..  that is, he doesn't--"
 "Oh," he said, his voice rising in sudden humor.  "That makes sense!  Of
course-- he's impotent!  No wonder he's such a power-hungry bastard!"  He
made a mental note to share that one with the boys at home.  The sexual
mores of rulers and politicians could be very important nuggets of information.
 Wanda nodded.  "Please."  She took him by the hand and led him to the
bed.  "Please, Mr. Fury."  She sat down and pulled him down next to her. 
Her soft hands lightly tugged the cigar out of his right hand and put it
out on the bed table.  "Please," she said again.  Fury laid back on the
bed as Wanda opened his robe-- kissing her way down his hairy chest (some
of the hairs were gray), his slight paunch, to his sex.  
 "Oh Jesus," said Nick.  What the Hell was going on?  As if he didn't
know!  Oh Christ, he thought.  He had his leathery hands in her hair. Christ!
This is better than liberating France, he thought.  Maybe we do have a
stake in Latveria.  But in a few seconds he stopped thinking of all that--
he could only think of those beautiful, willing French girls-- so many of
them smitten with love for the brash young Sergeant Fury-- he could only
think of those nights of cheap wine and soft women and soft hair that hung
down and tickled his thighs and how his feet would always clench and
unclench like that when a woman went down on him--- and soon all he could
feel was her hot breath, her lips, her tongue, her long-nailed fingers--
and all he could hear was the sound of a thousand guns firing...
 
 "Colonel Fury," said Doom at breakfast.  "How did you sleep?"
 Nick started for a minute, startled by the perfectly ordinary question. "It
was perfect," he said when he recovered himself.  "Couldn't have been better."
 
 "Let us just be people," said Doom in his salon, where he had gathered
Natasha and Fury again.  Doom had offered them drinks and cigarettes and
was now sitting in a large leather chair by a roaring blaze in the ornately
carved stone hearth.  "Let us forget politics for a moment.  Oh yes, you are
here as representatives of your government-- I won't ask you to do anything
treasonous.  But to tell the truth, you may have been wondering why you two
have been chosen by  your governments to be their ambassadors to my country. 
The reason is because I requested you.  Both of you."
 "I'm flattered," said Natasha.  Nick was stunned.  What the Hell was he
talking about.  Why did he give a rat's ass about Nick Fury?
 "You two have made quite a name for yourselves in the political circles
of your homelands.  In your own way you are even legends of a sort.. and I
was intrigued-- I wanted to meet two such individuals."
 Fury stood up.  "Look, Doom.  I appreciate the compliment.  I do.  But
it's going to be hard for me to make any deals here with you.. as long as
you've got a Soviet agent here in the same room!"
 Doom regarded him for a moment and then shrugged.  "Then don't make any
deals, Mr. Fury.  Do you think I live and die for the pleasure of your
spymasters?  You do me an injustice.  I could take over either of your
empires if I truly wanted to devote the proper amount of time and industry
to that end.  If I did so," and here his voice got very low, "if I did so,
my friends, I would not rule them openly-- but instead through a few
native-born puppets here and there-- well placed and securely bought.  And
I would change very little and none would ever be the wiser."
 "Then what did you bring me here for?"
 Doom bowed his head for a moment.  "The great question for me remains
this.  How to replace the vast unruly engine of religion in my people's
collective mind?  In America, I understand, Christianity is somehow still
regarded as a legitimate religion.  How quaint.  I know that in the Soviet
Union churches are largely discouraged and even not tolerated.  I find
however that the masses need opiates.  The more opiates, the better, in
fact. Technology will eventually provide us with such things-- forms of
art and entertainment so vivid that we might abandon ourselves there;
perfect for controlling a populace.  In the meantime, until such a means
is cheap and available for mass distribution--- what?  I have been toying
with the idea of-- the Church of Doom.  What do you think?"
 "Are you crazy?  What the Hell are you talking about?"  Nick was shouting now.
 "Mr. Fury," said Natasha, evenly, lighting another cigarette and then
taking a long smooth drag through the cigarette holder.  "Perhaps, Mr.
Doom--" Here Doom cut her off.
 "I have the distinction of having earned two doctorates from Harvard,
Mrs. Romanov.  One in physics, the other in metaphysics-- that is, rather,
philosophy.  So, if you must dispense with my claim to royalty, please
call me doctor.  I feel I have earned it."
 Romanov let a hint of a smile creep onto her face.  "Perhaps Dr. Doom is
giving us a test.  Maybe he's examining us in an unorthodox way.  Since we
are both here in the service of our nations, and we are being well paid
for our service and opinions-- maybe we should just enjoy ourselves and
try to be gracious guests."
 Fury looked from Natasha to Doom and then back to Natasha.  He had the
distinct impression that they were both laughing at him.  Fine!  he
thought,  fine.  He sat down.  "OK," he said.  "Get me some whiskey.  And
another stogie.  Let's talk."

========
Chapter 6

 Natasha's room was in the highest, most isolated turret of Castle Doom. 
While it was just as confining as Fury's room, it had one window which
admitted a grand view of the rich dark forests of Latveria by day, replete
with mountains and the Latverian capital at the base of the castle.  At
night this window looked out on the night sky, which was vast and bright,
unaffected by the few lights of the peaceful town below.  It was hard to
believe that such a small town was host to a technological wonder like
Castle Doom-- or to a man such as Victor Von Doom.  The town looked so
sleepy and remote-- an illusion promoted by Latveria's ruler, no doubt. 
Natasha was disturbed by Doom's purposeless rantings as much as Fury had
been earlier-- but she had taken pains not to show Doom that he had
unnerved her.  Now, in the relative privacy of her own room, she pondered
his motivations darkly.  Why Fury?  Why her?  It made no sense that she
could discern.  When there came a tap on her chamber door, Natasha was
startled out of her reverie.. she padded quietly over to the door.
 "Yes?"
 "Ms. Romanov?"  A woman's voice.
 "Yes?"
 "It's Wanda.  Wanda Maximoff-- we met yesterday.. at dinner."
 So, thought Natasha.  She opened the door.  Wanda was dressed in red
satin, looking exquisite-- her long hair hanging free around her soft
shoulders.  Wanda, in turn, looked at Natasha, who wore only a black
kimono-- it was embroidered all over with spiders; a joke of one of her
friends in the KGB.  Natasha's black hair was up.
 "What can I do for you, Wanda?"
 "I need to talk to you," said the Gypsy woman.  "Please."
 Natasha opened the door fully and gestured her in.  Wanda could feel the
Russian woman's eyes following her carefully as she entered.  What Doom
had told her about her was true!  It made her excited just to think of
what she was about to attempt.
 Natasha closed the door and looked at the other woman.  She was lovely
and exotic, a gorgeous piece of work.  Doom had chosen very well. 
Inwardly, she thought that such a treasure must be wasted on him.  To her
surprise, Wanda walked around the room distractedly as if on the verge of
saying something, but settled finally on Natasha's bed.  Natasha stared
unabashedly at her.  What was the meaning of this?
 "Come sit by me," said Wanda.
 Natasha continued staring.  She felt herself flush.  Wanda was indeed
lovely and her body was telling her how much she wanted the other woman. 
She couldn't believe the way she was being manipulated.  How had Doom
known such a thing?  Few people in the KGB knew.  Not only was it amazing
that he knew-- but he had the gall to slap her in the face like this?  By
sending his own tart up to her room as if it  just another gesture of a
gracious host?  The man had courage and cleverness, she would give him that...
 But more amazing still was the fact that Wanda's soft red cloud of air,
the carefully delicately cut satin slip, the ripe fullness of her mouth
and her breasts and hips-- all conspired to have the desired effect upon
her-- even though she knew what the iron-masked monster was doing!  Had he
designed it with such an irony in mind?  What a madman!  What use could
such subtleties have?
 "Come sit by me," said Wanda, again.  She smiled, but the innocence had
gone and it was replaced by something more coquettish.  She arched an
eyebrow and lowered her eyelids.  "Please?"
 "What are you doing here?" said Natasha hoarsely.
 "I wanted to ask you about something that Doom mentioned.  He told me--
he instructed me that you--"  Wanda did not finish.
 Natasha looked on impassively.  "That is true."
 "I--  I have often imagined such a thing.  But I have never done it." 
Wanda now stood and walked over to Natasha.  She stood right next to her
so that her perfume, her warmth, the scent of her freshly perfumed skin
and hair would wash over the other woman.  "And I wish to try."
 Natasha looked into her big brown eyes for a long time.  Wanda thought
for a moment that it wasn't going to work.  Then Natasha said in a flat
voice, without smiling, "Go to the bed."
 Wanda went and sat down on the bed again.
 "Remove your clothes."
 Wanda did as she was told, trying not to hurry, also trying not to take
too long.  She was conscious of Natasha's bold gaze on her naked form but
struggled to act unfazed.  She had been with so many men and never
bothered to hide her nakedness from them!  Now she sat proud and naked on
the bed and Natasha walked slowly forward, put her hands in Wanda's thick
dark hair and opened her kimono, drawing Wanda's face slowly toward her
own left breast.  Wanda opened her mouth, licked her lips.  Natasha closed
her eyes, let her head fall back.  There was nothing like it.
 The two of them became a tangle of hair and sheets and skin.  The room
echoed with squeals and moans and kisses delivered to places that they had
rarely been delivered before.  Lowering her head, Natasha showed Wanda
that most intimate of ways in which a woman is pleasured.  Wanda had
received that sort of attention from men occasionally but they had never
done such a proficient-- such a pleasurable-- job.  Wanda writhed and
groaned on the bed, her long hair swaying as her head shook back and
forth.  After she had been sated temporarily, she insisted on exchanging
places with her lover and Natasha sat on the bed, holding her legs back,
feeling the hot breath and wet kisses of a novice on her well-prepared
sex-- and though Natasha had been fortunate enough to have her share of
lovers, of both genders, no one ever satisfied her to the degree that
Wanda was able to-- she would not stop-- the climaxes flowed with a
frequency and power she had never known before, her whole body shaking
almost violently each time, leaving her trembling and exhausted-- but her
lover never stopped.  Time and time again she was coaxed into ecstasy,
looking down to see that mass of slowly moving curls bobbing between her
pale thighs---
 -- and then the sudden movement of the dark.  The night taking shape by
the window.   Natasha sat up, pushed Wanda's head from her hips-- as the
form was revealed by moonlight-- and Natasha nearly screamed.  Before
her-- it was impossible:  a young man, dark skinned, almost pure black,
wearing a white shirt and rough breeches-- with dark tousled hair, eyes
that glowed a bright yellow, a tail flicking back and forth behind him,
canines that glinted when they caught the light-- and a rapier hanging at
one hip.
 "I don't believe in demons," thought Natasha.  Then she swooned.

========
Chapter 7

Nick Fury was easier to rouse that night-- to tell the truth, he had been
waiting up.  What he found when he swung open the heavy door to his
underground room was something that defied his expectations.  Wanda,
dressed as he had expected her-- in fact, just as he had imagined her all
day, and just as he had wanted her all day-- except that her hair was a
little disheveled and her skin was flushed.  Behind her was Romanov,
similarly out of sorts and clearly dressed in haste-- she wore a kimono
over not much else.  Behind them both.. Fury had to blink twice and rub
his eyes to believe what he saw-- some kind of monster!  A human shaped
creature with incredibly dark skin, demonic roguish features and dressed
in an outlandish 18th century swashbuckler's outfit.  He had pointed teeth
and yellow eyes.  Nick stared.  He had a tail.  Good Lord, he thought. 
Protect me.
 Natasha and Wanda pushed into his room and the thing moved in lightly
behind them.  Natasha took his elbow and whispered to him, "Don't be
alarmed.  The girl knows him.  He is a circus freak, a former acquaintance. 
Says he's come to rescue her."
 Fury couldn't stop staring.  He fumbled for a stogie and lit one.  He
felt a little bit steadied as the familiar smoke snaked into his lungs. 
"What the Hell is going on here?"
 "We're escaping," said the demon-thing.  "I have come to rescue Wanda. 
Her brother is waiting down below.  We have to act quickly."
 Fury looked at Romanov.  Was this some strange trick that she had cooked
up?  He considered it.  If he left, she would be alone here, alone to
strike a Soviet deal with Doom.
 But was Doom even interested in deals?  In the days that Fury had been in
Castle Doom, the monarch of Latveria had never even mentioned politics. 
It was the lack of business that had fed his unease most.  
 "Are you going with them?" he asked Natasha.  She was staring at Wanda,
her green eyes intense.  
 Romanov sighed.  "I don't know."
 Just then one of Castle Doom's servants appeared in the doorway.  He was
a tall, broad shouldered man in green livery, bald and officious.  There
were dozens of men just like him throughout the castle and Fury had
wondered if Doom had somehow managed cloning to that degree-- or if he had
somehow gained access to LMD technology which was still only in the
prototype stages back in the U.S.  "The Master requests your presence in
the library.  Please do not keep him waiting."
 The strange quartet looked at each other silently.  The servant stood
quietly, as if waiting for them to accompany him.  It was the demon-thing
that smiled its wicked-toothed grin at Fury finally and bowed low
gesturing with his two-fingered hands-- two-fingered!-- toward the door. 
Fury straightened his robe and dug his feet into his slippers.  They all
began the ascent to the library of Dr. Doom.

 When they had gathered together before Doom in the huge library, he bade
them sit on a fine old leather couch.   The library was a tall vertically
huge room with books stacked steeply upon each other up all four walls.  A
fireplace burned, illuminating the room softly with its docile glow, its
light not crawling very far up the room's book lined walls.  The impression was
one of a vast darkness pressing down on them from above. Doom was sillouhetted
before them, the fire burning behind him and leaving his masked face in a stern
iron shadow.
 "So," he began, "You all conspire to leave me.  Have I not been a gracious
host?"
 Silence reigned and finally, Wanda said, "You have been a very gracious
host, Your Excellence."
 Doom inclined his head toward her.  "What do the rest of you say?"
 Kurt smiled and bent forward, smiling.  "I've enjoyed my stay so far."
 Doom ignored him.   "Mr. Fury?  Ms. Romanov?"
 "It has been a very pleasant stay, Dr. Doom.  Yet I feel, as Mr. Fury
expressed earlier today, that you have been toying with us-- without
giving us any explanation for your actions or offering us any political
motive for staying."
 "I see," he said.  "A fair assessment."  He turned and faced the fire for
a moment locking his metallic gauntlets together behind his back for a
moment.  "Tell me, Wanda-- or any of you.  Do you believe that a man might
predict the future?"
 Kurt spoke first.  "I've seen people do it a hundred times.  It's no big
trick for a trained fortune-teller to--"
 "To interpret obvious physical evidence and come up with an answer crafted to
gratify the listener?  Indeed.  That's not what I am speaking of."
 Wanda shook her head.  "I did talk to an old woman once who claimed she
really could see the future-- always unclear-- in dreams."
 Doom nodded vigorously, still facing the fire.  "Yes.  The future exists
all around us, as does the past, always pressing in against us yet held at
bay by the barrier of time.  A few sensitive minds are able to see past or
through this barrier-- although such vision is rarely clear.  With the aid
of certain obscure mystical arts, I've managed to gain such a vision for
myself.  I've seen this:  the four people I've assembled before me will
all have a place in shifting the world's destiny.  It has been my object
merely to get to know you a bit, to learn how I might benefit from your
acquaintance, or if I would suffer from your enmity.  The whole idea of
cutting a deal with either of your arrogant governments has been a ruse. 
Doom is no one's pawn.  It's been a very interesting experiment.  I have
learned much."
 Doom turned and addressed them in harsh, final tone.  "You may go."
 "I don't believe it," said Wanda.
 Doom stood silently before her.  "You may go," he said again, flatly.
 "Maybe that was part of your reason initially..  but I think there's
another reason.. and you won't face it."
 "Please enlighten me," said the king.
 "It's no secret what you asked me to do-- compelled me to do-- in your
service with each of your houseguests!!"  Here, Fury and Natasha looked at
each other quickly.  Kurt chuckled.  Natasha seemed to blush more deeply
but her face showed only bemusement.  Fury began to breathe hard and
clenched his fists.
 "It's no secret any longer," said Doom. 
 "And that wasn't for the benefit of any scheme.  It was because you
desired me.  And you couldn't have me yourself."
 "Think carefully of what you say, girl," said Doom.  His voice was rising
for the first time.  
 "You're so locked into your armor, so trapped by your cold intelligence,
Doom, that you can't even admit that you maneuvered us into those
situations so that your agents could play out the roles that you wished
to. You had to live vicariously through them," and she gestured at Fury
and Romanov.
 "Utter nonsense," said Doom.
 "Is it?" asked Wanda.

========
Chapter 8

 Kurt was amazed at the way Wanda was standing up to him.  She had been
sitting still on the couch but now she stood up before him.  She walked
until she was only a two feet before him.  He wondered what Pietro was
thinking, waiting outside, about half a mile distant in the rain.  He was
glad he had convinced Pietro that he should scout the castle.
 "You do find me beautiful," she said.  She held her head high.
 "Yes. I do."
 Wanda nodded but did not smile.  "Then take me, Doom."  She began to
strip off her night clothes..  and within seconds she stood totally nude
before him, her nipples slightly swollen, trembling slightly in the drafty
room.
 "In front of these, Wanda?  Rut like an animal for their enjoyment?"
 "Why not, Doom?  Have you not spied on them for your own enjoyment?"
 Doom said in a very low voice, almost a whisper.  "You are beautiful,
Wanda, but you do presume too much upon my mercy."
 "We may remove if you wish," said Wanda.  "Take me anywhere.  The privacy
of your royal bedchambers?  Your den?  Your banquet table?  You decide,
Your Excellence..  where will you have me?  Can you have me?  Are you able
to take off that armor, Doom?  Are you able to have a woman, any woman? 
Or are you the complete master of your little claustrophobic realm, isolated
from everything outside the boundaries of your little private world?"
 Doom's hands balled into fists and they could hear the metal joints
squeaking.  "I am as much a man as anybody in this room."  His baleful
gaze fell on Kurt.  "More than some."
 "I'm not calling you impotent," said Wanda.  "Such a misfortune would let
you off to easily.  But you're ultimately not able to reveal yourself to
me, are you?  You're not willing to take off your armor for me?   You're
not willing to expose yourself to what might happen-- what sort of emotion
that might bring forth-- the possibility that you might not be the complete
master of that situation-- are you?"
 "You are calling me a coward," said Doom.
 Wanda stood proudly before him.  "Yes."
 
 --there was a strange moment then-- as Wanda stood at attention before
him, her hands behind her back, pushing her chest out.  Doom raised his
hand slowly and Kurt clenched himself for violence-- made to draw his
sword.  Fury was eyeballing the room as best as he could in the imperfect
illumination, searching for anything he could use as a weapon.  Natasha
sat perfectly still as if meditating-- Kurt had seen the circus's
contortionist display the same look of internal concentration before an
act requiring the endurance of physical pain.  But he knew they were all
defeated if Doom decided to strike the girl.  They were at his mercy, in
his castle-- completely in his power.  Kurt's yellow eyes flicked  back to
Wanda and noticed that her hands, behind her back, were making a series of
strange gestures, fingers knotting and unknotting into bizarre signs and
symbols.  In the meantime, while her fingers worked frantically behind
her, she looked at him intently, leaning forward slightly, as if she
herself were in a trance--

 Doom put his hand down.
 "You are all banished from this place.  You have 24 hours to leave
Latveria.  We will have no further discussion of any of this.  I have
spoken." With that, he made his way out of the room and slammed the thick iron
door behind him.
 When Fury and Romanov had left to gather their things, Kurt embraced
Wanda and she giggled.  "You were wonderful," said Kurt.  "So brave!"
 "I did what I had to do," she said.  
 Kurt removed his shirt and covered her with it as they made their way
back to her quarters.  "I thought he was going to hit you-- I thought for
sure you had pushed him over the brink--"
 "I think he was going to hit me," said Wanda, with a mysterious smile. 
"But then I changed his mind."

 The stillness and the woods.  Vlad and Kurt watched Wanda and Pietro load
their few possessions into their ramshackle wagon.  Vlad and Kurt were
also leaving soon, making their way back to Germany if possible.   When
the packing was finished, Pietro and Wanda walked slowly over to Kurt.  He
ignored Vlad entirely.  "I had you wrong, Kurt.  I am sorry.  You are not
a freak after all, but a good man."
 "You still have it wrong," said Kurt, smiling so that the light caught on
his pointed teeth.  "We're all freaks.  Especially Doom."
 Pietro seemed to consider regarding this as an insult but he seemed to
abandon it after a moment's thought.  He looked Kurt in the eye closely
and said, "Farewell until we meet again, for I think we will."
 Kurt nodded.  "I think so too.  Farewell."
 Wanda hugged Kurt to her and he felt the passion-- and something else--
rising.  "I'll miss you, Kurt," she said.  "Thank you for coming to my rescue."
 "I think it ended up being the other way around," said Kurt.
 "All the same, it's the thought that counts."  She kissed him on both
cheeks.  "Until we meet again..."
 Wanda and Pietro got up in the wagon and started off to the border-- they
had heard tell of a strange man called Magnus journeying through Europe,
seeking others who were, like himself, endowed with strange unnatural
gifts.  In return for serving him, he promised passage to America.  To
Kurt, it had sounded like just another kind of circus.  And he doubted
that anybody in America would be any more understanding of his physical
appearance.  
 "You're not shedding a tear for her?  I thought you were in love," said Vlad.
 Kurt shrugged.  "So did I.  But there's other women in Europe, there's
wine, the Moon, the cool night air.  Even fog is a kind of blessing on a
night like this."
 Vlad smiled and took off his knife-belt.  "Why's that?"
 Kurt took his hand.  "Because of what it hides, my dear-- because of what
it hides."

4/30/95