Free Civil War Prose Novel by Stuart Moore

just like him, miraculously still in service. It bore the cruel jaw and painted eye of the Flying Tigers, meticulously repainted over the years.
    The P-40 must have been closing in for a landing when the shooting broke out. Eighty, ninety feet above, and dropping. Seventy. Sixty-five.
    Cap leapt.
    He crashed down on top of the cockpit, shield first, shattering the glass. Pain shot up through his legs. The pilot flinched away, shook his head against the sudden wind. “JEEZUS!”
    Cap clamped a hand onto the man’s throat.
    “Keep flying, son. And watch that potty mouth.”
    The pilot nodded frantically, pulled up on the stick. The flight deck grew closer, faster and faster, then seemed to flatten out as the plane leveled off, less than twenty feet above the deck. The pilot kicked in the afterburners, and the plane began to rise.
    Cap staggered, almost toppled off. He held on, gritting his teeth.
    S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ran out onto the flight deck: two dozen, maybe three. They pointed upward, started squeezing off shots.
    But Cap’s plane was moving too fast. The pilot nosed it up farther, pulling up and away from the carrier. The flight deck slid past in a blur, and then they were out over open air.
    Cap glanced backward. The Helicarrier was shrinking into the distance, its jagged bulk limned against the clouds. No doubt Hill was already scrambling pursuit planes, but he knew they’d be too late.
    Cap steadied himself atop the cracked cockpit, riding the plane like a surfer. He looked down just as the clouds parted…revealing the spires of Manhattan, the ocean and rivers surrounding it. The sea to the east, the mountains and farms and towns to the west.
    “Whe-whe- where are we going?” the pilot yelled.
    Cap leaned forward, into the wind.
    “America,” he said.



THE place: corner of 12th Street and Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. The time: 8:24 AM—morning rush hour. The robot: twelve feet tall, shaking the ground with every step, its face a gigantic, twisted mirror-image of the villain called Doctor Doom.
    Tony Stark braked to a stop in midair, half a block away from the robot. He looked down, saw that the police had cleared the block. People stood behind barricades, watching, recording the scene with their phones and digital cameras.
    “This is our chance,” Tony said.
    Ms. Marvel glided up next to Tony, waiting for instructions. Below, Luke Cage and the Black Widow sprinted down the middle of the cleared street. Spider-Man followed close behind them, webbing his way from traffic light to streetlamp.
    Tony opened a radio link. “Reed, are you online?”
    The robot stamped down hard, cracking open the pavement. People gasped and shrank farther back behind the barricades, pressing up against storefronts and deli windows.
    “I AM DOOM!” the robot said.
    Reed Richards’s voice crackled in Tony’s ear. “In the absence of conclusive evidence,” he said, “I would assume that’s the Doombot.”
    Tony frowned. Joking, or just stating the obvious? With Reed, it was hard to tell.
    “We’re ready, Tone.” Spider-Man came through crisp and clear on the Stark frequency. “Friendly neighborhood rookie Avenger, reporting for duty.”
    Tony scanned his troops. Tigra nodded fiercely up at him; Cage looked grim, unsure. Spider-Man clung to a factory building wall, ready for action. Ms. Marvel hovered, poised and statuesque as always.
    With a thought, Tony turned his armor’s amplifiers up to full gain. “ATTENTION CITIZENS,” he said. “I AM IRON MAN, A REGISTERED SUPERHUMAN; REAL NAME, ANTHONY STARK. THIS IS AN INITIATIVE-APPROVED SUPERHUMAN PROCEDURE, OPERATING WITHIN SRA SAFETY PROTOCOLS. PLEASE STAND BACK AND ALLOW US TO DO OUR JOBS. THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR.”
    People exchanged glances, unsure.
    The robot took another slow, lumbering step down Fifth Avenue. “I AM DOOM!” Its foot raised another quake, setting off a block’s worth of car alarms.
    “Reed,” Tony said. “Quick rundown on this thing. And I