One Heck Of A Team

by Mike Smith
Coo-coo Crazy Disclaimer: This story features the Fixer, Mentallo, Marvel Girl (Jean Grey/Phoenix/Whatever), and Boomerang, all of whom are trademarks of Marvel Comics. This is an unauthorized work and no profit is being made off this work. This story is copyright of me. Download this story if you like, but please don't archive it without my permission. Don't be shy.

 Note: This story takes place shortly after the Fixer and Mentallo were captured and interrogated by S.H.I.E.L.D. in STRANGE TALES #141-145.

 Ego Note: This is my first work that features an X-character of any kind, albeit in a supporting role. Not that I expect a medal or anything, but I figure that this qualifies me for more fanfic pages than the T-Bolts Archive. So I reiterate: Get my permission first. And don't be shy.
 
 


Day Zero: The Fixer and Mentallo Break Up!


His name was Marvin Flumm, and he had had just about enough.

He woke up and rolled over to see the clock.  It read 3:13 in the
afternoon.  He muttered to himself and rolled out of bed, noticing the
wood panel walls of his room.  And like every other day for the last
several weeks, he swore that he would never have to look at those walls
again.  



He lumbered down the hallway and stopped just short of the refrigerator. 
It opened by itself, and spoke to him.



"Good, morning, sleepyhead!  Time to start a brand new day!  And what
better way to open those eyes than with a frosty glass of freshly squeezed
orange juice?"  Marvin wasn't as startled by the voice as the fact that it
was now a few octaves higher than it had been the day before.  Also, a
metallic arm burst forth from the refrigerator bearing a glass full of
orange liquid.  He stared at it for a full thirty seconds. More
specifically, he was staring at the clear, viscous liquid dripping from
the arm into the juice, leaving tiny blobs of oil on the surface.  

"Come on, now!  No need to be picky!" The voice said, hoping to convince
its patron.  Marvin slammed the door shut, the sound of the slam
accompanied by the servo motors quickly retracting the arm before it was
snapped off in the process.  He stormed out of the kitchen.

"Fixer!", he shouted.  

"What?" came the reply.  Marvin found him hunched over a television set
holding a beat up copy of _Popular Mechanics_.  

"The refrigerator, Fixer.  Was it really necessary for you to make
those... modifications?"

The Fixer never looked up from his work.  "I thought Catherine O'Hara
would sound more motherly than Doris Day.  And they had an old SCTV rerun
on, so I decided to take advantage."

"I'm talking about that oily robot inside," he pressed on.  "That's just
unsanitary!"

The Fixer shrugged.  "Hardly. The whole point of that was to see if I
could use cooking oil as an effective lubricant.  And it works within
tolerances, if I do say so myself.  Besides, it's non-toxic.  And
nonpolar... just drink around it.  Or fish it out."

"Drink... around--?"  He refused to even finish the sentence and instead
slumped into an easy chair.  "What are you doing to the TV?" he asked
wearily.

The Fixer looked up and gave him an irritated glare.  "I'm _fixing_ it,
Mentallo.  That's what I do.  I wanted to see if I could upgrade this
thing to 3-D using only parts listed in this 1974 _Popular Mechanics_. 
And it's coming along quite nicely, thank you."  He placed a tool in his
mouth for a few moments and mumbled his next words: "What are _you_
doing?"

And Marvin heard the question with absolute clarity, simply by reading his
partner's mind.  Not that he needed the excuse to vent his frustrations. 
"I'm going mad, Fixer!  That's what I'm doing!  We've been living in this
ridiculous hideout of yours for weeks and I'm _sick_ of it!  When I joined
forces with you, I expected to be doing more important things than missing
meals and wearing red and blue paper glasses."

"For your information," the Fixer retorted, "This isn't going to _need_
glasses when I'm done with it.  Anyway, at least I'm putting my talents to
good use.  Meanwhile you've been wasting away probably letting your unique
mental abilities go to waste.  Why should you even ask me these silly
questions, anyway, hmm?"

Mentallo snorted at the remark.  "First of all, Fixer, my powers don't
deteriorate from lack of use.  And second, we're out here in the middle of
nowhere, so the only mind I can read is yours." He held a hand to his
face.  "And believe me, I grew tired of that on the second day.  We might
as well have stayed in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody.  At least the food would have
been better."  

The Fixer remained silent.  

"Yes, I _know_ we have to lay low after escaping prison, Fixer!" Mentallo
said.  "Just as I know that you have to rebuild your arsenal to keep the
authorities from being prepared for our next plan.  But honestly, you've
become too scatterbrained to even focus on our partnership!"  

"Are you saying you'd like a divorce, Mentallo?" the Fixer chuckled.  

"I'm serious, Fixer.  I could hide from S.H.I.E.L.D. just as easily
alone.  More easily, in fact.  They wouldn't be looking for me by myself. 
And if hiding is all you plan to do, then maybe we don't need to work
together anymore."

The Fixer stood up from his work and stretched out his back.  "I keep
telling you, Mentallo.  My methods work because I don't allow myself to be
hampered by small minds and smaller rules.  I have my own pace, my own
style, and if I'm not going to change that just because you're suffering
from cabin fever." 

He turned around and faced his partner.  Look, don't you think I've been
bored?  Don't you think I'd like nothing better than to wipe that smug
little smile off of Fury's stubbled face?  Don't you think I'd love to get
a second chance at grabbing some of Tony Stark's vaunted technology?  Work
with something that was invented in the last five years?" He kicked the TV
lightly for effect.  "But we have to stay her until we come up with a
plan.  Something worthy of our respective talents.   I was thinking
something along the lines of mentally controlling a high-ranking
government official.  Somebody with the authority but not the willpower of
you average S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."

"Frankly, Fixer, I'm beginning to think our usefulness to each other is
coming to an end," Mentallo grumbled, rubbing his goatee between two
fingers.  Don't get me wrong, but it seems to me that being partners
doesn't mean we can't pursue independent careers."  

"Oh, don't make me laugh, Mentallo,"  the Fixer shot back.  "If it weren't
for that helmet you constructed for yourself, you'd barely be able to
handle the day-to-day psychic feedback!  Me, I've been doing just fine as
free agent, and I made quite a name for myself with _them_ before you came
along, pal."

Mentallo leaped up form his seat and stared into the face of his ally. 
"Listen, Fixer, I'm no slouch myself.  There's a lot of people out there
who'd appreciate my powers.  As for _them_," he sneered, "I don't even
know who _they_ are, and if they're willing to invest so much into a robot
that runs on Crisco... well, I can probably find more lucrative than that." 


The Fixer raised an eyebrow.  "Well, that sounds like a challenge to me,
Mentallo.  And to be honest, I wouldn't mind a change of scenery myself. 
So why don't we have a little contest, shall we?  We each go our separate
ways, and we'll just see who makes out better on his own.  Interested?"

"It's better than staying here," Mentallo mused.  "But how do we determine
the winner?"

"Simple," the other man said, his sharp mind already working on the new
problem.  "We can just pick out targets for ourselves.  Whoever completes
his mission first wins.  Let me see..." the Fixer started ruffling through
a pile of papers on his desk.  "Ah, here we go.  There's a guy operating
in the American Southwest by the name of Boomerang.  _They_ were quite
interested in him, and they asked me to look into him.  Hmmm...quite the
arsenal on this guy.  Says here he took on the Hulk."

Mentallo interrupted the Fixer's newly emerging train of thought. 
"Boomerang?  I recognize him from classified S.H.I.E.L.D. documents I once
read.  He was working for the Secret Empire until it fell apart.  Am I to
assume that _they_ are some rival of the Empire?"

The Fixer sighed.  He was weary of his partner's incessant curiosity about
their clandestine employer.  "Never you mind," was all he said in
response.  "Anyway, I'll choose this Boomerang character, and I'll try to
grab some of his weapons for my own research.  What do you say, Mentallo?"

Mentallo shrugged.  "If you're going after another technology buff, I may
as well pursue someone with skills comparable to my own.  Fortunately,
before I betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D. I used my position in their ESP Division to
acquire a lot of intelligence on various mentalists." He leaned his head
back as if searching his memories for the proper choice.  "Let me see... I
choooose... ah, yes.  The X-Men had a formidable telekinetic if I recall
correctly.  I'll defeat her."

"Telekinetic, huh?"  The Fixer sounded mildly impressed.  "Don't tell me
that you've lost interest in proving how formidable your vaunted
telepathic powers are."

"Not at all, Fixer," Mentallo shot back.  "But if I'm going to retrieve
some prize from my opponent, it'll have to be physical, right?  Unless
you'd like to read an EEG of the fight!"  

"Tempting," the Fixer mused, "but that could be easily fabricated.  No,
your idea is fine, Mentallo.  I suppose you'll have to bring back a belt
or a lock of hair or something.  Anything that you'd have to incapacitate
a TK in order to get." The ennui in his voice was unmistakable as he
referred to such mundane items.  "Anyway, now that we've got that
straightened out, we might as well get started!  Don't let the doorknob
hit you where the dog shoulda bit you," he said, pointing at the front
door.  

Mentallo was puzzled.  "What are you talking about?  I have to plan my
attack and--"

"Ah-ah!" the Fixer replied cheerily.  "We're breaking up, remember?  And
this is my hideout.  It's not my fault that you didn't have anything worth
bringing up here. You wanted to get out of this house anyway, right?"

And Mentallo couldn't argue with that.  "Very well, Fixer.  But I think
you'll change your tune when I return."  With that he gathered his red
costume and helmet and strode out the door.  

Of course, that didn't stop him from mentally overhearing the Fixer's
reply: "I don't doubt that for a second."

***

Day One: Where Do You Want To Go Today?

Fred Myers was a patient man, a disciplined man.  He had to be or he
wouldn't have earned the successes he enjoyed today.  He was an
unparalleled major league pitcher, a lead pipe cinch for the Hall of Fame,
the kind of talent who could write his own ticket for the rest of his
life.  

He wanted more.  

And he got it.  Fred had applied his talents and athleticism to weaponry
and created an array of compact throwing weapons that made him a force to
be reckoned with.  As Boomerang, he became one of the most valued agents
of the criminal cadre known as the Secret Empire.  And he still found time
between jobs to enjoy a night on the town once in a while.  

Sure, he hadn't been doing so well lately.  His attempts to capture the
military's Orion Missile had failed thanks to intervention by the Army and
the Hulk.  And sure, the Secret Empire toppled like a house of cards
during his assignment.  But that just meant he could be a free agent
again, maybe even lending his services to the Empire's enemies.  It was a
big world.  And there were plenty of people out there who'd value his
abilities.  

Of course, at the moment he was in the middle of field testing his new
armaments.  Since his battle with the Hulk he had learned an important
lesson: The Rules Had Changed.  No longer could he simply opt to work
around the emerging "super-heroes" who had been increasingly active over
the recent years.  The Hulk interfered with his mission not out of civic
minded duty or a moral code that could be predicted and accounted for. 
No, he just happened by and decided to get in the way on some chaotic,
bestial whim.  If Boomerang was going to survive in this changing world,
he'd have to be prepared for sudden changes in circumstances.  And
fortunately, the Hulk was just about the most powerful super-type there
was, so as long as he could prepare for him, then he could be ready for
anything.  

And so, he had redesigned his propulsion boots to be more agile and put on
quick bursts of speed at a moments notice. (As he shot through a ring of
fire that was rapidly contracting, he noted that they were working.)  He
fashioned new throwing discs to fly farther and faster than the old ones. 
(Also working since he had just disabled the next flaming ring by cutting
the fuel line.)  His magnetic devices were given new compact power
supplies in order to produce a stronger attraction. (Enough to seal off
the severed fuel lines as he cut them.) And he had plenty of ideas in mind
for his boomerang. (It cooed a favorable completion time to him as he came
to the end of the obstacle course.)  All in all, things were looking up
for the Boomerang.  

At least, that was the impression one P. Norbert Ebersol had gotten after
several hours of perusing the Boomerang's computer files, watching tapes
of his workout sessions, and going through his personal logs and lab
notes.  It was remarkable what one could accomplish with a simple internet
terminal at a public library.  Of course, he had to conceal a lot of his
own equipment to keep the other patrons from suspecting something, but
that just meant that he had to limit himself to compact devices.  Hardly a
problem for someone with his versatile arsenal.  

He chuckled as he happily reminded himself that no one else had an arsenal
like his.  Including this Boomerang character.  Oh, he was good for
producing an explosive or two, and he made his trademark weapon something
far more powerful than most people might assume, but the Fixer wasn't the
type to respect cunning or flashy tactics.  It had only taken him one
afternoon to hack into his mainframe and learn all of his secrets and all
of his weaknesses.  Boomerang's trademark was surprise attacks and he had
just uncovered every single detail of his abilities. He chuckled again as
he decided that this would be even easier than he had thought.  

"Hey, Curly, you wanna shut up so the rest of us can get some work done?"
whispered an irritated man on the terminal next to him.  Ebersol simply
gathered up his equipment and stuffed it into the pockets of his
trenchcoat.  Yes, he would gladly allow the Neanderthals the precious
quiet they needed to hammer out their menial problems.  He had found
everything he needed to deal with his opponent, and he was ready to move
on to claim the prize.  

***

"Hello there, fellow American."  

"Holy cow!" the woman in the car stammered, "You--you're George Bush!"

The forty-first President of the United States smiled warmly.  "I'm happy
to see that you've heard of me."

It took her a few seconds to realize the joke, and she laughed, somewhat
artificially in response.  "Well, I just-- what are you doing out here on
the highway?"

"To tell you the truth, I've been trying to understand that myself," the
President explained. "You see, I'm going to be giving a speech in New York
in a few days, and well, it seems that I ran out of gas a few miles back. 
I went to the nearest station to get a refill, and when I came back, my
car had been stolen altogether!"  

"That's awful!" the woman exclaimed.  "But... don't you have Secret
Service men to escort you? Where are they?"  She poked her head out of the
open window and peered around in both directions, supposing that they were
scouting the area.  

Bush lowered his head a bit.  "To tell you the truth, ma'am, I haven't had
a Secret Service escort since President Clinton cut their budget.  Seems
that he needs the money for more of his programs.  But I get along pretty
well without them, I suppose."

The woman was astonished.  "Of all the... well, I _would_ expect Clinton
to do something so horrible.  Why he's--!"

"Now, I wouldn't be so hard on him, ma'am," Bush replied.  "It is a
difficult job.  I should know.  Anyway, I was hoping you could give me a
lift..." 

"Sure!  Anything for you, sir!  Just hop in," she said, pressing a button
to unlock the door on the other side.  "Of course, my car _is_ a little
small, but you can sit in the back and put your feet up... yeah, just move
my purse out of the way... that's it."  

"I really appreciate this, ma'am.  Your country owes you a great debt,"
Bush said as he stuffed himself into the back seat.  It was almost too
easy, he decided.  He could read political affiliations from motorists
from some five miles away and then project an image of some forlorn
politician in need of charity.  From there it was just a matter of telling
people what they wanted to hear.  Best of all, he could screen for people
headed his way.  Now all he had to do was maintain the illusion all the
way to the city limits and keep comfortable in the back seat of an almost
comically undersized car. He had to admit, Mentallo thought, working alone
did force him to be creative.  

***

Day Two: Singles Action

"That's right, gentlemen, now that the Secret Empire is on the outs,
you're looking at a free agent with a clear docket!" Myers proclaimed on a
video conference screen.  All in all, he was keeping a pretty enthusiastic
attitude about being unemployed, but the key to his success had always
been to grasp victory from the jaws of defeat.  "So, who wants to be the
first to hire the services of the bombastic Boomerang!"  He thrust out his
chest with pride, displaying the bold letter B on his new costume to
emphasize his confidence.  

The men on the split screen monitor were less impressed.  "You've already
admitted that your last assignment ended in failure, Boomerang," objected
a Maggia representative.  "Keeping a stiff upper lip is one thing, but I
want men who can deliver results, not spin-doctored excuses."  

"I have to agree," a masked HYDRA agent broke in.  "You may have good
reason for losing out to the Hulk, and perhaps the Army may have been
understandable as well, but my superiors have... harsh methods of
disciplining errors of judgement.  Hiring you might very well get us both
killed."

"Near as I can tell," added a diminutive looking man with a white
handle-barred mustache, "you wouldn't last ten minutes in the Hellhouse,
Boomerang.  You throw cute little toys around, and I got guys here that'd
make an afternoon outta returning them to you... in _really_ unpleasant
ways."  The man was interrupted by an explosion in the background,
followed by numerous screams and cackles of laughter.  He turned away from
his viewscreen and yelled at someone out of sight.  "No, Wilson, I ain't
pulling your finger! It wasn't funny the thirty-sixth time you did it and
using more grenades ain't helpin'!"  He resumed his composure and ducked a
bullet without missing a beat.  "My advice to you: stay off the West
Coast.  You may impress mercs in the Big Apple or in the middle of
nowhere, but I'm just not interested."

Boomerang sighed.  "Gentlemen, please!  I don't think you realize what
prime material you're giving up!" He decided to play his trump card. 
"I've fought the _Hulk_.  How many people outside the Army can say
_that_?  The Leader is dead, the Commissar is dead, the Gargoyle _killed
himself_, people.  Face it, folks.  I'm just about the only guy you can
find who's taken on ol' Jade Jaws and lived to tell about it.  And you'd
turn that down?"  He didn't want to do this.  As far as Boomerang was
concerned he'd be quite happy never to see the Hulk again.  But this shill
was going south in a hurry, and if he had to pass himself off as a Hulk
Exterminator, so be it.  Besides, he _did_ have a score to settle.

"Sorry, folks," a voice called out from the monitor.  It didn't belong to
anyone on the screen.  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to disconnect this
call.  You might want to invest a little more money into getting a more
secure line.  This one was painfully easy to tap."   

"What?" the Maggia man blurted out.  "Boomerang, is this some kind of
stunt?  Who is that guy?"

"Relax, people," the voice continued, "this is just a little diversion
I've set up to keep Boomerang from noticing the robot drone I've sent into
his hideout!"  

"Wh-what?"  Boomerang spun around to find the intruder, only to be knocked
off his feet by a concussion beam.  He collected himself and saw a
bizarre, one-eyed droid crawling from behind his monitor screen.  

"Oh, sorry," the voice added, "maybe I should have mentioned where it was."  

Boomerang swore under his breath and plucked a metal disc from his
sleeve.  He threw it left-handed at the machine and sliced it's head clean
off of its body.  "Listen, mister," he shouted, "I don't know who you are,
but this is an important call you're interrupting and nobody messes with
Boomerang's business!"  


His challenging words were met with a rumble that reverberated through his
whole house.  

At last his assailant revealed himself, standing at a hole in a now
shattered wall.  "Well, by now you've probably guessed this is a
recording," the voice on the screen declared.  "If everything is running
smoothly, I've just broken into your home and I've got a weapon trained at
your head."  Boomerang looked up and saw that this was indeed the case. 
The man wore a green jumpsuit covered in all manner of gadgets, including
a nasty looking firearm in his hand.  

"Handsome devil, aren't I?" the recording asked.  "I'd say the best thing
you can do would be to surrender now and save yourself a lot of trouble."

Boomerang didn't agree.

***

"Places, people! We do the next take in five minutes!"  

Jean Grey unfolded her diagram of the studio and skimmed through the key. 
Green, Greer, finally she located Grey, Jean on the list.  She noted the
spot where she was designated to stand and walked over to the buffet
table.  

Of course, she could have no way of knowing that he was watching all of
this, Mentallo was certain of that.  He had projected a thoroughly
convincing image of custodian to get inside the studio in the first
place.  From there it was simply a matter of disguising himself as
whoever--in some cases whatever--would appear inconspicuous on the set of
a television commercial.  Presently, he was concealed by the mental
projection of a large potted plant.  Jean, along with the rest of the
cast, had visited the set three times today and had never noticed his
presence.  

He had been watered twice, true, but mental trickery was always a work in
progress.  

Now that he was properly positioned near his target, it was simply a
matter of making a positive ID.  Child's play for one with his ability to
read minds, and he had already garnered basic descriptions of her from the
minds of passers-by.  All he had to do was find the red head with the
surface memories of a mutant super-hero.  He'd have this contest won while
the Fixer was still plotting the circuit patterns for some harebrained
deathtrap.  

Alas, luck wasn't with him.  Jean, or at least someone he was fairly sure
was Jean, was accompanied by yet another red headed girl.  Mentallo
sighed.  In his arrogance, he had placed himself where he couldn't get a
clear look at either of them, and he was too far away to distinguish
voices.  He had figured that his telepathy would handle everything and now
matters had become complicated.  He looked into the minds of each of them,
hoping for some clue.  

"Some set-up, huh?" said one of the girls.  ~May as well make
conversation,~ she thought.  ~We're gonna be here for a while.~

"Yeah," the other one answered, "I've never done a TV commercial before." 
~I shouldn't have come here,~ she thought, ~I'm in way over my head!~

"Relax," said the first one, "we're just here to make the stars look
good.  It's easy money, really."  ~She's nervous... I guess I should make
introductions.~ "Patsy Walker."  

The second one seemed to recognize the name.  "Patsy... I know you!  From
the Patsy Walker comics!  You look just like her!"  Her thoughts:~Great,
I'm making a fool of myself just because she looks like a cartoon
character.~  

Patsy sighed.  "Yeah, I get that a lot.  My mom, she got me this job by
the way, she's a cartoonist.  She used me as the model for her comic books
and started me off on the teen modeling circuit."  ~I _hate_ when this
happens.  I could kill my mom.  Heaven forbid I could meet people like an
ordinary person!~ 

"Well, I used to read them when I was a kid.  They were great.  Uh... my
name's Jean Grey."  ~I should have brought my scrapbook or something.  I
never expected something like this.~

Mentallo grinned.  He had found the right person.  Now he just had to keep
a mental eye on her until he could find a chance to complete his task.  

"I'm glad you like them, but really, it's not that big a deal.  I'm not
too crazy about all this modeling stuff myself.  It's just my mom living
her life through me, you know?"  ~Cheese and crackers,~ Patsy thought, ~I
didn't mean to start unloading my life story on her!  I guess she's just
one of those people you find yourself bearing your soul to.~

"You find _this_ dull and dreary?" Jean asked.  "You must have some pretty
wild dreams, Patsy."  ~I should talk.  After all, I'm partly doing this to
get some time away from my hectic life in the X-Men.~

Mentallo grinned even wider.  This had to be the one he was looking for.  

"Well, to be honest," Patsy confided, "I always used to dream about being
one of those long underwear types, like a super-hero I guess."  ~Zowie, I
sound like those fans at the last convention I went to!~

"Super-hero?" Jean asked, trying to play ignorant of the subject.  "You
mean like a mutant?"  ~Sure, maybe you'd like to team up with a kid who
kidnapped you and held you hostage a few weeks ago.  All because The
Professor Says So.  Trust me, it isn't as easy as it looks.~

"I'll take what I can get, I suppose.  Of course, I guess it beats waiting
for an A-bomb or a bolt of lightning to hit me, right?"  ~Whoops, looks
like the director is counting us down while we've been woolgathering!~
"It's time for us to earn our pay, Jeanie," Patsy declared.  "Hurry up and
pretend we're having a conversation at the buffet table!"


What followed was an insufferable advertisement for potato chips, in which
the handsome young lead attempted to win over the love of a hand puppet
pig (accompanied by several well known supermodels) and fails to convince
her to share her beloved snack item.  Mentallo did his best to ignore the
proceedings, and focused on the two extras nearby.  Finally, the set
emptied and he carefully followed the girl to a trailer.  

~Odd,~ he heard her think inside the trailer, ~why would the studio
arrange for an entire trailer for one extra?~  Mentallo decided to take
advantage of the opening.  

"It's very simple, X-Man," he boomed as he opened the door,"  I arranged
for all of this so I could have an opportunity to humiliate you in
private!"  

Jean turned to face him.  "Who are you?  And how did _you_ get in here."


"My name is Mentallo, and I can tell what you're thinking.  It won't work,
you see.  I know your secret identity, and there's no way you can stop
me."  He leveled a handgun at her--it was the best he could do after the
Fixer cut off his supply of advanced weaponry--but it was enough.  "I
spent a lot of time arranging to confront you here alone, so you can
either give up now, or risk exposing your secret."

***

"You've just made the biggest mistake of your life, buddy-boy."  Boomerang
drew another throwing disc from his sleeve.  "I've thrown down with the
army and you try to threaten me with a handgun?  Don't make me laugh!"  He
pitched it and it struck the device head on, slicing the barrel in two and
lodging in the middle.  

Good, the Fixer thought.  Let the submoron think he had the upper hand. 
He was used to people consistently underestimating him.  He resented it,
sure, but that just made it more satisfying to shove words right back down
peoples' throats.  "It had occurred to me, Boomerang," he snapped back,
"which is why this little baby isn't a rifle at all!  It's a sensory device,
designed to examine new technology and pipe the information--" he
noticed Boomerang was reaching for more discs.  In response he pulled a
new machine from his weapons pack.  "--to my Counterattack Robot!" The
Fixer released it as it shifted and crackled to life.  The automaton began
whizzing around him at high speed, intercepting the other man's discs
before they even came close to their target.  

"Impressed, Boomerang?" Fixer said confidently.  "I thought you might be. 
This little number can adapt to any attack you can pull off with those
little pogs of yours.  Still think you can stop me?"

"You may have a nice set of toys, Greenie," Boomerang snarled, "but I'm
far from finished.  Seems to me that I just wrecked that probe of yours,
and that means your robot won't be expecting _this_!"  With all the speed
of a major league pitcher, he fired his boomerang from his hand.  In one
blow the helpless droid was shattered to bits, and the deceptively simple
weapon continued to fly as if nothing had happened.  

The Fixer ducked out of its path.  He had to admit, he wasn't expecting
his scanner and the Counterattack Robot to fall so quickly.  Now he was
again at the mercy of his targets metal discs in addition to the
Boomerang's trademark weapon.  He reached into another pocket of his
weapons pack.  It was time to go on the offensive.  

"Here, I've modified these Super-Balls to explode on their sixteenth
impact!  Time to see how good a ballplayer you are!"  In response,
Boomerang let loose another volley of throwing discs, this time clinging
to most of the balls and driving them to the ground with their added
weight.  

This wouldn't be as easy as he'd thought, the Fixer decided.  He had begun
the fight inside in order to confine Boomerang in close quarters.  Given
his previous battles and his arsenal, it seemed like the sensible thing to
do.  But even this hideout was too large, and it gave him the home-field
advantage.  Boomerang might not be good at tossing small explosives in a
typical room, but he was probably a master at it in his own home.  He
produced his next armament and brought it to his mouth.  


What happened next shattered yet another hole in the wall.  This time, the
building began to give way, and Boomerang had to put off his next attack
until he could leap to safety from the falling rubble.  "What in the
world?" he demanded.

The Fixer was all too happy to answer.  "My patented Jericho tubes.  I
yell into one end and the other end puts out enough power to knock down
any barricade.  S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't stand up to this, and your little
headquarters won't last much longer."  

Boomerang tried to answer with another attack, but he was too busy dodging
pieces of wood and fiberglass.  The Fixer simply stood and laughed.

"That's right, chump.  You may talk big about your track record, but it
doesn't mean beans to me!  So you fought the Hulk and tangled with the
armed forces!  Well, you lost on both counts, and there wasn't a Mensa
card anywhere in a hundred mile radius, I'll bet!"  He pulled a laser
pistol and fired it randomly to keep Boomerang on the defensive.  "As far
as I'm concerned, you're just another wannabe tinkerer!"   

Finally Boomerang extricated himself from the falling debris and sent his
discs airborne again.  "Mister," he said with all the bravado of a man who
had already won the fight, "I'm beginning to think you don't like me very
much!"  As the Fixer dodged or shot down the projectiles, the ex-pitcher
hopped to the left and threw his boomerang, knocking the gun from his hand
with enough force to pulp a steel girder.  "You're not the only one who
can do all this fake-out stuff!"  He caught his returning boomerang and
adjusted a dial on the vertex of the deadly weapon.  "Now I'll just show
you how good a tinkerer I really am!"  

And with that he threw the boomerang yet again, this time emitting a high
voltage electrical charge as it flew.  Realizing the obvious danger it
posed to his vest of electronic components, the Fixer quickly removed his
weapons pack and tossed it safely out of harm's way.  From there the
boomerang passed him harmlessly, his green jumpsuit adequately insulated
to handle such electrical shocks. 

"Nice try," he said, reaching for his portable armory, but it'll take more
than that to shut the Fixer down."  

And apparently, Boomerang had more.  Just as the Fixer took his eyes off
his opponent to check his gear, Boomerang came close enough to land a
punishing blow to his now unprotected stomach.  Caught totally unprepared,
the Fixer fell to the ground trying to recover from the blow.  

"Didn't expect that, did you, brainiac?  You're so busy selling yourself
on your gray matter that you can't even handle a simple haymaker!  Well,
little old Boomerang has the cure for that tummy-ache," he held up yet
another metal disc.  "See, this one explodes.  I didn't want to use it
since it could damage my place, but you seem to have made that academic! 
So open wide, or maybe you'd like to duke it out a little more!"

He was reveling in the reversal, the Fixer could tell.  Clearly he had
underestimated Boomerang's guile and athletic prowess. Now the situation
had become untenable, and if he was going to escape in one piece, he would
have to take advantage of his adversary's posturing.  He carefully reached
behind his back and pulled out two white plates from underneath his
costume.  He slid them onto his feet and activated them.  

"I'm the Fixer, Boomerang," he said as he levitated from the ground, still
arched over in pain.  "I don't let small setbacks or petty grudges stand
in my way!  I have what I came for," he grabbed his weapons pack and made
a beeline for the hole in the wall, "and that will have to do!"  

And that was that.  Boomerang didn't dare throw the explosive for fear of
missing and ruining what was left of his hideout.  And while he had jet
propulsion boots of his own, the Fixer had already determined that they
were far slower than his own prototype antigrav units.  He'd make his
escape and use the single throwing disc he had captured as his prize.  It
was a small victory, but at least it would show his ungrateful partner a
thing or two.  And if it was any consolation, he did have the satisfaction
of shutting down his communiqué with his prospective employers, robbing
Boomerang of the chance to show off his victory to anyone.  

Yes, it wasn't a total loss, he decided.  And he rubbed his sore abdominal
muscles in a feeble attempt to ease the pain.  

***

Jean cocked an eyebrow.  "Sorry to disappoint, Mental, or whatever you
call yourself, but I'm far more formidable than you take me for." She
reached out with her mind and plucked the firearm from his hand.  Mentallo
watched as the gun flew into her palm.  "See?"  

Without warning, her would-be assailant tackled her in one leap.  She was
taken completely by surprise, assuming that he'd never risk getting shot. 
Mentallo grabbed the pistol and stood up.  "I see a lot of things, Marvel
Girl.  For instance, I know that you'd never kill a person in cold blood,
and you've never handled a firearm before in your life.  As for me..."  He
squeezed the trigger.

Again, Jean found herself off guard.  Still, she had spent months in the
X-Men learning how to handle threats like this.  At the speed of thought
itself, she erected a telekinetic shield to stop the bullets before they
reached her.  She braced the shield for impact, but nothing happened.  She
heard the shot, but no bullet.  What was going on, she wondered.  

As if in response to her question (Why not?  He was a telepath, after
all.) Jean found herself blacking out.  It was all in her mind... some
kind of soft, incessant pulse... and her peripheral vision was beginning
to cut out.  Soon all she could see was the now glowing red outfit of her
foe.  

"Blanks, Ms. Grey.  I fired blanks at you so you'd be distracted into
using your mutant powers.  I suspected that it must take considerable
effort to wield your telekinesis, so I guessed that it'd leave you wide
open for this--" he gloated, although she could still see that whatever he
had done was visibly taxing on him as well.  Jean struggled to move again,
but she couldn't get her muscles to respond.  

"I can't control minds directly," Mentallo continued, "I can't project my
thoughts efficiently enough.  But I _can_ project a simple stimulus into
other people's minds, and if it's subtle enough and repeated enough, I can
use it as powerful hypnotic agent.  It's not traditional mind-control, but
it's superior to conventional hypnosis.  But you've probably figured that
out for yourself, haven't you?"

She had.  In the past several seconds, Jean had tried to snap herself out
of it, reassert her own willpower, but to no avail.  Unlike the standard
psychiatrist with a watch, Mentallo could tell when and how she was trying
to fight off the hypnosis, and she couldn't ignore the pulse because it
was inside her head.  She racked her brain for a way out.  People under
hypnosis wouldn't do anything they wouldn't normally do... but then she
found it difficult to distinguish her free will from what Mentallo was
projecting into her consciousness.  Mentallo was using considerable
effort, though, so she figured that he wouldn't risk forcing her to kill
someone...

"Relax, mutant," Mentallo broke in, "I'm not interested in compromising
your precious moral fibers.  This is simply a test of my skills, nothing
more."  And with that, Jean found herself reaching out with her telepathy
once again.  Her powers had been a part of her for years, and they hadn't
felt this fuzzy and imprecise since Professor Xavier first revealed them
to her.  

As the bottle of hairspray wobbled in mid-air, Mentallo voiced a similar
frustration.  "Bah!  It's like trying to perform brain surgery wearing
oven mitts!  It's too indirect for me to control your powers.  Ah, well, I
might as well get what I came for."  He approached her and produced a pair
of scissors.  "Don't worry, this won't hurt."

The Professor.  Somehow Jean thought that was the key.  She started
thinking about her mentor, the founder of the X-Men.  Certainly, Mentallo
was no match for the kind of power he possessed even if he had been
confined to wheelchair.  After all, he had helped her uncover her mutant
telekinesis, and Mentallo couldn't even control it, right?  She felt him
snip off a piece of her hair.  She also noticed that he was distracted,
ever so slightly.  

"I suppose there might be some useful information on the X-Men I could
steal while I'm at it.  Your teacher seems to know the Fantastic Four to
some degree..."  And suddenly he began to wince in pain.  "Uhn... some
kind of feedback, but my helmet... my helmet isn't blocking it all!"  

And that was all the opening she needed.  In seconds, the young mutant had
reasserted control and snatched up her enemy in her invisible grip. 
Before he could react, Jean flung him across the trailer and slammed him
into the far wall.  

Mentallo was shocked. "How... it doesn't make any sense..." he murmured.

"They don't call us 'uncanny' because we live up to expectations, pal. 
Now get out of my sight, and no funny business!"  She shook his shoulder
with her TK to underscore her advantage.  There was no way he could catch
her off guard now.  All the mind-reading in the world wouldn't win the day
this time.  Mentallo collected himself and scurried out the door.  

Jean looked in the mirror and checked her hair.  Well, at least he hadn't
done any permanent damage.  For a moment she considered detaining him or
alerting security, but she was simply to worn out from the struggle, and
with his powers it be a cinch that he'd escape again.  No, she'd let him
go, and hopefully she had shown him enough to convince him no to mess with
the X-Men anymore.  

See, Patsy, she thought, this isn't such a boring line of work after all.  

***

Day Three: The Coup That Counts

"You're telling me that she had her mind booby trapped?"  Mentallo asked
with little attempt to conceal his sarcasm.  He was sitting in a lawn
chair with a bizarre contraption attached to the back massaging his aching
body.  

"Well, you yourself told me that this Professor X is formidable telepath
_and_ a cunning headmaster," the Fixer explained.  He was drinking an iced
cappuccino while soaking his feet in a warm chemical/nutrient bath. "Maybe
he set up some kind of psionic landmine in his students in case they're
interrogated or someone tries to uncover their secrets. In the end, you
know a great deal about the X-Men but you've been sufficiently warned off
from using that information against them.  The theory holds up anyway."   

"No, it was more than that. Grey had no knowledge of it, but there was
untold psychic energies there, and they were held in check with something
deeply personal... very tragic.  The pure... emotion buried there was
enough to get past my defenses.  I don't think even Xavier would risk his
students having such a traumatic episode just for security purposes."

"In any case, you did control her for a few minutes," the Fixer pointed
out.  "And my recording shows that you obtained the hair sample.  That was
enough."

"Recording device," Mentallo spat.  "Call it what it is, Fixer. You sent
one of your infernal probes to spy on me."

"It's only fair, Mentallo," the Fixer replied.  "After all, you can read
my mind for complete and truthful account of my battle.  Why shouldn't I
have just as impartial a record?  Not that I don't trust you, of course."

"Of course," Mentallo parroted.  "A little to the left," he ordered the
machine, "Ahhh... much better.  Anyway, you have even less to show for
your efforts than I do.  Unless that single throwing disc was all you
wanted from Boomerang's cache."

"I had bigger plans, true," the Fixer answered, studying the small
circular item in his palm.  "Still, this has no less significance than
that hair you snatched.  We both held our own for a few moments, then we
were forced to retreat due to unforeseen circumstances.  There's an
important lesson to be learned from all of this." 

"What?" Mentallo asked. "That we failed to accomplish anything on our own?
That we must continue to work together in order to keep afloat in our line
of work?" 

"Hardly," the Fixer shot back.  "Imagine for a moment if we had switched
opponents, or if we battled them again knowing what we were up against. 
We might have won, but it still wouldn't be guaranteed, just because we
aren't 100% infallible.

"But if we could have somehow challenged them _together_!  Assuming there
would be some reason for Boomerang and Marvel Girl to join forces, they
would never be able to last against our _combined_ might!  Think about
it.  You would have predicted Boomerang's strategies as they happened, and
given me advance warning."

"And you wouldn't have been affected by the mutant's mental backlash,"
Mentallo finished.

"_And_ I could have used a mind-control probe to ensure her defeat," the
Fixer added.  "Anyway, what I'm getting at is that our partnership is more
powerful than the sum of our individual abilities.  The refinements I've made
in my psionic research should be proof of that."

"Which is why you wanted to arrange this little exhibition in the first
place," Mentallo concluded.  "To show that we'd have to lower our
expectations if we split up."

"Or unless we found even better partners," the Fixer pointed out with a
wry grin. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted the temperature of the
bath. "But that will have to wait."

"So what's our next move then," Mentallo asked.  

"Impatient as ever, eh?  Well, for starters, we might find an angle with
those mind control pods.  And your little impersonation of the President
gave me some inspiration..."

"This is going to be after you fix the refrigerator, right?" Mentallo asked.

"If you insist," The Fixer mused, "after all, that's what I'm here for."

THE END