Chapter Eighty-Three: The Ant Man

When Scott Lang returned home, he gazed at the motorcycle suit with a heavy sigh. After all his trouble, he had gained nothing. How was he going to pay his daughter's child support? Carrying the suit, Scott went into the bathroom. He found it odd—why keep such a shabby outfit locked away in such a secure vault? He was determined to see what was so special about it.

Inspecting the suit, Scott discovered it was quite unusual. Tubes and wires ran along the fabric, and the belt seemed to be some kind of device. He even pulled a small vial of red liquid from the belt but had no idea what it was. He put on the old suit, surprised to find that it fit him perfectly.

Standing inside the bathtub, Scott looked at himself in the mirror. The red leather, the circuits, the helmet with its exaggerated design—it all made him look like a cartoonish armored warrior. Wait, why was there a button on his hand?

“What’s wrong, Scott?” came a voice—it was Luis and the others, back already. He couldn’t let them see him like this. Scott quickly drew the shower curtain.

He pressed the button on his left hand—nothing happened. Then he pressed the button on his right. Suddenly, his body shrank rapidly, dropping him into the tub below. He hit the bottom with a thud.

Wait—there was no pain? Scott looked around. Oh my god! What was happening? He was still in the bathtub, but now it seemed vast, like a canyon. He realized immediately that the bathtub hadn’t grown—he had shrunk. He was now no bigger than an ant!

“The world looks different from this perspective, doesn’t it, Scott?” a voice said from inside the helmet.

“What? Who’s talking?” Scott looked around frantically.

Suddenly, the curtain was pulled open—it was Luis, getting ready for a bath. Luis reached for the faucet and turned on the water. Scott shouted with all his might, but at his size, his voice was too tiny to be heard.

“This is a difficult trial, Scott—or, shall we call it a trial by tap water,” the voice in the helmet said again.

A torrent of water gushed from the tap, a raging deluge to Scott. He turned and ran, but the water was far too fast. The current swept him toward the edge of the tub, flinging him out and slamming him onto the floor below, cracking the tiles.

“You’re even tougher than I thought!” the voice continued.

Suddenly, Scott heard the sound of a zipper—it was Luis taking off his pants. “I don’t want to see you undress!” Scott shouted, but Luis couldn’t hear him.

Luis’s jeans landed right on top of Scott, who rolled aside just in time. He tumbled into a crack in the tile and fell through the thin ceiling below, dropping into the bar downstairs.

The dimly lit bar was packed with people dancing wildly to blaring music and flashing lights. Scott landed on the DJ’s spinning vinyl record. Clinging to the grooves, he suddenly found the giant stylus bearing down on him. The needle struck him, sending him flying to the floor.

Scott scrambled up and ran toward the exit, dodging enormous shoes stomping down around him—young people dancing to the beat. He had to keep weaving between the pounding feet, the wooden floor trembling with every step. In a desperate, breathless state, he finally reached a floor drain and leaped through, dropping down the pipes to the floor below.

He landed on a soft carpet—finally, a normal room. But before he could catch his breath, a powerful suction whisked him away. A woman was vacuuming, and Scott was sucked into the machine.

Inside the vacuum, it was as if he were caught in a tornado, tossed and battered by the swirling air. Just as he thought he would lose his lunch, the vacuum finally shut off. The woman turned it off, and Scott slammed into the fabric dust bag.

With a pop, Scott burst through the dust bag, escaping the vacuum and landing on the floor. He dashed for the gap under the bedroom door, gasping for breath, his heart pounding from the harrowing escape.

Just then, a feral screech rang out. Scott turned to see a huge gray rat crouched beside him—the size of a small mountain from his perspective. The rat spotted him and lunged with open jaws.

Scott ran as fast as he could. Ahead was a mousetrap—he leapt onto it, and the instant he touched it, the trap snapped, flinging him through the air and smashing him through a window, sending him plummeting to the street below.

“Aaaaah!”

He crashed onto the roof of a parked car with a thud. Suddenly, he returned to his normal size, lying atop the car, gasping for breath.

“Not bad for a first trial. Keep the suit safe—I’ll be in touch,” Dr. Pym’s voice came through the helmet.

“No, no, no! That’s quite enough!” Scott, startled and shaken, leaped off the car and hurried home.

All of this occurred under Dr. Pym’s watchful eye; Arthur and Hope were with him, observing. Scott had been through the wringer—an ordinary person would have been traumatized by such an ordeal. Poor Scott, Arthur thought, shaking his head—there were more trials yet to come.

Arriving home, Scott immediately stripped off the suit, stuffed it into his backpack, and rushed out toward Dr. Pym’s villa—he wanted to return the suit as soon as possible.

What Scott didn’t know was that as soon as he set out, Hope called the police, reporting a break-in and that the burglar was still inside, urging them to respond quickly.

Arthur watched Hope, marveling at how cunning women could be. This was a perfect case of using official means for personal revenge—Hope had never accepted her father choosing Scott over her as the successor to the Ant-Man suit.

As expected, Scott was caught red-handed by the police as he tried to return the suit to the basement and leave the villa. This time, there was no way he could talk his way out of trouble.

“All right, I’m going to the station to have a word with Scott,” Dr. Pym said as he watched Scott being taken away by the police.

“I’ll come with you—it’ll be more convenient that way,” Arthur said.

Dr. Pym nodded, thinking that Arthur’s Avengers status might smooth things at the police station. Unfortunately, he was mistaken—Arthur had no intention of drawing attention to himself.

They drove to the station, where a Black police officer stopped them at the door. “What’s your business here?”

“Take us to see Scott Lang, the man you just brought in,” Arthur instructed.

The officer, expressionless, led them to the interrogation room, told them to wait, and went to fetch Scott.

“Do you know him?” Dr. Pym asked.

“No,” Arthur replied.

“Then why did he obey you so readily?” Dr. Pym was puzzled—why had the officer listened to Arthur without question?

“I controlled him. When we’re done, I’ll erase his memory and make sure there are no loose ends,” Arthur replied.

Dr. Pym nodded, though he suddenly found Arthur a little terrifying—able to control someone without their knowledge. Clearly, Arthur was sincere in his intentions; if he wanted to, he could have easily taken his research.

…