Stark Tower
In the early morning of June 21st, the Stark Tower had fallen peacefully into the clutches of rare silence. Hours earlier, a recalcitrant genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist had gone to bed at Pepper's pertinacious requests (that bordered on threats).
Clint had followed soon after, mutely but indignantly, after Natasha had sent a look that no one else could read, his way. Bruce, down in the lab, had collapsed over his stack of science journals, glasses balancing askew atop the bridge of his nose.
And so no one, but JARVIS, the A.I., saw Steve, who was always an early riser, slump into the couch and hunch over a coffee table where a blank lined paper lay beside a pen engraved with the words 'Stark Industries' in gold.
Steve reached for the pen, clicked it, and started to write.
Dear Peggy,
Unclick. Click. Unclick.
The psychologist down at SHIELD Medical had advised him to express his feelings about his "waking up in the future" by putting them into words in the form of a letter to Peggy. It was a cathartic release, or so the doctor had said, but so far, Steve had yet to feel any of the relief he was promised.
Click. Unclick. Click.
It had been seventy years since she'd last seen him. Seventy years. It was an entire lifespan. A whole different century. But to him, it had only been months. Months, since he promised to go out on a date with the girl of his dreams, a girl who had now aged enough to be his grandmother.
Unclick. Click. Unclick.
Who would have known that the entire world would have changed in that short span of time? To say it was disconcerting was nothing short of an understatement.
Click. Unclick. Click.
What could he tell her? Hey, how have you been, sorry I couldn't make it for that date seventy years ago but hey, let's try again this weekend, just didn't cut it.
Unclick. Click. Unclick.
Steve didn't want to sound ungrateful. It wasn't that this century was without its perks. The food, the medicine, the living conditions were infinitely better now than they were in his time.
Yet he couldn't help but long for the stale, almost inedible meals prepared in the throes of war, devoured by famished soldiers as though it was a feast of magical properties.
He couldn't help wish he could once again lounge on his hard, uncomfortable bed underneath a leaky roof, water sneaking through the holes and splashing against his face when it rained.
And most of all, he couldn't help but close his eyes and murmur a prayer that he would wake up in a time where tablet computers and mobile phones the size of his palm didn't exist.
Click. Unclick. Click.
The Avengers were his best friends. They were his family, no doubt about it. And he wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for any one of them. But they just weren't Bucky. No one could ever replace the friend who grew up by his side since he was a child, fending of the bullies that Steve dared to challenge but didn't have the strength to.
Just as no one could ever replace Peggy, or Howard, or his team in the war.
Unclick. Click. Unclick.
It just wasn't the same.
The 21st century wasn't where he belonged.
Unclick. Click—
The pen snapped in his vice-like grasp, fragile plastic giving way under the coax of his super-soldier force. Ink hurtled out and vaulted across the distance, enthusiastically slamming themselves all over the paper, before sliding down in wet dribbles.
A globule of ink burst against the paper, smearing the only two words on the paper, and shrouding them in a blotch of dark blue ink.
Well so much for a cathartic release.
A heavy sigh rumbled heartily out of his chest and rose into the air. JARVIS thankfully made no comments.
He swept a hand across the table, sending the pitiful remnants of broken plastic and the crushed ball of ruined, blotchy paper tumbling down the side of the table and into the wastebasket.
He rose to his feet, intent on searching for new stationery. Surely Tony Billionaire Stark would have pens and paper lying around somewhere.
A drawer marked 'Stationery' caught his eye. He ambled over and pulled it open, only to find everything non-stationery in a heap of disarray within the compartment.
There were spare bits from an Iron Man suit that Tony deconstructed weeks ago, for some reason Steve didn't know, a stack of rumpled tracing paper with sketches of the team's upgraded uniforms and the occasional, odd tablet.
By now, Steve was pretty confident in his assumption that Tony kept a tablet everywhere— in the cereal cabinet, in the toilet, in between the cushions on the couch— just so he could have one in hand whenever he wanted.
It was an old model; one that had been all the rage while Steve was still slumbering beneath the ice, the world spinning in a whirlwind of change around him.
Steve, refusing to be maudlin about it, began pillaging fiercely through the drawer. It was labeled stationery, so it once must have contained stationery. Surely there was still a pen or two in here? Surely time didn't erase everything and replace it with unrecognizable things you never thought were possible?
He wasn't so sure he was talking about the pen anymore.
He unearthed an expired box of chocolates— oh Tony, what would Pepper say when she sees that you hid her gift from that unctuous shareholder?— found a broken half of a comb, and success; A pen!
A clear of a throat broke the silence. The pen fell out of his grasp, plummeting back into the cluttered chaos below. He whirled around, falling into a crouch, arms raised in a defensive stance.
Two figures stood before him. One was tall, dark and imposing. A black cloak hung off his shoulders, cascading down his body in black, intimidating waves. He was bald, with thin lips that Steve was sure he'd never seen curve into a smile that was affable and not frightening. But his most distinguishable feature was the eye patch that lay over one eye, hiding it from view.
Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD.
Beside him stood a girl, petite with startling blue eyes and slightly over shoulder-length mocha-brown hair. She couldn't have been more than seventeen. Her gaze seemed to reach deep into his soul and unravel the secrets he didn't even know about himself; he shuddered, though it was the result of more than just her penetrating gaze. There was something deeply familiar about her, something he couldn't put his finger on.
He decided to ask the obvious question. "How—"
Fury must have been anticipating it, he was the spy after all, because he interrupted Steve with a "All will be explained in due time, Captain. Now, if you don't mind, could you get the team down here so we can discuss matters at hand?"
It wasn't a question.
"JARVIS?" Steve called out.
If someone was impersonating Fury, there was no way he could get past JARVIS, could he?
JARVIS, bless his system, understood the implied question. "I have informed the others. They are on their way over now. Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?"
Well, if JARVIS wasn't alarmed, Steve saw no need to be either. Instead, he moved to occupy his previous spot on the couch, and observe the pair who had somehow managed to get into the tower without notice.
"I'm Steve Rogers," he volunteered to break the uncomfortable silence.
For a moment, that unnerving gaze slid off his face and turned to Fury, who, despite the cool, emotionless exterior he exuded, squirmed the slightest bit in discomfort. Respect for the Director bludgeoned Steve into hiding the grin that threatened to break out upon his face.
He wouldn't smile for long.
She turned back to him. "I know."
He gulped.
"Ah Fury!" a voice Steve had never been more thankful in his life to hear, emerged and filled the foreboding silence. "What a delight! What brings you here?"
Tony, sanguine as always, headed straight for the coffeepot, as though it had been his plan all along to have Fury crash his living room with an unknown teenaged girl.
The others flocked in after him: Clint, somehow utterly alert in creased Hawkeye pajamas; Natasha looking as impeccable as always in an unwrinkled skin-tight dress; and Bruce, blearily rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Together they made up the formidable Avengers.
Fury gestured for the team to take their seats. "Now, the Avengers Initiative was a success. You saved Manhattan from Loki's hands, and you showed the Executive Board of Directors just what you can do."
Silence, as he cast his one-eyed gaze across the team. "But," he paused. "No matter how extraordinary, no matter what enhancements," here, gave Steve and Bruce a meaningful glance, "you got, you still aren't immortal. One day, you'll have to retire, and when that day comes, a new team needs to be ready to take over and keep the world safe from harm."
Tony set his mug down. "I—"
"The Executive Board of Directors and I have come to an agreement that the potential team shall commence training with you. Each of the team members will be sent to live with you, go on missions with you, as well as help Steve and Thor adapt to our world. Occasionally, they will be recalled to SHIELD for missions, as well as tests that evaluate their capability as an Avenger. If they fail," Fury glanced at the girl. "You'll never see them again."
Shivers scuttled down Steve's spine; the girl's expression remained unchanged. "That's inhumane."
"There's nothing humane about Loki or the threats that threatens our world. We need the best to give our world the best chance of survival." He turned towards the lift, his back facing the seated team. "I'll send along the others in a while. For now, meet the potential new co-leader of the Avengers."
The lift doors slid open with a gentle ding. Fury stepped in, gave them one last pointed look before the doors closed, and he was gone.
"What's going on?" a harried Pepper emerged, strawberry blonde hair a tangled mess atop her head. "I heard the commotion. Did something happen? Is something attacking New York again? Is Tony touching alcohol?"
Tony looked up from his mug. "I resent that. I'm perfectly capable of being sober."
"For a whole seven hours that you spent sleeping. It's a new record," Clint snickered.
"Thankyou for your contribution Clint. See what upgrades I'll give to your bow for that," Tony sniped back.
"Hey you leave Eliza out of this!" Clint said, rising to his feet defensively.
"You named your bow Eliza?" Tony was chortling so infectiously Steve couldn't help but smile.
"Well it's a she, what else—"
"Boys!" Pepper chided. "Now I don't know about you, but there's a girl in our living room." She turned to the girl, offering her a gentle smile. "Hi, what's your name, sweetie?"
The girl didn't blink. "I'm Kennedelia. Kennedelia Coulson."