In the year was 1886, and I had finished my tenure as a graduate student at Oxford University after being brought from the Cape Colony in the South of Africa eight years earlier. Needless to say, the attention received by common Londoners wasn't the most positive, but my time in Oxford had forced my name to be distinguished among those coming to enjoy the frivolities of modern civilization. With a degree of medicine under my belt, my use in the many colonial wars was seen with great favor, allowing me to climb the ranks unlike most others in my station. Before long, in the year of 1898, I was a captain, a medic, and a renowned fighter, with those alongside me giving me the moniker the Iron Loyalist. I wasn't a fan of this; I would much prefer James Rhodes, MD, but I digress.

This year was of great importance, where I learned of a man once thought myth, but was now legend. I had been previously harmed in my battles in the new colonies, leaving me with little but a limp in my left leg, though my shooting hand was as impeccable as ever. Thus, given the job of escorting the wealthy and powerful to and from the noble university I had gained my degree, I was delighted knowing that such people came to not only partake in parlay, but to see me. Germany, Russia, Bulgaria, Italy, France, Spain; the legend of the Iron Loyalist had gone far, though many were disheartened to see I was less than capable given my injuries. Nevertheless, my job was easy as could be. Until, suddenly, on the eve of July 16th, the world came crashing down.

A regimen escort of the duke of Bohemia, Wenceslaus the third, had been brought through the library of Oxford, down its steps, and to a car leading quite aways to the docks. He had insisted that he take the car himself, for there were no dangers in London; a fact which I agreed with, despite my knowledge of pickpockets and radicals. As I stood from the steps of Oxford, a most terrible deed did occur: the car he was driving had exploded in a flurry of fire and shrapnel, with screams and screeching heard from afar. I had sprinted to the scene to find any sign of the duke, a charred corpse found in the wreck. But to me, something didn't sit right; it didn't seem like the duke. Perhaps it was the body's disfigurement getting to me, but while others were adamant that he had been slain, I was less convinced. I had been a fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, wishing to be a real-life Sherlock, but I wasn't cut out for it. The man I met soon after, however, was.

I was in my personal study on York Street when a knock came from my door; I had not invited anyone over, and so I was surprised to say the least. Reaching for my cane and approaching the door, I could feel the presence of the visitor even from behind solid wood, making me instinctively reach for the gun in my waistcoat.

"Don't bother." The sophisticated yet gruff voice said from behind my door. "Were I to harm you, the window into your kitchen would be just fine. Were I disposed to do you harm, you would not have had the chance to fight back."

I left the gun at my waist and opened the door, seeing as the man knew more about me than I knew about myself. He was of average height, fine waistcoat and cloth, with thick black hair, uneven beard with cut marks, and the look in his eye as if he hadn't slept for weeks. The brow was furrowed, as if I were a mathematical equation, and he was the eraser.

"May I…help you?"

"Hmm, most likely not, but perhaps you can help me." He strode into my home, without so much as an apology for his remark. "Fine place here, enough for a colonel. What be your salary, I wonder? A guinea per month? Surely you could afford better than a Thurber for self defense."

I was taken aback, hiding the gun with my waistcoat, feeling vivisected in my own foyer. "Who are you? If you are not about to give me some reason to allow you to stay, I'd prefer you leave before you insult me further."

"My deepest apologies, it seems most people don't recognize me on sight anymore." He held out a hand, pushing his chin up to give some sense of nobility to himself. "Anthony Stark, man of science, at your service."

"Stark? As in the industrialist? You're far and away from Bakersville, I would think."

"I do much more for London than the authorities would like to admit. Case in point, it seems the police were far too eager to cover the sudden death of our fair duke of Bohemia; however, knowing you, dear Doctor Rhodes, I would assume you've had your doubts. You may not know me on sight, but I know much of the Iron Loyalist."

Rhodes nodded, feeling misplaced even in his own house, but less so seeing as this man shared his disbelief at the current situation. "Indeed."

"And you've had doubts because you've developed a peculiar eye for details. The body didn't seem right, did it?"

"…aye, it did not. But how did you…"

"Oh, Scotland Yard's security is lacking in the highest order. Not the first or last time I shall break in. Nevertheless, while I can confirm the body is not that of the duke's, I do require your assistance in trying to find where his real body travelled to. And so, I am in need for a guard for my time near Oxford, if you can believe it. I believe pay in the form of forty shillings for your service shall be manageable."

My jaw dropped at the figure. Forty! For naught but a tour of the grounds! "Shall we be going, sir Stark?"

"One: do not call me that. For now, call me…Holmes." He grinned, and I laughed too. He was aware of the implications. "And two: at dusk we go. Less people on the street."

"Absolutely." And I bided my time until then.

Dusk approached at Oxford, and I was stationed near the entrance, observing the crowd for my new compatriot. He was swift with his arrival, and quite subtle, seeing as I jumped out of my skin the moment he appeared behind me.

"Were you followed?" He asked me, shifting in his overcoat, peeling dark smudges from his face.

"No, I've…been here all day. Where were you?"

"Remaining undetected. Come, the street. Where be the wreckage of the car?"

He went barrelling down the stairs, and I followed, trying to catch up in both the conversation and the pace. "There, fifty meters down the road. A small Humber which he himself insisted on driving. The wreckage was moved over, but the police do not like allowing anyone near it."

"I see." Stark ran down the road, leaving me limping and unable to catch up.

I could see the soot on the road from where the vehicle had ignited, as well as the streaks of where the blasted metal was pushed to near the side of the road. There was a single officer from Scotland Yard standing nearby, with Stark approaching the man. It wasn't a moment later that the officer had been incapacitated and brought to rest on the side of the street, and I was left stunned and limping that much faster. Catching up to him, he seemed quite relaxed despite him knocking an officer unconscious.

"Are you bloody mad!"

"No, not particularly." He sniffed and moved to the wreckage, blowing off his previous actions. "Fascinating thing, the automobile. Given a few years, we shall be flying in such things."

"Are you not going to acknowledge this?! What if he wakes up!"

"We shall say his head had a solid hit on the pavement. This is not my first police scene, now be professional!" I stood up straight at his tone. "The vehicle was hit in the engine, causing the fuel tank to ignite, and thus, exploding. There must be a source of ignition that is not just the engine misfiring. Faulty? Possibly, but not enough to do something this catastrophic. No, this explosion likely originated at the fuel tank. Rhodes, look at this."

I shuffled over to where he crouched, peering at the underside of the hunk of metal. His thumb pressed over a rough patch of metal, identifying a blown-out piece of metal on the western side of the vehicle, and the moving to find a smaller hole on the eastern portion.

"An explosion caused the tank to burst, correct?" I asked.

"Indeed, but not from nothing. No, this was caused by a bullet passing through the tank and igniting it. Quite the bullet, given this damage. Interestingly enough, the angle…" He backed up and brought himself into the middle of High Street. "There. From the parapets of the entrance. That would be the perfect angle to fire through the gas tank."

I still wasn't following, and he could see the confusion in my face. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground, having me approach. "So, we have identified what killed him; that won't comfort Austro-Hungary. They're already accusing Britain of assassinating their liaison."

"But if we can find out what happened to the real duke Wenceslaus, we will avoid war. Look, the street: would these not be the tire marks of our dear friend's automobile?"

"Indeed."

"Then we can see that they are not the same size as the tires on this car which has been ignited. In fact, far from it, the duke's vehicle had much smaller tires. Given that High Street has been closed for some time, I would assume that the only vehicle that could have made that would be speeding up or slowing down to a halt. And since this wreck was still moving when it went up in flames, that means our dear duke drove out of here in a hurry, and quick."

"How?" I saw the car moving. I saw it go up in flames. There was no way there could be a bait and switch.

"How many vehicles and people were on High Street when it went off? Several injured, so many pedestrians. Vehicles and horses?"

"I'd say…quite a few by most means."

"There we go. I doubt there are many Humbers in the city with appearances deviated from the duke's. He begins driving, a car almost identical to his slips in behind him and goes off. You saw what you saw because whoever did this wanted you to think that that's what happened. Do you think people ahead of this vehicle would stop? They'd panic and drive away, exactly what they wanted to duke to do. But I know for a fact he didn't panic; he was told what to do, and executed it to a tee."

I was stunned, astounded and blinded. It was true: panic set in and people went blind, they assumed the worst. The duke could be alive? But where. "Why would the duke do such a thing?"

"Maybe because whoever told him to do it had him wrapped around their finger. Tell me, did he speak to anyone on his way out?"

"No; he went straight out, through the library after talking to the president of the university. I was with him the entire time."

"Then this was planned in advance…and our only lead is the shooter."

We left the officer and went into the university, climbing to the parapets that Stark suspected the assailant had fired from. Being up there gave us several insights: the general field of view, as well as evidence of a shooter. A spent casing was nearby from a Springfield rifle, and with evidence of a tripod for ease of aiming. Someone had scoped out this place and used a rifle so common that it couldn't be tracked. All that was left were the finer details: something Stark seemed to be thankful for.

"Tobacco, nervous smoker with his own paper. Smell the brand?" I sniffed it and nodded. "Where do you think its from?"

"I used the same stuff while in the Cape Colonies, since its grown there. So we're looking for an experienced shooter with a stake in the Cape Colonies for military service…I know a few."

"How many that are willing to work for the highest bidder?"

"That would be Hawkeye. Nickname we had for one of our colonels. He was one hell of a shot, but the stuff he did…it would give most men nightmares. Discharged and disappeared, but not for too long it seems."

Stark nodded. "So, we have a disgraced rifleman, a fake death, and a lost duke…putting the pieces together, it seems we need to find our man to keep Austro-Hungary from losing their heads."

"But how will we find a man that doesn't want to be found?"

Stark smiled. "Simple: we don't. Because knowing the duke, if you or I were in his position, he would want to be found. He would leave a trail of something – anything – to get our attention. And the easiest thing to get a hold of in excess in a vehicle would be…"

"Oil."

We looked over to the cobbled streets, our vantage point giving us a birds-eye view of the scene and further down the road. Indeed, beyond the initial area several dozen meters away, there was a faint glimmering streak of a died black tar in the street. We went down again, waking the officer and telling him of sleeping on the job, me trying not to smirk during the conversation he and Stark had. We went down the street to find the slick trail of oil dotting the cobblestones; not so thick as to draw attention, but more common than to assume several cars had sprung a leak.

"I think we have our trail." He announced, and I agreed. "Now, to find where it leads. Can you get us an automobile…" He stopped. "Nevermind, rather not have an issue where we go up in flames. A horse and buggy shall do."

The trail of oil came to a halt outside of London, but at this point, the roads had turned to dirt and gravel, leaving us with tracks to investigate outside the city. It seemed that the vehicle was much heavier than that of a standard buggy, identifying the heavy-set and thin wheel marks in the dirt as our target. Following it for little over an hour, we arrived at a small hamlet to the South and East of London, with many folks in this area believing such a machine to be made of magic.

The tracks were outside the village leading to a farmhouse which seemed abandoned. Speaking to some of the more well-read locals, we found that indeed a vehicle did arrive in this part of time several days before, though where it had gone no one knows. No one else seemed the wiser as to who might be driving said car, which was perfect for this Hawkeye fellow: no one in a town like this would ask many questions.

We approached the farmhouse, reaching the large wooden doors to the barn, and I retrieved the pistol from my waist. Stark snickered, and I threw up a curious eyebrow.

"Is something the matter?"

"Oh, no. Nothing at all, but perhaps…what if you miss your shot?"

"I never miss."

He seemed taken aback by my certainty. "Nevertheless, if there are multiple assailants, perhaps you can never miss…multipole times." And held out his hand, which held an ornate American Dragoon revolver. I took the heavy weapon in hand and he nodded.

"Wouldn't you prefer to be armed, Sta- I mean, Holmes?"

"Oh, dear Rhodie, I'm never outgunned when armed with knowledge." And he kicked open the barn door and ran inside.

There, in the hay and other refuse which would be expected to be sitting in such a place, was the Humber I had believed exploded several days ago. Indeed, the vehicles were near similar, making but the simple act of panic making this one invisible. Inspecting it, I could see some soot and explosive debris on its rear, but otherwise it seemed fine. With the car accounted for, we moved to the adjacent house, ready to fight through an army to reclaim this duke for the good of Europe. Upon breaching the housed, we could see there was no need; the duke was seated in a lush chair before a roaring fire, reading from a book while a cup of tea sat steeping on a table nearby. He jumped to his feet the moment he had entered his abode, looking halfway between surprised and relieved.

"Wenceslaus the third?" Stark asked.

"Yes, yes! Are you who they said would come to retrieve me?"

We looked at one another. "Who might that be?"

"They said to wait here, that if I didn't follow their orders….my family." His words failed him for a moment before he recomposed. "Is my family safe?"

"They will be." I said, trying to comfort him as Stark began to inspect the premises. "Now, who took you here? And who destroyed the vehicle behind your own?"

"I did not receive their names; I was ordered to follow their orders, and if not, my family would suffer in my place. They said to drive to this location, and to await further instruction. No one has come to see me, but at night…I could see someone in the darkness, watching me, keeping me here. I dared not leave, for fear of my family. There was a man here with me, captured. We spoke for a time before he was dragged outside and killed, and I was left alone…oh God, I must get out of here!"

"I see." Stark said, inspecting a painting on the rotting walls. "And now the question: you're alive, why? Why go to the trouble of kidnapping a duke and faking his death? Surely, they wanted to create upheaval and unrest by your supposed death, as we are seeing from Austro-Hungary. But this makes little sense to keep you alive unless you are needed for something. What secrets do you know about your country's military? Certainly, a duke of Bohemia is in charge of his own countrymen, nothing in regards to secret superweapons, not unlike your predecessors. No, Bohemia is unique for Austro-Hungary, due to your rich history and political sway because of this. Therefore…you are of value for your knowledge not of the weapons or military, but of the establishment and your name's sway."

I had no words to come back with, listening intently and trying to understand. "What you're saying is…?"

"The duke is worthwhile alive because he knows everyone and anyone in power in those countries his duchy is part of. If there were a war, all a powerful man needs are the right names that this fellow knows. He presses on them a bit, and anything he wants is done in no time. Therefore, the duke may be dead, but his intimate knowledge is not. Curious: a war and Austro-Hungary under someone's thumb, but why…?"

The question was answered by a bullet passing through the window and embedding itself into the chair the duke had been seated in, making me tackle him to the floor. The first shot was warning us, I am certain, and I was in no mood to stand and take a bullet between the eyes. Stark, however, seemed less concerned with his well-being.

"Stark, get down!"

"I think not." He smiled for a moment and pulled off his waist coat, freeing his arms for movement. "I believe we shall deal with this 'Hawkeye' promptly."

Under his vest and high-collar shirt was a strange device he had kept hidden until now. Pressing upon it, his skin was soon covered by strange rust-brown metal plates, sliding over his arms, legs, and hands. He retrieved a flattened bit of metal from his back, pulling it out and unfolding it as he fit it over his head, protecting him as he walked out of the house.

The moment he walked outside, several more bullets fired towards us, aiming for his head. To the shooter's chagrin, it seemed that the bullets had no effect upon the metallic armor Stark wore, the bullets ricocheting or flattening and falling. Bullets soon fired towards his limbs, his arms and legs taking little to no damage upon each impact, the bullets becoming more precise. Strangely enough, the bullets were of an odd shape: custom crafted, they appeared longer and more arrow-like than that of the standard .303 cartridges Springfield rifles often fired. The extended volley of fire gave my time to look to see the shooter was perched upon a hill some two kilometers away; quite the distance for any shooter, but not for our culprit.

"Rhodie, please escort our dear duke back to Oxford university. Take the car, I shall deal with our assailant."

I followed his orders, rushing to the barn to prepare the car and assist the duke in climbing inside. Meanwhile, Stark closed the distance between himself and the shooter, his suit giving him the ability to run faster than any man, his jumps giving him several meter's distance per stride. The shooter could see the approaching man and stood, folding his weapon upon his back before retrieving something more appropriate for close-range combat. A compact shortbow sat in his hands, and he fired off several volleys of arrows in rapid succession, the weapon managing to cause some issue to Stark as he arrived near the shooter, the arrows prepared with some sort of metal and design to cut through his metal.

The assailant was clad in tweed and a bowler hat meant to obscure his face, though Stark could see a stubbled beard on the man's chin. He swung with lightning-quick reflexes, the shooter dodging and countering Stark's attacks with the blunt ends of his shortbow. It seemed his skill with the weapon as both a ranged and melee device was certain, and the iron-clad genius had a difficult time finding openings to gain the advantage. They soon stood at attrition with one another, unable to best the other. Stark could see me and the duke heading back to London, and from my perspective, the battle seemed won and lost in the same instance. The shooter still kept his face hidden from Stark, the latter beginning the conversation.

"Quite the shooter I must say. I'd expect you to be more adept with a longbow, however."

"Don't need it." He said with a thick cockney accent. "Got me longbow right 'ere." Patting the rifle on his back. It was unique, ornate, and modified to fire further, more accurately, and with custom bullets. "Seems this job was a blunder, wasn't it? Without Wenceslaus under your thumb, it seems you're at a bit of a disadvantage. What might Bohemia say after their duke is returned to them?"

"Not sure, since I spiked his tea." He said with a toothy grin. "Poor bugga won't be making it home."

"But…his knowledge. Doesn't that make him a valuable asset?" Stark later told me he had a face of utter disbelief under his iron mask.

"He told me 'erething few days ago. He don't think too straight when captured, thought I shoot meself." He laughed a bit as dropped a vial on the grassy earth before him. "If you run, you might be able to give him the antidote…"

Stark calculated his options and saw that the duke was of more use alive than dead. He grabbed the vial and sprinted to the car I was in, and the moment I saw him approaching, I slammed on the breaks. In my fascination with the battle, I had forgotten about the duke: he was clutching his chest, heaving and sucking in air, trying to stay conscious. Stark arrived moments later, giving me the glass to crack open and force into the duke's throat. However, despite this, it seemed that it was futile; men were indeed easy to predict in a panic, and the moment we realized that this vial held nothing more than water, the shooter was gone, and our duke was dead. If anything, this made the ride back to London all the more awkward.

Back at my home, Stark was disassembling the device he had deployed over his skin, which took more time than I would have thought. The knight-like armor was lain out on the living room floor, and I had finished making tea to soothe our troubled minds. He was far too eager to inspect the damage done to his armor than to worry about the duke.

"Interesting skills with shooting, and even more so given his arrows…" He inspected one of the arrowheads embedded in his breastplate, leaving a nice star-shaped hole in his shirt. "It appears to be of a unique metal alloy I am no familiar with, much stronger than my own. I must conduct experiments and find out more about this…"

"Stark." His eyes locked onto mine as I approached. "We have more pressing matters: the duke is dead."

"The duke was always dead; if anything, we tied up loose ends for both ourselves and our enemies."

"Ourselves? You're saying this as if it were a positive thing."

"The duke's death was a tragedy, but not enough to begin a way. No, instead, it can be blamed on a faulty car, something Britain must take responsibility for, but it will be enough to prevent military escalation. Instead, we know someone is interested in destabilizing the powers of Europe, and that they plan on doing this through deceit, lies, and murder. This is no freak accident or simple hit: this is something much bigger that we must get to the bottom to."

"And you would like me to be a part of this?"

"Every Holmes needs a Watson." Stark winked. "Yes, I suppose we must get to the bottom of this; before that, however, we need another lead to go on, and our dear Hawkeye left us with little to work with."

"Then perhaps I can be of some assistance."

The sudden inclusion of an unfamiliar voice made me drop both saucers of tea and reach for my waistcoat, pulling out the Dragoon revolver and pointing it towards the source. Stark jumped to his feet, grasping what appeared to be the 'hand' of his suit and fitting it on, his palm igniting in brilliant blue light.

At the end of both of our barrels was a tallish man, wearing a darker suit, and with a head devoid of hair, and skin almost as dark as mine. A thick beard, an eyepatch over his left eye, and a scar running from his crown, over said eye, and to his cheek. He was too comfortable being at the business end of a weapon and walked by like we were but flies on a lamppost. His voice was unmistakeably American, making him more of a sore thumb than he realized.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Stark said, his tone somewhat snide.

"The son of a bitch that's going to give you the chance to save more than Europe: you're going to save the world." I propped up an eyebrow as he sat on a couch perpendicular to Stark's, pointing to the cracked china on the ground. "Fetch me one of those, if you don't mind, Rhodes."

"You know me?"

"I know both of you, and I need your help." He pulled out a cigar and lit the end, sucking in before leaving thick puffs of smoke as he spoke again. "I'm putting together a team, and I think you two might fit the bill."