Hey, new author here, not really sure how things work on here. I'm just going to put this author's note here because I've seen it done before and I thought it was a cool idea, If you guys don't want to read it, or just don't like it, send me a heads up 'cause I don't need to write there things, I just figured readers might want a sneak-peak into the author's head.
Anyway, The concept behind this is bringing all the avengers together as kids, with all their powers. There's going to be some major backstory involved, mostly for the Godly-Bros, Black-Widow and The EGRM (Hulk). They'll be minor backstory for the good Cap' (tons of feels though, hopefully) and Major future-story for the metal-kid (pre-metal) and Loki.
If the first intro (Bruce Banner) sucks, please try your hardest to reach the others, I think the first is my worst.
If their are any questions, inaccuracies, points of information, points of worship, questions, gramatical errors or questions, send me a note, I'll respond as best as I can.
Over-and-out,
NotACorpse
Bruce Banner had never been normal, not as far back as he could remember at least. Normal kids didn't wake up to find anxious adults that they had never seen before standing over them. Normal kids didn't find find themselves surrounded by broken things, lamps, chairs, toys, even walls that had holes through the plaster. The wall-holes happened most often and he had had time to examine them, they appeared so often. His spread hand was just slightly larger than the holes, but his fist could fit through easily. Normal eleven-year-olds didn't have to read the dictionary so much. Normal kids didn't have to lie so often. Normal kids never fell asleep when talking, playing, or just standing.
Bruce Banner had never been normal, but he always wanted to be.
When he woke up after a "fit" (Which is what the doctors called the odd naps, it really meant many things, but the most accurate seemed to be "an extreme outbreak of intense emotion.") he would find his arms and legs hurting, like after a intense game of tag (not that he played that game much anymore), or a run around the building. His knuckles would hurt too, like he had knocked them on stone or something. Sometimes he would look down and they would be smeared with red and there would be white plaster on them. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened. After one of these "fits" happened he would walk back to his bed, press the blue button on the table, then curl up and wait for the doctor to arrive. They would come quickly, but he had time.
Time to think.
Time to look around.
Time to look at the sheets thrown into the corner, the powdery chunks of plaster that littered the floor, the window that was beginning to crack and the blinds that were bent and torn up, scattered on the floor like broken limbs.
Then the doctors came in. They were dressed in colorful and confusing shirts that were always too long and always had short sleeves. There were usually three, one was always a woman. The woman would ask him if he was alright and talk to him as if he was a baby. "Oh," she would say, "You poor baby, it's alright now." Then she would coo and fuss about, picking up his sheets and fixing them onto the bed correctly. She would then tuck him in, and the assistants would hang pictures over the holes and claim that they would be plastered later. They never asked if he had done it. He never told them he did, he couldn't remember doing it, but he knew he had. The doctors would cast wary glances at him and spell words out over his head, as if he couldn't read. Then they would say other words.
"D-I-D," one said about him, "He has D-I-D." DID turned out to be Dissociative Identity Disorder, which turned out to mean having a bunch of different people in one body.
Another suggested bipolar disorder.
Another simply called him a very angry kid with short-term-memory loss.
He called himself Bruce, and he knew something was wrong with him.
Thor and Loki, named like the gods of nordic mythology, were two young boys of eleven and ten, respectively. They had been passed from foster home to orphanage to foster home again, moving was nothing new to them, but thankfully, due to some miracle, they had stayed together during their trip of nine years through the system. For some reason they couldn't be settled in a Foster home, they were always moving, always changing, always switching parents. They did not change their last name, Odinson, they might have at one point; neither boy could remember, but they did not any longer.
If the system had changed the boys, they wouldn't know, after all, children came in all shapes in sizes, and if Thor threw a few more tantrums, or Loki was a bit quieter than other boys their age, they couldn't tell. They both sat on the black leather of a small, silver car quietly. Thor was fiddling through a book they had gotten from their last house, from the little girl who was an actual part of the family. Ironically the foster family's name was Foster.
The little girl's name was Jane. She was very nice, even if Thor didn't particularly like her dress-up games or tea-party, like most kids she could play a mean game of tag, and never cried or insulted Thor when he won. She would get up, pull the leaves from her hair, grin, and run off again. They would play like that for hours, Loki would even join in sometimes, though his style of tag was to hide in the thick bushes until Jane or Thor had caught each other, or if he was it; jump out of the bush and tackle whoever it was that ran by him.
Thor thought as he opened the book, "Ancient Nordic Myths & Legends" that he missed Jane, and would very much like to see her again. He flipped to the part about Thor, his namesake and looked at the picture. The god stood tall, his legs slightly spread apart looking up at a point in the distance. He held a large hammer in his hand "mjolnir," it was called. Lightning was flying off the metal part of the handle and Thor curled his fingers around the invisible, leather-wrapped handle of his own mjolnir and lifted it seeing it's ancient, yet oddly new metal sparkle in the sun.
Loki looked away from the window and saw Thor looking at his raised fist with an expression he knew very well. Loki had disliked his brother's book for very similar reasons to why Thor liked it, while in the book, Thor had been a Hero, the prince of the Aesir people and an adventurer no less, Loki had been very different. Loki had been The god of Chaos, Lies, Treachery, Trickery, most of the time there hardly seemed to be a good thing about his namesake. The Loki in the book had been captured, tortured, had his mouth sewn shut and had been bullied a lot really, even if he was a lier.
"Admiring Mjolnir again, brother?" he asked, turning his thoughts away from the mythical Loki and back to his brother, who grinned.
"Mjolnir is the best weapon a thunder god could ask for." Thor said and the man driving the car chuckled.
"A thunder god? Thor you mean, or is it Zeus? I have to say I'm more familiar with the greek ones."
"Who is this Zeus? Of course I mean Thor, I bear his name!" he bellowed, a grin on his face, he seemed to love whenever anyone mentioned the mythical Thor. The man in the driver's seat laughed again and Thor's grin grew bigger.
"Ah, so you're Thor then, And so your brother must be Loki? Your names were in the files," He said by way of explanation, He looked at the two boys separated by the middle seat in the car and they saw his blue eyes and receding hairline before he put his eyes back to the road.
"Yes, he is Loki, god of tricks, and I am Thor, god of thunder and prince of Asgard." Thor said, laughing loudly, he was beginning to like the driver. Loki frowned.
"We have a file?" He sincerely hoped they didn't record everything, he had drawn on the walls a few months ago and he didn't want everyone to know about that.
"Yep, everyone has a file these days," He said to Loki before looking at Thor, "Hey, big guy, if Loki is your brother, and you're a prince, doesn't that make him a prince too?" Thor pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, he was thinking. Loki saw his chance,
"It does doesn't it?" Thor returned his gaze to his book.
"No...it doesn't," he said slowly. Loki narrowed his eyes.
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how the story goes.
In the front seat the driver watched the road run underneath his car, disappearing under it and watched exits and signs fly by as the leaves got yellower and yellower. He listened to the uncomfortable silence an hoped this was the last time Fury had him chauffeuring kids, he had already dealt with four before these two.
Clint Barton was not patient. He never was and he didn't think he ever would be, and to be honest he was fine with that, most of the time, when he wasn't bored. Currently though he was sitting on a park bench in new york, next to a girl with bright red hair (and he meant red, not ginger or orange but fire-truck red.) and someone who introduced herself as Agent Hill, he had asked her "like a secret agent?" and she had said that it was similar and left it at that.
Clint knew she was definitely a secret agent, because secret agents never told anyone they were secret agents, and secret agents never- ever told anyone that they weren't, saying things like; 'Now what would make you think that?' or 'Do I really look like a secret agent to you?' or like Hill, they would brush it off saying something like 'similar' to placate him because he was a child.
Why had she introduced herself as an agent though? That had just given it away. Clint looked up at her through his sunglasses (which he wore because sunglasses were extremely cool and he was going to be cool when he grew up, so why not start practicing now?) And she looked down at him. Then Clint looked to his side where the red haired girl sat and asked a question he had been putting off all day.
"What's you're name?" The girl looked at him, frowned and crossed her arms across her chest.
"Ваши солнцезащитные очки являются глупыми," She replied, whatever she said, it sounded like a series of clicks, coughs and a lot of oop noises. Agent hill frowned.
"Her name is Natasha." She translated and Clint shrugged, he was pretty sure she hadn't said Natasha anywhere in that sentence.
"Вы все идиоты," She said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, Clint frowned because he was pretty sure one of the words was idiot, it sounded like that at least.
"Yeah well, you're the idiot." He said looking back in front of him and leaning back into the bench. The girl grinned at him and he couldn't help but feel as if there was something menacing in her smile, something menacing and dark that he wanted no part of. There was darkness in her eyes and Clint couldn't look away. If she was a character in one of his agent movies he knew just who she'd be. She would be the girl that kept popping up, part good but mostly bad, she would fool the cool agent that the story was about every time they met and screw up his plans with her plots every time. Clint knew as he watched her grin that he had to be very careful around this girl because she was obviously a villain and a clever one too.
And he was the cool hero that didn't want to be caught in her plots.
Natasha was grinning because this was the most interesting thing that had happened to her after she left Russia. Agent Hill assumed she couldn't speak English because she only spoke Russian. A rookie mistake, one that (if Natasha was hunting) could get her killed, or at least give Natasha information that could get the Agent killed. The boy on the other hand with the gelled up hair and the stupid sunglasses was giving her a steady, unhappy, look. She finally turned away when her cheeks began to hurt from grinning so long, but the boy kept watching her warily, not talking anymore just watching her silently. She didn't bother too much with watching him, he wasn't a threat and she knew it. Besides, she was off duty, if she was needed, she would be contacted. She hadn't been contacted so it was safe to assume she was needed here. Perhaps she was supposed to collect information from these people on whatever project the were working on. Natasha Romanov began to set her rules, as it seemed nobody else would set them for her.
1. Do not let them know you speak English.
2. Do not let them take a blood sample, or let them know about the cybernetics.
3. Play along, if you are needed here; be here, but tell them nothing.
4 .Be ready to leave at ant time.
Satisfied with the list she sat back like the boy next to her and watched as a sleek silver car rolled up to their bench and a man introduced himself as Phil Coulson. She got in the car and as they drove away watched the boy wave to Agent Hill, and then watched Coulson and him talk.
She just watched and waited because the purpose of the mission would become clear eventually.
Steve Rogers knew exactly what it was like to be taken out of context. He knew what it was like to be taken out of the correct time and place and be put somewhere where everyone including him knew he didn't belong. The day before he had been in Brooklyn, playing with his best friend, Bucky in the alleys of the city. There were whispers of the start of another war in Europe that had reached him and Bucky, but had not yet affected them, they were playing in the alley, a game of Cops-and-Robbers with the boy who lived next to Bucky and then he had woken up, freezing-cold, togged to the bricks in his best church-clothes, and surrounded by a bunch of men in white lab-coats.
When he tried really hard to remember what happened he would get flashes of a unnaturally blue liquid and pain and then he'd let the whole thing go because really, there was two much to focus on already. Currently he was sitting in a very fifth-avenue baraouche with black-leather and silver paint and a man with a bit of an accent when he spoke. The man introduced himself as Phil Coulson and told him that he was currently in the year 2012, When he had asked if they could drive by Brooklyn Phil's face closed of for a minute, He glanced at the exit signs and then sighed.
"It's not right to just drop a kid into the future like this," he'd said, and Steve could feel his chest lighten a bit.
"Okay," The man relented, not making eye contact with Steve, "We'll go, but not for more than an hour and it's only because you're the last kid I have to drive. Steve thanked him what must have been a thousand times all in quick new-yorker-style succession until Mr. Coulson had told him (while laughing) if he thanked him one more time he would go straight past Brooklyn. After which he and Mr. Coulson had filled the air in the vehicle with a bunch of happy chatter as he cast an eyeball to the surroundings, drinking in the differences—and the similarities—between the world now and how it was before the sleep. He'd had a little trouble accepting that he was asleep for about seventy years, but once he saw the little television in the front seat of Mr. Coulson's car he knew it was the future. The screen was about the size of his head, but square, it required you to touch the options that popped up on it and it functioned as a radio too, not to mention it had color! Very few people had television where—when, he corrected himself feeling a little strange in doing so—he was from. He told this to Mr. Coulson who laughed.
"Really? I would have though more people would have had them, to see shows like 'The Twilight Zone.'"
"The twighlight zone?" Steve had asked.
"Yeah, I used to watch it all the time with my dad, he really loved stuff like that, every episode, weird stuff would happen. Oh, let's see...there was a episode, my favorite one actually, where every time a man looks out a window he would see this monster on the wing of the plane he was on, trying to tear out the engine, but when he called people over to look it would disappear."
"Like the end of the boy who called wolf?"
"Almost exactly. So have you heard of it?" Mr. Coulson asked, turning for a brief second before looking back to the road. Steve racked his brain but couldn't come up with anything.
"No, I don't think so." Everything was a bit fuzzy but he was pretty sure he hadn't heard of it.
"Pity, it must have come out in the fifties I guess." Mr. Coulson said as they turned off onto an exit from the highway, and it struck Steve that he hadn't heard the car's engine the entire ride, it was funny how he hadn't realized it until just then.
"This car's quiet as a mouse."
"I suppose, there's quieter though, and you really wouldn't believe the technological advances since your time, really. Hey, were phones still on the wall in your day?" He asked, Steve nodded an Mr. Coulson pulled a slim black device out of his pocket. "Check it out! Pretty cool huh? The bee's knees, you might say!" He laughed, Steve found himself grinning a bit in return.
"With all respect Mr. Coulson, even in my day nobody but the old-hat-fuddy-duddys said that." He aid, intentionally using the oddest slang he could come up with, soon he and Mr. Coulson were cracking up again and his gut was recoiling because he was laughing so hard.
"I guess the cat's meow is out then too?" Mr. Coulson asked and Steve chuckled a bit again.
"Yes, sir, not even in my day." Steve said and suddenly he was very aware how old-hat he sounded when he said that.
Tony Stark had a million things on his mind, about thirty percent of the thoughts were blueprints, ten percent was the daily stupid observations that he was, as an observant human, supposed to have, such as: the sky is cloudy today, I'm freezing, I'm hungry, my father's dead, I still haven't done my laundry. Sixty percent of the thought like the day before and the day before that, were about his father, who had died just recently. Three days ago actually, he had been shot when he found something, something that the home system that Tony had replaced yesterday, had called project AH1. Project American Hero 1st.
Something that Howard Stark's father had been a part of, something that Howard Stark had died for and Something Anthony Stark wanted to know about, maybe not get involved in, but knowing why his father had died would be nice. He told Jarvis—the system he had replaced the previous home-system with—to play some good rock-music, not the new crap and definitely not the old pansy-rock that was only granted the title of 'rock' because the music before that had been directed at a bunch of hopped up, psychedelic hippies. Jarvis had accepted the command and soon his ears were full of "What's Going on" Tony groaned.
"I assume you do not like the song, sir?"
"No shit, Jarvis."
"Perhaps this then?" Then the comparatively sweet sound of Led-Zeppelin filled his ears and he sighed.
"Much better Jarvis."
"Should I expect a treat, sir?"
"Hey, don't get sassy with me, Jarvy."
"Understood, sir." Tony pulled out a box of cereal and poured himself a late breakfast. He sprawled himself on the couch and sipped the milk out first. Then began to eat the slightly soggy cereal.
A knock sounded at the door and Tony quirked a confused eyebrow at the sound.
"Jarvis?" He called and the cool voice of the AI responded by turning the television on and onto the security feed from the door. A man with a receding hairline and a classy suit stood by the door, His hair—the hair that Tony could see—was plain brown and his eyes were a dark grey-blue. He shifted on his feet a few times.
"I'm here to see Mr. Stark." The man said and Tony grimaced.
"Jarvis," he began, "be a pal and put the voice feed on?"
"Of course, sir." A little, red, microphone graphic appeared at the edge of the screen and then flashed green.
"Hey, genius," Tony started, "Mr. Stark is out, and by out I mean dead, and by dead I mean there is no more Howard Stark for you to talk to." he had to stop there because his voice cracked on the last word and he didn't trust himself enough to continue without a repeat.
The man smiled, a small, wry twist of the lip. This gave Tony enough fuel to react further.
"Jarvis, reconfigure the door, put up the news article from yesterday night, the one about dad."
"Already done, sir." and sure enough, when he rotated the security camera the article was covering the door with it's bold headline "Howard Stark Dead" and a fuzzy image of his dad's bloody face.
The man pulled a face like he had eaten a lemon whole.
"That's...I said Mr. Stark, not Howard, I presume this is him?"
"Yeah, I'm twelve, I'm not a Mr. anything." Tony said leaning back on the couch again. Jarvis seemed to take this as a sign to let the man in and The door popped open.
"Jarvis!" He groaned.
"Sorry sir, he overrode my system." The man just stood there a moment, looking around, before introducing himself.
"Agent Coulson, and you must be—"
"—Stark, Tony Stark, Agent double-O-5." Tony introduced himself, standing up. "Now that I've told you I'll have to kill you." Agent Coulson pulled that wry smile and Tony watched carefully.
"I've got a mission for you, Agent Stark AKA Double-O-5."
"Oh, we're on the same team are we?" He found himself asking.
"I should hope."
"Well, ready for de-briefing, Agent Coulson."
"All right double-O-5, did you're father ever mention a group called SHIELD?"
"No," Tony said.
"Well it's—"
"I know what it is, he didn't tell me, I hacked the system, continue." Coulson did the half-smile thing again and Tony waited.
"Okay, that makes this simple, Fury is starting a new project and he wants to find all of the talented kids he can to start it."
"I always knew I was a special snowflake. Jarvis, verify?" He deadpanned.
"Colonel Nicholas Fury, Agent of Shield, Philip Coulson, also Agent, project verified, subjects; Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Loki and Thor Odinson, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark. Ages; eleven, eleven, ten, eleven, eighty-three, and eleven respectively.
"Eighty-three? How is eighty three a kid?"
"It's a long story, he's my next stop, so are you in, Agent Stark AKA Double-O-5?"
"I don't think so. Where is it?" The smile faded from Coulson's face.
"Somewhere in Maine."
"Nope. I don't think I want to leave Stark-Tower, I'm feeling especially hermit-y lately."
"Well, Can we bring it here then?" This suggestion caught Tony off-guard and he blinked a few times.
"Here."
"Yes,"
"Stark Tower?"
"I would assume."
"You want to bring a bunch of super-powered kids up here to my tower, the tower I just inherited from my dead father, practically the only thing I've ever gotten from him except for good-looks and smarts?"
"I never said they were super-powered."
"It's assumed, you know Fury, he's fascinated with crap like this." Tony waved of the statement, revealing that he had read Fury's file before.
"Well then?"
"Yeah, what the hell, lets do it."
"Really?"
"No, get out of my tower. I need a drink."
"A drink?" Agent Coulson asked, seeming genuinely surprised this time.
"Yeah, Drink, Booze, Moonshine, liquor, alcohol."
"You're twelve."
"You're ugly." Coulson sighed at this.
"Jarvis?" The agent called.
"No, what the hell do you think you're doing? No, Stop it—" Tony yelled,
"Override, lock all the liquor cabinets, actually, dispose of it all." Coulson said.
"Already done, Mr. Coulson." And then there was the sound of thousands of Bottles of his father's finest wine tumbling down the garbage chutes, It was the sound of hell itself crushing upon him.
"Get the fuck out." Tony said, burying his face in one hand and pointing at the door.
"Until next-time, Agent double-O-5." Coulson said and Tony was sure he could hear the obnoxious wry-smile in his voice.
He made sure he'd heard the sound of the door closing before he spoke again.
"That's all it takes Jarvis? Someone says 'overide' and you're dough in their hands? I thought I taught you better than this." He said without pulling his hand off of his face.
"My protocol was overridden, sir."
"Go fuck yourself Jarvis."
"That is physically impossible sir."
Tony groaned and slammed his face into his hands, ambling into the kitchen to wash his bowl.
He pulled up a floor-plan of the Stark Tower, which was really more of a complex since it was flanked by two smaller Stark towers. The first, The one he was in, was ninety-three stories tall, the other two were thirty-five and fifty-five.
That was one-hundred-eighty-three stories of him, his thoughts, Jarvis, and whatever robots he could create.
Just like he'd always wanted.
It was perfect really, simply perfect—
"Jarvis, could you call—"
"Already done, sir." Sure enough, the television had an ellipses on it and the little green microphone in the corner.
"Sometimes I hate you, you fabulous system." He declared, flopping onto the couch and getting ready to converse with Agent Coulson again.
There was a click, then Coulson spoke up.
"Mr Stark? To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Shush, I'm agent double-O-5, remember?"
"Sorry, I forgot," The wry smile was in his voice again and Tony grimaced.
"You'd better be, almost blowing my cover like that, and you're another agent no less! Anyway, it's about you're proposal,"
"Oh?"
"Yeah, you can bring the freaks here, I'll join their club."
"Okay, shall I report back with the details of the mission later?"
"As soon as you get back to base, agent."
"Over-and-out, double-O-5"
"Over-and-out, Coulson." The television clicked and Tony sat there a moment before pulling his computer onto the screen.
"Shall we begin research on the 'freaks' sir?" Jarvis said, using Tony's term with obvious distain.
"Already done, Jarvis."
I'll ask one thing from you guys, and that's it, then you can go.
If you want to flame me, or tell me my story's good, then that's fine, but I would love it if you could tell me what you like/dislike about it. I don't mean an in-depth analysis of my writing style and motivations or whatever, (as cool as that would be) I don't even need a complete sentence, just "Like; funny" or "Hate; no description" would be awesome. :-)
I know I'm asking a lot, but I want to be an author someday, and every hint to getting better helps. :-)
Also, no, I don't think Tony would have actually drunk any, but Coulson clearly did. ;-P
And shoosh, my forties slang is so niftic, I don't care what you say, I'm totally cool! :-B
Ps, what do you think of using all points of view? I thought it was a bit complicated and hard to remember, if you guys don't like it either I'll use fewer points of view in a chapter.