A/N: (Re-posting. Special thanks to Lizzy for coming through with the backup here!) This is very AU, and updates will be sporadic. But enjoy!

"Shadowmen"

Prologue: Floaters and Dwellers

In Central City, there's the Sky and there's the Ground, and either you're a Floater or you're a Dweller.

There's no middle ground.

Oh, there's some middle-class high-rise dwellers who think they're Floaters just because they have a flat on the eighty-fifth floor, but really they're just guilty of pretentious douchebaggery. Everybody knows you aren't a Floater until you can buy the eighty-fifth floor. And the eighty-sixth. And the eighty-seventh.

In Central City, you're either a Floater or you're a Dweller.

You're either one of the lucky few in the sky, high up above the smog-haze and working masses, or you're on the ground, down in the choking streets where all the regular lunchpail types rub elbows with the scum and scabs and buzz-heads and shufflers and shifters.

No two ways around it.

Laws are written in the sky towers; they're followed on the ground, and Goodman help the idiot who dares to break those laws because there is no justice like Sky justice.

But that's the way it is.

In Central City, you're either a Floater or you're a Dweller.

xXx

1. The One-Eyed King and the Joker

Up in the sky, they call Odin "The All-Father."

Kind of a haw-haw joke, except it's the kind you only laugh at when the doors are closed and you're sure-sure that great big eye isn't watching you.

You never insult the Sky King to his face.

(Unless your name is Tony Stark, anyway, but, since Tony's maybe the second-most powerful guy in the sky with all his techno-baubles and weapons that can wipe existence out of existence, and since he's richer and more powerful than all the king's horses and all the king's men, well, that doesn't really count.)

You never insult the Sky King to his face.

He's not even really a king, more like a kingpin. He's the guy with the most money and the furthest reach on the entire planet, so people treat him like royalty because woe unto the the man who is stupid enough not to.

His son Thor, all six-and-a-half hulking blond feet of him, swings a mean hammer for his daddy's tender honor, and the big guy seems to relish his job.

Tony's been at the wrong end of that big-ugly more than once and it has left a mark every time.

So maybe even he makes an effort to mind his p's and q's when the king rings. A half-hearted effort, but it's more than he bothers for anyone else. His mouth's a dog he doesn't bother leashing. Sometimes it stays, sometimes it strays, sometimes it just runs away. He never knows which way it's going to go.

That's half the fun.

Odin's a holograph-man in the middle of Tony's table right now, a gold-haloed image on a throne made of nothing more than circuits and titanium and neon-blue lights. Craggy-faced and weathered, the old man gives the appearance of age, but his blue-blue eye burns like a pilot light primed to run forever.

Silver patch over the other eye, some kind of symbol welded on it in gold and diamonds. Talisman, superstition, logo – Tony's never really known which.

He kicks his feet up on the table, workrboots and all, and folds his hands together over his arc-reactored chest. Feels the comforting buzz-hum under his fingers. Says, benign smile in place, "Odin." All-Father. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Lift of a white eyebrow. Highest of high definition displays here, this holo. Spare no expense to see every twitch of an eyelid, every muscle bunch and jump, every tic and hitch. Odin doesn't give him anything beyond the eyebrow. Sky King says, his voice crystal clear over the distance, "Good afternoon, Stark. I trust I am not disturbing you."

Highest of high definition here: every speck of dirt under Tony's fingernails visible, every smear of grease in the creases of his hands, every smudge on his pants in vivid living color.

"No, sir," he says. "I'm in my workshop."

"Crafting the next great piece of StarkTech, no doubt."

Fiddling with an old Skimmer engine, more like, but Tony shrugs anyway. "Sure. Let's go with that. How are you?"

"I am well. And yourself?"

"Just ducky. I assume this isn't a social call, so what's say we skip the small talk and get down to it?"

Curved knife of a smile, half-hidden beneath layers of white beard, but no less obvious. It's the kind of smile anybody who's crossed the old man has probably seen just before they've felt a blade slice through their skin. Here, it's a warning that the ice is getting mighty thin.

"You assume correctly," Odin finally says. "I have personal business with you. Your ears only."

"Mine are the only ears in my tower," Tony says. They usually are. "Look, if this is about that thing with Thor last week, I swear it was just an accident. If he hadn't-"

"It is not," Odin overrides him, thunder-voiced. "My son was perhaps overzealous. He has a temper, as you well know, and does not always have the sense to reign it in. You were within rights to do as you did. That is the last I will say on this matter."

"Fair enough." Bad job of an apology, but Tony'll take it. Not apt to get much else out of old gold-and-white here. ""So. Personal business."

"Yes. This matter requires delicate handling, and the utmost secrecy. I'd ask you not to ask questions. Just simply listen."

"I can do that." In theory.

"Two weeks ago, a criminal escaped from a prison facility in the Siberian wastelands. Loki. He is – vile. A thief, a murderer, a liar. He is called Silvertongue. He is called Liesmith. He is called Trickster. He is chaos incarnate, and he must not be allowed to roam freely."

Thumb-drum on Tony's chest, a steady rhythm, tap-tap, keeping time, keeping rhythm, keeping count. He was always best at numbers, calculating. "Law's got access to the vid grid. You saw to that yourself. They probably already have eyes out."

"They do, but they do not have the level of access you do. Nor, I believe, do they yet have the same technological capabilities as you do."

"You mean the facial rec software." More StarkTech. He shakes his head. "No, that's not live yet. It's still touchy. Too many false-positives." Something iffy in the algorithm. A built-in flaw. It's a difficult fix for anybody not named Tony Stark, but he's not in any hurry to hand the patch over to the Law.

Odin, all-seeing, all-knowing, All-Father, isn't fooled. "If you'll agree to help me, I'll overlook your failure to produce the fix. The Law needn't be troubled."

"That sounds like a threat. I don't do those."

"Merely incentive." Chin-lift, and a single blue eye issuing a challenge down a rock-slab nose. "Would your software be able to detect a Shifter?"

"He's a Shadowman?"

Shifters, Shadowmen, Cloakers – the boogeymen hiding in daylight, never the same face in the same place two days running. Masters of disguise, able to commit their crimes and leave no one the wiser for it.

"He is a Technomage, actually." Odin drops that fact just-discussing-the-weather-casual, as if it is nothing of consequence. "One who, as it happens, is also a trained Shfiter. Can your software detect that?"

"I can program it to look for bone structure if you can get me a detailed sample image." An absent answer. His mind is elsewhere. "I thought you wiped them all out. The Technomages."

The Purge of the Scourge. He'd been a kid at the time, maybe six years old, but the old man, daddy dearest, had been a saber-shaker for the pro-'Mage crowd. It put him at odds with Odin's anti-'Mage warriors, but Howard Stark had never been one to stand for the destruction of technological potential.

Technomages were hated and loved and feared and revered in every corner of the world.

They were the world's technological artists, able to bend and shape electromagnetic and electrokinetic energies in ways that technological architects like Howard Stark could only dream about.

At the end of the last war, all the atom-splitters – the big bombs the architects built – they punched holes in the atmo, they tore the sky wide open, they almost glassed the damn planet. The 'Mages built machines and shaped the energies to patch the broken sky, to put Humpty-Dumpty back together again.

But in return, they wanted to rule.

They wanted absolute, rigid control.

They would turn the world into a shining city on the hill, in exchange for absolute obeisance. Unlimited technology in exchange for the bended knee. The promise of utopia in exchange for freemen becoming nothing more than hands to haul circuit boards and backs to bear transistors. No longer would a non-'Mage be allowed to dabble in science. No longer would a non-'Mage be allowed the luxury of ideas.

Not even pro-'Mage saber-shakers like Howard Stark could stand for it.

So 'Mages became the Scourge, and there was the Purge, lead by the Sky King himself. And in the end, the vastly-outnumbered Technomages were wiped out and civilization was allowed to dust off its mighty shoulders and rise again.

Odin, now some thirty years older, careworn and weatherbeaten, squares his shoulders. "Loki is the last," he says. "I allowed a small sect to survive the Purge. I thought they would be of some use to me, but I was mistaken. They became consumed by their need for revenge. It drove them quite mad, and in the end I had no choice but to destroy them.

"Loki and his father Laufey, the leader of the Technomage sect, escaped in the confusion. Some months later, they broke into my home. They murdered all the guards in my house, and then left. Two nights later, despite heightened security, Loki managed to reach my wife. Through the wires, he whispered poisoned words into her ear until she attempted to end her own life. Thor reached her in time, but it was a near thing.

"For months this went on. We would relocate, but despite our best efforts, Loki and Laufey would find us and wreak some hideous torment on us. They murdered our servants. They shut down all of our house tech. They blocked our communications. They projected their voices through the wires.

"It ended suddenly and unexpectedly.

"Loki and Laufey appeared in our midst one evening. Laufey, evidently tired of the games, had decided to kill us and have done. Loki slew him and surrendered. He appealed not to me, but to Thor for mercy. He claimed to have been controlled by Laufey, and he was convincing. Thor entreated upon me to imprison him and bind his 'Mage gifts rather than execute him.

"That was my mistake.

"Since Loki has escaped, there have already been a number of thefts at my residence. Voices in the air, whispering at my wife. And I have no doubt my personal channels are compromised. That is why I am borrowing Mr. Fury's."

The old man stops there, and, man, he's pulled tight. Ten guys playing five-on-a-side tug 'o war couldn't get a rope to stretch tighter.

Tony hmms. Strange story, and something about it makes him feel twitchy-restless, like he's got this itch behind his eyes. Lies do that to him every time. "I see," he says at last. "Wondered about that."

He hadn't really, hadn't even noticed, but if the Sky King can lie, why can't Tony?

"All right," he says. "So I help you find this guy. What's in it for me?"

"I won't mention your software."

"They come after me, I'll just fuck it up all over again. What else you got?"

"What do you want?"

"A favor. Something to put in my back pocket. Rainy day thing."

"You wish a future claim." Odin says the words slow, like he's processing them, like they're drawing too much current on his circuits.

"Yeah. That. Deal?"

"That is acceptable if you will allow me to send Thor to assist you."

"No can do, chief. Nobody but me touches the software."

Whipcrack of irritation: snow-white eyebrow slashing down over the good eye. "I meant in actually capturing him, Stark. You will need all the help you can get."

"Oh, I have help." Two of the best street-spies around, for starters. And a metal suit, sharp as sharp gets in its reds and golds, all kitted out with the latest and greatest in StarkTech weaponry. "But, whatever, send him over. One more set of eyes won't hurt. But I need those images. And whatever other info you have. Aliases, any known Shifter faces, things like that."

"Fury is sending the file as we speak."

"Receiving file," JARVIS pipes up, ever-so-helpfully.

"Thanks," Tony mutters. Wipes his greasy-grimies on his jeans, sits forward. "So's that it?"

"One last thing," Odin says. "Do not mention that Loki is a Technomage. Otherwise, I appreciate your assistance with this, Stark. As I said, I will send Thor to you this evening, and I will be in touch with you on the morrow."

"Can't wait." Dance, monkey.

The vid feed terminates, and not a second too soon.

Because, wow, that's just a whole box full of weird, and it's going to take him some time to unpack it.

"Transfer complete, sir," JARVIS says. "Loading image."

"Go ahead and do the wire-frame while you're at it. Load the facial rec software, hack the grid, apply the patch – you know." He waves a hand. "Do your thing. Show me what this guy looks like."

"Yes, sir."

Just a head this time, mapping slowly into the air.

But man.

The eyes, that's the first thing Tony sees. Sharp green eyes, gold-flecked and cool as icebergs, staring out of a face that's carved alabaster marble, all clean lines and lean planes and cheekbones for days. Full mouth that's just made for smirking. Slicked black hair is a fit frame for that striking picture.

Mischief written in every line of this guy's face, secret amusements hidden in the upward quirk of his lips, and, yeah, he is trouble with a capital T.

"...hoboy," Tony says through a sigh.

"Indeed, sir," JARVIS says dryly.

xXx

If you want proof that industry is just a big machine, look no further than Stark Industries.

The world's largest supplier of tech – weapons, med tech, vid tech, you name it – has exactly one human employee: Mr. Anthony Edward Stark, CEO, COO, CFO, one bad mofo.

The rest of the company is run by machines.

Machines to build machines. Machines to calculate profit and loss. Machines to oversee the budgets.

Automated, automatic, self-sustaining. Twenty-four hours of production a day, every day, non-stop, and good lord how the money rolls in.

Oh, once upon a when, there were maybe fifty thousand human worker-bees, but those were the golden-dozy halcyon days, back before Tony learned what real grief was. Those were the Pepper days, when everything was easy-breezy and she was his sweet love and she took care of all the hum-drum crap-trap that came with running a company.

But these are the post-Pepper days, and now that she's gone he doesn't have to pretend he's a humanitarian, doesn't have to act like he has a heart.

Everything is machines, and it's a hell of a lot cleaner that way.

Easier, too: because he has built his empire on cogs and sprockets, everything keeps running even if he's off for weeks at a time chasing boogeymen.

And behind it all, there's JARVIS: babysitter, caretaker, nursemaid, companion all in rolled into one bodiless pain in the ass. Tony's best creation: a fully-functioning, fully-reasoning AI.

If Tony is the man behind the Stark Industries machine, then JARVIS is the machine behind the man. It's a weird kind of symbiosis, and it's probably not healthy, but it works.

It works just fine.

"Load that image onto one of the portables," Tony says, rising, stretching stiff muscles. "Make sure we have a room ready for our guest. I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back. Get the Skimmer ready."

"You'll not be driving, sir, I hope?" his AI asks.

Tony tosses the rag aside. "Course I'm driving. What the hell kind of question is that?"

"May I remind you, sir, that your last outing cost you close to a million-"

"Hey! I was drunk that time, so it doesn't count."

"Is the fact that you were driving inebriated supposed to excuse the fact that you ran into a building, sir?"

"JARVIS, I think the real question is why you let me drive inebriated in the first place," Tony shoots back. "You're supposed to be the responsible one here."

"Let you?" For having no emotions programmed into him, JARVIS manages to sound outraged, like his circuits are about to start sparking. It's a thing of beauty. "You overrode the lockout, sir. How can I be responsible when you override my ability to override your more irresponsible impulses?"

"I dunno," Tony says dubiously. He heads for the door. "Sounds a lot like an excuse to me. And I'm not drinking tonight, by the way, so you can relax. I'm just running down to visit the Wonder Twins in Scumville. I won't be gone long. Let me know if anything comes up. Shut everything down for me, and then run a diagnostic on yourself. You're prickly tonight."

"Yes, sir." Measured and even tone, no hint of offense, not that there could be, but Tony doesn't doubt there's gonna be some kind of unpleasant in store for him later.

JARVIS is a sneaky bastard.

And Tony wouldn't have it any other way.

xXx

Tony always experiences a moment of vertigo when he descends from his Sky tower.

Downtown in Central City.

Dusk-ish, and man, the neon is everywhere. Violent purples and blues and greens and reds shrieking for attention through the smog-fog, signs – Free Buffet! Live Nudes! Register inside to win a free Immerser! – flicker-flashing like strobe-lights inside a club, vid walls playing the infotainment of the day, ad scanners popping up every three feet.

Buildings reach up like long fingers pointing up into an impossible infinity: high-rises, Sky-rises, towers, and bowers. People stacked on top of people inside, knick-knacks on a shelf with only a thin divider between them.

But that's how it is in this crowded city.

Everywhere is a jumble of motion: sidedwalks packed six-deep with neon-lit peds hustling hither and yon like blades of grass swept up in a breeze, Skmmers and Swimmers shooting through the jetways between high-rises, ground carriages grumbling and rumbling over the roads.

And it's noisy: horns and voices and music and it's just a wash of sound, this roaring aaaaaaaaaah like standing beside an enormous waterfall.

Tony's come to prefer the relative quiet in the Sky, but he finds himself able to slot into the noise and hustle-bustle just fine.

Off the main drag, well away from the neon crush, away from faux-clean buildings and faux-clean people, that's when the facade starts to chip away.

Buildings begin to look more and more unkempt.

So do the people.

Walking from the fringes of civilization into the heart of the slums is like watching the various stages of drug addiction: not so bad at first, still under control, but maybe a little rough around the edges – buildings are still respectable but a little unkempt. A few blocks later, buildings are colored with a violent rainbow of graffiti, windows are shuttered, doors are chained and bolted and maybe here and there are bullet holes and the odd busted-out window. Closer still, and, yeah, now it's full-blown, no-going-back addiction: abandoned tenement buildings squat rotting, buzz-heads and scabs crouched rat-like in doorways with needle marks marching up their veins, gunshots popping like a kid snapping bubblegum. Big empty windows like the vacant eyes all around. Guns in every hand, drugs in every pocket, hopeless eyes all around watching and watching and watching.

Tony's not wearing his full armor, just a thin, bullet-proof bodysuit under jeans and a tee shirt and a scuffled leather coat. He hasn't shaved in days and he didn't bother to comb his hair after his shower.

It's not perfect, but he doesn't look that out of place.

If he'd tried to drive down here, he'd be toast. But it's not far.

Down in the pit with the rest of the human scum.

Half a block ahead, there's a guy, not over-tall, dressed in baggy black pants and a hoodie that disguises what Tony knows is a muscular physique. He's leaning against a droopy old tree that is somehow still living in front of husked-out shell of a building. A ragged quiver of arrows peeks over one shoulder of the guy's shoulder and a bow criss-crosses the quiver strap on his chest. He's not clean, but he's clear-eyed. Sharp-eyed.

Hawk-eyed.

"Hey, hey!" he calls, grinning, as Tony approaches. "What the hell are you doing down here?"

"Just out for a walk," Tony replies, shrugging. "Your gal around? I need you guys."

Clint blinks, quick-flick of eyelids. "She's working."

"On her back?" Tony can't help asking. Winding Barton up is a hobby.

"Fuck you." Which is Clint-speak for yes. "She won't be back for a couple hours."

Tony considers that.

Somewhere up above is the clip-clap from an old Rattletrap Skimmer caught in the jetty. Happens sometimes, those old models. They skim the rim of the jetstream instead of cutting through it like the Swimmers. Skimmers are faster, even the old ones, but they get stuck sometimes, stall out.

"Fucking Skimmers," Clint mutters.

Tony glares. "Fuck you. That's vintage."

Wash of exhaust sweep-sways through the avenue, cutting curlicues through the paper refuse. The pocky pavement groans, all achy and tired from feet and wheels climbing all over it. Steam blows from vents like dragon-breath, and the air becomes dust-choked and sticky.

Tony coughs into his fist. Winces at the grind against his arc-reactor. "How the fuck do you stand it down here?" he asks.

For like the millionth time.

Barton's shrug is herky-jerky. "Life on the ave, man. Not all of us can have the Sky."

"I have a hundred empty rooms in my tower. Plenty of room for you and all your compadres."

"Nah. I'll scuzz around down here with the buzz-heads any day if it keeps us off the grid. Besides," he adds, like they don't have this discussion every time Tony comes down here, "we're working down here." All at once, he goes still, eagle eyes locking onto some target across the way.

All Tony sees is a blur through the brown dust-haze.

Cat-silent, an arrow slides from the rag-tag quiver. Expert hands load the bow and draw and release in a move that is as seamless as seamless gets. The arrow makes the faintest fwmp when it takes to the sky.

"Holy fuck me!" a scared-raspy voice yelps just down the way.

A rail-skinny little shit with the twitchy face of a rat, all pointy-nosed and shift-eyed, emerges. The arrow's feathers stand tall and proud and upright in the shaft like some kind of goddamn flag on a flagpole. The arrow's head is a red-gleaming triangle. Fucking thing went straight through the guy's hand.

Barton reaches over and yanks the arrow out, ignoring the guy's pain-screams. "I told you, Littlejohn," he dog-snaps at the guy. "I told you if I saw you around here again I'd get you."

Littlejohn's ripped lips pull back into a wide pain-grin. His teeth are mossy tombstones lined up cockeyed in a yawning cemetery mouth. Death in a breath. "Please, man. Please. I gotta have some more. I'll do anything, man. Anything."

Buzz-head. Freaker. Junker. Addict. Dead man walking.

Tony chews a thumbnail.

"I need it," Littlejohn whimpers. Like he'd fall to his knees if Clint asked him to.

"Like fuck you do, hooker," Barton rumble-grumbles. Not looking anywhere but at Littlejohn. "I already comped you two quarters, and I let you short me for the two before that. Dry up and tumble off, you fucking weed." Nimble fingers reload the bloody arrow. "Or maybe the next one goes in your balls."

"No!" the little man yips. "No. Shit sakes, I'm gone. I'm gone!"

And he takes to his heels.

Tony, all raised eyebrows and thinned lips says, "I have a hundred empty rooms in my tower."

Clint's grin is all teeth. No moss on those chompers. Sharks would be jealous. "Don't sweat me, brother-man. I'm rolling. Just gotta pop a few pimples sometimes. No big deal."

"Yeah, thanks for that." Tony hasn't eaten in about a day. Good thing. The air smells like dirt and piss. "You're dealing now? Do I even need to tell you what a bad idea that is?"

"I'm not doing, am I? No. So climb down off my back. Or at least give me a reach around."

"My tits aren't big enough for you."

A door moans open just behind them and vomits out a couple of skinny buzz-headed women, all weavy-wavy as they stammer in diagonals across the street.

Fucking slums.

Clint sniffs, uneasy. "So you got a job? That why you're here?"

"You think I'm just down here because I want your company, man?" Tony shoots back, all slum swagger. He reaches into his jacket's pocket and pulls out the portable. "Yeah. It's a job. It's hot. As in Odin."

"Oh, man." Clint takes the portable, eyes it like it's poison. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

"Nope. He's looking for this guy here. Everything you need to know is in that file. FYI, he's a tech guy, so he'll know to avoid the grid. I'm guessing he'll be holed up in a scuzz pit somewhere."

That would be why he wants Clint and Tasha on this: there are areas in this city even the vid grid doesn't cover. These two are the unrivaled masters at flushing out game hidden in the slums' various nooks and crannies. They're like bloodhounds.

Hawk's gaze is intent, calm, sober. "We'll get on this as soon as she gets back. This a flush and fetch, or just a find?"

"For now, just find him. Odin's sending Thor my way. To help catch him."

"...huh. So, yeah. Big fuckin' deal, huh?"

Tony nods. Stuffs his hands in his pockets when he hears a bang-bang roll down the block. Winces at the screaming. "Listen," he says, "I have to get back. Thor should be getting there soon."

"You're a pussy, Stark."

"Yup. Big sloppy wet one." Flat grin, humorless and unamused. "Come to the tower for lunch tomorrow. Bring Tasha. I'm gonna bring Steve and Bruce in."

"You think?"

"Might as well." Tony turns on his heel and begins to hike back, but pauses as a thought strikes him. "Don't ever insult Skimmers in my hearing again. My dad invented them."

Another toothy grin, and, "I know, man."

"Fuck you very much. Noon tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Gotcha. Later, pussy."

Tony doesn't rise to the bait.

On his way back to his Skimmer (and the way back to his tower, and later, even, after JARVIS doesn't find anything and while Thor's drinking his ass under the table), he thinks about gold-flecked green eyes and a pale face and the way the dark hair frames it all just right.

xXx

A/N: I spun this entire story out of the phrase "clip-clap from an old Rattletrap." I am not even kidding. Updates for this will be sporadic.