Arc 01 Sword
01 He's gotta be larger than life
-O-
Eamon woke up, and looked down.
Great. He put me in a woman's body this time.
Also, a helicopter.
He and the dark-haired older man in the seat next to him were the only ones in the compartment, facing aft.
Of course, "older" could be a relative term, until he could find a mirror. From what he could see, he wasn't exactly in a ballet dancer's body. Nope, it was decidedly...feminine. And he was black. Or Indian. Or Native American. Maybe the world he was in this time didn't even have races as he knew them.
His companion tapped him on the shoulder. "Irene, we're five minutes out," he said, in what seemed like a faint New York accent. "You never gave me your last name."
Starkos.
"Starkos."
The other man seemed to find that amusing. "Weird. Think they put us both on this flight on purpose?"
Eamon blinked.
"Never mind."
The Traveller studied his new friend closely. Obviously fit, neatly trimmed beard, wearing an expensive bomber jacket. No visible briefcase or tablet. But then again, Irene didn't have one either.
Outside the window was an increasingly urbanized area, with a river running through it.
"Sprechen sie deutsch?" said the stranger.
Irene smiled. "A little."
Upon landing on a helipad, the two people disembarked, and were met by several stern looking Bundeswehr, and two soldiers in body armor with no insignia on it. "Sir?" one called.
Irene's companion raised a hand casually. "Yo."
The soldier offered her hand. "It's a great honor to meet you, sir."
The bearded man met her with a politican's gladhanding. She didn't seem to notice.
"If you and your assistant will follow us, Mr. Stark?"
Stark blinked. "Yep. My assistant."
Wait.
Wait a second.
From this angle, she could just see the pale blue glow of the Arc Reactor in his chest.
Oddly enough, Eamon's first thought was that Tony Stark didn't look a thing like Robert Downey Jr.
The soldier added. "Oh, and welcome to X-COM."
-/-
"Mind if I ride shotgun?" Stark said, with a winning smile.
The woman blushed, looked back at her partner, who merely quirked an amused eyebrow. "Uh, sure."
"An SUV?" Eamon asked. "Kinda conspicuous."
"Well," drawled the male soldier, with what sounded like a Northern English accent. "I doubt we'd all fit in a Smart car."
Eamon liked him already.
Stark took the front passenger seat of the SUV, and the Brit sat next to Irene. They pulled out of the parking garage, and she stared out of the mirrored windows as they entered the street. They didn't look much different from folks in a normal American city, down to the guy in shades glancing at their car and playing with his phone.
So, what did Eamon know about X-COM? A video game franchise that had recently gotten a relaunch that a lot of people liked. It involved a top secret project dedicated to fighting an alien invasion, and a whole lot of disposable rookies. His Benefactor clearly hadn't seen fit to give him much more information about the games, though Irene clearly knew a lot more about Engineering than most. And he had seen Avengers before he Left.
Thing was, the Tony Stark in the seat in front of him could be from any point in the films' timeline. The divergence point could be any time after Stark got his arc reactor. Or even before, if the Benefactor had rejiggered the timeline.
They turned into a more residential area. Light industry.
For all he knew, he was in the offscreen opening to a Tony Stark/X-COM/aliens slashfi-
Something flared in a window.
"Rocket!"
It impacted short of the front tires, popping them. The car slammed down on the rims, and everyone's head was jerked forward as it came to a halt.
There were a few moments of silence. The engine ticked over.
"Everyone okay?" said the female soldier.
Stark was breathing heavily, staring at the cracked windshield.
"Stark?" The woman slapped him lightly. "Talk to me."
"I-" He cleared his throat. "I- I-"
"He's in shock." The woman frowned.
"We need to call for backup," said the man. "Also, I told you we should bring the tank."
She smiled at him, an instant before red beams speared through the side panel and into his body. The heat cooked the air and fluids inside, causing bubbles to rapidly grow. His left eye popped, and Eamon flinched.
There was a horrible smell of boiled meat.
The female soldier swore. "We need to move. Can you shoot?"
"His weapon's wrecked," Eamon said calmly, surprised at the part of his mind that cut in automatically at times like this.
"There's an SMG under Stark's seat."
The scientist slid the case out, flipped it open. A Super-V. Very nice. Very expensive. Thank you, Council. She glanced to her right, at the blank, industrial wall. "Both the rocket and lasers came from the left."
"Yeah, they're probably hiding in one of those houses. Clear rear."
Eamon twisted in her seat. "Clear. I saw a flash, but I don't remember which house it was in."
"Take the gun, and get out. Cover the rear." She yanked what looked like an Epi-Pen from a pouch, and stabbed Stark in the neck. He yelped. Whatever was in there, it was enough to knock someone out of shock. Good to know.
Eamon scrambled out of the door, reached back in for the gun, and felt the beam pass through the place his head had been a second earlier. It had also put a hole in the roof of the car.
"Lasers," someone gasped, right next to her. "Never liked them."
Eamon jumped, and nearly elbowed Stark in the face.
"Don't do that!"
"Why haven't they rocketed us again?"
"Generally, one does the job. Maybe they traveled light."
"This is not a good situation," said the soldier, as she climbed out of the car. "It's only a matter of time before they get the bright idea to aim for the fuel tank, which will either kill us or flush us. And then they'll kill us."
"What's your name?"
"Laura Byler, sir."
"Laura, when is backup going to get here?"
"Five minutes."
"We don't have five minutes."
"That house."
Stark and Byler looked at Irene. "What?"
"They're in that house." She pointed. "Looked at the hole in the room and the mark on the ground. Sniper on the second story. Your rifle still working?"
"Yeah, but - no."
"You suppress him, I'll charge."
"You're not a trained soldier. No."
"Which is why the trained soldier should guard the VIP."
Another hole punched through the car, and everyone ducked.
"We don't have time for this," Irene growled, and took off for the row of houses. Behind her, Byler swore, and started firing.
The scientist reached an oblique angle to the nearest house, too close for the sniper to hit without exposing themselves, and started running forward. He vaulted over one wall, two, then arrived at the sniper's house just as a figure stepped out of the front door.
Oddly enough, Eamon noted, just before he shoulder-checked them, they seemed to be wearing pinstripes.
The assailant was knocked a few feet, towards the wall. Before they could bring their pistol up, Eamon smashed their wrist between her left knee and the wall, making them drop the gun, then backed off.
"Stoppen!" he barked. Was that even the right word in German? Well, someone pointing a gun at you was pretty unmistakable.
The man glared at her with hate in his eyes, and reached for something on his belt. Looked like an Epi-Pen. Irene's eyes widened. "Wait!"
The stranger jammed the syringe into his neck, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Foam began to bubble from his lips, and his limbs convulsed -
Eamon looked away.
Who were these people?
Maybe there'd be answers inside.
-/-
There were three bodies with bags on their heads, all tied up and shoved against a wall, and a fourth with another syringe in its neck.
One of the bodies was smaller.
Irene stared at the tableau, as the house shook while something massive hovered overhead, as ropes descended past the window, as booted feet ran up the stairs.
"Stoppen!" a voice yelled.
The woman raised her head.
"It's-" she swallowed. "It's okay. I'm with you guys."
-X-
Bonnie Tyler - "I need a hero"
Because I keep having to explain it: Eamon isn't a self-insert. He's very loosely based on an Irish friend of mine. Most of all, he's based on what I feel is the standard-issue self-insert fic type. The only parts of me he has is a tendency to make references, a trait I share with Miles Vorkosigian and Harry Dresden.