PLEASE READ, even if you're reading this long after this chapter was posted. I fear I may have lost some readers, simply because I've changed the title of this story so many times. So, the original title was Fall, Fall Through Tears and Fall Through Laughter. The second title was The Fall of the Nine Realms. And of course, the title then became Divided I Stand. And then I changed it to the current title: The Infinity Wars: Divided I Stand. Hopefully, that's what the title will remain.

Hi everyone! This is my first fanfiction, but not my first story. I WELCOME constructive criticism, so please, read and review. I will be reading all of the reviews, so if you have any questions or suggestions, feel free to provide them or PM me. I'm still learning many of the terms on this site, so . . . yes. I hope for updates to come once a week, if not more.

All appropriate elements go to their respective owners. This disclaimer applies to the entire story (because I keep forgetting).

Don't Pull a Stark (a.k.a Don't Be Late)

Percy paced back and forth in the studio, looking at the clock with a slightly bored and annoyed expression.

His new client was late.

It was curious enough that this same new client had requested for personal, one-on-one classes and had even offered to pay triple his usual rate just for this privilege, but being late was not curious. Not when Percy had a class to teach at Camp Half-Blood 30 minutes immediately after this lesson, and a date with Annabeth following close behind.

The triple pay was nice, though. To be honest, Percy hadn't expected much when he'd applied for the vaguely titled "Fighting Instructor" job in the newspaper. All he cared was that it gave decent wages, the studio was only 2 blocks from his apartment (you can imagine how much effort and persuasion it took on his part to convince his mom that, yes, he was nearly 18 years old now, and yes, he was capable of living in his own apartment—with supervision, of course) and most importantly, he was only teaching beginners. People who had decided that alien attacks were becoming common enough that it was time to learn how to defend themselves. So while the teaching pace was agonizingly slow and some—scratch that, a lot—of people signed up for classes under the stupid belief that they'd become "awesome fighters with ninja-moves", it wasn't too bad. He made sure to warn his class at the beginning of each lesson that he was teaching them basic defensive moves, and they would only be able to temporarily protect themselves from a human attacker, forget monste—sorry, aliens.

Percy was just about ready to up and leave, fed up with his new client's tardiness, when the entrance door to the studio (it was a very small studio, mind you) opened and a man breezed in, another man following close behind with a bag.

Percy's eyes narrowed. The first man—most likely his client—looked nothing like the people that he usually taught. In fact, his entire appearance scoffed "Forget millionaires—I'm a billionaire." He wore an expensive grey suit jacket, most likely tailored to his physique down to the last cuff, with a dark red dress shirt underneath and a matching grey tie. His gaze swept the tiny one-room studio with eyes covered in red-tinted shades, and he stepped onto the fighting mat with shiny, polished, expensive-looking shoes. Percy would have thought that this man was just another well-dressed god looking to have a chat with him, if not for the fact that he lacked the trademark aura of intense and overwhelming power that always accompanied the immortals. Making the assumption that this stranger was simply a very rich mortal (considering the fact that Percy couldn't see any of the telltale signs that would mark him as a monster), well . . . he couldn't help but immediately dislike him.

Now, Percy wasn't poor to the point of homelessness. He did make his own living. But he had grown up with money problems, and standing before this billionaire-looking man, wearing his black t-shirt and workout shorts stained with sweat from his last class, he felt out of place. It was a feeling similar to when he entered his uncle's throne room, surrounded by a dozen—no, 14, since Hades and Hestia were now included in many, if not all, council meetings—Olympians, all of whom had the power to disintegrate him or turn him into whichever animal they were in the mood for. He hated that feeling.

Percy filed all of the thoughts away and stepped forward, holding out a hand. "Hi—I'm Percy. I'm assuming you're the client who asked for private lessons?"

To Percy's surprise, the man obliged, giving a smirk and taking his hand, shaking it in a strong, firm grip that spoke of years of practice. "Yup, that's me—Tony Stark. Sorry I'm late—had to sneak out of Stark Tower to avoid the paparazzi." He didn't sound sorry.

"You might be wondering why I'd want combat lessons"—no, Percy wasn't wondering—"when I've got all of my friends, but let me tell you, kid—that never goes down well, and they never let me hear the end of it." He nodded to the man behind him. "Figured that it wouldn't hurt to pick up some lessons from someone who wasn't from the team. Hence the issue of avoiding the paparazzi—if they got a whiff of this, everybody would be on my ass." He took off his shades to reveal dark brown eyes that matched perfectly with his short dark brown hair. If Percy had to guess, he was probably in his 30s or 40s, but he looked pretty fit. "This is Clint." He said, waving vaguely behind him to the other man. He also had dark brown eyes and hair, but that was where the similarities stopped between him and Stark. Clint was a little taller, younger, and significantly more muscled, and that was evident from the t-shirt that hugged his arms and torso. His face was well defined and his eyes hard. In Percy's eyes, he saw a fighter.

Clint looked right back at him, and despite the seemingly disinterested gaze that he wore on his face, Percy knew that he was conducting his own observations.

"He wouldn't be here in the first place," Tony rambled on, oblivious to the brief tension. "Honestly, I was going to bring Happy. But then Clint found out about my lessons, and he lost a previous bet with me, so I made him my bodyguard/butler for the day!" Tony beamed.

Clint turned his attention to Tony, and he didn't look happy. In fact, he looked like he could strangle Tony with his muscled arms. But he didn't, fortunately—or unfortunately. He simply rolled his eyes, saying, "Don't push your—"

"Uh uh uh, agen—Barton." Tony chided, briefly turning around with a smirk. "Butlers don't talk, remember? Complete silence."

Clint's eyes narrowed, as if daring Tony to say more. He wisely turned back to Percy.

Percy nodded as if he understood everything that had just happened, noting Tony's slip up—had he been about to say agent? And Tony Stark . . . He knew that name from somewhere.

The man was looking at him as if expecting some big reaction from him. Realization seemed to dawn on his face. "You don't know who I am? Tony Stark? Billionaire, CEO of Stark Industries, Iron Man—AVENGERS? Doesn't ring a bell? Nothing?" He turned back to his colleague, irritated. "Barton, something's wrong."

Clint snorted, breaking his silence again. "No—something's finally right."

Percy couldn't help but snort as well. Now he knew why he had recognized his name. Annabeth, whenever the Avengers Tower—formerly called Stark Tower—came into sight, talked about him incessantly. She hated his arrogance, sure, but she was in love with the architecture of his buildings and his newest and most current projects, such as the clean energy program. In fact, she was currently trying to get a job working at Stark Tower.

And Iron Man—Percy scoffed quietly. In that machine, all the billionaire did was destroy. He had seen the damage that had been wreaked on the state, and especially his own city of Manhattan, in the battle between the Avengers and the invading aliens. A battle that Chiron had absolutely prohibited him from joining to his horror and rage. Even the Battle of Manhattan with Kronos hadn't cost the city—and the state and federal government—as much trouble, headache, and money. So yeah, Percy knew the arrogant and foolhardy Tony Stark alright. Not that he was going to give him that satisfaction.

Percy shook his head. "No, sorry, Mr. Stark." He caught Tony's horrified stare and shrugged. "If you'd like, I can transfer you to another instructor."

Inwardly, Percy prayed that he would accept. He didn't want to have to deal with this jerk for another minute. Yes, he had a grudging respect for the man. After all, Stark had sacrificed himself to ensure that millions didn't die from the nuclear bomb that had been released by SHIELD, a shadow organization that had been exposed after its headquarters exploded following attempts by members of the Avengers, including Captain America, to take out the HYDRA influence that had slowly infiltrated SHIELD's system. However, his destructive actions and those of his comrades all over the world had caused much sufferance and pain, and still were. Percy wasn't even going to get started on the aftermath following Ultron. Despite the fact that he'd been in Tartarus with Annabeth when the homicidal AI had been on its path of human genocide, he was well aware of the devastation, most notably in Sokovia and Wakanda, that had been caused by the group of heroes. And of course, all of the other political, economic, environmental, and social problems that had ensued. You could imagine the public backlash—it wasn't pretty.

Tony shook himself, pocketing his shades in his suit pocket. "Nope, that's a no can do. I have to remedy this situation." He began to take off his suit jacket. "Trust me kid, by the end of this month, we'll be best buddies." He shook his head again, muttering, "Maybe if I hadn't gotten my arc reactor removed—it'd been pretty recognizable . . ."

Percy groaned inwardly. Why? Why me? If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that Clint gave him a brief look of sympathy. Percy watched as Tony shed his suit jacket, expensive-looking watch, and then his shoes, before offering it all to Clint.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Oh sorry, I wasn't aware that I was your maid as well."

Tony sighed before placing them by his bags. "Useless," he muttered as he stepped onto the fighting mat. "Absolutely useless."

"Can't say you're any better," Clint said with indifference.

"Ouch, that hurt Barton." Tony placed his hand to his chest, but the tone of his voice said something else entirely—he really didn't care.

Percy gave a sigh as they bickered, resigning himself to his fate. He walked over to the man, noting that he was under the close observation of Clint, and started with stretches before beginning to teach Tony the basics of a defensive fighting stance, not bothering to point out that his client's dress shirt and pants weren't exactly the best clothing suited for fighting.

He wasn't that bad, Percy acknowledged. The billionaire had a surprisingly good grasp of some of the key points when it came to stances. Probably because he spent half his time fighting as Iron Man. And he was rather spry for a 30/40 year old. His defense and balance weren't too bad either; however, he could tell that the man was used to his metal suit taking the brunt of an attack.

"Your feet have to be farther apart." Percy said for the umpteenth time, annoyed. "Otherwise, I can do this—" Percy kicked at one of the man's feet out of the blue, "And that happens." He finished, as Tony took another tumble onto the ground. Now Percy was the one who was smirking.

There was a snicker and Percy looked up to see Clint also grinning down at Tony.

Tony frowned, looking back at Clint as he assumed an innocent look, and picked himself up. "I swear, you seem to be having fun kicking my ass." It was obvious that he wasn't used to taking orders from someone else, and Percy being years younger than him probably didn't help.

And yet, even as Percy critiqued each of his various stances, the man rambled non-stop about his life. In the space of those 2 hours, Percy picked up so much information that he probably now knew more about Tony Stark, Stark Industries, and the Avengers than Annabeth herself. And it turned out that Clint—Clint Barton—was a member of the Avengers Initiative under the name Hawkeye. Or rather, he was an ex-Avenger, as Clint liked to point out each time Tony attempted to include the archer with the rest of the motley group of heroes. Nevertheless, Percy had been right—Clint was a fighter.

He also learned that Stark occasionally boxed, which probably also explained for some of the billionaire's previous knowledge with defense techniques. However, Tony's experience with boxing didn't help with much else—boxing assumed that the opponent had the decency to not beat you to death. Real fights were anything but that.

The moment the clock indicated 5:00, Percy turned around and started to pack up—leaving Tony on the ground after Percy had found yet another flaw in his defensive stance.

"Hey, where are you going?" Tony asked as he picked himself up.

Percy wordlessly pointed to the clock, throwing on a varsity swimming hoodie in preparation for the cooling temperatures outside. Usually, he would be warm enough from the classes to venture outside in the cool evenings without a sweater, but this time, he hadn't sweat a single drop in the 2 hours of this lesson.

"Oh—will you look at that. Well, I guess I'll see you on Thursday, then."

Percy raised an eyebrow to himself. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that the billionaire sounded . . . disappointed. He straightened, turning around and noticing through the window in the door that Kayla—the instructor for the next two classes—was outside, waiting patiently as he wrapped up his own class.

"Nice meeting you, Mr. Stark." He headed for the door.

"Hey! Hold your liquor, kid."

Percy turned around, hiding an annoyed expression, and watched as Tony scribbled something on a piece of paper before handing it to him. It was a photo of Tony Stark, and even with his dyslexia, he could tell that the looping words beneath his smirking face were his signature.

By the gods . . . Percy thought. Did he just give me his autograph? He looked at Clint, who nodded at Percy behind Tony's back, as if to say, Yup, that's Tony Stark for you.

Tony, misreading Percy's face, clapped him on the back, grinning. "Don't worry about it, kid. Got a dozen more like it. And please, call me Tony."

. . . .

Percy got to Camp Half-Blood just in time to teach his sword fighting class. It helped that monsters tended to stay away from him now. Ever since the war against Gaea had ended, monsters rarely attacked senior demigods. Not unless they had a death wish. It made it a lot easier when it came to bringing new demigods to the camp—with senior campers escorting them the entire journey, they encountered few problems except the occasional hellhound or empousa that was foolish enough to attack a veteran demigod and satyr.

After dismissing his class one hour later, Percy hurriedly took a shower and ran out of the camp while fixing his bowtie, meeting with Argus on Half-Blood Hill, who then took him back downtown in one of the Camp's SUVs. When they arrived at his destination, he thanked Argus and dashed down the sidewalk, skidding to a stop before a fancy burger joint. Feeling his asthma begin to act up again, he took several deep breaths while mentally spewing curses at Tartarus and its terrible acrid air—he was definitely not in the mood for an asthma attack right before his date. Feeling a wave of relief as his air-constricted pants slowly faded away, he nervously fixed his bowtie again before stepping inside the restaurant. The bustle of waiters and waitresses and the waft of greasy food slid right past his senses as he spotted Annabeth and made his way over to her, flopping down on the seat across from her.

"Hi." Percy gasped.

Annabeth looked at him with her stormy grey eyes, clearly unimpressed, and handed him a glass of cold water, as if she'd already prepared for this.

Percy took the glass gratefully, downing all of the water, feeling his heartbeat slow down enough that he flashed a grin at his girlfriend. "I'm not late this time!"

Annabeth raised an eyebrow, silently pointing to the fancy clock hanging behind a counter at the back of the restaurant. 6:35.

Percy turned back to Annabeth, rolling his eyes. "That clock is ahead by five minutes." He said, showing her the watch that Tyson had made for him. "See?"

Now Annabeth rolled her eyes, tilting the face of the watch back at Percy. The watch read 6:35.

"I swear, it said 6:20 ten minutes ago!" Percy said, shocked.

Annabeth laughed, finally breaking her silence. "I'm sure it did. Percy, when are you ever on time?"

"I can make it up to you." He said, remembering everything that he had learned earlier in the afternoon.

"Oh?" Annabeth leaned back, entirely ready to let her boyfriend stew in his seat.

"I met Tony Stark today."

Immediately, there was a look of interest and curiosity on her face. She leaned forward again, her eyes narrowing. "Percy Jackson, if you're lying to me . . ."

"No, I swear, I'm not!" He plunged into the story of receiving an e-mail from an interested potential client and described the afternoon's class, along with everything he had learned about Stark Industries and the Avengers.

"And then the dude gave me this," Percy said, rolling his eyes as he took out the autograph and placed it on the table next to his empty, crumb-strewn plate.

Annabeth laughed. "I guess what they say about his streak of ego is true."

"Bigger than Stark Tower," Percy agreed. He tilted his head—now that he thought about it, Tony Stark did remind him of a monster. He was arrogant, self-centered, and genuinely believed that everyone knew who he was—he was essentially a rich, mortal (and good-looking, Percy relented) version of every Greek monster that Percy had ever had the opportunity to trade words (and blows) with.

Annabeth shrugged. "Not bad—I guess you did manage to make up for being late."

Suddenly, Percy's phone dinged! Percy pulled out his phone, wondering who in Hades would be sending messages to him at this time of day. He'd gotten the phone purely for emergencies—he figured that since monsters were avoiding him now, it didn't hurt to have one. It was an e-mail from one Clint Barton.

Percy frowned. The man must have gotten his e-mail address from Tony. He showed it to Annabeth, who also frowned. He opened the e-mail. It read:

In return for making my day bearable (and entertaining):

Percy opened the video attachment. The familiar setting of the studio appeared on the screen of his phone, and in the middle of the fighting mat were two people—him and Tony.

Realization dawned on Percy's face. "Clint—he must have taken a video of the lesson." He shook his head, slightly unnerved. "I didn't even notice he had a phone out."

They watched as Percy knocked down Tony Stark over and over again, merciless and unrelenting in his instructing of the billionaire. Annabeth had to admit, it was slightly amusing.

"Wow—I almost pity him." Annabeth commented, trying to stifle a laugh as she watched Tony picked himself up yet again.

Percy snorted. "You wouldn't if you knew how much he loves to hear himself talk."

Annabeth tilted her head thoughtfully when the video ended. "Maybe you should ask this Clint Barton for archery lessons."

Percy rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to use him as target practice, then sure." Everyone knew he was absolutely terrible at archery—the target could be a foot from him and the arrow would still end up 20 feet elsewhere.

"True—and then you'd make a fool of yourself, and nobody wants that, right?" Annabeth winked at Percy, standing up after he'd paid the bill.

"Nope, definitely not." He linked his arm in hers and they walked out into the night.

(The Halls of Asgard)

"Father." Thor lowered himself to one knee, Mjölnir at his side.

"My son." Slight surprise coloured the All-Father's voice. "This is an unexpected return."

Thor rose to his feet. On either side of him, brilliant gold columns rose to a high and yawning ceiling that domed the giant throne room of Asgard. The prince was dressed in his custom war attire: a shining, well-sculpted breastplate backed with a crimson cape, along with formal knee-high boots and gilded vambraces.

Across from him, the King of Asgard sat upon a raised dais, Gungnir grasped in his right hand. The one-eyed man, to a human, would have appeared old and intimidating. In Thor's eyes however, he saw only strength and wisdom.

"Yes, but I hope it is a pleasant one." Thor joked.

"Of course, of course." Odin smiled slightly, the lines around his eye crinkling. "But the last I heard from Heimdall was of you fighting in yet another war on Midgard."

"Yes, it was a . . . small conflict." Thor finished. "Resolved last year." It was certainly not "small" in the eyes of his Midgardian friends, but Thor had fought in wars—in comparison, the battle waged against Ultron was a mere skirmish.

"Ah." Odin scrutinized his son. "But I believe you have not come to keep your father company. Something worries you."

Thor pursed his lips. Yes, it was worrying. Four of the infinity stones turning up in the last few years . . . no, it could not be a coincidence. Someone was toying with them. "There is something amiss, Father. Five years ago, the Tesseract was found beside Steve Rogers. Four years ago, Loki resurfaced wielding a scepter containing power that I had never encountered—I recently discovered that it housed the Mind Stone. Three years ago, we crossed paths with the Aether. Two years ago, the Power Stone was found on the planet Morag."

Odin's gaze was piercing. "The Infinity Stones . . ."

Thor nods. "These are not flukes of Fate, Father. There is someone playing Norn*, and we are the unlucky pawns."

"Loki's scepter contained the Mind Stone?" Odin was not asking a question—no, he was thinking.

"Yes. It is now in the safe care of a being called The Vision."

Odin raised a brow. "You would entrust an Infinity Stone with this Vision?"

"He can lift Mjölnir." Thor said, motioning to his war hammer, as if the explanation was enough.

And it was. Any being that could lift Mjölnir was worthy of trust, at the very least. Nevertheless, Odin frowned. "Should I be expecting a challenge to the throne in the future?" His tone was partly teasing, but the tension was evident enough.

"No, no." Thor said quickly. "The Vision is not interested in such things—he remains on Midgard, with the Avengers."

Odin nodded slowly, seeming satisfied. "You are right with the Infinity Stones; I have had my suspicions for a time now. It would seem that my fears are becoming true. If it is true that someone is orchestrating the rise of the Infinity Stones, we must act—quickly."

The All-Father rose from his throne and stepped down the stairs of the dais, placing a hand upon Thor's armoured shoulder.

"We must find the rest of the Infinity Stones, before they fall into the wrong hands. Go to Vanaheim; seek out Frey. He may be able to locate the last two stones."

Thor nodded. "And what of you, Father?"

There was a calculating look in Odin's eyes. "I? I will think."

Thor hesitated, momentarily thrown off for reasons that even he himself could not discern, and then nodded again. "Very well. I will depart immediately." He turned, beginning to leave.

"And Thor." Odin called. Thor paused, turning around. "Return with the location of the Stones—I do not want to hear from Heimdall that you have taken it upon yourself to gallivant about the Nine Realms."

Thor bowed his head. "Of course."

Then he left.

Odin's form glowed green for the smallest of moments.

Loki strode down the corridor, making sure to keep his gait slow and nodding to each noble he passed. Oh dear Valhalla, this was maddening. Playing King, sun up and sun down, was turning out to be significantly more difficult than he had anticipated.

Loki gave a self-deprecating laugh as he turned into an empty hallway—oh, the irony! He had lusted for power, for the throne, and now that he had it—now that he sat in the very spot meant for the All-Father—he was disappointed. Why? Because the power he sought to possess lay in the illusion that he had placed upon himself. Because the deep respect that shone in the eyes of each passing Asgardian was for the King they saw, and not for the one beneath. And most importantly: the jokes and pleasantries and warmth that Thor shared with him were not truly for him, but for the father he believed he was speaking to.

He had wanted it, wanted it all. And now that he had it, he was hiding.

He wondered to himself. Was it worth it? That still moment in the Dark World, standing before the man who had once called himself Loki's father.

Had it been worth it, killing Odin?

PLEASE REVIEW. Think of it like this: I will probably spend many hours of labour creating this story, so 1 minute to say "Good", "Bad", "Meh", etc. would be helpful. Of course, elaboration as to why it's "Bad" would also be helpful.

Thanks!

- 100th Century