The last time she saw her sister, Lisbeth was seventeen years old. It had been almost five years since the sisters had last been together, when All the Evil happened and Lisbeth was carted off the St. Stefan's. By that time Camilla had won a scholarship to a dance academy and been there almost since the day they were separated. She had changed much over the years, willowy and lean in all the ways Lisbeth was short and skinny, her future burning optimistically bright, and yet when they ran into each other in a tattoo parlor Camilla had looked anything but pleased.
When they had been younger the girls would play a game, where they would stand toe-to-toe and be each other's mirror, palms pressed tight together as they giggled and echoed each other's moves, identical in every way. Now, standing toe-to-toe quite by accident, Lisbeth had to look up three inches into her sister's eyes, to see how different the elder twin had become. The orange hair of their youth was the color of blood falling over Camilla's shoulder in elegant curls, their mother's thin lips fuller and pinker, her pale Swedish skin a healthy pinkish gold. She had been transformed into a completely different person and yet was still distinctly recognizable as a woman who used to be her sister. Lisbeth would never forget Camilla, not after all she had done - or really hadn't done - during their childhood.
"How are you, Lisbeth?" Camilla asked in a soft, civil voice. She used to have a lisp. "Getting a tattoo?" Lisbeth was there for the last session of her dragon tattoo, getting the last colors filled in and any blemishes touched up. She explained this to Camilla, who smiled vaguely. "That's nice. I'm getting the initials of my dance school, the Red Room, on my shoulder. I hope it will look nice."
Lisbeth tried not to glare. Was Camilla having her on, talking like a robot reading off a script? "The people here are good, it will be fine," she said curtly. "You're very dedicated to your dance."
That was when Camilla politely explained her acceptance to the Russian ballet, how exciting it was to be going abroad to seek her fortune, and how she wished to commemorate her gratitude to the school that gave her such an opportunity. The Red Room. It certainly didn't sound like a dance school, and even through all the talk of her happy news Camilla's voice never went beyond monotone.. "I told them about you. They thought you would be very well matched for contemporary dance. Would you care to meet them?" she asked, looking coolly apologetic.
"No," spat Lisbeth instantly. She didn't know who "they" were, but she wanted nothing to do with them if they made girls into machines like this. Lisbeth had a life and a personality, and even if some people thought her personality repulsive, she would rather repel than have no sense of self.
Camilla gave way to a small smile, eyes downcast. "Perhaps it's for the better. I don't think it would be a good hobby for you. Perhaps...running." Her eyes snapped up to Lisbeth's with a sudden intensity that was sharp as as a double-edged blade. "Running would be much more beneficial. Take care of yourself, Lisbeth."
She left without another word or her treasured Red Room tattoo, briefly grasping Lisbeth's hand in an iron grip before vanishing into the crowded streets. Even with such vivid hair she blended quickly and seamlessly, and Lisbeth soon lost sight despite watching closely. Something had felt very wrong about their conversation, but before she could contemplate it further the tattooist called for their session.
At her foster home Lisbeth was forbidden use of the computer, being at the time a very expensive machine used only for business, but even if she had been able to look up the Red Room she wouldn't have found a thing. Camilla's name, too, would be conspicuously absent from most databases in the world. By the time Lisbeth had the time, money, and resources to try looking up her sister, she had pushed everything about her family out of her mind. If her only surviving relative couldn't so much as post a letter about her glamorous new life in Russia, then she wasn't worth the effort.
When the mess with Zalachenko was over for good, Lisbeth went traveling until the media shitstorm died down. Not for too long, not only because she knew that no matter what she did there would always be talk, but also because she was finished letting those assholes keep her out of her own country. If she wanted to sleep in her bed and walk the streets of Stockholm, she damn well would.
Coming back was as easy as buying a ticket under the Irene Nesser passport and wearing a wig to avoid the hovering journalists who had sniffed a rumor of Lisbeth Salander returning to Stockholm. None of them recognized her without the black hair and scowl, and she was easily able to get back to her apartment after stopping at the 7-11 for a package of Billy's Pan Pizza.
For a few days she remained holed up, safe in her apartment, until Kalle fucking Blomkvist showed up in the middle of her bath. There was nothing, nothing she could do, except let him into her life again. Fighting was exhausting. Maybe it was just that she was getting older, but she didn't want to be angry with him any longer. And it wasn't as though she expected anything of him, now that he was with Figuerola and they were happy.
But then they weren't happy. Blomkvist was an imperfect man who loved women too much and Figuerola was an imperfect woman who lied when she said she wouldn't get jealous. Blomkvist slept in her guest room for a week while Figuerola cleared her things out of his apartment. While he was learning how to use the coffee maker Salander logged into Hacker Republic and found a message waiting for her. A new user, named Arcangel. She frowned. There hadn't been a new user in the Republic since she joined up years back, but the message was from a few days ago.
What's the deal with this place? Super secret pop band or something? Is this Anonymous?
Her frown deepened. American, she guessed by the loose English grammar, but why was he asking her?
Why are you asking me? she typed back in Swedish. Let him figure it out on his own.
"Coffee?" Blomkvist asked, having finally sorted out the machine. He looked haggard, as though he hadn't slept (or bathed) in days. Salander took the offered mug and settled back in her chair. He nodded at her screen. "Who's the American?"
"Don't know," she shrugged, and closed down her computer.
Two days later she was looking up some research facility she'd never heard of for Mikael- Blomkvist when she was alerted of another message from the Republic.
Because it was you or Plague, Arcangel said in nearly perfect Swedish. And even though both are pretty offensive, I would prefer a wasp over a plague any day.
Staring at the message, Salander didn't even think before she was reaching for her keyboard and writing back, There are no wasps like me.
This time the reply came back much more quickly, though in English again. Apparently Arcangel had exhausted their little knowledge of Swedish on the last message.
Is that a threat or a promise? ;D
Behave or I can have you kicked off.
You really can't.
Oh?
Technically, I'm not actually here.
Then how did you get in?
Um, duh? This is a forum for hackers. I hacked in.
No one could have done that.
That's funny. I've got a joke too. A Swede, a Pole and a priest walk into a bar...
Despite herself, Salander smirked at the screen, then jumped and closed the window when Blomkvist put a hand on her shoulder. "What's so funny?" he asked.
"Nothing." She reopened the database of the facility Blomkvist wanted to know about. For some unfathomable reason Salander didn't want him to see her talking to Arcangel, even though they weren't even speaking on friendly terms. Well, Arcangel was, but she had encountered enough eccentrics in her time to know that they could be interesting to talk to and mostly harmless. Besides, there was something almost therapeutic about talking to a complete stranger, knowing that they would likely never run into one another on the street, not with continents in between them.
Blomkvist returned to his apartment later that week, but continued dropping in to bother her, and over the next six months their relationship slowly recovered.
Casual touches that had been normal during their year in Hedestad had grown cold and distant since their falling out, but started anew when they became friends again. Salander had never been one for touches without consequence, if only because no one had ever dared touch her, so the first contacts between them were aborted and shaky. Then they were just awkward, then uncomfortable, and finally easy again.
Over that time she kept in contact with Arcangel, finding him much easier to talk to than Plague, who was a recluse, or any other number of the social outcasts of the Republic. This man - for he was a man, he made that much clear very early on even without telling her - was almost violently charismatic, to the point where Salander couldn't actually tell if she liked or hated him. But they shared tips and tricks of the trade. Arcangel even sent a few pieces of equipment he'd developed to her post office box halfway across Stockholm. It worked ten times faster and cleaner than anything she could have dreamed of getting from Plague.
I want to meet you.
Salander shouldn't have been surprised, but she still leaned back with her Coke and frowned at the computer screen. So Arcangel wanted to meet. They'd been corresponding for almost a year by then, learned a few helpful secrets that could collapse minor third-world governments, it seemed only natural that they would meet in person if they lived near one another. But he was in America and she was in Sweden.
So do a lot of people, and they're a lot nearer.
I can pay, money's no object to me.
Nor is it to me, she typed back with a scowl.
Good, then we're agreed. New York is beautiful this time of year. I mean, as beautiful as New York can get, it still smells and has ozone, but it looks pretty, gives the air a good shimmery quality.
Salander rolled her eyes. I haven't said yes.
Do you need to bring your boyfriend? Because that can be arranged.
He's not my boyfriend. Lisbeth regretted the day she'd ever mentioned her friend Mikael drinking all her coffee.
Fine, then bring your not-boyfriend. Your flight's booked for a week from today, Wasp and Mikael. It's a private jet, don't worry about security, just show up.
When she didn't reply for ten minutes he added, I promise it'll be fun.
Salander rolled her eyes and replied, We'll see, before calling over her shoulder to Blomkvist, "Do you want to go to America with me?"
"Huh?"
"America " she repeated. "I've been invited. Want to go?"
For a long moment Blomkvist just stared at her. When she finally swung her chair around to face him it was to find a timid little boy watching instead of the man she knew. "You want to go on holiday together?" he asked uncertainly.
Shit, Figuerola had really broken his heart. Then again, he had broken hers, so she offered very little sympathy. "You're my friend," she said as though that were the answer to everything. He seemed to understand and agreed.
Alright, we're coming, she sent back, much to Arcangel's delight.
"Tony, why do you want me to help you decorate rooms? What aren't you telling me?" Pepper asked, seething with barely-concealed suspicion as Tony bustled around her, You and Dummy on his heels with cleaning supplies.
Snapping his fingers, Tony pointed the robots' attention in the direction of an armchair in the corner of the room. "What is that? You? Dummy? Care to explain to me what that is? No? I have to? That's a scientist. He has insomnia and he is sleeping for the first time in four days. And You vacuumed him. I am going to make you into the least functional wine rack in the world, I swear to Thor. Get downstairs before I pull you apart right here." The robots left the room and Tony sat possessively on the arm of Bruce's chair, carefully removing the smaller man's lopsided glasses. He probably fell asleep on and broke them at least once a month; they were a mess of superglue and Scotch tape.
He looked up at Pepper, glasses in hand, and she sighed. "You are getting him a new pair for his birthday in a month, now will you listen to me? Who are you having over? Should I be concerned? Do I need to hide the valuables?" she asked, hopping to the extremes to make Tony pay attention.
Rolling his eyes, Tony replied, "Just a friend, someone I met on the internet."
"Oh, someone you met on the internet. So I should hide the valuables."
"Pepper!"
The CEO of Stark Industries threw up her hands. "Well, how do you want me to react, Tony? You keep inviting strange people from the computer into your house and then act surprised when they trash the place!" she argued, only keeping her voice down for the sleeping man two feet away even though he was pretty much dead to the world.
"This one's different, Pep," Tony assured her, getting up from the arm of Bruce's chair to put his hands on her shoulders. "She doesn't know I'm Tony Stark."
"Well at least you're keeping a low profile," deadpanned Pepper, not even needing to nod at the extravagant penthouse for him to understand.
"We are both members of a very elite, very secretive, online forum. There are codes of conduct to respect, and that includes not nosing around one another's business. Sure, Wasp might put it together-"
"-Wasp? Her name is Wasp?"
"-but she would never exploit my identity, just as I never would hers if I knew it," finished Tony with a sunny smile.
"Let's talk about the fact that it's a woman you've invited over, too," continued Pepper, steamrolling over anything else Tony might have said. "Do you realize what bringing a strange woman into the Tower could do to the very tenuous, very fragile and new relationship you have with Doctor Banner?"
"Why do you think I invited her boyfriend?"
Pepper blinked and leaned slightly back. "She has a boyfriend?" she echoed, Tony nodded, and after a long moment she relaxed her shoulders.
"You really think I'd screw up what I've got going here?" asked Tony, looking wounded and actually honest.
As if on cue, Bruce stirred in his sleep and Pepper pulled Tony into the other room. "You could have said that sooner."
"Gotta keep my CEO on her toes, don't I?" smirked Tony. Pepper stared, and he sobered. "You're really glad you got out when you did, aren't you?"
"I thank my lucky stars every day, Mister Stark," Pepper said, though she was smiling. She only called him Mister Stark when she was teasing him nowadays, and he was fine with that. "So, what's this strange woman like? If I'm going to have a room prepared it should be comfortable."
"Well, she's from the internet, so you're probably right on the 'strange' bit. But she's kind of a sourpuss, private, reserved-"
"So there's a likely chance of social anxiety?" asked Pepper with an arched brow. "And you think it's a good idea for her to be here?"
Smiling, Tony took his CEO's shoulders in his hands before giving up all pretense of personal space and hugging her tight. "Have a little faith, Pep. She's nice, in a reclusive, bitter pariah kind of way. Kind of makes me wonder what Bruce might've been like in another life."
"What, you think he'd be some weirdo on the internet?"
"I mean that she's lonely, Pepper," Tony argued, though she was smiling, teasing him now. "This boyfriend, Mikael or whatever, he's the only person she ever talks about without a hefty load of swear words attached. I was like that for a while too - with you, remember? After Obie, when Rhodey was pissing me off. It's no way to live, even if you're a weirdo on the internet." When it occurred to him that he was saying something very heartfelt, he tossed away a smirk to loosen his proverbial tie.
Pepper just smiled and nudged him with her shoulder. "You're a very good man, Mister Stark," she said. "I'll see what I can put together in neutral colors. When are they coming?"
"Um, yeah, four days."
"Four-?!"
"You're my forever-girl!" Tony called over his shoulder on the way to the elevator. It was best to escape before she got to finishing her sentence and scolding him.
Bruce was even more difficult to convince than Pepper that he wasn't making an incredibly stupid decision in inviting a perfect stranger into his home, his life experiences leaving him with a pretty impressive paranoid streak that could have made most teenager stoners unironically green with envy. It made Tony heartsick, and he quickly resolved to get him a new friend in Wasp just to prove his fears wrong. As it were, that night when Bruce couldn't sleep again because of his long nap, Tony pulled out his favorite pair of velvet-lined handcuffs and they partook in a trust exercise of their own.
Clint and Natasha unexpectedly arrived early from an assignment the morning Wasp and Mikael were due to arrive, looking hungry and haggard, and Tony had to hide the gourmet pizzas he had pre-made when he remembered Wasp telling him months ago that she could eat nothing but pizza for the rest of her life. He'd never heard of Billy's Pan Pizza, but it sounded like something found in a 7-11 freezer. The assassins were irate, to say the very least, but settled on cold leftovers from group dinner two nights ago. Luckily for them, Thor was back on Asgard and Cap was tracking down the surviving Commandoes, so leftovers didn't vanish within two hours of the meal itself.
Watching Tony try not to check his watch for the eightieth time wondering when the car picking up Mikael and Wasp from the airport would arrive, Bruce smiled affectionately. "You look like a little kid waiting for his first sleepover," he said, straightening Tony's collar.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he grumbled. He was very fixedly pretending that he hadn't changed clothes four times in an attempt to find something perfectly casual but sharp enough to impress.
Bruce just smiled because he knew better. He looked his usual rumpled self, in the same yellow shirt he wore when they sent Thor and the Wicked Witch back to Oz, his spiffy new glasses (Pepper actually caved first, when she realized he was starting to look like a crazy middle-aged Harry Potter), and a relaxed grin that took years from his face.
Mister Stark, there has been a Code B Security Breach regarding Wasp's transport, JARVIS's voice came over the Tower intercom, and the TV flickered to life with what looked like a live feed from the inside of a Stark Industries car. Tony had his phone out and was dialing emergency services while simultaneously watching the feed and getting the car's coordinates. A man of around Tony's age and a woman who looked about nineteen were sitting back-to-back in the middle of the seat, speaking rapid Swedish as she passed a taser to him and pulled a Swiss Army knife from her boot.
"JARVIS, deploy the suit!" Tony ordered, and Bruce had to duck to avoid being clocked by the flying armor. It built itself around Tony within seconds - he must have modified it - and took off out the open window
When the doors flew open Mikael jabbed blindly, but Wasp waited until the gloved hands were practically around her neck before kicking out and slashing with the knife. Red splashed across her cheek and she shouted something at Mikael. The reaching arms retreated on his side but doubled in number on hers. Mikael screamed "What the fuck do you want?!" and held onto Wasp as the masked kidnappers dragged her out, kicking and howling. "No! Lisbeth! Lisbe-!" One of the masked figures grasped Mikael's head and slammed it into the window, but two more outside the car screamed and fell silent.
By the time Tony landed at the scene four more of the kidnappers were out and bleeding on the ground around the car, and a blast from his repulsors took care of the rest. Wasp was bloody and gasping against the side of the car, taser at hand and wide-eyed as she regarded him. "Who the fuck are you?" she panted through a surprisingly delicate Swedish accent.
He flipped up his helm and grinned. In the distance, sirens wailed. "I'm Arcangel."