A/N: New chapter because I'm off to see Infinity War in a minute and it'll break my heart, so be sure to leave me some reviews to cheer me up. ;)
Also for some reason parts of a later chapter made it in here because I'm an idiot, it should be fixed now.
Chapter 2
Maggie thought MIT was freedom, but travelling the world for a year and a half gives her a taste of what freedom really is. Not tied to any one place, seeing monuments built by men or nature, experiencing unfamiliar cultures and learning so much, always learning, about science and herself in equal measure.
She'd never thought going hiking in New Zealand with Rhodey could teach her so much. She hadn't touched a wrench for days, hadn't written one piece of code. Just walked on with Rhodey by her side and marvelled at how beautiful the world was even without human interference to improve it. She'd actually managed to sleep regularly for once.
But one year and a half was a long time, especially when Rhodey had to leave for the Air Force after a while. There were phone calls, of course, and Maggie knew solitude, enjoyed it for some part even.
Still, it had come time to return.
She used to dread going home when she was studying at MIT, hated the idea of having to walk up the long way to the entrance of the Stark Mansion. Now Maggie marvels at the fact that that is no longer the case. She's got a backpack full of ideas and really, that's all she needs. Over a year of going to places where the Starks are just no big deal, experiencing countries the languages of which she had not learnt yet, mountain climbing, parachuting, surfing, diving… over a year of challenging herself and the Stark Mansion no longer looks quite so big and imposing.
She strolls in and picks the path that will take her to Howard's office. She knows he's at the mansion right now, had hacked the security cameras a while back to find out. The question is if he's in his office or in his workshop, the latter she will not disturb him in.
Maggie gets lucky. There is light on in his office, though the door is closed. She knocks.
"Maria, I'm busy."
Maggie opens the door. "Too busy for me?"
He looks up from the files on his desk. They look dreadfully boring. "Maggie. You are back."
"Surprise." She shrugs and walks in. "Figured I'd say hi. So yeah. Hi." Sinking down in a nearby chair, she studies him. Had he always looked quite so old? Her memory is about as perfect as it gets and she doesn't recall him having this many wrinkles and his hair being all white.
"Indeed." He studies her in turn. "You look well."
Does she? It might just be a platitude. She hadn't looked into a mirror on the bus ride from the airport. And she hadn't taken the jet either, it was a commercial flight. Well-used hiking boots are still on her feet (they are so comfortable), jeans are coupled with a rumpled hoodie. Her hair is its original brown, unevenly cut at the shoulders because it was so warm in Spain and she hated the way it clung to her sweaty skin, and there was a decently sharp pair of scissors in her backpack.
"Thanks," she answers. "I got some plans I wanna run by you."
He leans back. "Plans?"
Maggie shrugs. "I've got to do something with my life. So here." She pulls a stack of papers out of her backpack. "This is what I wanna do."
Howard's eyebrows rise as he reads through the files. "Self-defence items. For women."
"To start with. There's a shortage," Maggie answers with a scowl. "It annoys me."
The files contain drafts for a large variety of tasers, stun guns, pepper sprays, and personal alarms. All disguised as items such as lipsticks, compact mirrors, hair brushes, and key chains. Designs for tactical pens, hats that could double as blunt weapons, disguised brass knuckles. Hair-ties that would send out numbing electric impulses to defend against hair-grabbing. Heeled shoes that could shift into a non-heeled form that allowed for fast running. Button cameras for recording up to a half-hour at a time.
"Interesting," Howard murmurs.
"It'll be my own line of products," Maggie elaborates. "Produced by my own company, but hopefully under the wing of Stark Industries. If the products sell well, I'll expand to tactical and survival gear, possibly even protective sports equipment."
"Your own company, you say?" Howard raises an eyebrow.
Maggie shrugs. "Why not? Ideally, I'd still want it to be a subsidiary of Stark Industries."
"Indeed," Howard said after a pause. "This might teach you a little responsibility. Very well. I am glad you've decided to grow up."
Background noise.
―~~―~~―
MagTech goes into production with remarkable speed - which is to say, it takes a year before anything is sold. Howard has absolutely no intention of being helpful, so Maggie has to do everything herself. And the Stark name only goes so far when one is stuck with a lack of male genitalia. It was surprisingly easy to forget in her eighteen months of travelling, but this is still a men's world.
Even though she's chosen these kinds of products because it is a men's world. Because she was a female travelling alone and it seemed oh-so-easy to drag her into an alley and rape her. It turned out not to be that easy because she's had enough training to raise hell and get away. It was the first time she found herself grateful for her kidnapping experiences when she was young - it gave her practice and taught her not to panic.
Later the men who assaulted her accused her of coming onto them, that she obviously wanted it, look how she was drinking in the club, look how she was dressed, who can fault them for getting the wrong idea? Attempted rape, obviously not the case, this was all her fault.
Money talks louder, though, and Maggie had a lot of money on hand. She also got access to a computer. The matter was kept quiet, the men ended up utterly ruined and behind bars.
And Maggie found a motivation for producing self-defence gear for women. Because she'd really have liked to be able to do something besides punching, kicking, screaming and running afterwards, and then treated like some whore at the police station.
The first stores selling her products open just shy of Christmas Eve in 1989. The products are positively received, though the stores aren't an instant overwhelming success. She catches a lot of flak for selling products for women, then there are voices complaining that what she's selling is completely unnecessary, this is a safe country, if a woman calls for help or just dresses appropriately she'll be fine and so on and so forth. The good old Maggie-Stark-the-Party-Girl articles resurface, too. And who knows what she was up to in her year abroad. Look, a photo of her in Paris! Obviously incriminating evidence.
(She was just visiting Uncle Jacques, damn it!)
Background noise. Maggie is defiance and conviction, and the products get more popular in time, positive reviews are made by nearly all female reporters, customer reviews are stellar. There are women who proclaim to owe their lives to Maggie's tech. She opens more stores all over the country, her products soon available by mail order as well. There is something satisfying and gratifying about seeing women walk around wearing the heels she designed, the stun-gun rings, the electroshock hair ties. Maggie opens two new product lines, one for home security and another for personal armour.
Personal armour turns out to be a goldmine. Reviews and tests declare her products to surpass everything currently commercially available, and the orders come pouring in.
Interviews, meetings, staff expansion, contracts… Maggie's life is suddenly very busy. She sees a lot of her father these days, but it's all business meetings and god, does she learn to hate those, especially if she's facing him and Obie in them. Father is brilliant and ruthless, daughter or not. He's also not above using his status as her father against her, which means he gets to say whatever he wants and she has to swallow it and try to politely twist his words to her advantage. One does not piss off the CEO of Stark Industries, especially not as a young woman just entering the world of business.
But Maggie is Maggie, and she deals with it head-on. She's brilliant, a prodigy, and her genius stretches to the business side of things. Even if her success is largely attributed to Howard, either as an inherited quality or, less kind, as him helping her behind the scenes. It's still success and she'll show them all. One day, she'll be the one they scramble to please.
Sleep is hard to come by those days, business cuts into her time for inventing which obviously means she has to sacrifice sleep.
It's fine. Not as fun as MIT was, but she's doing something meaningful with her life. She's helping protect American citizens. It's worth it.
Protective gear is just the beginning, though. She is only warming up.
―~~―~~―
Maggie wonders how she was dragged into this.
A Christmas trip. A Christmas trip with her parents. Dammit. She could have been celebrating with Rhodey, but no, Mother just had to go and announce to the press that they were all going to be spending time together as a family over Christmas.
These days Maggie can barely stand to be in the same room with Maria Stark, not since the 'find a husband' talks started in earnest. You're twenty-one, Margaret! You need to think about your future while you still can.
In other words, while she's still pretty and wrinkle-free because otherwise no one's ever going to want her. Jesus Christ, this wasn't the Dark Ages and Maggie would certainly never be living in poverty no matter what her marital status was.
At this point, Maggie is seriously considering acquiring herself a harem just to piss of her mother. She'd traded in the V on her world travelling trip and sex is fun enough, but not enough to sign everything she's built for herself over to a man for his hand in marriage.
So now here she is, sitting in the back of the car while Howard drives with Maria next to him. She's fiddling with wires, leather, and tweezers. Sadly, she miscalculated when she thought she could keep herself busy by building a prototype taser glove for the whole car ride. She's just about done already and there are still three hours of the trip to go. The only thing left to do is to figure out how to limit the voltage output, as it is the glove will lead to rather crispy victims. Then there's the challenge of making it look less like a really mean weapon and instead more like a piece of clothing.
It's a question of materials, she reasons. This is just a prototype, and give her a break, she's making this thing in a moving car with no-
Something hits the car. Brakes screech-
"Howard!" Maria screams-
Impact. Maggie's body is thrown forward into the back of the driver's seat before her. Everything goes black, or rather, very fuzzy and painful and the seatbelt feels like it's cutting into her shoulder. There is noise, a car door opening, a body hitting the ground outside. Her mother's quiet whimpers of 'Howard, Howard, Howard.' Steps.
"Please… help my wife… my daughter… help," Father's voice slurs. Then, "Sergeant Barnes?"
The sound of a hit. A choked noise of pain. More hits. Mother's whimpers and cries as she sees it happening. Maggie tries to move, to wiggle out of the tangled seatbelt. Every bit of movement hurts. Her head is pounding, everything's spinning, it's probably a concussion. Goddammit. There should be a gun somewhere under the seat. Maggie can't reach it because her arm is weird and cracked and hurts bad.
Steps again, "No, no, no," Mother chokes out in terror. "Howard!"
Maggie sees it as if from a distance. The door ripped open. A metal hand finding Mother's throat and the noises cutting off. The killer's face is terrifying. Utterly cold and completely determined. Except determination implies motivation, and that's not what this is. He's empty. Just driven, with empty intensity behind those pale eyes.
Mother's movements stop. Not the slightest twitch anymore. A few more long moments, and the killer lets go of her. Then he looks at Maggie who is tangled, trapped, terrified. Mother is dead. Father is dead. This isn't real.
The killer retreats. She hears his steps crunching on glass shards. The boot lid is opened, sounds of rummaging follow - he's looking for something - god she's going to die - he slams the boot lid shut again. The door next to her opens, and strangely warm metal grabs her by the neck. She feels the power in those fingers, all he needs to do is squeeze and that'd be the end of her.
But he doesn't. Instead he yanks her out of the car and tosses her on the asphalt. She screams both in terror and in pain. She's going to die, die, die and his hand is reaching for her again, he has her by the throat, pressed against the car, she can't breathe-
And in those moments, the world slows down, her mind becomes clear. She sees everything with astounding clarity. The confused, erratic thoughts that normally populate her brain shift and focus only on the here and now. As if the threat to her life forces order onto her normally so chaotic mind.
She realises several things. One, he's going to kill her and it'll look like she died in the accident, like she crawled out and then succumbed to her injuries outside the car. Two, he's underestimating her just like every-fucking-body else in her stupid life because he went to rummage around the boot lid instead of neutralising her first. Three, she's going to lose consciousness within the next seven seconds, lack of oxygen plus concussion will do that. Four, she still has the taser glove prototype in her hand.
She doesn't plan. Doesn't strategise or think it through. If she did, he'd probably read the intention from her eyes.
He doesn't so much as flinch when her hand unbearably slowly reaches out as if to slap weakly at his face.
He could have stopped her, she will realise later. He could have stopped her, but he didn't.
And the taser glove, the output of which she had not figured out how to regulate yet, hits the exposed skin of his face. It doesn't kill him, surprisingly, but he seizes up and goes down like a stone, and Maggie manages to somehow pry his hand from her throat and scramble away. She stumbles over something on the ground and falls.
The something was her dead father's legs. Maggie closes her eyes and counts to five, tries to catch her breath and alleviate the spinning in her head, then her fingers roam over his motionless (deaddeaddead) body and find the gun she knows he carries. Her fingers tremble something awful, the gun is heavy in her fingers as she clicks the safety off and levels it at the murderer. Assassin. Is he an assassin? He looks like one.
She fires. Two precise shots into his legs because if he gets moving again she's dead. Dead like her parents. Oh god. A hysterical laugh escapes her. Her parents are dead, this isn't happening, this isn't real, except it is and her head hurts badly and her arm is definitely broken.
The assassin is still conscious and his fingers are already twitching when his muscles should have been out of commission for a little while longer. Maggie comes to a decision after only a moment (moment's decision has a different meaning when it comes to her, her mind is fast), gets up, and decisively strides over. Another shock with her glove and he's limp again. Then she slams the handle of the gun against the side of his head.
The crack echoes in the sudden silence, only her heavy shuddering breaths sounding. She sinks to her knees and buries her face in her non-injured hand. Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. And another and another before she gets up and looks around for more threats. There's a bike there which has to be what the killer arrived on. And a pole, mounted on which is a traffic camera.
Anyone could be watching.
She sinks back down behind the cover the totalled car provides. There's… there's supposed to be- it's hard forming a clear thought. Her head hurts.
Deep breath. Plan. Come on, Maggie.
She closes her eyes and takes another deep breath. Okay. Maggie swallows harshly and walks up to her father. His body. He's dead. Head beaten in, eyes open wide.
From his jacket she pulls the mobile phone that has yet to hit the market but was supposed to do so sometime in the next two years. When she was younger she'd been given phone numbers to memorise just in case she ever needed help with, say, a kidnapping. She dials those numbers now. The first try doesn't go through, the number doesn't exist anymore. The next one is answered by a harried voice in Spanish, a kid yelling in the background, definitely the wrong number. But the third… "Howard?" the voice on the other end asks.
"Aunt Peggy?" Maggie answers, voice too thin. She's cold. It's the middle of the night and her jacket is in the car. She doesn't want to go near the car.
"Maggie, is that you?" Aunt Peggy's voice isn't something Maggie remembers very well, it's been a few years. But her way of speaking, how clearly she enunciates words, how professional and competent she sounds, the way her heels click like little stabs on stone tiles, those things stuck in her mind. "What's wrong?"
"There's been-" Maggie tries and can't get the words out. Deep breaths. "There's- Father is-"
"Maggie, I need you to calm down. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Answer with yes or no." Aunt Peggy sounds much more alert now. Maggie can hear her walking quickly, wherever she is. "Is this an emergency?"
"Yes," Maggie forces out. "Howard and Maria are dead."
She hears Aunt Peggy stutter just a little in her steps, but that is the only sign of the news affecting her. Her voice betrays nothing. "Are you injured?"
"Yes. Concussion and broken arm." Maggie closes her eyes. "The car is totalled. That guy made Father drive into a tree and then-" She chokes on the words. "I need you to come get me," she says instead.
"Maggie. Are you being forced to make this call?" Aunt Peggy asks. "If yes, say something about the car's damage."
"I'm not under duress," Maggie answers. "I electrocuted the killer."
"Good girl. We're on our way to you. Stay on the phone."
"Do you know where we- where I am?" Maggie asks.
"Howard's car has a tracker in it. Just in case." Aunt Peggy pauses. "What can you tell me about the killer?"
"Rode a bike. Metal arm. Really strong." Maggie shudders. "There's- Father hit his head pretty bad, I think, so he might have been seeing things, but- he called him Sergeant Barnes."
"Impossible," Aunt Peggy whispers. Maggie hears other voices in the background now, someone yelling orders.
There's a long pause. Then, "I'm climbing on the helicopter now. I won't be able to talk to you for a little. We'll be there in twelve minutes max."
"Okay," Maggie answers numbly. The call ends.
She puts the phone away and for a moment just sits there, in between her father's dead body and the assassin's unconscious one. A part of her wants to laugh or cry or just… make noise. It's so silent here. Her brain is scrambled and confused, but that doesn't mean it's any less active.
Maggie replays the incident in her mind. The car going out of control. The steps, her father's begging, the sound of his hits, her mother's pleading. The boot lid opening-
He took something from the trunk.
Her eyes widen and without thinking about it, she shuffles over to the assassin's body, mindful to stay out of the camera's view. The man is still out cold. The fingers of Maggie's good hand flutter over him, finding guns and knives, a grenade - and a small black case with the Stark logo on it. It's locked, of course.
She needs to know what's in there. Right now. She has to know what her father was killed for.
Maggie Stark is an excellent lock-pick.
Inside of the case are five small cylindrical glass containers filled with a clear liquid. They are not labelled, there's no indication as to what they contain. Maggie stares at them blankly.
She has around eight minutes left until Aunt Peggy gets here. Less until she's visible from the helicopter Peggy will be arriving with, apparently, and what the hell is Aunt Peggy doing with her life, that she can respond so quickly and competently to a crisis like this and casually mobilise a goddamn helicopter? She's seventy. And what the hell was Howard doing that he got himself murdered in the middle of the road by some- some cyborg-
Seven minutes pass until the noise of rotor blades breaks through the silence. By that time, the case is locked again and back in the assassin's bag.
The glass containers within are now filled with coffee from Maggie's thermos.
―~~―~~―
Aunt Peggy has gotten old. For some reason, that's the first thing Maggie notes about her. Her hair is lined with silver, wrinkles and age spots betray her age. But she has aged gracefully, her beauty timeless, and clearly she's fit for her age, judging by the nimble and practised way she climbs out of the helicopter. There are others with her, all clearly knowing what they are doing, and all armed to the teeth.
Maggie has by now brought some distance between herself and the car, her father's gun still firmly in her good hand. She'd relieved the killer of his weapons, but she won't delude herself into thinking that she got them all. And if he wakes up and throws a grenade, it would all be over.
She hasn't made it obvious that she'd been hiding out of the camera's view range, had taken care to look disoriented, as if she'd only been sitting and freaking out after calling Aunt Peggy. Thrown in a semi-faked crying fit over her father's body while she carefully transferred the mystery liquid into test tubes she'd had with her, stoppered them, and hid them in the hidden bottom compartment of her purse.
Not the easiest thing to do with a broken arm, and she risked making whatever it was useless or contaminated by letting it come it into contact with air, but that was a risk Maggie was willing to take.
Now here she stands, gun in one hand, and watches her godmother hurry up to her. It's like something out of a movie.
It should feel more distant than this. It shouldn't feel like it was really happening. In books and movies it was always like that. Some event right out of a nightmare, denial of reality, that sort of thing.
She isn't that lucky. It is all very real, and her mind is already processing the events. The deaths.
Sometimes, a mind like hers is more curse than blessing.
Aunt Peggy hurries to her side while her… minions? Subordinates? Colleagues? Crowd around the car. Some of them swear when they see the killer. "Thought he was a myth," someone utters.
"Maggie," her godmother says. "Put the gun down."
Oh. Right. That would be a good idea. Maggie lowers her arm and clicks the safety on.
"Hello," she greets. "Long time no see."
"Indeed," Peggy says quietly. "I wish the circumstances weren't quite so terrible."
That makes two of them.
"What's all this?" Maggie finally asks, indicating the crowd of armed people securing the site and restraining the killer. Definitely not official law enforcement, and the weapons are not standard military either, and definitely not anything sold currently on the market, though the designs are very obviously Howard Stark's.
"Can you tell me what happened here first?" Peggy requests cautiously, gently steering her to the helicopter. There's a black man with the most badass coat Maggie's ever seen standing there, looking leader-ish and barking orders. "You don't have to force yourself."
Maggie Stark is just a young woman who went through a terrible experience after all. She might be traumatised. She's never experienced any sort of violence first-hand, aside from the less comfortable kidnappings, but never anything of this level. Of course Aunt Peggy would be gentle in her approach.
Right now this suits Maggie just fine. There are five test tubes hidden in her purse that she doesn't need to be discovered. The best course of action is to not act suspiciously and make these almost-definitely super spy people search her belongings. "I'll try," she answers uncertainly. "We were going on holiday. As a family. I was sitting in the back and…" she swallows dryly. "Working on a project. Taser glove. Next thing I know Mother is screaming and the car smashes into… a tree, I think, but something hit the car before that, it must've been him… the brakes weren't working and-" Maggie falls silent, replaying for the hundredth time what had happened. "Then he- Father fell out of the car, or at least I think, I heard steps and then he was begging for- for-"
Maggie leans into the hug Peggy offers her, and lets the older woman pry the gun from her suddenly limp and cold fingers. "Maggie. I'm here. You're safe."
"They're dead," she whispers. "I don't- we were going to spend Christmas together. For the first time in… five years."
"Shh. You're safe," Peggy repeats softly, rubbing her back. "Can you tell me what happened next?"
"He- k-killed them," Maggie forces out. "Then went around the car and l-looked for something in the back, I heard him searching. Then he came for me. D-dragged me out of the car. And I still had my taser glove. After that I found Father's gun and shot his legs. The- assassin's I mean, he's an assassin, isn't he? He looks assassin-y."
"It's likely, yes," Peggy answers. "Do you know what he was looking for and if he found it?"
Maggie shakes her head. "I don't know. I think so, he didn't look for very long before he went after me."
Peggy nods. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, sweetheart."
"What's going on?" Maggie questions desperately. "Why would Father be- and who are all these people, how did you get here so fast-"
"Shh," Peggy soothes. "I promise I will explain everything. Later, when you've been seen by the doctors and rested a little. But you are safe. I promise that you are safe with me."
―~~―~~―
Maggie wakes up in a room unfamiliar to her. It's utilitarian, clearly meant for guests, and provides little to no comfort. Her personal belongings had been collected for her, placed next to the narrow bed she spent the night in.
She resists the urge to check on the test tubes in her purse. It's almost certain that she is under surveillance. This had to be a spy agency of some sort. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, better known as SHIELD, Peggy had told her the previous night. And apparently, she was a founding member along with Maggie's father.
It seemed like a goddamn joke. Yet Maggie had already seen the traces of her father's influence all over the place in the brief glimpse before she fell into bed. The body armour the operatives wore, the weapons, the helicopter. The layout of the base. The insignia proudly displayed at the entrance of the base, of which a simplified and stylised version was displayed in the dining room of Stark Manor.
This was probably the real reason for all those missed birthdays and general dismissal of her presence in his life. Had Mother even known? Unlikely. This was the exact kind of thing she'd never have shut up about. Maria was big on family honour.
God.
Mother was killed.
Father was killed.
She forces deep breaths into her lungs. Somehow it doesn't feel as if the oxygen arrives in her body.
Just… two people she had known and loved despite all difficulties and disappointments, gone. Within moments, two lives were erased. That was terrifying.
Despite mostly raising herself, despite rarely relying on parental support, it leaves her feeling off-kilter, small and lonely.
But there is nothing she can do besides taking care of her own self. Figure out just what was really going on, analyse the contents of the test tubes, then deal with the matter of Stark Industries. God, she needs Rhodey, but he's in some training camp right now with barely any contact to the outside world.
So she gets out of bed, takes a shower, changes her clothes, and leaves the room.
"Stark." The voice verges on the brink of pissed-off. It belongs to the man that had barked orders yesterday, the one with the cool coat. He looks to be in his thirties and, corresponding with his tone, looks pissed. "Follow."
"You have me at a disadvantage," Maggie answers evenly as she falls in step with him, not showing how much the curt order irks her. "Who am I talking to?"
"Deputy Director Fury," he grunts, not sparing her a look. Rude asshole.
"A pleasure, I'm sure," she says blandly. "Where are we going?"
In response, he opens a door with just a little too much force. Behind it is a cosy little room with breakfast spread out, a friendly-looking man talking quietly to Aunt Peggy. They both stand up when Fury and Maggie enter the room. "Miss Stark," the man greets immediately, holding out a hand. "Director Alexander Pierce. May I express my sincere condolences for your loss. Howard was a great man and Maria was simply a lovely woman."
The moment he praises her parents to her face, her mind does what it always does, and spits out, I had to fight for every scrap of attention my father spared me and Mother taught me the meaning of existential terror at age four when she threatened to take away my access to science.
Out loud she says, "Thank you, Director Pierce."
"If there is anything we can do for you, Miss Stark, anything at all, please do not hesitate to mention it." He gives her a sad smile. She doesn't trust it. He runs a spy agency, it would be the stupidest thing ever, and Maggie is far from stupid.
"That means a lot, Sir," she answers. "At the moment, I would appreciate answers."
"Of course, my dear. Please, have a seat." He gestures to the wooden chairs, pulls one out for her. "You must be hungry, please help yourself to the food. Nick, Peggy, you too. You've been awake all night."
Peggy smiles wryly and takes a piece of toast. "Only if you join us, Alexander. You've been busy as well."
"Ah, the burden of responsibility," Pierce sighs wryly, and sits only after Maggie sinks down in the provided chair. Aunt Peggy and Fury sit as well, though Fury looks like he'd rather wrestle a rhinoceros than be here.
The whole scene feels like a theatre set-up. Domestic, meant to set her at ease. The cute little room, the breakfast, the small-talk - all of it only achieves the opposite.
"But please-" Pierce says. "We are not here to talk about work. Miss Stark, please ask your questions. It's the least we can do to answer, though I must warn you - some information may be classified."
Maggie had spent the walk to this room compiling a list of questions she needs answers to. She's also put together a list of questions she really shouldn't ask. There is quite a bit of overlap. But a few safe questions are left.
"What, exactly, is SHIELD?" she asks.
The answer she gets is winded, full of propaganda, and impressively vague. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division - and that convoluted name was definitely made to match the acronym - is a counter-terrorism intelligence agency serving to protect the country from threats that humanity was not quite ready to face or even be aware of. It was all about Protection with a capital P, apparently.
They talk a lot but don't actually say much at all. But there's also information in what they aren't saying.
"Next question," she says. "Why was my father killed?"
"We were hoping you could tell us, Miss Stark," Pierce says quietly.
Maggie thinks of the test tubes in her purse, sitting innocuously on the floor next to her. "Me?" she asks cautiously. "I don't- I have no idea."
"Nothing at all? Think hard, Maggie," Aunt Peggy encourages her gently. "Anything could be important. Did he act oddly lately? Stressed, maybe? Spend more time than usual out of the house?"
"I don't know," Maggie answers, shaking her head. "He's always out, has so many meetings, and I'm always busy, too, so I wouldn't have noticed." She buries her face in her hands to escape the prying looks. "I should have noticed, shouldn't I? If I had-"
"Now, now, my dear." Pierce pats her shoulder. "None of this is your fault. And worrying about could-have-beens helps no one."
"There's-" she speaks up. "I was surprised when he agreed to the Christmas trip. It's- he's normally too busy to spend time with family. He was happy about something. Satisfied."
"That's something, isn't it?" Pierce gives her an encouraging smile.
She should tell them. Maggie removed evidence from the crime scene, and the SHIELD thing seems to go much further than originally assumed. And she's not equipped to deal with this. Aunt Peggy is, and she obviously trusts these people. Peggy is her godmother.
This isn't Maggie's world. She builds things and runs a business. She doesn't want this.
But Maggie doesn't know or trust this Aunt Peggy, the one that sits with the head of a spy agency, the one that knew full well that the Howard who was part of this. She hasn't been a part of Maggie's life for years and she's a different person to the Aunt Peggy Maggie used to ramble ideas to and who taught her how to shoot a gun.
"There's - weren't there any clues? That man, the - the assassin, he was looking for something," Maggie asks desperately.
"No," Aunt Peggy answers. "There was nothing."
No mention of a black case filled with glass containers on the assassin's body. A case with the Stark logo on it, so obviously connected to the murder. Not a goddamn word about that.
They are lying to her. Her own godmother is lying to her face about her parents' murders and the attempted murder of Maggie herself.
She remains quiet about the test tubes.
"Do you know what your father was working on? He mentioned a big project to me," Peggy enquires. "It might be important."
"No," Maggie answers. "He always guards information about his projects jealously."
Peggy sighs, looking tired. "He did," she agrees. "If you remember anything-"
"I'll tell you," Maggie lies to her face like she had done to her, and nobody notices a thing. "What's going to happen next?"
Peggy straightens. "It's up to you. In the interest of the investigation, we believe it's best if Howard and Maria's deaths are labelled as accidents."
"You want me to lie?"
"Feign memory loss. You did hit your head pretty hard."
"I can do that," Maggie agrees. Honestly, the thought of talking to people about the murder of her parents makes her want to vomit. Better to claim not to remember. Better to chalk it up to an accident.
"Good," Peggy says. "Currently, all the public knows is that Howard and Maria are dead, and you are believed to be resting in a private hospital. The police has labelled the incident as a car accident, but they will certainly want to talk to you."
"Okay," Maggie murmurs. "Thanks for the warning."
"Miss Stark," Pierce speaks up. "You do not have to go back. If you wish, SHIELD can arrange for a new identity in order to protect you. You may be targeted again by whoever ordered Howard's death in the first place. Finish the job, if you will forgive me the blunt choice of words."
"You want to fake my death," Maggie surmises, tone of voice neutral.
And make her work for them, neither of them says out loud.
"Howard was a dear friend. He'd want us to keep you safe," Pierce says gently. "By any means necessary. He loved you very much, always talked about you."
Liar.
Father didn't care.
"Thank you for the offer," Maggie says haltingly, stifling the angry words that want to tumble out of her mouth. "But I have a duty to his legacy, Stark Industries. I can't leave that behind."
Pierce sighs. "We'll arrange for alternate means of protection, then."
"Thank you." Maggie swallows dryly. "What about - the killer."
Uneasy looks are exchanged between Peggy and Pierce. Fury still looks pissed that he has to be part of this conversation at all.
"Father called him Sergeant Barnes," Maggie continues. "But the only Sergeant Barnes he's ever mentioned before died a long time ago. Was it a relative? Did he - did someone send him? Or did he have - a grudge or something- or did Father just imagine things-"
"It was him," Peggy answers, and Maggie doesn't miss the disapproving frowns of the men in the room. "It is James Buchanan Barnes. There is absolutely no doubt about it."
"That is classified information," Fury speaks up for the first time in this farce of a conversation.
"She has a right to know!" Peggy snaps at him. "Maggie, he's been brainwashed. He doesn't remember who he is. Please don't - please don't hold it against him."
Maggie stares at her incredulously. "He killed my parents!" she hisses. "That's - and Barnes died half a century ago! That guy, he's too young and- he killed my parents!" She's almost shouting by the end.
"It's not his fault!" Peggy yells, standing abruptly. Then she falls back into her chair. "It's not his fault," she repeats tiredly. "There is - his description fits an assassin called the Winter Soldier, who has been active for the past forty to fifty years. He was believed to be a myth. Given Bucky's physical appearance and from what our doctors can tell, he's been experimented on and kept in cryogenic stasis for extended amounts of time. We don't yet know just what they did to his mind, but I will personally see to it that he's fixed. Maggie, this wasn't his fault."
Maggie just stares at her, impotent rage swirling in her stomach. She called him Bucky. Like an old friend. "At the current level of technology, cryogenic stasis is impossible. Fifty years ago it was even less so. The human body can't survive it."
"He's been experimented on," Peggy repeats. "First during the war, by HYDRA. Then someone must have found him after he fell and continued the experiments. He is not a regular human being."
Something clicks in Maggie's head.
Aunt Peggy isn't seeing just 'Bucky' here. Captain America crashed his plane in the Arctic. If Barnes survived cryogenic stasis, then Steve Rogers could still be alive in the arctic ice as well.
Fucking Captain America, once again stealing Maggie's parental support away from her. It's obvious that no matter what she says, Peggy won't listen to her.
This conversation was a waste of time.
―~~―~~―