It didn't take three months.

It took them two weeks.

-O-

04 Questions of science, science and progress

-/-

Mundy liked to watch nature documentaries, and Bradford's pacing around his office reminded him of something with good vision that flew high in the sky and hunted small furry animals. As one of the metaphorical small furry animals, he and the other two squaddies had been harried by said predator for ten solid minutes.

Felt like days.

"Sergeant, what was your thought process at...this point?" Bradford's accusing finger stabbed at the display in his office. "Please, enlighten the class."

"It got the job done," Pena retorted stiffly."Now we know the bichos don't like fire."

"That's not the point. Do you have any idea what sort of tactics we could've employed if we knew your second tube was loaded with Dragon's Breath?"

"Well—"

"No, you don't, because that's my job!" Bradford pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't do my job if I don't know what my squad's capabilities are. And I can't do that if you go off on crazy plans that end up with one of your teammates poisoned and traumatized in the infirmary!"

"And with two new aliens for autopsy. Plus a plasma pistol," Dunayevsky muttered.

The Assistant Director rounded on him. "And you," he said. "Leaving aside the whole 'firing an RPG in the direction of your squadmates without so much as a "look out!"' thing; pop quiz. What's the standard XCOM rocket launcher?"

"Carl Gustav".

"Right you are, Sasha! Now, for all the rubles, what sort of rocket launcher did you use on the mission?"

"Ah..."

"What's that? Having trouble remembering? Well, let me refresh your memory." He picked up something from the corner of the room, and held it under Dunayevsky's nose. "Hm? This ring any bells?"

Despite having not moved a muscle, the big guy was cringing. In an appropriately military fashion.

"Bzzt! Time's up, Dunayevsky!" Bradford dropped the spent rocket tube at the soldier's feet. "It is an Arr-Pee-Gee-Seven! Now, I can't help but wonder not only what you were doing with this weapon, but how you got it onto this base in the first place!"

The Russian shrugged. "I know a guy," he said, not meeting his superior's eyes.

Bradford looked at the soldier's rather obvious prison tattoos, and sighed.

Mundy made the mistake of snickering.

"Mr. Mundy?" said his CO, "care to inform the class why you went along with Mr. Pena's ill-considered plan?"

"Sir, you don't question the leader on the ground, sir!"

"You don't...question..." Bradford's mouth moved silently for a few seconds.

Then, with a gleam in his eyes, the hawk swooped in for the kill.

-/-

The Director had to have heard her coming. It wasn't like the golf carts were quiet. But she displayed no reaction until Vahlen pulled up beside her.

"Good morning, Director."

"Good morning, Doctor."

Vahlen carefully sought the amount of throttle that would allow her to keep pace with her boss. She glanced at Schmidt's toned muscles, and felt a twinge of guilt over her own thickening thighs. Then again, Rao had mentioned that the American was the fittest person she had ever seen, and according to the troops' scuttlebutt, her physical times were some of the best on the base.

And if some of the most elite soldiers in the world were unable to beat her, why should a mere scientist?

Still, maybe she should get out of the lab more.

"Doctor?"

"Ah, yes. I must respectfully ask you to reconsider your funding for -"

"No."

Vahlen faltered.

The blonde seemed to realize that she had been overly blunt, and grimaced slightly as they passed the memorial wall. Someone had rigged up a tablet with a database on the fallen soldiers. It had already been replaced once due to a high-speed collision with the Wall.

"Doctor, you've had free run of our R&D budget up until now. Now we have a chance to get some D done, and you're begrudging Stark his slice of the pie. We can't afford to waste resources, or take soldiers off the field. And besides, can't you and your team write academic papers already? This won't be classified forever."

"We could be on the verge of the next leap in human evolution!" Vahlen sputtered.

"Then we had better tread carefully, lest it turn out to be off a cliff. Doctor, we simply don't know if your testing chamber is worth investing in."

"You've read the papers I sent to you?"

"Yes, I have. We know this 'Xavier gene' exists. What we don't know is whether it can give people psychic powers, even assuming that the abilities of the 'Sectoid Commander' can be reproduced reliably in humans."

"But Xavier himself -"

"- May have been a complete charlatan, backing up his claims with some plausible-sounding nonsense about genetics. Maybe he was a one-off. No one's been able to reproduce his results in the fifty years since he died, Moira. Not since before you were born."

"But -"

"I looked up some of the reports myself, Doctor. His 'X-Men' didn't demonstrate anything that couldn't be explained by regular genetic mutations, albeit unusual ones. Or more tricks. But, for the sake of argument, let's assume you're right."

Moira blinked. "Really?"

"Really. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that it'll be cost effective? That we won't spend millions and just get one psychic trooper who can bend spoons?"

"I..." The scientist was now really looking forward to the dissection awaiting her in her lab, just by way of stress relief. "If your Golden Boy is so 'cost-effective', why doesn't he pitch in? Why isn't he contributing some of his own resources?"

Schmidt gave her a long, calm look. "One, do you realize you said that in German? Two, it's kind of hard to get at your money when you're legally dead. Three, he did."

Moira Vahlen suddenly felt very small. "Oh."

-/-

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Agent Barton turned around, very slowly. He had heard Potts coming down the stairs, but he hadn't wanted to spook her.

"Nice house you have here," he said, gesturing with his good arm.

Confusion on her face. He could work with that.

"Thanks," she said, not lowering the Apogee Award. "Now, tell me who you are bef—"

"I'm with SHIELD," he said, destroying her conversational momentum. He wasn't as good as his partner at this social engineering stuff, but he'd picked up a few tricks. "We're here to pick up some of Mr. Stark's items."

"What happened to Coulson?"

"He's on another assignment."

Now Potts lowered the Award and pointed at his sling. "What happened to you?"

Barton blinked.

"Someone winged me. I volunteered for this assignment, since I was off the roster anyway."

The redhead nodded, brow still furrowed. "I don't understand. Why do you suddenly need Tony's stuff now? The legal stuff is all done, I'm -" she looked around at her new living room, the one with a beautiful view of the Pacific "- I'm in a new tax bracket, Stane's running Stark Industries -"

"The guy who sent me said to tell you 'steam shovel'."

The Award hit the ground with a soft thump.

Barton had seen it before. Their mouths open, their limbs lose strength, and they sit down on the nearest chair or sofa.

Potts sat down on the nearest sofa. Which happened to be really expensive. And, unlike most expensive sofas, quite comfortable. Only the best for Tony Stark (legally deceased).

"What-?" she began. "How?" Then she hugged a pillow and began to cry.

"He also said 'sorry, honey, I won't make it home for dinner'."

Potts laughed through her tears. "After — heh — all that work I put into making his supper." Beat. "His pizza will get cold."

The agent sniffed. "Smells like pepperoni."

Pepper gave another one of those weird giggle-sobs.

It was somewhat awkward for Barton. The last time he had been in the presence of a crying redhead, she'd proceeded to dislocate someone's arm. And she hadn't been laughing at the time. Except maybe on the inside.

"So...I guess I'll just leave you alone now."

"Wait." Pepper took a deep breath. "Tell him to hurry home. I hear Stane's driving everyone crazy."

"Really? We're going to swing by the office later. I'll have a chat with him."

"You don't have to -"

"Oh," said Barton, with an oddly predatory grin, "I insist."

-/-

Eamon had never been killed, though he had failed before, and come pretty close. But here, he didn't even have a clear objective. Nothing from the Benefactor. No vision, voice from on high, or implanted knowledge. Would it have killed them to shoot him an email?

It may be that the only purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others.

Comforting thought.

Progress was faster than it had been in the film, since the team had both the intact Mark 1 and Tony's notes. Also, instead of Tony and Stark Industries scientists working separately, they were working together. And third -

"It's not a full suit," Tony had explained.

Schmidt had blinked. "Explain."

"It's a powered exoskeleton. Made to enhance mobility and endurance," Irene had clarified.

"But not protection?" And the Director's rigatoni had resumed its journey to her month.

"That's the second half of the programme. We have a nanofiber and spider-silk underlayer in development."

"I think this is the part where I ask 'under what?'"

Tony had flashed his salesman smile. "Ablative armor. Vests, wristbands, those shinguard things."

"Vambraces and greaves, Tony. That's all we could figure out how to articulate overnight without sacrificing mobility."

"The escape suit handled like a tank. I'm trying to make armor that handles, well, not like a sports car, maybe more like a mountain bike."

"More like a street bike."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's a mountain bike -"

"I approve," Schmidt had said.

A pair of "What?"s.

"I approve. SUNDAY BEST is go. And the gun and visor you were working on too."

"What - how'd you even -"

A ghost of a smile. "You'd better grab some lunch before meeting your team."

The other two had nodded. And then, in perfect unison, gone "What?"

One of the dozen new engineers, some guy named Singh, was from Caltech. Tony, being an MIT man, had been eying him warily, and he'd been returning the favor. Irene had already declared herself a neutral territory in the incipient prank war, but nonetheless feared becoming collateral damage due to her proximity to Tony. Other engineers were carefully making sure their equipment was waterproofed. The lab remained locked in a state of detente.

And then there was the paperwork.

Tony wasn't good at paperwork.

He seemed to regard Irene as a substitute Pepper in that regard. Jo had been helping her juggle both hats, and was taking up most of the administrative slack.

The head of Procurement was a Scot, which Eamon thought a little cliched, and a thirty-something redhead, which was less so. She had taken issue with Tony commandeering the equipment in the hangar, and over his absurd requests, and had no idea how he managed to talk the director into this, this -

The playboy, against all prior evidence, was somehow managing to keep his mouth shut. Irene, for her part, was looking at a bearded, dark-haired man from the Stark family being harangued by a furious ginger Scotswoman and fighting not to go "you know nothin', Jon Snow".

Fletcher finally finished her tirade and walked off, still muttering to herself.

"Well," Tony commented, once she was safely out of earshot, "that was invigorating." He turned to Irene. "Dr. Singh, medicine woman, finally approved the biometrics setup and auto-calibrate. She said she'll be monitoring it from Medical."

Eamon wondered whether calling Kavita Rao that was technically racist. It wasn't like her opinion of Tony - or anyone - was much more charitable. As opposed to Fletcher, who only got upset for things like nigh-impossible requests from spoiled rich billionaires.

Both of Rao's concerns had been the ideas of The Team. The biometrics were obvious. And for flexibility's sake, the rigs weren't keyed to specific operators. Every user had their own profile, and the suit automatically adjusted to it. Once it hooked into the link points on their underlayer, the soldier was fully operational.

Though Eamon expected a certain amount of kvetching about seats being moved.

"So," asked Jo, "what are you calling this thing?"

Tony thought for a second.

"Well, since this is a product of project SUNDAY BEST - seriously, who chooses these names? - and another term for Sunday is 'Sabbath', and I like Black Sabbath, I think we should call it -"

"War Pig?" Irene volunteered, looking as innocent as she could contrive..

"Uh, no."

"Die Young? Electric Funeral? Supernaut?"

"Actually, I was going to go with —"

"HERAKLES Light Assist Armature, Mark 1" Jo said.

"What?"

"Just came down from the director. Actually, since you're on the same floor, I guess you could say it came sideways."

"And you couldn't have told me earlier?"

"I did. In the paperwork."

"Irene does the paperwork."

"Whoops, did I forget to mention that? But don't worry, you can call the next one Wrathchild."

"That's Iron Maiden!"

Ah, the perks of the job.

-/-

Dieter had a ferocious headache.

He stared up at the hospital room ceiling. Listening to the hundreds of little noises of the night. The beeping of the monitors. The faint hum-rattle of the HVAC. Shoes and wheels squeaking on polished floors.

It wasn't even that it hurt that much. He had been shot before. It was the reminder. He had let that thing into his mind, let it work his body like a puppet, move his lips like it had a hand jammed up his -

He frowned as he heard low conversation, two thumps. That was new.

And tomorrow...tomorrow they would debrief him. And then he would never put on a uniform again.

The door opened, and in walked a nurse with a clipboard. She didn't turn on the lights. "Sergeant? Your file says you've been having trouble with headaches." She pulled a syringe from her pocket. "I've got something for that."

Dieter shrugged, as best as he could, and reached for his remote.

"Oh no, don't get up." She did something to the IV, something that soothed his muscles and introduced a welcome haze into his mind. "I know you are only here for observation. They say you must have been very brave."

She sat down by his bed, and the soldier noted her rather shapely body. He wondered what the odds were that he'd meet a woman exactly his type, who was interested in a soldier, just as he was about to get fired.

"Can you tell me about it?"

He was planning to say "that's classified", but it somehow came out "why not?"

He took a second to compose his thoughts. And then another. And then he giggled as he said "I was mind-controlled by an alien."

The nurse was silent, then "what was it like?"

"Purple. I remember a lot of purple," Dieter said solemnly, then giggled again. "There were also these images...ideas. Not exactly ideas, more like...have you ever had a thought, then forgot it, then its ghost remained?"

The nurse went very still, then got up and crossed to the IV again. She sure liked fiddling with it. "You're sure you got only ghosts?"

He nodded. "Mmm-hm."

"I see. Well, Sergeant, you had better get some rest."

Sure, sleep seemed like a good idea. "Night."

"Good night."

As the woman left the room, she stepped over the bodies of the two guards. She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket as she walked briskly toward the stairwell.

"He's done. Only fragments. Nothing worthwhile."

Behind her, an alarm went off at the nurse's station.

"Hail HYDRA."

-/-

So.

Who was Irene Starkos?

XCOM's Internet access, as one might expect of a top-secret organization, was heavily restricted, filtered by Jo for any identifying material, and if someone traced their IP addresses, they'd appear to be originating out of Calcutta. Then Brisbane. Then London. England and Ontario.

I will lead them on a merry chase...

Okay...so how was he going to do this?

Eamon put his fingers on the home keys, and let muscle memory and regular memory take over, just like it had when he gave Tony his name.

Facebook said she had been a university lecturer for a decade or so, then Irene Starkos (MEng) had been working on a engineering concept for some fancy-sounding topic that Eamon didn't recognize. But if he concentrated, Irene did, though, and she remembered many, many sleepless nights working on it. More than a few headaches and tears.

Much like working with Tony, in fact.

He had a quick scan of her purchases on Amazon.

The Color of Water, American Apartheid,a few books on Greek Cooking (that, if Eamon's own attempts at Irish cooking were any indication, were doubtless propping up a bookshelf somewhere), Cosmos Box Set, To Engineer is Human, a few Discworld books, some Asimov, a whole shedload of Patterson, one or two Nikki Heat novels, nothing spectacular.

A little chat window popped up.

Jo: feeling homesick?

Oh, she had no idea.

Eamon asked Jo to punch up Irene's family on Facebook. She even did it in tabs.

thx, he typed.

So...mother, father, sister...no brother. A bit of diligent searching on some ancestry websites, and Irene learned she was "Chindian" on mum's side, and Black/Greek on dad's. Stick "gay" in there, and she'd be a one-woman affirmative-action quota, wouldn't she?

Speaking of which, did Irene have any boyfriends? Her profile said "Not in a relationship". Eamon checked her tagged photos. There were several with men, some of them with kissing or cuddling, and then he found one from a few years back with Irene cheek to cheek with another woman, arms around each other's shoulders. "My baby and me—"

Oh.

Oh, of course.

If Eamon ever met the entity who kept writing him into these sorts of situations, he was going to punch them in the face.

-/-

The door to the lab opened.

"Laura!" Irene said as she rose. "Come in! How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," said the trooper, stepping into Development and looking around. "Actually, I came to see how you were doing." She gestured at the mostly-empty lab. "Where is everyone?"

"Lunch. They're trying to iron out the kinks in the flight module."

"You're making us muscle suits that can fly?"

"Well, no, not yet, because, y'know, kinks." Why was she babbling? "Actually, Tony tried a kitbashed rig in the hangar just before lunch. But he used too much power and -"

"- Went bouncing off the side of a Skyranger." Laura smiled. "The aircrew's been talking about it, but they assumed that was just Stark being Stark."

"Ah, right, I forgot that the fastest things in the universe are the speed of light -"

"- And military gossip." Laura finished. "So, what else you been up to?"

"Better living through technology," Irene quipped. "Specifically, robots."

Dummy chose that point to roll up and offer his manipulator to Laura, who shook it solemnly.

"You're the robot Stark built, right?"

"When he was a kid, yeah." Irene leaned back against the counter, stretched. "I hear he was pretty lonely."

Dummy nodded.

"Most people just get a dog. So...what does he do, exactly?"

"Look cute and be a mascot. Say, after lunch, they're sim-testing the Herakles on the Playground. Want me to see if I can get you on the list?"

Laura's eyes lit up. "Really?"

Irene nodded. "Really. Actually, some of us actually tried it ourselves, just for laughs. Wanna see?"

The trooper grinned. "Yes. Did you try?"

"No. Not with -" she looked down "- this figure."

Laura gave her a sidelong look. "I think it's a very nice figure," she said, softly.

The engineer cleared her throat. "So, ah, I'll go get the popcorn."

During the feature presentation, the American stood, perhaps, a tad too close to fit in the bounds of recent introduction. Irene snuck a look at Laura's figure while she was laughing at one of the world's smartest people running full-tilt into a tree. Not ba -

Wait just a second.

If Eamon ever met the entity who kept writing him into these sorts of situations, he was going to punch them in the face twice.

-X-

Coldplay - "The Scientist"

I swear, the "Pepperoni" thing was random. I had completely forgotten it was the name for the Pepper/Tony ship.

In-canon, Tony and the Stark Industries scientists each took a few months or so to make their respective IM suits. Imagine what would happen if Tony and scientists of comparable quality worked together. Why, they could whip out a basic rig in a week or two!