August, 2002; Istanbul, Turkey…

"Remind me how I let you talk me into this?" Tony asked over comms.

"Because we both know this is the best way to do our part," Maria replied. "Now stay off the channel unless it's mission critical. Over."

"Roger that, ma'am. Over." He didn't bother telling her that the bossy, slightly domineering tone she used on missions turned him on. She already knew. He took a look around, nodding to each of the five other agents. They'd been waiting here on a roof overlooking the target building for nearly three hours. Maria and a second team were situated on the other end of the block, in a recently abandoned store.

Everything changed when the towers came down. Before anyone knew what was happening, war had been declared and people were calling for blood. Tony and Maria were set to be deployed overseas, but the day before they were to ship out a man approached them. He represented an intelligence agency that specialized in identifying, evaluating, and eliminating global threats. They were called some ridiculously long name which spelled S.H.I.E.L.D. They wanted to hire Tony and Maria due to their excellent service records and potential.

At first, Tony felt hesitant. He felt more comfortable where the action was, not skulking in the shadows as a spy. But Maria chose to take up the man's offer, and for her sake, he did the same. He'd heard some tall tales about this S.H.I.E.L.D., and felt curious about what kinds of advanced tech they had access to.

Now they were here, waiting in empty rooms for the bad guys to show up. The decision to join S.H.I.E.L.D. started looking worse and worse, and the only way to relieve this kind of boredom was to hit someone. Their target was a notorious gunrunner who'd been smuggling weapons through Istanbul all across Europe. Intel had pinpointed a warehouse which served as his primary headquarters. All they needed for the go-ahead was for the scumbag to actually show up.

Luckily, once Tony's leg started to go to sleep after another 20 or so minutes, they caught a bite. "This is Lookout One," one of the spotters chimed in the group-wide channel. "Target spotted approaching the warehouse in grey sportscar."

"Can you confirm it's him?" the mission commander, a bald twerp named Sitwell, asked. "Lookout Two, do you have visual?"

"Standby…I have visual. Target confirmed: Ozhan Topcu. Rear passenger side. He's pulling up to the warehouse now. Target is now inside the building."

"Acknowledged. All teams, ready for go on my signal." Tony and the other five agents grabbed steel spikes from their belts, connected to their harnesses. They stabbed the spikes into the concrete of the roof. "3…2…1…Go!"

Tony and his teammates hopped over the edge of the roof and rappelled, walking down the side of the building with their weapons at the ready. Once on ground level, they disconnected their lines and assembled outside the nearest door. The team lead placed a precision charge on the door lock, then counted down with his fingers. When he hit 1, the charge blew out the lock and threw the door open. They filed in.

A bearded man jumped up from a chair he'd been sitting in, reaching for a gun on a table. Tony put three bullets in his chest with perfect precision. Angry shouts came from the other end of the building, and a hail of gunfire erupted. Clearly this guy had a lot of mercs on his payroll. Tony and his team swept through the initial few rooms –employee areas by the looks of them– then entered the warehouse proper. It was full of trucks and storage crates, some of which were open. There were more rifles and grenades here than he'd ever seen in one room before.

Something clattered nearby, and Tony looked down to see something rolling towards them. His eyes widened in alarm, and he cried out, "Grenade!"

They scattered, some retreating back into the rooms they cleared and others finding any nearby cover. Tony threw himself behind a stack of crates seconds before the grenade exploded. The floor shook as every noise drowned out, and the crate on top of the stack fell down from the kinetic force of the explosion. Tony rolled out of the way just before it crushed him. His ears were left ringing, and the distant pops of gunshots came with such frequency they reminded him of bubble wrap.

He got to his feet and peeked out from cover. The whole building had devolved into one big shootout, with Maria's team on one side and his on the other. The gunrunner's goons numbered somewhere around two dozen and change. Almost none of them wore body armour, superior numbers their only advantage. If they'd had any actual training, then the situation would be FUBAR real quick. But they didn't, so the only issue would be taking them out before they accidentally shot someone.

Rifle in hand, Tony took down the two nearest guys with AK's. When he aimed for the third, his weapon jammed. "Oh, stupid piece of…!" He smacked it with his hand a few times, but it wouldn't work. Sighing, he tossed it, then drew his sidearm and tactical knife. "Guess I'm going John Rambo on their asses," he muttered.

When the goons were distracted by the rest of his team, he struck.

Tony bolted from cover, shooting the nearest guy in the head. Shooting a second target, he combat rolled over the first man's corpse just as some of the others started shooting at him. Twirling his knife into a reverse grip, he slashed a man's hamstrings, crippling him. He then spun on his heel and hurled the knife into a goon's throat while shooting another in the chest in the same motion.

A group converged on him, forcing him to shoot and retreat behind one of the trucks. Rather than wait for them to circle around and kill him, he got down on the ground and rolled under the truck. Back on his feet, he charged a goon in a track suit and drove a knee into his back, slamming him into a crate and toppling it over. Tony fell back on martial arts instincts he'd picked up from his last movie marathon, chopping a man in the neck and taking out three more with brutal elbow strikes and kicks.

He took out one goon by leaping in the air and spin-kicking him in the throat. Another goon appeared from behind a stack of crates, nursing a bullet wound in his shoulder and pissed as hell. Looking at the ground, Tony saw an empty box, the grenades it once held scattered over the floor. Sticking his foot in the box, he kicked it into the man's face with perfect precision, knocking him to the ground. Catching the box, he turned around and smashed it into the side of another man's head.

"Thank you, Jackie Chan," he said to himself with a satisfied grin. Glancing back at the employee areas, he saw his team move up now that he'd made an opening. Bad guys were dropping faster than bills at a strip club. Soon enough, the situation would be well in hand.

Retrieving his knife, Tony moved towards the stairs that led to the office on the second level. Just then, the door at the top flew open and none other than Ozhan Topcu came flying down the stairs, gun in one hand and briefcase in the other. He spotted Tony and started shooting, stumbling back up the stairs. Taking cover, Tony shouted into his earpiece, "Target's on the move! In pursuit."

Sprinting the distance between him and the stairs, he quickly ascended to the upper level as fighting raged below. Coming around the corner, he entered a short hallway with one door on the right and another at the end. The right door was open, revealing a cluttered storage closet. Realizing the target would be jittery and trigger-happy, Tony got an idea. With practiced calm, he unzipped his left boot. Entering the closet, he leaned to the side and tossed the boot at the door.

Gunshots erupted immediately, splintering the wood as the man inside screamed at the top of his lungs. Tony hissed as he took cover, mentally keeping track of the shots. Based on the kind of weapon Topcu had been holding, he should be out of ammo right about…

The gunshots stopped.

Now.

Grinning, Tony entered the hall. Kicking the door in with the boot he still wore, he found himself in a cushy office. Standing in front of the desk was Topcu, eyes wide as he dropped the empty handgun. Briefcase in hand, he shouted and tried to bash Tony's head in. In response, he easily stepped to the side and smashed his elbow into the gunrunner's face. Topcu fell back, the briefcase opening with the impact and spilling its contents.

Stacks of Euros poured out like floodwaters onto the floor. Hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions. More money than he'd ever seen, outside of the movies. He stood there, transfixed. The piece of shit he just took down probably made more money in a month than Tony ever would in his entire life. He could do so much with just a fraction of that amount. And where would it all go once they finished here? Some government lockup? Used as more military funding?

With the kind of revenue Topcu had, who would really notice if some of it went missing?

The gunrunner groaned on the floor and started to move. Tony bent down and pistol-whipped him, knocking him out for good. Glancing down the hall to check if anyone were around, he grabbed a trio of stacks from the floor and stuffed them into his vest. Once he felt no one would notice it, he knelt down and started putting zip-ties on the unconscious target.

"Hey, you good?"

He blinked, then turned to see Maria looking at him from the doorway. Her skin glistened with sweat, but she didn't appear injured. "Yeah, I'm good. I was just…thinking."

"About what?"

Tony hoisted Topcu onto his shoulders, then gestured to the money. "Does it seem right to you? We risk our lives for the greater good, follow the rules, and yet we're the ones always shortchanged? Meanwhile guys like him are living it large and getting all the rewards?"

"That's why we do what we do," she replied. "So they don't get all the rewards. We need to show this kind of scum crime doesn't pay. It's how we keep people safe."

He nodded absently, his mind flashing back to his brief stint in crime years ago. Robbing drug dealers and breaking bones had helped him and his mother survive. It paid the rent and made sure they hadn't become homeless. Had it been wrong? Sure, morally. But sometimes you have to do what's necessary, not what's right. "Yeah, you're right."

After securing the warehouse and their prisoner, they made their way back to the safehouse in an armoured transport. Along the way, Maria said, "By the way, that was, uh…pretty impressive. That display back there."

He smirked. "Thanks, Mrs. Masters."

"You're welcome…Mr. Hill." She couldn't help but smirk, and they both chuckled over the private joke. Tony's mother had cautioned him about getting married so young, as she'd done the same thing with his father. He told her not to worry, since he and Maria were good together. More importantly, they were good for each other.

He added, "Well, it's just like Jack Burton always said: it's all in the reflexes."

Once in the safehouse, they secured the target in a cell and assembled before Agent Sitwell.

"Congratulations, all of you," he said. "This is a big win for us. Taking out Topcu and his operation will save a lot of lives, and cut off the funding he gave terrorist groups. We might not get any kind of public recognition for the work we do in S.H.I.E.L.D., but I want to thank each of you for your exemplary work today. Agent Hill?"

Maria straightened more than she already had. "Sir?"

"The additions you put forward for the tactical plan worked perfectly. Not bad for your first field op."

"Thank you, sir."

"In fact, Director Fury himself wanted me to pass on his regards. Since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D., your talents in command and logistics are without equal, and today proved that. The Director has seen fit to promote you to Level 6. You'll be planning your own ops from now on."

"It's…an honour, sir. I'll try to live up to the Director's confidence." Tony had to give Maria credit; not many people would keep it together so well with that kind of promotion. No one could beat her in the stoic department.

Sitwell nodded. "See that you do. It's a dangerous world out there, and we need the best and brightest where they're needed." He looked at Tony and said, "Agent Masters."

"Sir."

"I understand you played a significant role in neutralizing the targets."

'If you call saving everyone's asses single-handedly a 'significant role', then sure,' Tony thought. He knew better than to say as much, so he simply stated, "Just doing my job, sir."

"Well we're all impressed by what you can do. You'll be given a commendation, for sure."

"Thank you, sir." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Sitwell yammered on. All the while, he kept thinking of the money they confiscated and the bunch he'd kept. Growing up, Tony and his mother were lucky to buy groceries, while the rich lived it large in their penthouses and mansions. The guy they bagged today was no different than someone like Tony Stark or the Rand family. They drove sportscars, owned islands, and enjoyed the good life. What did he get? A pat on the back from his bosses for being a good little boy and a half-decent government wage.

Sometimes life just wasn't fair, he knew. Sometimes you had to take risks to get what you wanted.

Three weeks later, Tony and Maria were stateside, having earned some leave with the success of the Istanbul op. After they joined S.H.I.E.L.D., they'd bought an apartment in Washington Heights, close enough for his mother to visit.

Stepping through the door, they found his mother cooking in the kitchen. The flight had been delayed, so Tony and Maria hadn't even left the airport until well into the evening. "Hey, Ma," he greeted, kissing her on the cheek and wrapping her in a tight hug.

"So good to have you back, baby!" To Maria, she embraced her and said, "Come here, sweety."

"It's good to see you again, Regina."

Tony took their bags into the hall, looking forward to some honest-to-God relaxation for once. "So you kept the place in working order, did ya?"

"I did my best," his mother said, back in the kitchen. "Honestly, Tony, would it kill you to organize a little? Your closet was a disaster."

"Good luck with that," Maria said, shedding her jacket. "Not even the army could whip him into shape."

He snorted. "Look, I have my own system, okay? It may look messy to others, but it's actually quite refined." His mother and Maria gave him dubious expressions complete with arched eyebrows and scolding frowns. Tony laughed. Glancing at the door adjacent to the bedroom, he asked, "So, how was she?"

"Oh, she was just an angel," his mother replied, touching her chest. "Honestly, baby, I don't even know how you managed to make something so perfect."

Maria said, "I'll take credit for that one."

"You won't find me arguing," Tony said. Opening the door, he crept into the nursery. They'd spent so many hours painting the walls and making it perfect. Situated against the wall was a crib he'd built with his own two hands after watching carpentry videos for a day. Inside, enjoying a blissful sleep, was his everything. Tufts of dark hair on her perfect head, ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes.

All his other thoughts melted as he stared down at his daughter. Tony gently laid a hand on her stomach, and she idly stirred in her slumber. The day Maria told him she was pregnant had been the happiest day of his life. Without any pomp and circumstance, they'd married the next day. He didn't need any fancy ceremony to confirm his love for her, ignoring the fact they couldn't afford one anyway.

Then, on June 9th, Maria had given birth to the most beautiful thing that ever lived. Samantha Masters had been seven pounds, four ounces of perfection. Given that they led such busy lives as agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Tony and Maria had brought in his mother to babysit while they were in the field. He didn't know how long he stood there, smiling down at his baby girl.

The three of them shared a delicious homecooked meal –his first in months– before his mother let herself out. Afterwards, Tony sat on the couch watching tv with a beer in his hand, while Maria sat in a chair across from him and nursed Samantha. Most new mothers would still be on maternity leave a mere two months after giving birth. But not Maria. The woman had titanium in her bones and a dedication not even Captain America could keep up with. Most days he felt in awe of all she could do.

"You're sure your mother didn't mind staying here and looking after Samantha?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nah, she loved it. Gave her an excuse to leave the house, and apparently Samantha was a delight. I guess I'm the one she saves her most pungent dumps for."

"Welcome to fatherhood, hero."

He chuckled.

They sat together for the rest of the evening, enjoying the quiet comforts of home. Eventually, Maria turned in, and Tony offered to watch Samantha until the little poop-factory went to sleep. He sat in the baby's room, holding his little girl in his arms as she stared up at him with fascination. She reached up to grab at his nose with her chubby hands, and Tony smiled. Falling in love with Maria had made him feel happier than he ever had, and at the time he thought it couldn't get any better.

Now, he felt more for Samantha than he ever had for anyone. He would do anything to make her happy, protect her, and give her a good life. She'd never have to know the kind of uncertainty he did, what it felt like to live barely within one's means. If it were up to him, he'd give her the world.

Unlike his piece of shit father, Tony would be there for his daughter. He'd never abandon her.

As he sat there, gently rocking Samantha to sleep, he thought back to the gunrunner and his money. All-told, they'd seized over 3,000,000 Euros from the warehouse. And that was just what the guy had on-hand. With that kind of money, Tony could buy a proper house for them to live in. Samantha would have her pick of the finest colleges and never want for anything. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. provided a living wage, but it was still just a government job.

The stacks he'd swiped from the gunrunner were worth a few grand American. Tomorrow he'd find an excuse to go out so he could have it converted to dollars on the downlow. To better provide for his family, he'd have to find other work, earn the kind of money they'd need for the future.

His photographic reflexes made him suited to combat and physical work, and his training with the army and S.H.I.E.L.D. made him a weapon. Not much use as a construction worker or a delivery driver.

Tony looked down, realizing that Samantha finally fell asleep. Setting her down in her crib, he kissed her goodnight then went to bed. Crawling under the covers beside Maria, he drifted off to sleep.

A few days later, he made a decision.

If his time with S.H.I.E.L.D. and watching news about billionaires had taught him anything, it was one simple fact: crime absolutely paid. As much as Maria believed the opposite, Tony knew the truth. Whether by owning a corporation or selling illegal goods, you had to take what you wanted. Life never did anyone any favours.

His skills made him uniquely qualified for muscle work, and criminals always had a need for that.

At first, he felt guilty. Maria would never understand. She'd also be the first one to arrest him if she found out. First and foremost, he had to keep everything illegal a secret. That meant concealing his identity. Nothing could lead back to him. He thought about the best way to do that over breakfast. Something he could wear to cover himself, while also being unique enough to stand out. The only person in the world with photographic reflexes shouldn't be mistaken for some other chump.

It came to him as he sat with Samantha on his lap flipping channels. He stumbled on a broadcast of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. He'd seen it in the theatre as a kid, having saved all his money to buy a ticket. Raphael chased after a purse-snatcher on the screen, only to come to blows with a cocky Casey Jones. Tony stared at the hockey mask, remembering how cool it looked when he'd first seen the movie.

That was it.

Over the next few days, he grabbed every tape he could find on engineering, welding, metalwork, and auto detailing. He watched each of them several times, memorizing the stances and techniques of the instructors. After that, he reached out to Ricky, one of his buddies from the old neighbourhood. Ricky had left the gang business and found a job at a garage in town. He agreed to let Tony work there at night, provided he put everything back where he found it and locked up when he left.

Mere days after watching the instructional videos, Tony found himself working scrap metal as if he'd been doing it for decades. First he cut it into manageable pieces, then shaped each of them to the specifications he would need. Once that was done, he fashioned a protective face mask that would also hide his identity. The whole process took just under a week. Then he painted everything. For the armour, he chose midnight blue, with orange accents on the chest and legs and white accents on the gauntlets and shoulder pads. The mask he painted bone white. He guessed there'd be some who might be intimidated by the look.

Also, it looked really cool.

The finished product looked…serviceable. Probably the best he could hope for with the materials and facilities he had access to. In time, once he made a decent amount of money, he could spruce up the armour. After all, works of art always had room for improvement.

He bought a storage unit with some of the cash he'd taken from the gunrunner and stored the armour in there. Now he just needed to find work. Fortunately for him, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have all the intel he needed to make the proper contacts.

October, 2002…

Tony saw another man running for the truck. Meanwhile, the bald guy he held by the neck grunted, trying to get away. He shoved baldie's head low, then smashed a knee into his face, knocking him out cold. All around him were thugs either unconscious or bleeding from gunshot or knife wounds, strewn between the stacks of shipping containers.

Needing to cross the distance between him and the truck, Tony sprinted, then copied the Olympic gymnastics moves he'd watched the weekend before. One triple back handspring and backwards somersault later, he landed in front of the last man standing before he could drive the truck away. The thug skittered to a halt, face white with shock. A quick finger jab to the solar plexus left him gasping for breath on the ground.

He took one last look around, noting all targets down. With that done, he climbed inside the cab of the Peterbilt and drove off with the goods.

A short time later, he pulled into the yard of Union Allied Construction, a legitimate front for the local mafia don and his illegitimate business dealings. It didn't get more American than that. Shutting down the engine, he hopped down as men in suits emerged from two black SUVs. One of them, a twenty year-old, thin as a rail with too much hair gel, held his hands wide and smiled. Fabiano Rigoletto, heir to his father's fortune and living embodiment of every Italian stereotype.

"One truck of high-grade heroin, as promised," Tony said by way of greeting. He'd installed a prototype S.H.I.E.L.D. voice modulator into his mask. When he spoke, his voice sounded deeper and electronic. No way anyone could identify him, no matter the software they used.

"You are as good as your word, my friend!" Fabiano said, clapping his hands. He gestured to one of his men, who started walking towards the truck.

Tony held up a hand. "First things first: my payment?"

"Of course, of course! Where are my manners? Show him." Another man approached with a silver briefcase. He opened it, then showed it to Tony. Full of non-sequential bills, just as they agreed on. "$50,000. Of course if I actually gave it to you, I'd be as stupid as you look."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate people who break their word." In the corner of his eye, he saw the first man walk up to the trailer. The rest of them drew their guns.

"And I'm not in the habit of giving away money I don't have to," Fabiano retorted. "Did you honestly think I was gonna let some costumed freak walk away with 50 grand of my family's money? The Rigolettos don't let random thugs dictate the terms. WE dictate the terms. When I bring these drugs to my father, he's gonna be overjoyed that we kicked the competition in the balls. And you? Well, you'll be part of the foundation of our next tenement building. So allow me to say–"

"Hey, boss! There's nothing here," the man at the trailer called.

"What?"

"It's empty."

A vein on Fabiano's forehead bulged as he glared at Tony. "Where are the drugs, you tin-plated prick?"

Tony clasped his hands behind his back. "See, you're too predictable. Over the last six months, you've been losin' your father's money faster than you could replace it. Guess not every little mob brat has the financial gene, am I right?"

"Say one more word, and I'll…"

"I had my doubts about taking a job from you, but I thought, 'What the hell?' Maybe you'd surprise me and keep your word. If that were the case, I'd tell you where I stashed the drugs before I came here. But since you went back on your word, you definitely won't enjoy the other option." He discreetly reached into the pouch at the back of his belt, taking out the detonator connected to the C4 charge he'd planted in Fabiano's car when they first met.

"Just kill this asshole already!" the wannabe don shouted.

Tony triggered the detonator. One of the SUVs exploded in a blinding flash of light, and the concussive force knocked most of the men to the ground. Thankfully Tony had had the foresight to install bulletproof lenses in his skull mask that also shielded his eyes from intense light. The shockwave still left his ears ringing, but he didn't need to hear to kick some ass.

He pulled two throwing knives out of his left gauntlet, then threw them into the throats of two men who were getting back on their feet. Charging at a man to his right, he leaped into the air and dropkicked him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. Tony crouched low as bullets whizzed past, rolling to close the distance. He kicked one man in the face, then caught another's arm mid-punch. Scissor-sweeping his target onto the ground, he locked him in an armbar. Then, with the right application of leverage and force, dislocated the other man's shoulder, causing him to scream.

Once all the targets were down, Tony breathed a heavy sigh. He saw Fabiano trying to crawl away, whimpering and crying. 'So pathetic.' He grabbed him by the jacket collar and dragged him around to the truck. Tossing him in the passenger seat, he grabbed the briefcase with the money, got in the driver's seat, and drove out of the construction yard.

"Please, please I'll give you anything, anything, just don't kill me, please don't–" Tony grabbed the back of Fabiano's head and smashed it against the dash. Mercifully, that knocked him unconscious, which staved off Tony's growing headache.

He'd only been in the mercenary business a few months now, but he had a code he operated by:

No kids. Period. A potential client weeks prior had secretly been a pedophile, so Tony shot him in the face on principle. Another client hired him to take out a rival drug lord, who he discovered was also a human trafficker with a shipping container full of kidnapped girls. Tony had called the authorities anonymously so the girls could be looked after.

Be professional. Get in, get out, no unnecessary bloodshed. He may have chosen to become a mercenary, but he wasn't about to act like a deranged killer who set people on fire for kicks. Honour was in far too short supply these days.

Learn to walk away. If a job drew too much heat, or Tony somehow couldn't beat a target, then cutting his losses and walking away before getting himself killed was a legitimate option. So far, that had only happened once, and he'd returned the half of his fee given up-front to the client. The last thing he needed was to be in prison to miss seeing his daughter grow up.

Honour the contract. If a client told him to bring in a target alive, he brought them in alive. If they hired him to guard them at a business meeting, he'd do his damn best to keep them alive if things went south. He did whatever these underworld figures hired him to do. By the same token, he held his clients to the same standard. If they honoured the terms of the deal, everyone walked away happy. But if someone like Fabiano tried to screw him over, he would not stand for that shit.

Now the question remained: what to do with the son of one of New York's most notorious mob bosses? Tony had thought about this possibility, and one potentially lucrative scenario came to mind.

So, after leaving Union Allied behind, he grabbed the drugs from where he'd stashed them. Then he drove straight back to the docks where he stole them in the first place.

Over a dozen hired guns roamed the area, helping the men Tony took out earlier or patrolling the stacks of containers. As he parked the truck, every gun in the place aimed at him. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought to himself. He slowly stepped out, keeping his hands visible. Any sudden movements would make these amateurs start spraying bullets. "I'm not here to fight," he called. One of the earlier bunch he'd knocked out groaned. "Not this time, anyway. I want to talk to whoever's in charge."

"And why would we agree to that?" a familiar voice asked. From around a container came a thin man in glasses and a sharp suit. He hadn't aged much since the last time they'd met, but the suit looked nicer. Clearly, Wesley and his mysterious employer had been doing well for themselves.

"Well for one thing, I brought your drugs back. They're all in the trailer, every ounce."

Wesley smacked his lips. "Let me get this straight: you ambush our people, steal from us, then bring everything back? Why does this seem too good to be true?"

"Because…" Tony said, cautiously stepping around the cab. Some of the hired guns looked antsy, but Wesley held up a hand to keep them from shooting. As soon as the passenger door opened, Fabiano came tumbling out. He hit the ground, hard, groaning. "This little twerp tried to cheat me out of my payment and have me killed."

"Why bring him here?"

"This is a peace offering. Tell your boss I've got an offer he can't refuse, one where everyone benefits."

"I don't think he'll…" Wesley started to say, when his phone started ringing. He answered it and said, "Sir?" Tony looked around the yard, noting the security cameras positioned on all the nearby light poles. All of them were pointed at him. "Yes, sir, he did, but I don't…" Wesley glanced at him, lips pursed. "Yes sir. I'll take care of it personally." He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. "He wants to see you."

Tony nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere."

After a short drive, during which he kept one hand on Fabiano and another on his sidearm, he finally met the man in charge near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. He looked to be middle-aged, completely hairless except for the eyebrows. His bulky build was wrapped in a nicer suit than Wesley's, and he had a nice pair of old-fashioned cufflinks. Tony followed Wesley out of the car, dragging Fabiano behind him.

"I must admit," the big man said, his voice low and deep, like a predator's growl before it pounced, "you've caught my interest with your…bold action."

"Thanks," Tony deadpanned.

"You've been carving quite the reputation these last few months, Mr…?"

"There's only one thing you need to know about me: there's no Task I can't Master."

Wesley snorted. "Taskmaster. That's cute."

The boss stood silent for a bit, then said, "While I admire your boldness, Taskmaster, I must warn you that my patience is a finite resource. I suggest you don't waste it."

"I wasn't planning on it. I thought I'd start things off by apologizing for stealing from you, and to give you a present to balance the scales." He shoved Fabiano onto the dirt. "Fabiano Rigoletto, the only son of Don Rigoletto himself. The apple of his eye."

The big man's lips twitched in a smirk. "A generous gift." Fabiano looked up at him, looking ready to piss his pants. Before he could say anything, a punch to the face knocked him out cold. So, this guy wasn't just a plus-sized armchair general. He had power behind his attacks. Tony analyzed his technique: nothing fancy, not even any formal training. Just raw, brutal strength applied as gently as a freight train through glass.

"With this, you have everything you'll ever need to convince the old man to hand his territories over to you. Congratulations, you just went up in the underworld."

Wesley handed the boss his pocket handkerchief, which the boss used to wipe the blood from his knuckles. "It would appear that I am now in your debt, Taskmaster, despite your earlier…indiscretion. What would you ask of me, in return?"

"It doesn't take a genius to know that Rigoletto is old news. The Corleone's of the world are a dying breed. You're the next big thing in crime, the winning horse to bet on. I assume you recorded the security footage from the docks?"

The boss nodded.

"Then you know what I can do, and what I can bring to the table."

"Your skills are rather impressive. Am I to understand that you're offering your services to me? Perhaps in a permanent basis?"

"Not quite," Tony replied. "With all due respect, your hired help is absolute shit. I could've taken those guys blind-drunk with one hand behind my back. But I like to think I see potential, and like I said, you're the rising star. I can teach your guys what I know. They'll never be as good as me because…well, no one else is that good. But I can teach them skills that'll give them the edge against all the other action in town. Russians, Chinese, Irish…you could put 'em all in their place and control as much of the city as you want."

The boss gave him a thoughtful look, thumbing one of his cufflinks. "And in exchange for this instruction, you would charge a generous fee?"

"Emphasis on the word 'generous'. I am offering something valuable."

Wesley leaned in close to the big man's ear, whispering something. The latter nodded after hearing it. "Very well, Taskmaster. You have yourself a bargain."

"Money upfront, I come and go as I please, and I decide when I'm done."

The boss' lips twitched. "Agreed." He held out his hand. Tony looked at that hand for a moment, then stepped forward and shook it. He started to walk away, but the big man jerked him back and held him by the shoulder. "As I said, I admire your boldness. You remind me a little of myself, truth be told. You also possess enviable talent. But understand this: interfere with my business again, no matter how insignificantly, and I will break you in half. Do we understand each other?"

His heart racing, Tony controlled his breathing so he wouldn't appear frightened. "Don't worry, I don't shit where I eat. Pay me, and we won't have a problem."

Between the money he took from Fabiano and his new upfront fee, he walked away at the end of the night ten times richer than he'd been at the start.

So far, this new gig was working out quite well.

February, 2003…

"Okay, one more time."

Tony stood in a spacious gym, circling the mats as he observed his latest batch of students. The contract with Wilson Fisk –a name he'd heard whispered in fear as if the big man were Voldemort– had lasted a few months. In that time, Tony had taught his men how to fight reasonably well considering they were nothing but street thugs.

He'd ended the contract after the New Year. Men like Fisk were a good source of income, but also extremely dangerous if one weren't careful. Still, it had been a decent payday, and helped build his growing reputation. It had grown enough that Ironweave Security Solutions, a small private military contractor, reached out to hire him. Using his S.H.I.E.L.D. espionage training, Tony had set up anonymous dead drops and online caches. He checked these periodically, using them as a buffer so his new side job didn't interfere with his family or day job.

Ironweave offered a fat paycheck, wanting him to train its operators. He'd accepted, and spent the better part of the last eight weeks turning them from trigger-happy yahoos to competent, deadly fighters.

All thirty of his students paired off with each other in the gym, and Tony watched them spar as he circled them. He tracked their footwork, their forms and techniques, their stances. Every way they moved, he identified. For the most part, they'd taken his lessons to heart. He could still tear them all apart, but then again, he was the best. Compared to the Ten Rings fighters these guys usually fought, their acquired skills were more than enough.

Tony clapped his hands, and they all stopped. "Okay, that's good. It's nice to see you paid attention. Keep practicing on your own, or don't. All I can say is you guys pass. Congratulations."

Clark Richardson, the owner of the company and a former Green Beret like Tony, walked up and shook his hand. "Thank you for this. You've more than earned your money."

"My favourite words in the English language," Tony replied.

Richardson's assistant approached, and Tony handed her a slip of paper. On it was written the bank account he kept in Zurich. Once Ironweave transferred his funds, he'd disperse it to the separate, untraceable accounts he'd set up in banks across the world.

With the Ironweave contract finished, he departed San Francisco on a non-stop flight back to New York. Flagging down a cab at the airport, he dialed the number Maria had given him. After a few rings, the other person answered. "Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz. How may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to speak with Linda Chao, please."

"And may I say who's calling?"

"Tony Masters. I believe she's expecting my call."

"Certainly, Mr. Masters. One moment."

He looked out the window, taking in the passing cityscape. New York definitely had its downsides, but it would always be home. As the cab hit a red light, a new voice came on the phone. "Linda Chao."

"Ms. Chao, it's Tony Masters."

"Ah yes, it's nice to speak to you, finally. How may I help you?"

"Well, you and your firm come highly recommended, and I was hoping you could help me set up a trust fund for my daughter. I've come into some extra money recently, and I thought it best if I start planning for her future."

"I can definitely help you with that. I'll start drawing up some papers, and we can meet in person to discuss this further. Does next Wednesday work for you?"

"That sounds perfect. I'll see you in your office Wednesday." He hung up just as the cab pulled up to his apartment building. The driver protested the generous tip, saying it was too much, but Tony insisted.

Maria wasn't there to greet him, but he knew that. She was overseas, coordinating a series of raids and counter-insurgency ops in North Africa. For as much as he'd been busy as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent by day and Taskmaster by night, she'd been up to her neck in assignments. She never seemed to mind, though, being the type of person who thrived with excess responsibility and missions to execute. She had a bright future. So far, all Tony had achieved was the rank of 'Specialist', with the privilege of being sent on solo missions. That put him in the same league as agents like Barton and May. He'd known for a while that the agency had no use for him in the upper echelons. A fact he felt more than comfortable with.

Despite the inherent dangers and logistics of maintaining a secret existence as Taskmaster, he found it far more fulfilling. To S.H.I.E.L.D., he was just another grunt, a cog in the machine. As Taskmaster, he was an unparalleled fighter with skills that made him a precious commodity. His services were in high demand, and no one could take him down.

After kissing his mother hello and catching up with her over dinner, Tony paid for a cab to take her home, then played with Samantha the rest of the evening. She'd started standing up on her own, and he made sure to record everything he could. It wouldn't be long before she started walking, and he didn't want Maria to miss that. Eventually, mercifully, she fell asleep and he tucked her in.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, Tony sighed and sat in front of the computer in the bedroom. "Why is it easier to train 30 guys in hand-to-hand combat than to put an infant to bed?" he muttered, taking a generous sip.

Taking advantage of the fact he was alone in the apartment, he discreetly signed into his hidden email accounts and online caches. He found the usual assortment of requests to teach security guards or gangbangers, along with a few oddities. One message apparently came from the Belgian Ambassador, who wanted to hire Tony to watch his clubbing, shopaholic daughter and keep her out of trouble. He snorted when he read that one, then drank some more beer.

But then another message caught his eye.

There was no name listed, which piqued his curiosity. Most potential clients either used their real names or went to the effort of crafting an online alias. When he clicked on the message, it consisted of a single paragraph and an address:

Taskmaster,

Your reputation is impressive, and the results of your various endeavours speak for themselves. More impressive than your formidable skills is your record of discretion. You've caught the attention of my employers, which is no small feat I assure you. They wish to enlist your…unique services for a job that requires nothing but your time and your absolute silence. You will be paid a sum of $1,000,000, half upfront and half upon completion of the job. If you're interested, meet me at this address on the 20th, at 10:00pm.

Tony sat back in his chair, staring at the monitor. $1,000,000? If this were a legitimate offer, and not someone trying to screw him, then it'd be the biggest payout of his life. With that kind of money in a trust for Samantha, she'd never have to worry about anything for her whole life. Finishing the beer, Tony wrote down the address.

Right now, his future looked bright.

And here we have the birth of Taskmaster, Marvel's premier mercenary!

I seem to be one of the few who enjoyed the character's portrayal in Black Widow. Though I do understand why most people hated it. I'm more a fan of the costume and fight scenes than the character behind the mask. The more I read about Taskmaster in the comics, the more it motivated me to write a fic about him.

Enjoy!