February 27th, 2009; Ten Rings Base, Afghanistan…
With the final piece in place, Stark powered his device.
Everything else in the God-forsaken cave dimmed as every bit of power went into something the size of an apple. The bright glow was mesmerizing, and Yinsen couldn't look away from such majesty. Stark stared at it from where he sat, his face bathed in turquoise light.
Yinsen leaned in close. "Wow. That…doesn't look like a Jericho missile."
"That's because it's a miniaturized Arc Reactor," Stark explained. "We got a big one powering my factory at home. Should keep the shrapnel out of my heart."
"But what could it generate?"
"If my math is right, and it always is, three gigajoules per second."
Doing some quick calculations in his head, Yinsen said, "That could run your heart for 50 lifetimes."
"Yeah. Or something big for fifteen minutes." Stark stood up and grabbed a stack of designs etched on wax paper. Yinsen joined him as he set them on the worktable. Each sheet only had a piece of a larger whole, but he couldn't figure out what. "This is our ticket out of here."
"What is it?"
"Flatten them out and look," Stark said. Yinsen did so, and the pieces lined up perfectly to create something he'd never seen before. Something that –God willing– they could use to escape this hellhole and begin to make things right.
A suit of armour.
March 9th, 2009; Ukraine…
"Targets spotted stealing a car in Tabriz, then last seen by security cameras heading north," Ellen said to herself, hunched over the secure laptop as she reviewed the information for the umpteenth time. She'd been scouring security feeds and police networks for days, but her quarry proved to be frustratingly adept at avoiding detection. Even with her skills, and all the resources of HYDRA at her command, she felt like searching for a shadow in a cave.
Natasha Romanoff really was that good.
They'd received word the famous 'Black Widow' had been assigned to Iran. A nuclear engineer named Hamid Nouzari wanted to defect to the west. The Widow was to exfiltrate him from the country and into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hands. Ellen's father assigned her to prevent that from happening. Given the high priority nature of the mission, not to mention the short timetable, he'd seen fit to grant her the use of HYDRA's most powerful asset.
That asset sat in front of her, having held the same position for five straight hours. Ellen glanced up at him, her eyes naturally drifting to the metal arm. The Winter Soldier had performed countless missions since the end of her training, but this was the first time she'd seen him in five years. He looked the same: metal arm, black Kevlar vest and cargo pants, half-mask and blood-red goggles, as well as countless weapons strapped to his person. Ellen looked at his face, but he gave no indication he noticed her staring. He wasn't asleep, given the sound of his breathing and occasional flexing of his fingers.
When last they met, he'd been used as a powerhouse of a teaching aid for Taskmaster. Every time she failed a particular challenge, the Soldier would break one of her bones or punish her in any number of creative ways. They'd spar on occasion as a way for Ellen to test her skills, but that mostly ended in blood and pain. Now, she was expected to give him orders. The reversal of roles felt surreal to her, and she had no inkling of how he might feel.
They were the only two passengers in the private jet, apart from the HYDRA agent in the cockpit. Ellen looked back at her laptop, zooming in on a satellite feed of the Black Sea. They had been too late to intercept the target in Iran. Romanoff and Nouzari had stolen a car before driving north, slipping away like a spider through a crack. Ellen had had nothing, until she found the same car ditched by the side of the road in Armenia, across the border. That led her on a path to locate the targets in Tbilisi, who stole another car and kept heading north.
Unfortunately, she hadn't found a trace of them for another two days. Romanoff and Nouzari had almost certainly traveled through Georgia and the Caucasus Mountains. They may have even hunkered down for rest. But the scarcity of cameras and security feeds meant Ellen and the Soldier would have to wait. Currently, the jet lay parked in an empty field in the Ukraine. Ellen sat, eyes glued to her screen as she willed Romanoff to show herself. She just needed one sighting, one whisper to hunt down. They needed to kill Nouzari before he reached S.H.I.E.L.D.'s European Headquarters in Munich before he could be transported to the US.
There!
Street camera footage caught a glimpse of the targets in a grey SUV. That road led west, towards Moldova. The best place for an intercept would be just outside Odessa. And the footage was only five minutes old. 'Gotcha,' Ellen thought. She called to the pilot, "I found them. Get us to Odessa."
"Understood."
They reached the city in just under an hour. As soon as they landed, Ellen turned to the Winter Soldier and said, "Soldat, pora idti." ["Soldier, time to go."]. He didn't respond, or so much as nod his head in acknowledgement of her order. He simply stood up and grabbed the hard case containing his sniper rifle. They stepped out of the jet and, after acquiring transport, raced out of the city.
"He understands English perfectly well," her father told her shortly after assigning the Winter Soldier to the mission. "But he's fluent in Russian, so while you're in the field it's best to speak with that."
"Can do," she'd said. One of the stranger orders she'd been given, but not the worst.
Once outside the city, she parked at a suitable vantage point. The road stretched out before them, straddling a cliff that bordered a small lake. The Soldier set his case on the ground and opened it to reveal a high-powered rifle. Ellen knew he strictly used Soviet-era slugs, absent rifling and completely untraceable. He laid down in the prone position, extending the bipod of his rifle and aiming to the east.
She took out a pair of binoculars. Based on Romanoff's position when the traffic camera caught sight of her and the speed limit of the road, Ellen estimated Romanoff would be within their line of sight in the next ten minutes.
Sure enough, nine minutes later she spotted the target's car coming their way.
"Tseli priblizhayutsya." ["Targets approaching."]
The Soldier pressed his goggled eye to the scope. "Ya vizhu ikh." ["I see them."]
"Dve mili," ["Two miles"] Ellen said. "Strelyayte v shiny." ["Shoot the tires."]
After a few seconds of silence, the crack of his shot thundered and echoed across the open landscape. The front left tire of the car exploded into bits of rubber, and the rear left one did the same a moment later after a second shot. The car swerved viciously to the left, breaking through the barrier and plummeting off the cliff.
It smashed into the rocky shore of the lake, landing upside down. Ellen watched through her binoculars as the driver's side window shattered. Romanoff climbed out, grimacing from the crash. She clutched her chest, but otherwise didn't appear crippled. Drawing her pistol, she smashed the rear window to let Nouzari crawl out. Despite not seeing the threat, Romanoff did the smart thing and kept herself in a position to shield him at all times.
Unfortunately for her, the smart thing wouldn't help.
"U tebya yest' shans?" ["Do you have a shot?"] Ellen asked.
"Da."
"Voz'mi eto." ["Take it."]
The Soldier fired again. Nouzari's head jerked back with a spray of blood and brains, while Romanoff collapsed with a hole in her abdomen. The bullet had gone clean through her to kill the nuclear engineer. "Tsel' ustranena," ["Target eliminated"] the Solder reported.
Ellen froze, her stomach churning and a lump forming in her throat. A sudden, vivid memory asserted itself in that moment. All she could see was that day in Bogotá, when her bodyguard Gregory had been murdered by the ELN. His head had snapped back just like Nouzari's, staining the office door with blood and brains. That had been the most horrible thing she'd ever seen. Now, all these years later, she found herself in the opposite role. The Soldier might have taken the shot that killed the engineer, but he was just a weapon. She'd given the order, pulled the proverbial trigger.
Now she was the murderer. The bad guy. When she'd chosen to join HYDRA, it had been to take part in a righteous crusade to wipe out evil. Now, she'd become the sort of person who executed people whose only crime was to find a better life in the west.
She felt sick to her stomach, wanting to find the nearest bush and throw up. When she put down the binoculars, she saw the Soldier staring at her. "Vtoraya tsel?" ["The second target?"]
Ellen looked back at the crash site. Romanoff laid on the ground, treating her bullet wound. It would be so easy to have the Soldier finish her off, to rid the world of an assassin and a rival. But given what she'd just done, was she really any better than the former KGB agent? After a moment's consideration, she shook her head. The Soldier complied and packed his rifle back into the case. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Ellen said, "Uh…Molodets, Soldat." ["Well done, Soldier."] Not having the strength to say another word, she simply stood and headed back to the truck, the Soldier in tow.
Dumping the truck, they returned to the jet. The pilot looked back at Ellen and asked, "The target?"
"Dead," she replied in a flat, empty tone.
Perhaps noticing the look on her face, he frowned and asked, "Any complications?"
"Just get us stateside."
While the pilot prepped for takeoff, Ellen fell back in her chair and breathed a quivering sigh. She put her face in her hands, trying desperately to force the memory of Gregory's death out of her mind. It didn't work, and soon her bodyguard became Hamid Nouzari, staring at her resentfully with a hole in his head.
Ellen leaned back and turned on her laptop. A single tear shed from her left eye as she turned on the live feed. Anything to distract her from her torturous thoughts.
A news report appeared. One of the anchors, a bald black man in a grey suit, rested his arms on the desk and said, "Despite continued search efforts by the government as well as private contractors, there is still no sign of Tony Stark. The billionaire went missing in Afghanistan a little under a month ago after an arms demonstration to the US Army and representatives from the DOD. Stark Industries has placed a substantial reward for any information leading to Stark's return. In the meantime, Stark Industries' COO Obadiah Stane has stepped in as interim CEO. Tony Stark is the only son and heir of the late Howard Stark, hailed by many as the greatest scientific mind of the twentieth century. He was most notable for…"
"Stark."
Wiping the tear from her eye, Ellen looked over at the Soldier. His usual silent, rigid demeanor seemed to soften. He looked down at his metal arm, inspecting it as if he'd never laid eyes on it before. "Soldat?" she asked, furrowing his brow.
In an instant, the moment ended. The Soldier straightened, hands on his lap as he stared straight ahead.
Ellen frowned at the strange reaction. Why would he care so much about Tony Stark or his father? And why did he seem so out of it just now? This was the first time she'd seen his stone cold exterior crack, revealing what lay inside. Instead of getting a glimpse at his true nature, his reaction only made her confused.
What was he hiding?
Ideal Federal Savings Bank, Washington D.C. …
After landing in D.C., Ellen and the Soldier were greeted by HYDRA agents in a black SUV with tinted windows. They drove straight from the airstrip to the old Ideal Federal Savings Bank, long closed down. She knew it served as the Soldier's primary base and supply point, and had been instructed to personally deliver him there after the mission.
Pulling up to the front of the bank, Ellen –having changed from her green catsuit to a dark jacket and jeans– ushered the Soldier through the doors. Striding through the empty, dust-covered front rooms, they descended into the building's basement. At the vault entrance, a pair of technicians in white shirts and bowties met them. "Thank you Agent Pierce," one of them said with a false smile. "We'll take it from here."
"Yeah, sure thing," Ellen said quietly as she watched them take the Soldier into the vault. He half-glanced back at her just before the technicians sealed the door behind them. She replayed the moment in the jet, wondering just what made that man tick. Every member of HYDRA had their own eccentricities, but for some reason his didn't match with the aura of a precise, legendary assassin.
She wanted to pursue the matter with her father, but thought better of it. He had far too many matters demanding his attention, least of all indulging her curiosity. Letting out a breath, Ellen leaned against the wall. The mission was a success, another victory for her and for HYDRA.
Yet when she looked down at her hands, she saw them soaked in blood.
May 1st, 2009; Afghanistan…
Tony Stark took off the mask of his armour, groaning. He'd crashed into the desert; so much for flight time. Pieces of his armour were strewn all around, bits of wiring and circuitry spilled like marbles out of a bag. He stared up at the bright sky, dazed but conscious after his harrowing escape.
"Not bad."
May 4th, 2009; Stark Industries Headquarters…
Obadiah Stane sneered as he stormed out of the board room. "What a goddamned mess," he thought, angrily rebuffing his assistant's questions as he stalked through the halls of Stark Industries' headquarters. The building had become pure chaos since the impromptu press conference, with techs and executives madly scrambling. Everyone cleared out of Stane's path when they saw the furious expression on his bearded face.
How could everything have gone so wrong so fast? Three months ago everything seemed to be going perfectly. Then Raza had to send that message trying to blackmail him. Stane left no response, content to let his former business partner's arrogant brat to rot in Afghanistan. Then, despite all the odds, Tony came home.
And he seemed intent on burning the company to the ground.
Not on his watch. Stane had dedicated three decades of his life to Stark Industries, and he wasn't about to let some spoiled trust fund baby destroy his hard work. Making his way out the front door, he found his limo waiting for him. The valet held the door open, and he moved inside without bothering to say anything to the man. "Take me home, George, I don't want anything to–" Stane froze when he noticed he wasn't alone.
Sitting across from him was a beautiful woman in a green business suit, legs crossed. Her black curls hung down her shoulders, and she looked at him with grey eyes. "Hello, Mr. Stane. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She spoke with a Slavic accent.
He frowned. "I'm sorry, but I don't recall entertaining guests on my schedule."
She rolled her eyes, then rapped her knuckles on the privacy screen. In response, the limo pulled away from the headquarters building and out onto the street. "I'm not here as a 'guest', Mr. Stane. Nor am I a reporter or rival executive. My name is Ophelia Sarkissian, and I am here as a representative of my employers. Echidna Capital Management?"
Now it made sense. Stane nodded, sitting up straighter and clearing his throat. "Of course. I always have time for one of our biggest shareholders."
Sarkissian gave him a tight, mocking smile. Looking out the window, she spoke in a casual tone that belied the seriousness of the situation. "That was quite the press conference yesterday."
Stane grimaced. "I can assure you, I had no idea what he was going to say."
"I'm sure you didn't. But a businessman as experienced as yourself should know that Stark's radical change of heart has…how do you say? 'Ruffled the wrong feathers'. My employers are displeased, to put it lightly. They were given assurances that, with Stark out of the way, their investments into Stark Industries would see even greater returns."
"And it will. You have my word."
She arched an eyebrow. "You say that now, but with Stark returning as CEO, your ability to deliver on your promise is lessened. My employers wanted me to inform you that if the situation is not rectified, they will be withdrawing their investment in favour of one of your competitors."
"Stark won't be a problem. I'll have things taken care of, and business will go back to the way it was."
Sarkissian rapped her knuckles on the privacy screen, and the limo pull up to the sidewalk. "Just get it done, Mr. Stane. If this matter isn't resolved in a timely manner, my employers will…" She snorted. "Well, let's just say you won't enjoy their displeasure." Without another word, she opened the door and stepped outside.
The privacy screen lowered, and George called, "Where to, sir?"
"Just take me home." The limo pulled away, leaving Stane to brood with his hands in his lap. He sighed, thinking of how he'd control the prodigal Stark. Now he had further incentive, and not the pleasant kind.
October 5th, 2009; Stark Mansion, Malibu…
Stark finished strapping the repulsor modules against his palms, then adjusted one of the floodlights. He'd cleared a space in the workshop for the test, and was finally ready to try out his improved thruster boots with liquid fuel. The formula had been adapted from a prototype first developed by Stark Industries' aerospace division.
"Okay, let's do this right," he said, carefully backing up onto the mat. The boots felt heavy around his legs, as if he were walking with 100-pound weights supported by chicken wire. Hopefully, the powered servos in the completed armoured exoskeleton would fully support the weight and not crush him. "Start mark half a metre back to centre." He exhaled, almost giddy with anticipation. "Dum-E, look alive. You're on standby for fire safety. U, roll it."
The two robots trilled in acknowledgement, the former grasping a fire extinguisher and the latter holding a video camera.
Stark flipped a switch on his belt. "Okay…activate hand controls." The devices whirred as they powered up, connected by cables to the boots. He did a few squats and moved around to limber up. "We're gonna start off nice and easy, see if ten percent thrust capacity achieves lift. And 3…2…1." He triggered the hand controls.
His legs seemed to rocket out from under him as they propelled him into the ceiling. He smashed into the concrete, then fell behind the toolbox. Everything flared with fresh bolts of pain, made worse when Dum-E decided to douse him with the fire extinguisher.
'Oh, for God's sake…" Stark thought. 'It's okay. Work in progress, work in progress."
November 19th, 2009; Afghanistan…
Tony watched the surrounding mountains pass as they drove through the night. Before joining S.H.I.E.L.D., he would've wasted his life in deserts like this. 'Serve and protect your country'. What a crock of shit. More like 'watch your friends get their limbs blown off before you die in some village so your loved ones can have a folded flag'. Despite all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s faults, it had given him the opportunity to escape such a fate.
He'd improved his original armour, using a percentage of his considerable profits to purchase the best protection short of tank armour. The flexible inner layer was fashioned out of silicon carbide disks and ceramic matrices inside a compound laminate. The outer layer, by comparison, was a durable Kevlar tri-weave that covered his chest, legs, and arms. The armour plates were separated at the joints to allow for maximum mobility. The same Kevlar material formed his skull mask, now complete with air filtration and communication systems. He'd kept the same colour scheme: midnight blue for the armour, orange accents on the chest and legs, and the gauntlets and shoulder pads were bone white, same as the mask.
It added up to one bitching look.
"We're almost there," the client said. "Turn left up this trail."
The driver complied, climbing up the gentle slope of a mountain. The other vehicles in the convoy followed suit. In addition to hiring Tony, the client had also paid for three teams of former Blackwater operators. The kind of guys who tended to get dishonourably discharged and had no compunctions about making people disappear.
He looked at the rear view mirror. The client, Obadiah Stane, stroked his grey beard as he stared out the window. He was one of the few men alive who made bald look cool and intimidating. Apparently he'd been a bigshot with Stark Industries since the company's founding, but Tony didn't recall him. Not surprising, considering the media-whore Tony Stark turned out to be.
He clenched a fist tight. Why oh why did he have to share a name with that prick?
Up ahead, he spotted their destination: a group of tents surrounded by a primitive metal wall. Judging by the size, it probably housed up to fifty fighters. Terrorists preferred to operate in separate cells for security; if one group became compromised, the larger group wasn't threatened. The Ten Rings had turned it into an art form, since no one could agree on who founded a group that operated across Asia, Europe, and North Africa.
Tony spoke into the communicator in his mask, tied into the frequency he and the other mercenaries were using. "Okay, we're coming up on the camp. Eyes front, and watch your asses." He received a number of affirmatives, then looked at Stane in the mirror. "You expecting your friends to cause a lot of trouble?"
Stane sneered. "This bunch loves to prance around like they're lords of the Earth. No one likes to dwell on the fact they use their ordnance on defenseless villages and run at the first sign of real opposition."
Tony snorted. "I know the type."
"Getting into business with them was a mistake; they're far too fanatical to realize when they've made a mistake." Stane cocked his head to the side. "That doesn't bother you, does it? My more…hush hush dealings with questionable partners?"
"You're not paying me to pass judgement. I'm just here to do my job."
"Good. At least you understand your place. Unlike some."
A few minutes later, they pulled into the centre of camp. The composition of the men looked cherry-picked from a dozen different nations, all holding American-made weaponry. Tony and the other mercs stepped out first, hands hovering cautiously over their weapons as the Ten Rings surrounded them. One could taste the tension hanging in the dry desert air. Stane stepped out, locking eyes with a bald man whose face looked half-cooked.
"Once I'm inside, round up this bunch," Stane muttered.
"You got it," Tony replied.
Stane approached the burned man, who said, "Welcome." Noticing the stares at his burns, he gestured to them and said, "Compliments of Tony Stark."
"Well, if you killed him like you were supposed to, you'd still have a face."
The burned man frowned. "You paid us trinkets to kill a prince."
"Show me the weapon."
The burned man scowled, but gestured for him to come inside. "Come. Leave your guards outside."
Stane held up a hand, then nodded at Tony. He nodded back. The two men entered the large tent in the middle of the camp, closing the flap. The Ten Rings fighters closed around them, trying to flex their imaginary strength. Low on training, high on pride. Tony could take them all by himself, but not without a bit of effort. With the three dozen mercs by his side, the resulting firefight would kill some of each group. Not an ideal situation.
Fortunately, working for a guy who had access to all of Stark Industries' tech had its advantages.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Tony took out the thumb-sized device from a belt pouch. He slid the front piece down until it activated, broadcasting a high-pitched sonic tone. His mask protected him with a suite of noise-cancelling tech, while the mercs all wore specially designed earpieces that kept them safe. The Ten Rings, however, weren't safe at all. The sonic tone affected everyone in a thirty metre radius, instantly paralyzing them all. Some dropped their weapons, while others' fingers were clenched tight to their various rifles and shotguns.
"Okay boys, round 'em up," Tony ordered. They calmly confiscated all the terrorists' weapons, then shoved them all into a group beside the tent. Paralyzed as they were, the Ten Rings couldn't offer any resistance. Tony and the mercs posed their hands on the backs of their heads, then formed a ring with guns at the ready. Barely thirty seconds later, Stane emerged from inside the tent, a look of fresh determination on his face.
"Crate up the armour and the rest of it," he told Tony on his way back to the truck. "Alright, let's finish up here."
Tony nodded to the mercs. They aimed their rifles and fired, executing every last member of the Ten Rings cell with cold precision. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Tony said, "You heard the man: load everything into the trucks. Leave the bodies."
Entering the tent, he found the cell's leader in his chair, paralyzed by Stane's copy of the Sonic Taser. Like the others, his veins protruded through the skin of his head, and he made stifled grunts. Across from him stood a suit of armour made from scrap metal. Despite the rushed nature of the welds and the primitive circuits he could see, Tony recognized it as the work of a master building with tools on hand.
So, it was true after all. He'd heard rumblings in S.H.I.E.L.D. about strange energy readings in this region before Stark's miraculous return. This must have been how he escaped by himself. Tony recognized emptied fuel tanks for homemade flamethrowers on the arms, and the mounting for a single-use rocket launcher. He shuddered to think of what Stark could do, given more time and his company's bleeding edge tech.
Some of the mercs stepped inside. Tony jerked his thumb to indicate the armour and said, "Make sure you grab every piece of this." They went to work loading everything into crates, while he approached the paralyzed terrorist leader. "Sorry, bub," he said, drawing a pistol and pressing the barrel into the man's temple. "This just isn't your day."
Bang!
Having loaded all the necessary equipment, they re-entered the trucks and drove back down the trail, leaving the camp behind. In the backseat, Stane took out his phone and dialed a number. "William, it's me. I've got a special project for you. Drop everything and focus on this. Set up Sector 16 under the Arc Reactor. I want this data-massed; recruit our top engineers, I want a prototype right away. I'll have all the necessary materials and blueprints to you by tomorrow morning."
November 24th, 2009; Stark Industries Headquarters…
Five days after wiping out the Ten Rings Cell, Tony watched Stane make the final adjustments to his new weapon. The suit of armour towered over them, resembling a Power Rangers Megazord more than a powered exoskeleton. Stane had retained his services in a bodyguard capacity after their trip to Afghanistan. Apparently, a pretty redhead who worked for Tony Stark had been snooping around the place. And given the charges of treason, corporate malfeasance, and possible human rights violations that Stane faced if the feds or S.H.I.E.L.D. took him in, his paranoia was understandable.
Sector 16 had been built in the large maintenance area beneath the massive Arc Reactor that powered the whole factory. The minimal lighting complemented the hanging chains and dank, cave-like feeling of the place. Real Bond villain atmosphere.
Tony leaned against an exhaust tube, flipping and twirling one of his knives. Stane climbed a platform ladder, a glowing piece of tech in hand. A miniaturized Arc Reactor apparently built by Stark himself. It was beautiful, in its own way, the power it represented terrible and awe-inspiring. Stane slotted the reactor into the hole in his armour's chest, then twisted to lock it in. The suit came to life with a low thrum that seemed to make the room quiver.
"So," Tony said, balancing the tip of his knife on his finger, "you got a snazzy name for this thing?"
"Unlike some," the other man replied, stepping back to admire his creation, "I don't pay much stock in vainglorious titles or flashy costumes. That sort of thing died in the 40s."
"Sure. But the last guy who put on a flashy costume won a world war."
Stane frowned at him. "World Wars are a relic from the past. We live in an age of industry, where technology and information rule the battlefield. With something this powerful in the right hands, I can guide the evolution of warfare and economics forever. Just think of it: the most powerful man in the world is the one with the best weapon, so what do you call the man who provides the weapon?"
Tony shrugged. "This is where I'm supposed to say 'the most powerful man in the world'?"
"Selling arms to the government paid dividends for decades. And even though my relationship with the Ten Rings soured, it was a useful experiment. I now have the ability to sell weapons to any nation or faction in the world. By discreetly providing munitions to other radical groups, I can fund the next sixty years of sales. It's all about supply and demand, and after all this time I've figured it out: you need to create the demand by any means necessary."
Stane smiled, staring lovingly at his suit. Meanwhile, Tony frowned behind his mask. He'd forgiven his client's egotistical tendencies thus far; after all, the guy was a corporate executive. Were their bigger dickheads than that? But now, he had a glimpse of the man's true personality. Obadiah Stane was insane. And he'd just completed work on something that made all modern arms look like Nerf guns.
Tony didn't like working for mentally unstable people. Bad for business, and his image. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the security monitors beeped. He and Stane looked at it. The feed showed the front entrance to the factory. A couple dozen men in suits approached the doors, weapons out. Tony recognized Phil Coulson leading them, and they were joined by a pretty redhead. She must have been the one spying on Stark's behalf.
"Deal with them," Stane said, hurrying over to one of the consoles connected to the suit. "I need to finish preparations."
Sighing, Tony sheathed his knife and headed for the exit. "Alright. But when I get back, you and I are going to renegotiate my contract." No matter how his greeting for the agents outside went, this would be the last thing he did for the ambitious businessman.
Sealing the door to Sector 16 behind him, Tony slipped into the shadows behind a pillar. He didn't have to wait long until the agents entered the room and fanned out. He always knew he'd end up crossing paths with S.H.I.E.L.D. as Taskmaster. 'Well, no time like the present,' he thought to himself as Coulson pulled up the rear with the redhead beside him.
"Is this it?" he asked, pointing to the security door.
"Yes, that's the one. Sector 16 is right behind there."
"You'd better stay close, Ms. Potts. There's no telling what a man like Stane might do once he knows he's cornered."
"You have no idea," Tony said as he pulled the pin from a flashbang and tossed it into the centre of the room. The opportunity for a dramatic entrance presented itself, and he obliged.
Coulson had just enough time to shout, "Get down!" The flashbang exploded in a blinding light accompanied by a deafening boom. Tony, shielded by his mask, burst from cover as the agents staggered back, temporarily blind and deaf. Drawing a pistol, he shot two of them in the chest. Non-lethal, but enough to take them out of the fight. He decided to take advantage of the ambiguity of Stane's order. 'Deal with them' meant he didn't have to kill them. He'd rather not have to deal with the heat that came from killing dozens of agents.
Tony leaped onto an agent and grappled him onto the floor, shot another man in the shoulder mid-move, then knocked him out with a single punch. All in one move.
Sweeping the nearest man's feet from under him, Tony drew three throwing knives from his gauntlet and hurled them into three others with flawless accuracy. He dispatched two more with a throat punch and a targeted nerve cluster strike to the back.
Most of the agents started shaking off the effects of the flashbang. At least enough to point and shoot at the dark shape cutting through them like a Ginsu knife through paper. Roughly half the tactical team were still standing by this point, and they backed away while focusing fire on Tony. He retreated, returning fire with his own pistol as a hailstorm of bullets ricocheted off his armour. Some of the bullets struck the inner layer of his bodysuit between armour plates, and he definitely felt those impacts.
Grimacing, he took cover behind a large junction box and reloaded. Drawing a second pistol, he charged from the other side and started shooting. He recalled a documentary he'd seen of champion quickdraw shooters, and put that to use. While a Beretta was quite different from a six-shooter, he could still shoot with vastly improved reaction time compared to the standardized training of the tactical team.
On the far side of the room, he saw Coulson detonate a shaped charge on the door's locking mechanism. He, Ms. Potts, and five others ran inside, closing the door. 'Well, I did what I could. Now let's see what that armour of yours can do, Stane.'
It didn't take Tony much longer to dispatch the rest of the agents. Between his guns, preternatural martial arts skills, and custom, nigh-impenetrable armour, he eventually came out on top. Panting from the exertion, he took stock of the room. Eighteen opponents at once. His personal record. Apart from some inevitable bruising, he didn't have a single mark on him. He didn't consider the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents lackluster; they just weren't a match for someone like him.
Tony approached the door, but stopped when he heard gunshots. Something roared a few seconds later, accompanied by the screech of twisted metal and the brief thoom of jet propulsors. Those noises died down, and the distinctive sound of high heels clacking came closer. Drawing a combat knife, he hid behind the junction box to ambush whoever came out.
The door flew open, and out came Ms. Potts. Her eyes were wide with terror, so she probably just saw Stane's armour up close. Upon seeing the injured agents strewn about the room, she screamed and tripped on the leg of a man with a shattered collarbone. Tony sheathed his knife. He took no pleasure from killing others, and avoided it when he could. It was simply part of his job when ordered by a client. Nevertheless, he found the notion of killing unarmed innocents…distasteful. So, he chose to let her go as she scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room.
From within Sector 16, something seemed to explode, followed by a prolonged shaking as something tore through concrete up to the main level of the building. "Well, this should be interesting," Tony said, hurrying towards the nearest staircase.
He caught up to Ms. Potts as she ran out the front door. The second she stepped outside, a metal fist punched through the pavement. Then came another, and like a bright-eyed demon from the bowels of Tartarus, Stane and his fully operational armour emerged. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, the suit's vocal projector making him sound chthonic and rumbling.
Ms. Potts started to turn around to run back inside, then stopped when she saw Tony standing before her. "Sorry, lady, but you lost this one. Now why don't you scurry on out of here?"
Stane extended the gatling gun attached to his right arm and aimed it at her head. "You're not taking another step."
Tony looked up at him and frowned behind his mask. "Hey, there's no need to kill her. She's unarmed, and she's not a threat."
"When did you get so squeamish?"
"I kill people who can fight back, or otherwise deserve it," he explained. "I'm not in the habit of executing women and kids." Stepping between Ms. Potts and his client, he added, "Kill her, and I walk." Stane regarded him for a moment. If Tony could just get a shot at the hydraulics, he could cripple the suit if it came to blows.
With blinding speed, Stane swung his other hand and smacked him across the parking lot. Tony smashed into the windshield of a Stark Industries truck, then rolled down the hood before falling onto the pavement. Everything hurt, and when he took a shuddering breath, his chest lanced with white-hot pain. He definitely had cracked ribs, maybe even a few breaks. He'd underestimated the strength and speed of the suit; getting hit like that felt like being struck by a falling log.
Stane focused his attention on Ms. Potts and spun his gatling gun. "Your services are no longer required."
A bright light appeared overhead, accompanied by someone calling, "STANE!"
Stane looked up and aimed his gun at the newcomer. Tony had just enough time to see the red and gold outline of a man-sized suit of armour. So, that's what Stark's newest suit looked like. Sleek. He crashed into the colossal suit, both of them boring a hole through the pavement and disappearing. They must have emerged on the highway, as car horns and crashes could be heard just nearby.
Getting to his feet, Tony clutched at his chest. "Son of a bitch!" he hissed, head throbbing. "To hell with this." He knew when to walk away from a bad job. If he were being honest with himself, he should've walked away a lot sooner. Moving out of sight behind the truck, he started heading towards the parkade to 'liberate' a car. Noticing the administration building a quarter mile from the factory, Tony stopped. He glanced back in the direction of the fighting Stark and Stane. "You still owe me a paycheck, asshole." Taking a deep breath, he ran towards the admin building.
At least he could still salvage a profit from this mess.
November 25th, 2009; Triskelion…
Ellen leaned against her father's desk as she watched the television. He stood nearby, arms crossed. On the screen, the news footage from Stark Industries Headquarters unfolded. Reporters from every available network and online site sat waiting for Tony Stark's explanation of the massive explosion the night before.
She'd heard through unofficial channels that Coulson had been assigned to Stark's case, initially to interview him about the mysterious circumstances of his escape. Then, someone had come forward with damning evidence that Obadiah Stane –the company's COO and Stark's mentor– had colluded with terrorists to sell arms. Coulson went in with a tactical team, and the next thing anyone knew, the building had exploded in a beam of light.
"…and now, Mr. Stark has prepared a statement," Air Force Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes announced. "He will not be taking any questions."
Stark walked up to the podium, looking somewhat sheepish. "Uh, been a while since I was in…front of you. I figure I'll stick to the cards this time," he said, eliciting a few chuckles. Clearing his throat, he began, "There's been speculation that I was involved in the events that occurred at the freeway and the rooftop, but–"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," Christine Everhart, a reporter from Vanity Fair, said, ignoring the 'no questions' part of the conference. "But do you honestly expect us to believe that that was a bodyguard in a suit that conveniently appeared, despite the fact that you–"
"I know that it's confusing," Stark interrupted. "It is one thing to question the official story and another thing entirely to make wild accusations or insinuate that I'm a superhero."
Ellen shook her head as she watched the argument unfold. "A guy with Stark's ego? He's totally the hero type; he loves the attention." Her father arched an eyebrow, looking amused at her words. She knew they were of the same mind on the subject, while being curious at what Stark might do or say in the wake of so many bizarre events over the last seven months.
Stark started rambling, and Colonel Rhodes leaned in to whisper in his hear. Probably telling him to shut up and stick to the prepared speech. Somehow, Ellen doubted he would.
Clearing his throat, Stark looked at the cards. "The truth is…" He paused, looking out at his captive audience as cameras flashed. He shoved the cards in his pocket and, without a care in the world, announced, "I am Iron Man."
Ellen's eyebrows rose as nearly every reporter in the room shot to their feet and lobbed questions at the billionaire. Shutting off the television, she said, "Well, I guess that answers that question."
Her father chuckled, walking around to his desk chair. "You got to give the man credit: he knows how to make a scene."
She sat down in front of him, resting one leg on her knee. "So, looks like all the money we poured into Stark Industries is a bust."
"The company was profitable for decades," he pointed out.
"Fair point. So who do we invest in now?"
Leaning back in his chair, he asked, "Did you have something specific in mind?"
Ellen replied, "I was thinking Hammer Industries. They're Stark Industries' biggest rival in terms of weapons manufacture, and Justin Hammer is the perfect blend of blind ambition and spinelessness. He should be easy to manipulate."
Her father nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. Stark's company will be ending their exclusive deal with the government. We'll need to manoeuvre Hammer Industries into becoming its replacement. Contact Senator Stern. He'll grease the wheels and make sure the deal goes through."
"Consider it done," Ellen said, getting up to leave. She stopped by the door, wanting to address a lingering thought. "Dad, did we know anything about Stane's deal with the Ten Rings?"
He took off his glasses and put them on the table. "What makes you ask?"
She walked back, leaning against the back of a chair. "It's just…A while back, I looked over the details of our deal with Stark Industries. Their published profits over the last quarter don't match with the numbers I got from our accountants."
"Could just be a clerical error."
"That's what I thought. But then I did some calculations of the money Stane might have made from selling to the Ten Rings, and it seems to match with the expected profits on our end. It almost seems like we knew about it, and went along with war profiteering that benefited terrorists."
Her father frowned, glancing at his computer monitor. "Well I can promise you I'll give this my full attention."
Ellen nodded. "Thanks. I want to believe it's clerical error, or maybe someone got greedy. If that's the case, we need to take care of them. HYDRA is supposed to be fixing the world's problems, not adding to them." She had no reason to fear namedropping the organization; her father always put up a security screen around his office whenever they met. It kept them safe from any surveillance or observation. Not even Nick Fury could penetrate the screen. "That is still the case, right?"
He smiled and took her hand in his. "Of course it is, sweetheart. I can assure you this sort of thing won't happen again."
She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, dad. I needed to hear that." Walking around his desk, she kissed him on the cheek before leaving his office, her concerns assuaged.
November 27th, 2009; Nick Fury's Office…
"I'm surprised you're adding Stark to the list of candidates," Coulson said as he stood across from Director Fury, who stared out the window at the Potomac River. "Generally when someone says 'no' they mean…well, no."
Fury snorted. "Stark might feel that way now, but when the chips are down he'll have to get involved. And with his unique skill set, we'd be overlooking a major asset if we ignored him."
Coulson nodded. "Fair enough." He typed TONY STARK in the file heading on his tablet, and with the swipe of a finger linked it to the master file. Avengers Initiative Candidates: 3.
"Now, you said you found some additional evidence," Fury said, sitting in his desk chair.
"That's right." Pulling up the relevant files, he placed the tablet on the desk. As the other man looked them over, he added, "Dug up some more info on that masked assailant that took down my team."
Fury shook his head. "One man taking down two tactical squads. Almost too crazy to believe, but then again we just finished dealing with an egotistical billionaire who flies around in a metal suit."
"The target goes by the name of Taskmaster," Coulson explained. "He's a mercenary, no other known aliases, and we don't have a clue as to his identity. He showed up a few years ago, and since then he's built up quite a reputation. Crime lords, private military contractors, even a few government officials have hired him. His specialty seems to be training criminals and other mercenaries to fight, though he does take freelance work."
"I bet he has one hell of a curriculum," Fury deadpanned.
"Whoever he is, he has significant training, and judging by that fancy armour he wears, he's got more than enough resources. I scrounged up this video file from a security camera mounted above the factory entrance where we came in." Coulson reached over and tapped the file, which started playing.
"Hey, there's no need to kill her. She's unarmed, and she's not a threat," Taskmaster said, his voice somehow modulated to foil an ID.
"When did you get so squeamish?" Obadiah Stane in his oversized suit asked.
"I kill people who can fight back, or otherwise deserve it. I'm not in the habit of executing women and kids. Kill her, and I walk."
Fury smirked. "Hm. What do you know? A mercenary with a code."
"Seems that way," Coulson agreed. "When we went through the company's files after the Arc Reactor overload, we found evidence that someone hacked into Stane's office computer."
"We figure it was Taskmaster?"
"That was our conclusion. He accessed Stane's financials and made a transfer to an offshore account to the tune of $1.5 million. It got transferred to a half dozen more accounts before we could trace it."
Fury furrowed his good eyebrow. "With that kind of access, he could have siphoned off a hell of a lot more money."
"That did occur to me," Coulson admitted. "Maybe that was the amount Stane promised to pay him when his job was completed?"
"Makes sense. Taskmaster must have realized working for a man that unstable wasn't good for business. So before he gets out of dodge, he takes what he's owed. After all, as far as we know he satisfied the terms of his contract." Setting the tablet down, he said, "Add him to the watch list. If he pops up on our radar, maybe we can get some answers."
"You think he'll risk getting noticed by S.H.I.E.L.D. again?"
"Definitely. Guy like that? He'll take the jobs that pay the most, and given his usual clientele, I'd be willing to bet on us seeing him again."
"Consider it done." Coulson grabbed his tablet and walked out of the office.
Staring at the door for a few moments, Fury took out a notebook and opened the page with a list of names. All mercenaries, bounty hunters, or smugglers. Pencil in hand, he added Taskmaster's name to the bottom of the list, then put the notebook back in the drawer which he locked. Some information was best kept secret, even from one's own colleagues.
We have now officially entered the events of the MCU proper! In the words of Cat in the Hat, "I'm SO EXCITED!"
My original thoughts for Taskmaster's segment was for him to run point on Tony's kidnapping. Then I remembered two things: A) Stane hired Raza to kill Tony, and Taskmaster is too skilled to not kill someone he's ordered to kill B) Taskmaster is too professional to work with terrorists. So that led to the idea of Stane hiring him as a bodyguard/enforcer. It also telegraphs the kind of villains/clients he'll have over the events of the movies.
Enjoy!