Happy New Year!
August 2007
The Amazon Rainforest
Maggie plummeted in a freefall through open air, the wind tearing at her face and drawing tears from her eyes, though she could still see the thick expanse of green rainforest rushing up to meet her. She opened her hands and felt the air stream through her fingers, almost as substantial as water. The world hurtled toward her, threatening a sharp and painful death.
When all she could see was green she arched her back and two great black metal wings sprang out to either side of her, scooping up the air and flinging her back into the sky. Maggie whooped at the top of her lungs and twisted, and her engines kicked up and shot her straight upwards, up into the thin layer of cloud the sun hadn't burned away yet.
She levelled out, breathless, her body streamlined and her wings curved to catch the thermal currents rising from the rainforest. The sun shone down on her wind-chilled skin, and Maggie flipped over to feel its warmth on her face as she coasted over the tops of the clouds. She shouted at the sky, safe in the knowledge that there wasn't another living soul around. For miles and miles, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but forest.
She didn't need the hand controls anymore. Maggie had been out here in the middle of the Amazon for a week, doing little else other than sleeping, eating, and flying. She'd never enjoyed anything like she did rocketing into the air and soaring and twisting and falling until the sun went down. She kept expecting to grow tired of it. But each morning she woke she couldn't wait for the burn of her engines and the feeling of stepping into open air. It was like paragliding and riding her motorbike and flying jets and trampolining and jumping off a cliff all at once.
The wings responded effortlessly to her minute muscle movements now, and it felt like they could read her mind. Over the week they felt less like foreign objects strapped to her back, and more like her prosthetic leg did: a part of her. Removable, yes, and made of metal, but somehow tied to her heart.
Maggie slipped below the clouds again, feeling their chill condensation brush over her skin. She banked sideways, and her tiny shadow hundreds of feet below crossed over the glinting twist of a river. She grinned and tilted downward, feeling the wind pressure judder over the surface of the wings as she picked up speed on the way down. Her feet stayed pressed together behind her, streamlining her in the air.
When she could hear the rush and gurgle of the river she levelled out, following the winding path of it as she looked down at her own distorted reflection: a dark silhouette against the sky, a bird of prey poised to strike. She grinned and reached out, inching closer until her fingers trailed against the surface of the water, kicking up a spray behind her.
She'd had so many ideas for improvements ever since she jumped off that building in Manaus. She'd taken a toolkit with her into the jungle so she'd been able to make a few, but the rest remained just dreams for now. She had thought briefly about the idea she'd had years ago to create artificial sensation in her prosthetic leg, before shaking it away. That might be playing too much with the rules of nature.
Though the rules of nature felt very much in her grasp as she rocketed along the gleaming river in the middle of nowhere, the sun on her back and the wind in her hair. She twisted in a tight spin, maintaining her course along the river, and blue and green and white blurred together in her vision. Her wings kicked up water spray that dashed against her face. She kicked out her new heel spur and lowered her prosthetic leg to the water to cut a line along the river.
Grinning to herself, Maggie lifted her chin and soared once more back into the sky.
Pucallpa, Peru
After her week of wildness, Maggie returned to civilization again. With her slowly improving Spanish she got herself a job at a local garage in a small river city so she had easy access to tools and parts. It rankled to not be able to fly every day, but she wore her wing pack whenever she could, usually under a bulky jacket, and snuck out at night to go flying in the darkness. In the day, when she was left alone, she tinkered with her wings, her gloves, and stole a pair of goggles to keep the wind out of her eyes. Her boss had a beautiful wife and a fondness for drink, so once he was sure Maggie knew her way around an engine he usually left her to her own devices.
She'd hoped that her week of going dark had shaken off her distant-if-concerned followers.
But then a man came to her garage.
The minute she saw him she knew something was different. He showed up in the passenger seat of the regular tow truck, with a dark sedan in tow. She didn't see many cars like that around here. Then he got out, and she instantly knew he was an outsider. He was foreign, like her, though she did see a few tourists around these parts. The man wore a dark suit, and when he approached Maggie his expression was open, polite, and slightly sheepish. His mouth was close-lipped and not quite smiling.
"Hello," he said in English, and held out his hand. "My car broke down on the way in and I'm in need of a repair, I'm afraid."
"No worries," Maggie said as she shook his hand, still eying him to try to figure out what was different about him. He seemed polite, if a little bland. She directed the tow truck to push the man's car into her work bay. She could feel the man taking in her own appearance: dark blue mechanic's overalls, grease on her hands, and her hair dyed a dark blonde (her ends were still a bit frizzy from the bleach).
"I'm Phil," the man said, his lips twitching into something more like a smile. He spoke with a soft American accent. "Phil Coulson."
Maggie glanced at him as the tow truck driver unhooked the car. "Call me Em." She jerked her head toward the front office. "You can take a seat in there if you like while I figure out what the issue is. It's air conditioned in there." She couldn't imagine that suit was keeping him cool.
Phil Coulson's expression didn't shift. "Oh, I don't mind the warm weather." He followed her into the relative shade of the garage.
Maggie's nerves were prickling, but she didn't know how wary to be. Mr Coulson certainly seemed pleasant, but everything about this had her gut churning.
Still, she'd play the part. She wiped her hands on the towel sticking out of her pocket, shot Mr Coulson another glance - he stood by the entrance, watching her - then popped the hood of his car.
"So what did you say the problem was?" she asked, glad the hood kept a barrier between them.
"I pulled over on the way in to take a photo, and then the engine wouldn't start again."
"Hm." Maggie scanned the engine, running a mental checklist, before her eyes snagged on the battery. The leads had been cut through.
Maggie slammed down the car hood and rounded on Phil Coulson. "Alright, cut the shit. What's going on?"
To his credit, he didn't try to call her bluff. He just smiled thinly, his hands clasped in front of him and apparently unbothered by her flare of anger. "I know who you are, Ms Stark."
"I figured." She fought not to let her eyes flick to the tarpaulin across the garage which covered her wing pack. "You're one of the people who've been following me?"
His expression didn't crack. "Yes."
"Who are you? Really?"
He drew in a breath. "My name really is Phil Coulson. I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division."
Maggie shot him a hard look.
Coulson seemed amused. "I am sorry about the subterfuge, Ms Stark, but when you popped back up on our radar I wanted to speak to you face to face." He paused, as if waiting for her to explain how she'd jumped off a roof and survived, but she pressed her lips together. "We've been keeping an eye on you, because frankly I think we could be of mutual benefit to each other."
"Do you."
"Yes." Coulson took a few paces toward her, his eyes never leaving her face. She didn't move. "Last year you quit your prestigious job at Stark Industries and left the country to live as a drifter."
"Observant, aren't you." Her mind raced.
"You're aimless," he said blandly. Her eyes narrowed. "Drifting. Searching for direction. We can offer you direction, Ms Stark." He paused, polite as ever.
A silence stretched on, and Maggie realised that Coulson wanted her to ask what kind of direction?
Her gaze dropped, and she thought about it. She still knew very little about Coulson, or about his Division which she'd never heard of, other than the fact that they'd been following her, and they wanted her to work for them. But he hadn't mentioned anything about the less than savoury things she'd been up to while 'drifting', so maybe he didn't know about that. So why would he go to all this effort to track her down and recruit her?
Oh.
Maggie straightened and looked Coulson in the eye. "Thanks, but I'm done with other people giving me direction. You want weapons? Stark Industries is open for business." Coulson opened his mouth to reply, but she marched to the garage entrance and interrupted him. "Allow me to offer you direction, Mr Coulson." She gestured pointedly out the door.
Coulson eyed her for a few moments. If he was surprised or angry, she couldn't tell. Finally he bowed his head and walked to the door.
"Someone will be by for the car later today," he murmured, and Maggie spotted another black sedan at the far end of the road. She glanced back, and realized Coulson was offering her a card.
She took it and read it over, but it was just a number. No name, no other details.
"You've got our number if you change your mind," Coulson said pleasantly, and then walked up the drive and down the road to meet his ride.
Maggie watched him go, a heavy scowl on her brow, then slammed the garage door shut.
Maggie didn't wait around to see who picked up the tampered-with sedan. She called her boss to hand in her notice, then packed her life (and her wings) into her rucksack again.
She hadn't tried to hide from her followers before, too curious to see who they were. But now she knew she wasn't interested.
Maggie vanished that night, and made sure she didn't leave a single clue for Phil Coulson and his Division to follow.
September, 2007
The Triskelion, Washington D.C.
"Come in, Agent."
Phil Coulson opened the door to Fury's office and walked in, nodding at his boss.
Nick Fury stood silhouetted by the plate glass window of his office, imposing as ever with his dark outfit and eyepatch.
"Hello, Director," Phil greeted.
Fury flicked his eye over him. "You got a tan."
"I did, sir. It's sunny in Peru this time of year."
Fury nodded, then arched an eyebrow.
Phil knew his nonverbal cues well by now, so he cleared his throat and got started. "I'm not sure what she's up to, sir." He paced over and handed Fury a data stick, which Fury plugged in to his computer. Images of Margaret Stark popped up on the screen: sitting at a coffee shop wearing sunglasses, drinking cocktails at the beach, shaking hands with a paragliding instructor, signing in to a building in Manaus. They hadn't managed to photograph whatever it was she'd been working in there, nor had they been able to guess from the materials they'd spotted her with. Phil's lead agent theorized that she was just tinkering: she's cut off from all her fancy toys back home, and she is an engineer. She's probably just trying to keep her hand in.
Fury eyed the images. "What happened with the suicide attempt?"
"Still not sure," Phil said. "But Agent Meyer is sure she jumped, and I'm sure I saw her without a mark on her. It's a head-scratcher. As is her current whereabouts."
Fury's eye flicked up to look at Phil. "You can't track her?"
"Not reliably. Either she's so aimless that we have no idea where she's going, or she's very good at evading our notice." He cocked his head. "I think I overplayed our hand by revealing that we've been watching her and keeping tabs."
Fury frowned. "She's as brilliant as her father, isn't she? And her brother?"
"Early indications did point that way, sir. But she hasn't been doing much worthy of comparison in some time."
"She could be changing the world."
Phil shrugged. "It appears she's chosen not to."
"And we can't bring her in?" Fury steepled his fingers. "Surely there'd be something to tempt her. She could be a significant asset for SHIELD, we need all the help we can get with the Tesseract-"
"I only had a short conversation with her, but she made it pretty clear she wasn't interested. After a lifetime of being built up to become a genius inventor I can understand the impulse to take a break."
Fury gave him a look. "Can you."
"Yes sir. My recommendation is that we still keep an eye on her. But unless something happens, we wouldn't be able to bring her in without force."
"Well then. We'll have to wait to see if something happens." Fury unplugged the data stick and handed it back.
"Alright. I'll start a file."
Fury huffed. "She's had a file since the minute she was born, Coulson. But I think it's about time we started adding to it."
Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia
Maggie went back on her hunt. She had a good network of connections in the shadow world now, and she knew more about how the Winter Soldier worked, which made searching for clues easier. Whoever he was, the Winter Soldier worked quickly, silently, and fatally. His missions often seemed like nothing more than a violent accident, or a case of blatant assassination with no clues as to the culprit. However, patterns began to emerge: whenever there were ballistics left at a crime scene they tended to be Soviet-made casings, with no rifling to distinguish a weapon. He usually opted for long-range killing, and it was clear he was a one-of-a-kind sniper. Soon enough, the lack of rifling became enough of a sign.
She kept trying to profile him, or describe him, but his only distinguishing feature was his metal arm. None of the other cases she thought she could link to him held any sign of emotion, or failure. She couldn't even pin down his age, or decide definitively if a certain case had been his handiwork, since cold-case assassinations with zero evidence stretched back decades.
Maggie never found a witness, and she never found any footage, DNA, or photographs. The only living witness that she knew of, in fact, was herself. The more she learned about the Winter Soldier, the more she realised how lucky she was to be alive. He never failed in a mission. So what had been different about her?
Her hunt had brought her to Bolivia as she thought there might have been a case tied to the Winter Soldier in this city about thirty years ago. She thought she was pushing it with the time range, but perhaps this assassination (of a local scientist) had been at the start of his career.
The main Cuerpo de Policía Nacional [National Police Corps] department here had a file on the case, but the notes were typed up on a computer system that she couldn't easily hack from the outside. So here Maggie was, dressed as a cleaning lady, breaking into a police station.
She strolled in like it was just another day of work, her face angled away from the camera and her posture stooped. She did a bit of sweeping in the hallway, to play the part, and when she swept her way into one of the bullpens (the sign on the door said FELCN, which she was pretty sure was the narcotics taskforce) she slid her phone out of her pocket and cloned it against a nearby computer. Broom in one hand and phone in the other, she flicked through the department's cold case files until she found the one she was after, and set it to download.
She kept one ear on the conversations in the busy bullpen as the file downloaded. She changed their trash can liners while she was at it.
"... FBI keeps calling," she overheard as she tied off the trash can at the far end of the room. The speaker was a dark-haired man with tired lines in his face.
"Andrew Choque?" guessed his partner, an older woman with sharp eyes. Maggie checked her phone. 70%. Goodness, the download speed here was slow.
"Yes. They think because his ex girlfriend's from round these parts he'll come back. But luckily for us he caused most of his trouble elsewhere, and I hope it stays that way."
The partner huffed. "It's not like we'd be able to find him, if all of that lot can't. These rich men never get found, no matter how many children they kill."
Maggie's phone buzzed in her pocket, indicating the file had been downloaded, and she made her way to the exit. But she left the department with more on her mind than the Winter Soldier.
Back in her tiny room, Maggie read over the file. Clean gunshot to the head from hundreds of feet away, no bullet casings. The bullet itself was too disintegrated to be of use. The victim was a prominent neurobiologist who'd been set to present at a conference later in the month. No one saw the shooter, and no one knew why the man had been killed.
Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Another one for the maybe pile.
She sat back in her seat and glared at the roof. She had a few more leads to follow up elsewhere, but… again, the nagging feeling that she was on some useless personal crusade crept up on her. Her brow furrowed, and she went back to her computer screen.
She didn't really mean to start researching the man the Bolivian police officers had mentioned. She'd just wanted to look him up to see what he'd done. But then she learned about him.
Andrew Choque was American, born and raised in Boston, but at a young age he'd rocketed to the top of an international narcotics organisation. That was only the beginning of it though. Maggie's stomach churned as she read through the news articles. After months of fishing for any shred of evidence about the Winter Soldier, the blatant and widespread proof of Choque's work was almost overwhelming.
He'd turned his organization toward the more profitable business of human trafficking: stealing men, women, and children from their families and selling them into the shadow world. He'd used children as drug mules, and the FBI had evidence that at least six of these children had died as a result. Maggie looked at their faces.
When she looked into his personal life, it became clear that Choque was, if not a psychopath, at least a sadist. He left a string of abused and traumatised women behind him. One of them had been blinded.
Choque had been briefly caught by law enforcement in Ecuador, but escaped after killing a police officer and a civilian and had been on the run ever since.
Maggie read everything she could find about the man into the early hours of the morning, then went to sleep with a cold pit in her stomach.
To her own irritation, Maggie could not leave it alone.
For the next few days as she figured out her next move in her Winter Soldier hunt, she instead found her time occupied by research into a man she had never met. She pored over all available information about Choque, his very existence nagging at her. Why could she not leave this alone?
On the second day, Maggie pulled away from another article with a laugh. Who was she to become some kind of private investigator when not even the FBI could find this man?
Keep yourself to yourself, she decided, and reached to close her laptop. But her fingers hesitated at the edge.
The words of her ex-CIA connection echoed: With skills like yours, why are you chasing ghosts? Aren't you working for someone? Because if not, I'll hire you.
Maggie eyed the picture of Choque on her screen: a handsome mid 40s man with olive skin, dark eyes, and styled hair.
She had made so much progress in a hunt for a ghost. But this one isn't a ghost. He's just a man. Maggie cocked her head. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit.
She stretched her fingers and set about hacking in to the FBI.
Mar del Plata, Argentina
Three days later, Maggie sat by the window of her hotel room in the tree-lined resort city, her laptop on her knees and her gaze fixed out the window.
The FBI file had had a whole lot of information in it, but they had hit a dead end. They'd looked into all Choque's known addresses, into his family, even into his string of girlfriends and ex-girlfriends. None had heard from him in weeks, and the FBI and about three other intelligence agencies were still surveilling them to be sure. Maggie didn't have the resources to stake out everyone close to Choque, but she did have a mind for research. And regular people left behind much easier clues than ghosts.
On a whim, Maggie had looked into the families of the women connected with Choque. There was a lot of ground to cover, a lot of it very boring. But then Maggie had noticed an irregularity.
Choque's ex girlfriend of about three years, a woman named Maria, had a younger cousin called Fiona. And as of two weeks ago Fiona had quit her job, cancelled her lease, and booked a one way ticket to Argentina.
Maggie had tugged on the thread. Fiona was hard to track after her arrival in Argentina since she used cash, but she used a coffee rewards card a few times and soon Maggie had figured out which hotel Fiona was staying in. She'd hacked into the local CCTV around the hotel and… holy shit. There was Andrew Choque, tan with dyed blonde hair, walking out of the hotel lobby arm in arm with Fiona. Alone in her room in Bolivia Maggie had frozen the frame and let out a whoop of discovery, before slowly coming to a realization.
She had no idea what to do with the information she'd just uncovered. Logic said call the local authorities. But after days of looking into Choque, she wasn't fooled by his genial expression. She knew how quickly he would run if he got the slightest inkling of being followed. He would kill that young, stupid woman in a heartbeat if it would help secure his freedom. And she knew that the FBI wouldn't be able to walk into Argentina at a moment's notice.
No matter who Maggie told about her information, they would have questions for her. They might even want her to do it again. And the idea of being used made her skin crawl.
She had even considered calling the number Phil Coulson had given her - he clearly belonged to some kind of intelligence organisation, and they might have been able to help her. But she didn't trust Phil Coulson as far as she could throw him.
Before she knew it, Maggie was on a bus to Argentina. And now here she sat, in a hotel room across the road from Fiona and Choque's hotel, staking them out. She kept telling herself this was just like when she found Captain Preobrazhensky in Kazakhstan. But she'd only wanted to talk to Preobrazhensky.
Maggie had been watching the hotel for a day. Choque and Fiona didn't come out of the building much, but they'd just walked up the road to the coffee shop. Two men had followed them at a distance, and at first Maggie thought that maybe someone else was tailing the fugitive, but then Choque had nodded to one of the men. So he hasn't just got Fiona for company, then.
She caught a glimpse of blonde hair and spotted the couple again, returning with two takeaway cups and a paper bag. Choque was handsy with Fiona, smiling and flirting, and Fiona reached up to ruffle his dyed hair with a laugh. Maggie covered her mouth, three stories up and her eyes fixed on the pair. She could see the way Choque's eyes darted around at his surroundings even as he flirted. He wasn't an idiot.
They strode together through the sliding doors of their hotel. One of their bodyguards followed them through, and the other stationed himself by the door with a cigarette.
Maggie ran a hand through her hair. "What am I doing?"
The sun began to set over the city, and a fresh sea breeze blew down the street. Maggie's knee bounced as she sat, eyeing the hotel across the road and her mind churning. I should just call the FBI. Or drop an anonymous tip.
Her mouth turned down. But how long would it take them to get here? Who's to say Choque and Fiona won't change locations again tomorrow? What if someone gets hurt?
Darkness crept through her room, and Maggie finally tore her gaze away from the hotel. Her eyes instantly landed on the strange-looking metal pack on her table. She let out a breath.
Hell, I know why I came here. Her eyes darted back to the hotel. And I know I can do it.
The formations of a plan had already been germinating in her subconscious mind throughout the day. Acting on that plan took a frighteningly short period of time.
First she called Tony. It was about time for their fortnightly chat, and she wanted to hear his voice. He did a lot of talking but she had trouble focusing on it, since she was working on her laptop at the same time. Still, he made her smile.
When they hung up, full darkness had fallen.
Maggie checked the hotel CCTV, and her lips quirked as she spotted Fiona walking down a corridor in a bathrobe. The hotel had a free spa package award program which it awarded every day, and with a little manipulation of their lottery software Maggie had made Fiona today's lucky winner. She was glad Fiona had decided to take the package tonight, because her Plan B was a bit messier.
Maggie flicked through the CCTV and frowned when she saw that Choque's second bodyguard still stood at his hotel room door. Damn. She'd hoped he would follow Fiona. No matter.
Maggie hoisted on her wing pack, slid open the window, and jumped out into the night.
Maggie dug her toes into a crevice on the side of the hotel as she carefully reached down for another handhold. She tried to remember everything her old gymnastics teacher had taught her about firm grip and balance, though Ms Sato had never taught her how to scale the side of a building.
The night had grown cool, the air filled with the sounds of chirping insects and murmured conversations. Maggie had worn dark clothes to blend in with the dark brick of the hotel building, and kept her engines at a minimum of noise when she'd hopped over to the other rooftop. Her fingers were white from clinging to each narrow ledge and crevice.
She reached the fifth floor, gritting her teeth against the strain in her arms, then shuffled across the narrow ledge to room 507's window. She peeked through, but couldn't see anything, so she reached across and found the bottom of the screen with her fingertips. Please be open.
The screen slid up with a slight squeak, making her wince. A thrill went down her spine. Her skin prickled as if there were a thousand eyes on her, and her gut churned. She'd never done anything like this before. She was very aware she was about to climb into the room of a killer.
Holding her breath, Maggie swung her legs through the window and slid into the room, her feet landing soundlessly on the floor.
She crouched in darkness, her awareness crackling. She'd slid into the bedroom. She could hear the TV playing in the main room, some kind of game show, but no movements to suggest that she'd been overheard. She rose to her feet and slowly, silently opened the bedroom door, ready to spin out of the way of a bullet.
Warm orange light spilled into the bedroom. Maggie peered out into the main room where she could see the TV, and a sofa facing it, turned away from the bedroom door. The back of a man's head poked up from the sofa, slightly balding at the back. A curl of smoke rose up from his head, and a tan hand reached for a glass of whiskey.
Maggie felt like there were snakes in her stomach as she stared at the back of Andrew Choque's head. She glanced around for any mirrors through which she might be seen, then crept across the carpet. She felt as if the man on the sofa should be her whole focus but she felt stretched out, her awareness filling the room and beyond. Her ears strained for any sound: the bodyguard at the door, police sirens, or any small suggestion that something might get in her way. People on the television laughed. She could see individual strands of hair on Choque's head.
The floorboard creaked beneath her foot.
Choque froze and began to turn, his hand flying for his hip. But Maggie was faster. She darted forward and cinched her arm around his throat in a sleeper hold, squeezing tight against the sides of his neck. She slammed her other hand over his mouth just as he drew in a breath to shout, and swung her leg over the back of the couch so she could drive her foot into the hand reaching for the gun in Choque's pocket. He cried out against her hand, struggling and kicking. He lurched sideways and Maggie's heart leapt - he was strong. But she held him fast, half-straddling the couch, her months of practice with this hold finally paying off.
Choque scrabbled at her black-clad arm, trying to pull her away, and when he tried to twist his head she saw his eyes bulging. With one last-ditch effort he lurched again, and succeeded in pulling Maggie over the back of the couch.
They both toppled to the ground with a muted thud, and Maggie drew in a sharp breath. He wriggled like a fish now, going red against the pressure on his neck. Maggie wrapped her legs around his torso like a vice, immobilising his arms against his chest, and his legs flailed like an electrocuted man's. Seconds later his kicking legs drooped and stilled. His head thunked to the ground.
Maggie held him for a few seconds longer, to be sure, then unwound herself from him. On her knees on the carpet she glanced over at the door - no sound, thank goodness - then back to Choque. He was a burly man, thick around the arms and with a strong build. His face was still bright red and his eyes shut.
Maggie reached into her jacket pocket and grabbed the needle she'd stored there, in a protective case. She'd stolen the needle and its contents a few weeks ago, in case she ever needed to treat herself for an injury she didn't particularly want to explain. She hadn't imagined using it for this. She found a vein in Choque's arm, slid the tip of the needle in and then pressed down on the plunger. After a minute Choque seemed to slump further, and his mouth fell open.
That should keep him out for an hour or so. She hadn't wanted to inject him straight away, because he still would have had time to shout out for help.
She rose, shaking, and crept over to check the spy hole in the door. She could just see the bodyguard, leaning against the opposite wall looking bored. Maggie slowly, silently bolted the door shut.
She returned to Choque, and rolled him onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. She straightened, then stepped on his cigarette, which was beginning to singe the carpet.
Maggie let out a quiet breath, surveying her work. Choque, unconscious on the floor, with minimal evidence of a struggle. Even his whiskey glass had stayed on the small coffee table. He wouldn't be hurting anyone in this state. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and hit a single button.
Maggie climbed back out the bedroom window and slid it shut, before squatting on the window ledge and catching her breath.
It was quiet now. The TV was still going in Choque's room. She could hear conversations drifting out of other open windows, a comforting familiarity.
She could only imagine the chaos she'd set off with that single button. It had triggered an alert to the FBI and the three other agencies searching for Choque, with his exact location and room number. It had also triggered a robo-call to the local police helpline, telling them the same information and warning them about the two bodyguards and Fiona.
She didn't have to wait long. Just when the roar of adrenaline in her veins was fading, police cars screeched up outside the hotel lobby. Maggie watched as over a dozen officers rushed in, grabbing the bodyguard at the front door before he could fumble for his phone. She heard knocking at Choque's door.
"Boss? Boss? I can hear sirens!" the other bodyguard rattled the doorknob, then cursed when he found it locked.
A minute later Maggie overheard muffled shouting from the corridor, followed by louder pounding at the door. "¡Policía! Abra la puerta!" [Police! Open this door!]
It took them about ten seconds to start slamming at the door with something that sounded heavy and blunt. There was splintering wood, then what sounded like a parade of elephants thundered into the room. Maggie smiled to herself as she heard the police shout in surprise, before discussing how best to bring the unconscious Choque into custody.
Maggie started climbing back to the roof. She pulled herself up from one ledge to the other, biting back groans. When she reached the roof, she glanced down just in time to see four officers carrying Choque out to a police car, in handcuffs. His head lolled drunkenly.
She activated her wingpack, sighing when she felt the large black wings stretch out to either side of her. She took a running leap - she didn't want to risk using her engines now - and glided across the road to alight on the roof of her own hotel. She was still buzzing with energy as she jogged to the stairs and hurried back down to her room, but she knew that nothing would be the same again.
The next week, Andrew Choque was charged with international human trafficking charges and murder.
Maggie toasted the news from a new hotel room in a new city, already on her next case.
The Triskelion, Washington D.C.
"I supposed we can close the Choque file then," said Alexander Yeltz, the analyst supervisor on floor 3.
His junior analyst, a fresh-faced young man named Sebastian, tapped away at his computer. "What should I put under resolution, sir? What did the FBI say?"
Yeltz rubbed his chin. "They said they weren't sure where the tipoff came from, none of the transmissions were traceable. And they suspected he'd been subdued before the police got there, due to some bruising. Not that they got a word out of Choque." He shrugged. "Could've been double crossed by one of his men. Or we've got a mysterious good samaritan out there."
"That'd be a nice change," Sebastian said.
"Sure it would." Yeltz jerked his chin at the screen. "Just put unknown intelligence, and flag it on the system in case something else like this crops up."
January, 2008
Maggie had developed a taste for the work. She wasn't quite sure what to call it - investigation? Vigilantism? She didn't like the sound of those. But she did like her new missions. This was something good she could do, something to make the world just a little less terrible.
She'd been on four more missions. One in South America, the other three in North Africa and the Middle East, her targets drawn from Most Wanted lists and tipoffs from the shadow world. For the first two she'd just done her research and then sent anonymous tipoffs to the relevant law enforcement agencies. The last two were very likely to run, but she didn't bother physically fighting them. She'd invested in more sedatives, to be slipped in a drink or a dart, and if that failed she'd installed a short-range electroshock device in each of her wingpack gloves, which would reliably knock out an average-sized man.
As Maggie travelled she kept her ear out - both as the nameless, disguised woman she usually was, and also as Maggie Stark. Every now and then she popped up publicly, making appearances at parties and getting her photo taken so people knew she was still alive, and so she had a good cover. It was also a good way of overhearing information.
Then she slipped back off the map, into a wig and a pair of contacts, and set about hunting her next target. She didn't really question her new direction. She just did it. It seemed like a natural answer to the question she'd been asking herself ever since she ran out of Stark Industries.
She was still on the hunt for the Winter Soldier, but she'd realized that she needed to be doing this, too: finding those who harmed others, and making them stop.
But for now, she'd returned to California for another visit home. Happy had been forming conspiracy theories about abductions again, and Tony sounded ever more lonely on the phone, so she'd caught a flight back and dyed her hair her normal colour again in the airport bathroom.
Tony greeted her at the Los Angeles airport with a tight hug. "Good to have you back, Maggot," he said as he squeezed her. "If only for a bit." She'd called ahead to let them know she could only stay a week and a half.
After that, she had another hunt waiting for her. Her ex-CIA contact had more or less figured out what she'd been doing, and had brought a man to her attention: a middle-aged corporate mogul who he suspected was abusing children on international business trips. This would be a tricky one, as the man wasn't actually wanted by anyone. Maggie would have to find some evidence.
Back at the mansion, Maggie and Tony exchanged late Christmas presents - she'd bought him a set of board games they could play together, and he'd bought her a Stark Industries t-shirt. It made her smile. Maggie had made Tony promise years ago that he wouldn't buy her anything worth more than $100 for her birthday or Christmas unless she pre-approved it. Though the choice in gift also brought about a stirring of unease in her gut.
She eyed Tony as he read through the instructions for Clue. She wondered, sometimes, if he had ever felt the same qualms that she did about Stark Industries. Had he never doubted their work? Where they got their money from? Maggie knew Tony was a good man, despite what the gossip papers said about him. He cared about people, however much he tried to hide it with humour and charm.
Maggie knew from experience that it was hard to break out of that life. She'd needed to flee the country to do it. But then, maybe Tony just didn't see the harm that they did. And she couldn't confront him about it. Because Stark Industries was their family. Her turning against it was bad enough.
Nine days later, Maggie sat at the end of a table in a five-star restaurant, stiff and uncomfortable. Men in business suits filled the rest of the chairs at the table, save for the one to her right, and their laughs and conversation rose over the mellow jazz music from the restaurant speakers.
The man to her left leaned over. He was the CEO of a consultancy firm, just as the rest of them were all corporate high flyers. He swallowed his mouthful and then smiled at her. "So no Tony, then?"
Maggie glanced at the empty chair to her right. "No," she said, as if she had any idea where he was. "He's been busy with the company ever since I got back, though."
The man laughed. "Oh, no need to excuse him Ms Stark, we know what he's like. Enjoy yourself!"
Maggie smiled uncomfortably, sipped her champagne, then fidgeted with her stiff pencil dress. Tony invited me to this dinner with all his corporate friends. The least he could do is show up.
She stood, mouthing bathroom to the only person who bothered to look up, and strode away. On the way to the bathroom, however, she spotted two of the men from her dinner table shaking hands near the entrance to the kitchen. She angled past them, intrigued.
The taller man, a silver-haired retailer CEO named Byers, gripped the shoulder of the shorter man. "Really, William, you ought to contact my guy Sergev. He's made me millions and he could do the same for you."
"Well I'll definitely look into it."
Maggie passed by them and went into the bathroom with a furrow in her brow. She hadn't really thought about eavesdropping, it was almost second nature now. She hadn't expected to hear something that had her other self perking up its nose. That could have been any normal conversation for the kind of men at her dinner table, but there was something about the look in Byers's eye. A look she recognised. Perhaps that's something worth looking into.
She put it out of her mind for now, splashed water on her face, then sighed and headed back to the table full of Tony's corporate friends.
Maggie had worked up a steady undercurrent of fury by the time she got back to the mansion. She strode inside, kicking off her heels.
"J.A.R.V.I.S.? Where is he?"
"Sir is home, Ms Stark, but he has a… guest."
Maggie stopped in her tracks. "Oh." She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, trying to force her jaw to unclench. "Fine."
She picked up her shoes and padded into her childhood bedroom, suddenly exhausted.
The next morning, Maggie got to the workshop before Tony did. She'd risen before dawn, eager to finish working on the project she'd brought with her - not the wings, that would raise too many questions. But she'd decided she needed more computer power on her travels than the beat up laptop she carried around. She had almost finished her new model: it looked like a small briefcase, but opened up to reveal a computer with four times the processing power, and a miniature version of the holographic design portal that Tony had in his workshop. With this computer she could design adjustments to her wings, store intelligence, and hack into a foreign intelligence organisation, all completely untraceable.
Tony padded down the stairs to the workshop an hour or so after she did, and they met eyes as he pushed open the glass door.
Maggie cocked an eyebrow at his mussed hair and rumpled clothes. She could guess why he was coming down here now, at the crack of dawn. "Avoiding confrontation, much?"
He shrugged and flopped into his work chair. "It's not confrontation if it never happens."
Maggie rolled her eyes, and went back to installing the outer plating of her computer hub. She wanted it to be missile proof, and thankfully that was a Stark Industries specialty.
Tony watched her. "Will you come with me to this Innovators Ball thing this afternoon?"
She gave him a sharp glance. "Are you actually going to come?"
"Yes," he promised. "I am sorry about yesterday. But you can eyeball me every second of the way to the thing today."
Her lips pressed together. "Dress code?"
"I don't know, there's an invitation somewhere. Probably fancy."
The casing to her computer hub slid in with a soft hiss. "Fine. But you can't ditch me there, and if anyone acts like an asshole you have to let me pour my drink on them."
Tony nodded reasonably. "Is that what happened last night?"
"No, I resisted the urge. None of them were too bad. They're just… not really my sort of people."
"Nor mine. That's why I didn't go." He spotted Maggie glaring again, and he grinned. "Thank you, Magenta."
She tucked her completed computer hub under her arm and stood up. "I'm going out for a ride so I don't have to be here when your friend wakes up. I'll see you later."
Tony waved absently and she took the stairs two at a time, already thinking about how her motorcycle at top speed wouldn't compare to the feeling of soaring over the California desert with her wings.
To Tony's credit, the Innovators Ball was much more fun than the stiff corporate dinner the night before. The venue was a large gallery, but instead of art there were displays of technology: interactive robots, VR games, solar light displays, and completely automated cars. Stark Industries had its own display, shsowcasing their latest smart body armor. Maggie and Tony stuck together, trying out all the new gadgets and filling their heads with new ideas. When everyone gathered in the main hall for the dinner, Tony charmed their table guests while Maggie listened to the specialists who'd been invited to speak.
After the dinner, they went back to exploring the gallery. Now night had fallen the building was ablaze with lights: digital screens and LED displays and illuminated podiums. When Maggie picked up the edge of her skirt to step off the VR podium she'd been trying out, Tony paused.
"Hey," he said. "You have a new leg."
Maggie glanced down at the dark grey prosthetic peeking out from under her umber dress. She had a flesh-coloured sleeve she could wear over it, but hadn't bothered with it tonight. "Oh. Yes." She didn't particularly want Tony asking questions about it, and she could see him eyeing the joints and smooth plating, so she slid her arm into his and said: "Let's go get a drink."
They strode arm-in-arm to the back of the gallery, where a glittering bar had been set up. Maggie let the sounds of technology and conversations and her brother talking her ear off wash over her. She didn't mind this: the times when she and Tony could just be brother and sister, enjoying a party full of interesting new ideas. Then her eyes snagged on the Stark Industries podium and her jaw clenched.
They reached the bar, where the sharply-dressed bartender beamed at them. "What can I get you, Mr and Ms Stark?"
Tony's eyes darted to the top shelf of liquor and Maggie grinned. "We'll have-"
Tony never got his sentence out, because at that moment a deafening crack resounded in the gallery. Maggie flinched, whirling, and more of the sharp, ear-splitting cracks resounded, followed by screams. Everyone in the vicinity screamed and scrambled to the ground, and with everyone dropping out of sight Maggie saw a group of men at the far end of the room with balaclavas pulled over their faces, wielding rifles.
Maggie grabbed Tony by the shoulder of his suit and hurled him over the bar before jumping over after him. He swore violently and tried to stand, but she put a firm hand on his head and pushed him behind cover, looming over him to protect his body with hers. More shots rang out and three of the liquor bottles over their heads smashed, raining glass down on them. The bartender screamed.
Maggie's heart raced as she peeked over the lip of the bar. She'd experienced gunfire before, in her mission before last, but she'd been armed then, and ready for it. She hadn't realised how deafening it would be in an enclosed space like this. How her guts would churn.
Tony was still swearing, dialling 911 on his phone with one hand and with the other trying to help the bartender, who'd been cut by the falling glass.
Maggie heard the men at the other end of the room shouting, and peered over the edge of the bar to see them gesturing their guns at a white-faced man at one of the tech podiums. Shaking, the man handed over the prototype computer chip he'd been exhibiting. A heist, then. The armed men split up, raiding the other tech counters and sporadically firing their guns at the walls. Each gunshot was followed by screams and wails from the guests, most of whom were huddled under tables or laid flat on the ground with their hands over their heads.
"Maggie, are you okay?" Tony whispered.
"Fine," she murmured back. "You?"
"I'm good, 911 says they already know. Police are on their way." His voice shook. At that moment, Maggie heard sirens in the distance.
Her teeth gritted as she eyed the gunmen storming through the room, pointing their guns in people's faces. She wished she had a - oh. Without taking her eyes off the closest two gunmen, Maggie reached down to her prosthetic leg, opened the secret compartment she'd installed in the calf, and pulled out her pistol. She armed it with a click.
Tony glanced up at her from where he'd been helping the bartender. "Whoah, why do you have a gun?" He grabbed her ankle, as if afraid she was about to run off.
"For shit like this," she murmured. "You don't have one?"
"Why would I need a gun, that's what Happy's for!"
"Do you see Happy right now?" she hissed back. Happy was waiting in the car. "If he tries to get through this, he's dead."
The gunmen had heard the sirens. They grabbed their stolen tech and ran for the front door, yelling at each other. Maggie let out a breath of relief. But then as they burst through the doors, Maggie saw red and blue flashing lights glowing outside. She heard distant shouting over what sounded like loudspeakers: Drop your weapons and get on the ground!
She couldn't properly see what happened next - there was shouting, and gunfire, and everyone in the gallery started screaming again. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Then one of the men darted back inside, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes were wide and white against the blackness of his mask, and he raised his gun to swing it around at everyone in the room as he ran. "Stay out of my way!" he shouted.
A moment later Maggie realized his plan - he was headed for the back door of the gallery, lit by a green emergency exit sign. The door was just beside the bar. She hunkered down behind the bar, steadying her breath, her hands sure on her gun.
When the dark shape of the gunman flew into view, she fired.
The man dropped with a howl, clutching at his knee, and his rifle went skittering across the floor. Moments later police flooded into the building and swarmed on the man, wrenching his hands behind him and slapping him in cuffs.
Maggie glanced around, breathless, but other than Tony no one had seen what she'd done. So she slipped her gun back into its hidden compartment.
An hour later, after the police interview and the paramedic checks, a distraught Happy bundled Maggie and Tony back into the car. Tony kept shooting Maggie weird looks.
Finally, she sighed. "Tony, I'm a woman with an immense fortune and a lot of family enemies. Yes, I walk around with a gun. You should too."
He took a long drink from the water bottle Happy had pressed into his hands. "I get it, I'm glad you're safe." He frowned, then shrugged. "I guess I just thought the family business was making weapons, not using them."
She eyed him. "Making weapons and not using them doesn't keep our hands clean." A long, tense moment stretched between them, filled only by the sound of the engine and Happy's unhappy muttering. Finally, Maggie broke eye contact. "Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"
He let out a breath. "Yeah. You?"
She looked out the window at the streetlights flashing past. "Yeah. I, um, have to pack. For tomorrow."
"Right. Your flight."
They didn't speak another word for the whole car trip home.
The next morning, Tony gave Maggie an awkward hug at the airport, almost as if he thought she didn't want it.
"I'll see you later, Tony," she said tiredly. "Don't get into any trouble."
"Yeah. And you…" he swallowed, and Maggie knew he'd been about to say be safe. "Have fun."
Maggie thought of the hunt ahead of her, and of the wingpack in her bag, just waiting to find its home between her shoulder blades again. She smiled. "I will."
February, 2008
Maggie found the child abuser her ex-CIA contact had asked her to look into. He was clever - tech savvy, good at hiding his tracks, good at finding victims from the poorest places and ensuring they would never speak. But Maggie was cleverer. It took her only a few weeks to build up a file of hard evidence on him. She sent that to her contact, and for good measure sent the evidence to the local police department in the abuser's latest holiday destination so he was arrested in front of all his corporate buddies.
You know, her contact told her over their encrypted communication line, you might consider signing your work.
Why, so they can catch me? She asked.
People have got bigger problems to worry about than a little vigilantism, nameless hunter. No, I mean so people can turn to you. Trust you. You might find yourself getting more requests like mine.
Maggie thought it over as she turned her attention to the businessman she'd overheard at the corporate dinner in LA. And sure enough, her instincts proved correct. The Sergev guy he'd mentioned was a Russian agent heavily involved in manipulating the US stock market. She sent his details to the FBI. But then she went back to the businessman she'd eavesdropped on, Byer. As well as involving himself in dirty money, it turned out he had illegal textiles manufacturing plants south of the border, where workers lived in slave-like conditions.
Maggie lured Byer down to his largest plant with a false message from his Sergev buddy. At first Byer seemed confused to find the plant running normally, and his friend not there, but then he walked back outside and Maggie grabbed him.
He squealed like a child when her gloved hands closed around his collar. The orange sky was fading into darkness, and when he scrambled around to look at his attacker he found a woman clad in black, with a strange metal shape on her back, her face concealed by a black mask and a pair of mechanic's goggles. He screamed again, his feet kicking in the dirt, but Maggie held him firm.
"Let me go!" he cried, his voice high and desperate. He'd seemed so self assured, back at that dinner she'd had with him: tall, in a finely-tailored suit, smiling and well pleased with himself. But here the setting sun of West Mexico shone on both his and Maggie's true selves: he, a frightened and pleading man, and she a dark wraith come to deliver consequences for his actions.
She shook him a bit, to stop the pleading. "You knew it was like this," she said in a low, unrecognisable voice. She dragged him back to the plant and flung open the door to reveal the manufacturing floor, where the workers were packed in tight hunched over sewing machines, half of them looking like they should be in middle school, and the overseers looming over them, hard-faced. The air smelled like sweat and fear. Maggie slammed the door shut again and Byer yelped. "You knew." Her voice shook a little. She'd been watching this factory for days now. She'd seen children beaten, seen women crying over infected wounds on their hands from the machines.
She hurled Byer into the dirt. "Is it different, in person? Or does it feel the same as when you sign it all off on a sheet of paper?"
Byer stared up at her with round eyes. "Please don't hurt me. Please, please, I can give you what you want-"
Maggie raised her hand and activated the electroshock device on her wrist. The bolt hit Byer in the chest and he slumped to the ground, twitching.
Maggie stared at him for a few moments, breathing hard before pulling out a pair of handcuffs and cuffing Byer to the nearby signpost. Her gut still churned with anger. Probably some displaced shame there, Maggie, she told herself. She rubbed her forehead. She knew Stark Industries didn't exploit its workers like this, but… we must have killed thousands more people than Byer. Gritting her teeth, she spun around and punched the wall. Her gloves protected her from breaking her knuckles, but the burst of pain cut through her anger.
Sighing, she pulled out her phone and began preparing to send off her evidence pack to the local agencies. Her finger hovered over the send button.
You might consider signing your work.
Hesitantly, Maggie's fingers went back to the keypad.
Who am I? She'd never put a name on all this before. She'd never even admitted what she was doing out loud.
She thought about her wings, closed up tight against her back. That reminded her of her old callsign when she was a kid, but then she bit the inside of her cheek. Dragons were big, larger than life. She was a smaller entity, slipping through the shadows before striking hard and fast. She thought back to those old story books she used to love.
A smile suddenly grew on her lips. Her fingers flew over the keys. At the end of her evidence pack she included a single word:
~ Wyvern
Almost up to Iron Man 1 territory now!
Reviews
DBZfan45: I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter! You're too sweet wishing Maggie a happy birthday haha. Hopefully you enjoyed the surprises in this chapter, and there's lots of good stuff to look forward to next chapter ;) Happy new year!
The1975Love: She's got her wings, and now she's the Wyvern in name! Maggie is always the Wyvern, but she just takes different paths to get there. I'm really glad you're still enjoying the story, we're really close to canon stuff now I promise :)
MyCelestialFury: Girl you know I love my cliffhangers! Prepare for many, many more of them. Hopefully you enjoyed the flying scene in this chapter :) Not long now until the Iron Man storyline!
CookieWorkout: Thanks for the review!