A/N: HELLOOOOOOOOO. Yes, this is a month late. Yes, I understand you're upset. And I have plenty of reasons why it took so long, but you didn't click this to read my apologies, you came to read. So...read. Read on and hate me because it's a cliffhanger. *Spoiler* Sorry. Thanks to my betas for being so flippin' awesome.
Disclaimer: We know, we know! Marvel, not mine. Original stuff, yes mine.
118th street, Harlem, New York. Monday, September 15th, 2042. 8:08 am.
The neon red numbers of Blake's bedside alarm clock mock him. Just ticking by, one number at a time without any consideration for his feelings. His alarm is still set to go off in twenty-two minutes, but he's known that since he woke up an hour ago. He just couldn't sleep. Not when there's so much to think about.
What if the admissions counselor thinks I won't do well, and I have to wait to go to City College next year? Blake wonders, burying his face in his blanket. What if we can't get his Med Corp. situation worked out? I mean, if Mr. Stark has to cover our medical supplies, Dad will probably try to scrape by with as little help as possible, which could end up being an underprepared trip...which doesn't even matter if he decides to stay home with me for a while! Ugh. Why does everything have to be so worry-worthy? At least I can count on Antonio liking his gift. I think. Wait...where is Antonio's gift?
Blake uncovers and sits up in his bed. He hasn't thought about his friend's gift since he got home and hasn't seen his backpack either, now that he thinks about it. He gets up, his feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. His amber eyes take a quick scan of the room but his orange backpack isn't anywhere in near sight. I know it's here, it has to be here, I have to find it now! The teen kneels to the floor and searches under his bed in hopes of finding his orange backpack. I know I brought it home from London, or did I? No, no, no...I totally did. The question is, what did I do with it when I got home?
Blake's amber eyes land on dust bunnies and a storage container full of hats, but nothing else under the bed. He sits up, scanning the loft around him. Ole' orange would normally be hanging on the back of his desk chair, or it might be sitting over on the bench under the tiny window across the room. It even hangs in the closet from time to time, but he hasn't found it in any of those places. I have to find it before we leave for Stark Tower, he reminds himself. Tucked away somewhere in his bag is a gift for Antonio, something he brought back from India.
When Blake first met Antonio Stark, they didn't get along well because of their age-gap. But after asking the Stark a million questions about himself they realized how much they had in common—their love of science, their affinity for bright colors and cool shoes and their hobby of trying strange foods. So, Blake established a tradition between the two. On every trip, Blake brings back some sort of food from wherever he's been, whether it be an edible bug or a native fruit preserve. And he's sure Antonio will like the Curry Kulcha he brought back...but there's a good chance it's spoiled by now, considering Blake has been missing his backpack since he got home.
Maybe I should ask Dad if he's seen it? he thinks. But then again, Dad may still be asleep...
Blake considers the options. He could wait until his father emerges from his room, he could continue bumping around with no luck in finding his backpack, or, he could go downstairs and just ask his dad. Blake stands from the floor and walks towards the stairs, creeping down each step. He fights to urge to jump off the second to last step and reaches the bottom. The teen, still in his jammies, stalks up to Bruce's door and reaches for the handle. He cracks the door open, expecting the see his father still in bed, but instead sees Bruce standing on his hands with his feet up in the air.
He looks relatively relaxed, his legs hang loosely, moving an inch every so often to keep his balance. Suddenly, Bruce drops his feet back to the floor, his body now in a bent over position. He rises, his eyes closed as he releases a huff of air. Blake closes the door back and decides to knock like a decent human. He bumps his knuckles on the door. A moment passes as feet shuffle across the carpet on the other side and Bruce pulls the door open.
"Good morning," he says, exiting his room.
"Hi Dad," Blake says. He follows his father into the kitchen. "How was yoga?"
"Alleviating." Bruce opens the fridge and drags out a bottle of something green and starts chugging it.
"Cool, so Dad...you haven't happened to have seen my backpack anywhere, have you? I kinda haven't seen it since I got home. You know, with us being so busy and all," Blake says.
Bruce holds up a finger, asking for a second while he finishes his green juice. After he's consumed it all, he makes a face that says it's not the most delicious thing he's ever tasted and answers.
"It's been missing since we got home and you've just started looking for it?"
Blake shrugs sheepishly. "I didn't really need it until I thought about Antonio's Curry Kulcha and then I realized it was probably spoiled and I need to find it before ants do."
Bruce simply shakes his head in amazement. "Have you checked the living room?"
Blake nods.
"And my room, the bathroom and the office."
"What about the basement?" Bruce asks.
"Well," Blake starts, dragging out the word. "I didn't know if I was allowed in the basement yet. I know the samples are down there and I didn't want to contaminate them." Bruce turns towards the basement that connects to the kitchen, the Cherrywood door right beside the fridge. He walks down the steps and disappears for a while, making plenty of noise like shuffling on concrete. In a moment, he arrives back in the kitchen with ole orange's straps in hand.
"How'd that get there?" Blake weakly chuckles. Then the smell of moldy bread with an underlying tone of curry hits him. Bruce's honey eyes weigh on the teen and he knows he's either in trouble or was going to be if the backpack had sat down there one more day.
Bruce stops beside Blake on his way back to his room.
"You might want to clean that out." He pats Blake's shoulder and walks away. The teen wrinkles his nose and drops the pack on the kitchen island, staring at it with disappointment in his eyes. His father's voice beckons him from his mourning. "Do you want to get some breakfast somewhere?" Blake looks towards his dad's room, then back at his backpack.
"Actually, Dad, I don't have much of an appetite."
Stark Tower, Midtown. 9:00 am.
Six chocolates, three jelly-filled, and three plain bagels, Antonio reads the receipt on the elevator ride up to Tony's office. He was summoned early this morning to help prepare for the meeting with the Banners and was then immediately turned around and sent to purchase breakfast snacks. The chocolate is for him and Blake, the jelly-filled for his father, and the plain bagels for Mr. Banner. Because only someone like him would eat a plain bagel straight up. The elevator drops the young Stark on the 92nd floor. He shoves the receipt in his pocket and adjusts the knot of his black and white checkered tie.
Antonio enters his father's office to see Tony standing at his desk, looming over a row of file folders spread out. He glances up at Antonio but doesn't acknowledge him until he looks at him one more time.
"Hey! Got the goods?" he asks.
Antonio rolls his electric eyes. "Yeah, Dad. I got the 'goods.'"
"Good, then I need you to come look at these files and make sure I'm not missing anything." Tony walks around and grabs his son's shoulders, steering him behind the desk. He eyes the variety of files, each labeled with different contents, but all concerning the Banners missions. Each holding all the transactions and receipts of every year's trips, all except…
"Dad, you forgot last year's."
Tony groans and scratches his thin beard. "I knew I was missing one. I guess I'm a little out of it without your mother."
"Wait, where's Mom?" Antonio asks.
Tony fiddles with the files, sliding them together. "She flew to California yesterday to visit Maria…she didn't tell you?"
"No. She conveniently left that out when we talked Saturday night," Antonio says. He drops the box of breakfast on a table against the wall, next to the coffee maker. Why wouldn't she tell me she was leaving the state? Unless…
Antonio's eyes lock on his father's every move. Going off Tony's preoccupied glances and lack of prolonged eye contact, he and Pepper had a disagreement. Or just a straight up fight. I hope they weren't fighting over me. Antonio is aware that his mother has been on his side of the argument for a job. He just hopes that Pepper being in California isn't her way of making he and Tony "talk things out." She's not above locking them in a room together to work out their problems, and leaving the two of them like this is the equivalent. So, Antonio has been a little ticked at his dad lately…well, more than a little. He's slightly annoyed. And by slightly, I mean completely and utterly vexed by the fact his dad is taking advantage of him…
But, that doesn't warrant this, does it? he asks himself. Okay, maybe we do need to talk things out.
Antonio sucks up his pride, locks it away in the fifteen-drawer file cabinet he keeps in his head and musters up enough self-respect to ask his father again about a job. Maybe if I catch him while Mom's not here, he'll be less focused on what I'm saying and just agree with me, he thinks as he meets Tony halfway to the door. "Dad, can we talk?"
"I need to go get that other file from my cabinet room, so can it wait a minute?"
Antonio fights the urge to agree to wait. "No. All I need is five minutes."
Tony glances at his son, then casts his eyes across the hall, sighs and looks down at his watch. "You have four minutes fifty-eight, fifty-seven…"
"Okay," he pauses, breathing in. "I want you to be honest with me and tell me why you won't give me a real position."
Tony stares blankly at Antonio. "I don't have time for this."
He starts to walk out but Antonio grabs his arm and stops him. "Dad, wait! Please. Just…just tell me why? Is it because of the Vault incident? Is it because you don't want to show favoritism or something? I know it's not because we don't have job openings."
"You looked at the employee roll? That's a private list for management only, Howie," Tony says. His tone reaches an audible boiling point, but Antonio isn't done yet.
"Yeah, Dad, I looked. I saw that there were at least four jobs available that I'd be great at. Any of the rest on the list I could be at least good at," he stops. The words he wants to say won't form in his mouth and Tony's amber-eyed glare isn't helping. Antonio sighs, his shoulders sink and he drops his head.
"You've always trusted me, believed in my ideas and pushed me forward. Now suddenly, I'm not reliable enough to be given a real job? I've been working for this all my life, Dad…you know that. I know I have to earn my place and I will do whatever it takes to do that, but running errands all day under a fake title isn't getting me anywhere! I thought I would start at an entry-level position, but no, you made up a job for me and made me feel like a joke." Antonio pauses as the rest comes slowly. "I know I did something stupid, but that was one curiosity-fueled infraction compared to a life of living by your rules. I just...I just wanted to work for you. Do something on my own to make you proud."
"Howie…" Tony stands stiffly, his lips parted as if wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. His hard expression softens to a sympathetic understanding. He rests a hand on his son's shoulder and the Starks lock eyes. "We'll talk about this after the meeting, okay?"
Antonio hesitates to agree but doesn't see an alternative. "Yeah, sure."
Tony offers a small smile and squeezes Antonio's shoulder before walking out of the office and across the hall.
What's another couple of hours to the rest of my career?
Rogers' House, Brooklyn. 9:07 am.
"53, 54, 55," James breathes in between push-ups. A week back home and he's already allowed himself to sleep till eight—the thought of it bothers him. So, for the past hour, he's been working out. Everything from pull-ups to one-handed push-ups, alternating hands midair, all the things he did when he was in the Guard. If there's one thing being a soldier taught him, it was to always be prepared physically. And he didn't have much else to do this time of morning. But the silence in his room is broken when he hears Natasha yell from down the hall.
"I found it!"
James stands up and wipes the sweat from his face. He opens his bedroom door and looks down the hallway in both directions. "Found what?" he says, hoping his mother's next words will direct him to her location.
"The thing I've been looking for all weekend, what else?" her voice comes from the laundry room.
James rolls his dark blue eyes and grabs a t-shirt off his bed, slipping it over his head. He leaves his bedroom and meets his mom in the laundry room as she climbs down the attic ladder, holding something brown draped over her arm close to her body. James offers his arms to help her down, but she lands on the concrete floor without his assistance. He shrugs it off and asks what she's holding.
She smiles wide and holds out her prize triumphantly. "I wanted to give it to you when you came home as a gift, but the war ended so suddenly, and I didn't have the time to look for it," she says, offering him her find.
Draped over her arms is a brown leather jacket—Steve's brown leather jacket. With an Allies' patch from WWII on one arm and a silver Avenger's patch proudly on the other, the worn overcoat is soft to the touch and smells like vanilla and freedom. James takes the jacket in his hands, handling it as if it were made of thin paper. A smile stretches his lips as he caresses the fabric, remembering all the times his father held him while wearing this jacket. He remembers how warm it always was and how soft the leather had gotten over 70 years of existence. If there was ever something of his dad's James would want to keep, it's this jacket.
"Mom, I...I don't know, I mean. I don't know what to say," he stammers.
"Just say you'll be okay with waiting a little while to wear it? I have to get it cleaned and I'm sure fitted a little," she says. James nods, still taking in the fact that the coat is now his. This little piece of Steve's history—and his own—now belongs to him.
"You can try it on if you like." Natasha offers.
James nods in agreement, and gingerly slips one arm into the sleeve, pulling the jacket around his back for the other sleeve. Surprisingly, the coat hugs his arms well enough that any looseness looks natural, but the body is a little on the baggy side. Steve's body was wide, and James is narrow like his mother, but Natasha assures him it's nothing that can't be taken in. James almost cringes at the thought of someone altering his dad's jacket. Maybe because he's sentimental or maybe because he doesn't think he's worthy to wear it. Either way, he'd rather bulk up as much as he can than to fit the coat to his body now.
For the first time since he put on the jacket, he looks over to his mom. Something in her eyes and in her smile creates a pang of guilt in his stomach. Her peridot gaze carries pride as she looks at him, but a bitter sweet smile pulls her lips, and James isn't sure what she's thinking or feeling, but he feels the need to take off the jacket.
"It fits all right on the arms, but the body's too big. I guess I'm not as built as Dad was," he chuckles.
Natasha waves off his comment. "Don't worry about it, I think it looks fine."
James doesn't agree and takes the jacket off, handing it back to her. "Thank you for going to all this trouble to find it...I really do appreciate it."
"I knew you would." The two give each other a quick hug before Natasha looks down at the small watch on her wrist. "James, why aren't you getting dressed. You're meeting with Dr. Lang is at ten. It's nine-fifteen now."
"Okay, Mom. I'm going," he says, pecking her on the head as he walks by.
Upon closing the door to his room, he collapses on his bed, rubbing his face with his palms. He lies there on his back for a while, staring at the ceiling fan as it circles round and round slowly, cooling him down from his workout. Do I really want to go to get my brain picked apart?
He thinks back to the day he left the United States—the last time he talked to anyone from SHIELD. He only ever talked to his fellow Guard soldiers during the war, and a lot has happened since he's been comfortable with dealing Agents. Will I be able to manage to sit still for an hour or two? Will I be able to keep my eyes and thoughts from wandering? Or will I even be able to walk in Dr. Lang's office without freaking out? There's just too much left in the air, too many uncertainties...like China.
He shudders at his own thoughts and leans up, now vertical at the end of his bed. No, he thinks. This isn't China. This is nothing like China. It's just an evaluation, like the ones you took during your recruitment. James glances over at the clothes he laid out on his dresser earlier in the morning and groans, clenching his jaw. I am going, he tells himself. James stands and changes clothes, ignoring the little voice inside telling him to crawl into bed and stay home. That voice isn't going to get the best of Captain America's son...at least, not today. Not when he has so much to look forward to this afternoon. It's just a meeting, he reminds himself, almost dressed now. Besides, it's either I go on my own or someone from SHIELD drags me there.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Base 0457, NYC Location 4. 9:55 am.
Sitting behind her desk and organizing patient folders at nine in the morning was not how Dr. Lang wanted to spend her day. She had a quieter morning planned, one that involved sleeping late and drinking hot chicken broth to rid her sinuses of the cold she snagged Tuesday night. But when you're the Director's right hand in agent affairs, and all other psychologists just won't do, one must work whilst sick. Because—unfortunately—SHIELD waits for no man, woman or cough.
Cassandra's unsteady hands sort through several files, placing each in their respective shallow bins atop her desk; Seen, Unseen, and No-Shows. Wait, she stops herself. No-Shows go back in the cabinet.
The tall, slender blonde stands and steps over to one of three larger filing cabinets against the far-right wall. A tug on the top drawer and she squishes the folders in with the many others crowding the drawer, all colorfully labeled and alphabetically organized. She smiles at her sorting skills and pushes the drawer back into its place. Cassandra makes it back halfway to her desk when she freezes in place.
Not again, she thinks as another sneeze creeps up her nose. The sensation of pressure building and that little tickle at the back of her throat forces her to cover her mouth in expectation. After what seems like an eternity standing there with her face in the crease of her elbow, the pressure finally releases in one adorable burst. The kitten-like sneeze echoes through her office, leaving her dizzier than before.
"Ugh," she grumbles, wobbling back to her desk.
"Bless you," comes a voice from the doorway.
Cassandra's eyes drift up to see Agent Washington, her faithful side-kick coming in with a bright smile. "Thanks, Ellen. Who's next on the list."
Ellen glances down at the clipboard in her hands. "We've got Agent Allera who needs you to sign a medical excuse for his college so he can go on a mission."
Cassandra grabs a tissue and wipes her nose. A tired sigh makes her sink further into her desk chair. She looks up for a moment and her blue-gray eyes catch Ellen watching her with a furrowed brow.
"What?"
"Have you taken any medication today?" she asks.
Cassandra leans up and props her arms on the desk in front of her.
"Ellen, I have taken medication for this cold for almost a week, I'm almost over it and I'm not about to take one more pill voluntarily. So, no."
Ellen shrugs. "Yes, ma'am." The young girl pivots on her heels and exits Cassandra's office.
She comes moments later with a slip of paper for her to sign for Agent Allera. With her doctor's signature now on the paper, she sends Ellen back out. Cassandra looks over the clipboard Ellen left on her desk earlier, searching for who was next on the schedule. The woman begins to smile when she notices Captain Rogers' name right under Agent Allera's. But, she can't help but wonder if he'll show up this time. If not, she'd have to go get him herself and she didn't want to resort to that.
Ellen cracks open the door and pokes her head through the slit. "Dr. Lang, Rogers is waiting outside," she announces. Relieved calm washes over Cass, and she tells her assistant to bring him in.
Doctor Lang's Office. 10:00 am.
James looks down at his watch outside in the hall, watching agents pass him by. He sits slumped over in one of several waiting chairs lining the wall outside Dr. Lang's main office. His foot taps uncontrollably against the hard floor as he darts his eyes around. To say he's nervous would be an understatement. Although, he couldn't explain why he just knows he doesn't want to be here. And all this waiting is making it worse. But his nervousness is interrupted when the sound of a door opening draws his attention. He straightens his posture as young lady greets him and tells him to come in. His heart stops but he gets up anyway and follows her into a waiting area. The place has a warm vibe with soft lights and bright colors decorating the room. Burnt orange walls with cushy tan chairs line the room, a wicker ceiling fan rotating above and a smart desk in front of a holoboard with a fluctuating world map taking up the wall to the right. If the room didn't have a calming Lavender scent, he might be a little overwhelmed.
"Wait here, let me make sure Dr. Lang is ready for you," says the young lady.
All James can manage is a nod as she walks forward to a door at the back of the room with Dr. Cassandra Lang's name painted on the glass. The Agent reenters and motions him forward to her office.
The door fully swings open, allowing the tall, lean young man to walk in as the doctor lays his paperwork before her. The Agent shuts the door behind him, but James stands stiffly in the doorway, scanning doctor's appearance. The woman, probably in her thirties, unfolds a white file folder on her desk, and her blue-gray eyes look over it. Her long sandy-blonde hair is tucked behind her ears, and her button nose is red from the cold she mentioned on the phone. She glances up at him and raises a brow, noticing that he hasn't sat down yet.
"There are plenty of chairs, Captain Rogers," she says. She points him to the chair across her desk.
"Just Rogers, thank you," James says. He takes a seat, sitting down slowly as if the chair will break. If she calls me Captain this whole meeting, I don't think I can handle it.
"How about I just call you James?" she asks. Her kind smile and soft voice make him feel more at ease—but only slightly. He nods and looks around her office. "So, James, we'll go ahead and get started. First, welcome. I'm Dr. Lang, as you know and I'm going to start by letting you sign some papers that say you officially sign off on your Guard duties, and that you submit to this evaluation. It'll ask you to sign so that SHIELD isn't held responsible for its decision concerning your mental health. If I think you need any sort of counseling or treatment, it just gives me permission to do so. Make sense?"
James blinks, his dark blue eyes dropping to the papers and pen Dr. Lang has slid across the desk for him. "Yeah, that makes sense," he says. He takes a silver fountain pen Cassandra has offered him in his fingers and skims over the pages, picking up certain words and phrases as he goes, all of which equate to what Dr. Lang explained. At least she's honest, which is more than I can say for the rest of SHIELD, he thinks. James carefully pens his signature on the required lines then puts the cap on the pen. He lays it on the desk and Cassandra picks up the papers, looking them over.
"All right. Now, we can move on to the evaluation. The eval will be split into two parts. The first part will be questions concerning basic information. The second part will be questions about you and your time in China, and they'll help me determine where to place you in Reserve Service. Sound good?" she asks.
It's not like he can say otherwise, so he agrees and the good doctor pulls some papers from his file. She grabs a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and with her pen in hand, they begin.
"What is your full name and service number, current rank and date enlisted?"
James breathes out a sigh. "My name is James Buchanan Rogers. Rank, Captain. My service number is four-four-seven, eight-three-two. I joined SHIELD's International Guard on March nineteenth, two-thousand-thirty-nine."
Cassandra scribbles a few things down before she continues to the next questions. "How long have you been affiliated with SHIELD?"
"Since ninth grade. I was in the SHIELD Early Education and Training Program. I was recruited for the Guard one year after graduating from high school and the SEET program," he says. He taps his fingers on his leg idly as she continues, writing and speaking at the same time.
"And your arrival date for reentering the United States?" she asks.
"September eighth, two-thousand-forty-two."
Cassandra nods and stops writing, switching papers. "Now, we'll start with part two. I'll go a little slower with these questions since there's more of them."
James nods and stops tapping his fingers. The easy part is done but the weight on his chest reminds him this isn't over. They've just begun and there's no telling what questions SHIELD has given her to ask. Questions about Zhai Lu. Cassandra's voice snaps James from his memories.
"Tell me about your first few months as a Guard soldier. I'd like to know about how well you reacted to all the things that were thrown at you, being in a new situation and all."
"Well," James rubs his mouth as he thinks. "I'd say I reacted rather well. I mean, I was young and inexperienced as a soldier. I was...I wouldn't say bullied, but I would say tormented by the soldiers in my training troop. They seemed to think it was hilarious that I was a son of Captain America."
"They gave you a hard time? Why do you think so?" she asks. She taps her silver pen to her lips like she already knows why.
"I don't know, maybe they expected me to be taller. Or maybe, they thought I would get special treatment. Either way, they hated me. But, lucky for me, I didn't get sent out with any of them when we were separated into different battalions. I ended up with a limited group patrolling and evacuating small villages in the front lines." James takes to tapping his foot again, but this time, Cassandra notices it.
"So, what was your battalion like? Did you get along with your superior officer?"
"No, he hated me too. Captain Collins was the meanest man I'd ever met. And I was stuck being his right hand because I was the second highest rank in our group," James laughs. He recalls his Captain with a smirk, shaking his head. "Every chance he got, he tried to either belittle me or embarrass me."
"Why do you think he was like that to you?"
"Well...that's actually a long story. During a confrontation with the enemy, Collins got shot several times in the stomach with a high-powered energy discharger. He was dying. There was nothing the medics or I could do," James pauses. His tapping foot has stilled, his gaze unmoving as he stares at the desk. "I was trying to put pressure on his wound when he told me...he told me he was tough on me because he wanted me to be strong." James quiets, his mouth hanging open as if looking for the right words to explain what happened that day. "He promoted me to Captain before he died. I took over the fifth battalion."
Cassandra nods, writing something on her paper as James refocuses on her. She scans her papers for a moment before asking the next question. But, something in her eyes forms a slight pang of worry in James' gut. "Okay, James, I have a question here given to me by the head of the International Guard. He asked me to clear things up with you since they can't seem to get any information from anyone else in your group..."
James swallows hard, his throat suddenly becoming parched. "What's that?"
Cassandra locks eyes with James and he knows what's coming. "What happened July fourth, two-thousand-forty? Or as you know it, Zhai Lu Pass?" James keeps his gaze connected to Cassandra's, neither breaking the stare between them. His mind races as he thinks back to the "incident" as it's referred to. He closes his eyes and searches for the phrase he told his men to say if ever asked about the Zhai Lu Pass.
He reopens his eyes, now with an emotionless glaze over them. "What happened at Zhai Lu Pass is classified."
Cassandra sighs as if she knew it was coming. "It's funny you say that because that's the exact phrase your fifth battalion buddies say, and that's what the Guard told me to expect. But, I had to ask. And I'm going to ask again, what happened at the Zhai Lu Pass?"
James leans back in his chair, exasperation shifting his features into a scowl. "I told you, it's classified."
"By whose authority?" she prods.
"By the acting ranking officer."
"You mean you?" she asks. "James, SHIELD and the Guard have a gap in their records from your team on that day. Not to mention, that three men died and an entire enemy squad went missing. And you're going to tell me that you and your men can't talk about it because you said so?" James says nothing. He simply sits and stares at the floor. "Okay. But, I'm required to ask one more time before we move on. What happened at Zhai Lu Pass?"
Their eyes meet again, James' face expressionless. "What happened at Zhai Lu Pass is classified."
Stark Tower, Midtown. 11:14 am.
This meeting of the minds is tense. Across the table, Blake glares at Antonio as if he's killed his dog, and Antonio smirks, arching a dark brow as he scans the contents of his hands. His next move is life or death, he can feel it. Prideful life if he wins and shameful death if he loses.
"You're going down, Kid," Antonio says.
Blake smiles. "Bring it, Old Man."
"Got any…Sevens!?"
"Go fish!"
Antonio groans and throws his head back, sinking in his chair.
"I thought I had you that time…" Blake laughs as Antonio draws from the deck of cards between them. They'd been at this for ten minutes already while Tony, Bruce and T'Challa wait for Rick Jones. At first, the boys started out standing out of the way of what they thought was going to be a meeting, but then after Bruce got a text from Rick saying he'd be late and the three old guys got started catching up, they decided to play some cards. And then one game of Go Fish became two, which became three, and now they're on their fifth game—Antonio being the reigning champ. It was either this or try to answer all Blake's never-ending flow of questions about everything.
"So, you're not mad about the snack mishap?" Blake asks out of the blue. He pulls two cards from his hands and lays them on the table, a pair of fours.
"Dude, I'm just honored you thought to bring me some Kulcha bread all the way from India," Antonio says. He too makes a pair then asks for a nine, and Blake grudgingly offers up his card. "Although, I would've loved to be able to say I ate Curry Kulcha straight from the homeland."
The two had been in this same situation many times before. Waiting for that one guy to show up, or while their fathers blabber on about who knows what about who and how they know it. The boys had to find something to entertain themselves with and playing cards became their go-to. Antonio and Blake have become good friends over their many games of Go Fish, Crazy Eights, and Gin Rummy through the years they've known each other. Even with their age gap, Antonio and Blake think of themselves as science bros until the end…or at least until the end of this game, considering the winner.
"Got any fives?" Antonio asks. Blake stares at his hand of two cards and his amber eyes widen. He pulls out one of the cards and hands it to Antonio. The young Stark smirks as he makes his last pair, laying his fives on the table. "Thank you for your generous contribution to the 'make Howie a winner' fund. Please read 'em and weep, and don't forget to tip your waitress."
"Dang it!" Blake yells, tossing his last card at his opponent. "I can't believe I got beat by an old man."
"I've been playing Go Fish longer than you have, Kid. By which I take 'Old Man' as a compliment," Antonio says.
"Pfft. I'm done." Blake stands and walks over to the windows at the back of the room, looking down the side of the building. Behind him, Antonio rolls his eyes, gathers the playing cards and slides them back in their box. Upon standing from his victory seat, Antonio tucks the cards in a drawer on his father's desk and joins his young friend by the windows. They stand quietly while the voices of their dads' echo through the room, their conversation varying from subject to subject. Blake glances at Antonio beside him but quickly turns his eyes back out the window. He knows he must look like he's in another world completely, but Antonio doesn't look much different. Their brows are furrowed and Blake runs his fingers through the curly brown mop on his head. In all the rush this morning, he forgot to put on a beanie and he's not used to the awkward feeling of his hair being loose. But the weight of Antonio's constant stare forces the teen to ask what's so interesting.
"Your shirt. The sun's reflecting off your shirt and it's been blinding me since you got here," Antonio remarks. Blake looks down at his bright red shirt, tugging at the bottom. "I'm kidding...but I know that 'somethin's got you off' look, so spill." Blake sighs and crosses his arms over his chest.
"I don't know. It's just this whole thing with Med Corp. I mean, Dad and I know that this Getz guy has to be involved in Goodyear's death somehow, but Rick doesn't think we should point fingers and just let the cops do their own investigation," Blake stops. He takes to nibbling on his thumb nail and props his other hand on his hip. "If we know that Getz' daddy was AIM, then why aren't other people saying he's a suspect?" Antonio scratches his head, a slightly vacant expression holding his gaze.
"I mean, Dad and I have already discussed it, but maybe the police haven't found anything that would suggest foul play yet. Any way it goes, my dad has friends in special places and if Getz does anything fishy, we'll know about it. So, don't worry." Antonio claps a hand on Blake's shoulder and the teen offers a sheepish smile in return. The sudden stir of voices behind them and the addition of a new voice grabs the boys' attention. Rick walks in, huffing like he ran up the ninety-two flights of stairs while Antonio and Blake join the men.
"I'm sorry I'm late everyone," he says. He sheds his messenger bag onto Tony's desk and starts grabbing papers out of it. "Traffic was so awful, I ended up bailing on my taxi and walking the rest of the way—which was only four blocks—because that's just how bad it was." He sighs, files in hand. "So, let's get started then?"
"Floor's all yours, Hippy-Dippy," Tony says. He props on his desk and smirks at Rick who's now self-consciously gliding a hand through his layered copper hair.
"Okay then. Welcome everyone, thanks, Mr. Stark and your royal highness for agreeing to meet," Rick says. He offers a half-hearted bow to T'Challa on the screen. A now graying T'Challa chuckles.
"T'Challa will suffice."
"Right, anyway," Rick starts. "So, I was going to tell you the good news last night, Bruce, but I decided to wait until today. I was contacted yesterday evening by Med Corp's board of investors and they informed me that Leonard Getz is the most likely candidate to fill Goodyear's position." Bruce crosses his arms over his chest.
"I thought you said this was good news."
"There was good news and bad. That was the bad news, but the good news is that the board—with some gentle persuasion by a dashing rogue," Rick says, straightening his jacket proudly. "They've decided to reinstate funding to you and all of their charity partners."
"Dad!" Blake smiles.
"Really? They're serious?" Bruce asks.
Rick nods. "They'd gotten so many complaints and I suppose they felt bad about removing their support, they decided to make things right—even if they don't have a CEO at the moment."
"I told you everything would work out," Tony says, shaking Bruce's hand.
Bruce blinks, shaking his head in disbelief. Blake tilts his head at his father's curious reaction. Rick goes on about how they can have another trip organized by spring, but Bruce just stands still, his honey-colored eyes deep in thought. His hand is over his mouth like he has something to say but Rick is on a roll.
"What do you think, Bruce? Of course, you said you'd need to go over some samples you brought back, right?" Bruce nods, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Yes. I found some odd weapons burns on some of the refugees and wanted to find out what made them."
"Weapons burns?" T'Challa asks, something striking his attention.
"What're you thinking?" Tony wonders. Blake and Antonio exchange glances, then look to T'Challa. The King of Wakanda deliberates deeply on whatever has sprung to mind, his light wrinkles darkening slightly in thought. His copper eyes search for something, and Blake wonders if he knows something about what he and his father saw in India.
"Bruce, I would be very interested in hearing the results of your tests."
"If it's this interesting to his Highness, I'd like to see the results too," Tony adds. For the first time since the meeting began, it's quiet. Bruce still has that far off look in his eyes his son can't yet decipher. Rick must notice it too from the way his walnut eyes watch Bruce.
"So, Bruce," Rick starts. "You haven't said anything. If you don't think the plans are right yet, there's always room for readjusting." Bruce moves his hand away from his mouth.
"Actually, I was thinking I'd like to spend some extra time home for research." Rick rubs the back of his neck.
"Like, how much extra time?" Through the exchange, Bruce glances over at Blake and Blake silently questions him.
"Maybe we could push the trip up to next fall?" Both Rick and Tony arch their brows questioningly, but Blake listens. He listens and waits because he knows what his father is doing, and he couldn't be prouder. Proud? he thinks. Me, proud of my dad? What a plot twist. Bruce continues by explaining to the group that he'd like to stay for rest, research, and his son's first day of college.
"College?" Rick asks. A surprised smile dominates his expression and Blake gets a proud pat on the back from Antonio next to him.
"We talked about it on the way home. There's nothing definite yet, but we're meeting with the admissions counselor at City College this afternoon about starting in the Winter," Blake says, smiling.
"Congratulations," Antonio says. "City College is a busy school. You sure you can handle all the hustle?" Bruce smiles.
"I think he'll handle it just fine. He's ready for it, and I'm ready for some rest."
"Well, we're not spring heroes anymore, guys," Tony says. He cuts his eyes at T'Challa on the screen but the King doesn't dignify his comment with a reply, just a snicker and a roll of copper eyes. "Bruce, you've got a place here at the Tower if you need some extra research space. It's cleaner and is slightly more glamorous than your basement."
"I may take you up on that offer," Bruce says.
"Well, I suppose since the real purpose of this meeting worked itself out in the first five minutes and we're going in another direction now, I guess meeting adjourned," Rick says. "Very productive fifteen minutes, guys! Now comes the fun part, paperwork and discussions with Med Corp." Rick picks up his messenger bag off the desk and pulls a folder from it, handing it to Bruce.
"Paperwork, great."
"Dad, don't you think we should get going if we wanna eat before the meeting?" Blake suggests. Antonio checks his watch and agrees, stating the current time. Bruce and Blake say their goodbyes, T'Challa signs off, and Blake apologizes once more to Antonio for the lack of Indian bread.
"Don't worry about it," he says, winking.
"I'll see you later, Old Man," Blake says.
"Get outta here, Kid," Antonio says, waving him out the door. The Banners step out of the office, Rick not far behind. They walk down the hall to the elevator, and as they wait for it to reach the 92nd floor, Blake notices his father smiling at him. The teen looks over at him and smirks. It's been a while since they've been happy with each other. No more worrying about the future, no more feeling shut out and alone, no more miscommunication, at least for now. For now, they're just content. Content. I like the feeling of it, Blake thinks. The elevator door opens and the guys step in, both leaning on the back wall. Bruce wraps his arm around Blake's shoulders as they ride down in silence. Yep, things are looking up, he thinks. The lift stops at the bottom floor and they step into the lobby.
The Banners push through Stark Tower's doors and Blake continues down the concrete steps while Bruce stops on the top, looking at his empty hands as if they're supposed to hold something. "Hold up, Blake. I think I forgot my folder." Blake rolls his eyes and groans.
"You just had it...never mind. I'll wait." Bruce walks back inside and meets Rick in the lobby as he passes by. Jones gives Blake a questioning look as he walks out and stands beside him.
"Let me guess, he forgot the folder I gave him?" Rick asks, snickering.
"And that's why you have to make sure it's in his hands before you leave," Blake says. Rick's snicker turns into a laugh, forcing a chuckle from Blake. His dad may be a genius, but he can be forgetful. I guess that's another of those weird things Bruce's mind does since after the strain of locking the Hulk up in his mind fifteen years ago. But hey, Blake will take forgetfulness over dealing with the Hulk all the time. Even if the Hulk may be the only thing that can save him.
On the roof of the C-wing adjoined to Stark Tower stands a man. Dressed in an Army uniform and a green tactical vest, he kneels beside a three-foot-tall ledge and unlocks a long black case on the ground beside him. He pulls out a gun, a sniper rifle of sorts and props it on the ledge, aiming down at Blake.
Below, Blake looks to Rick. "So, what're you gonna do now that you've got a break?" he asks.
"Well," he rubs the back of his neck. "I think I'm gonna go back to my real job—not that working with you and Bruce isn't a real job. But, it'll be nice to get back to my music."
Above, the man twists the scope on the rifle slightly to the right as he peers down the sights. From here, he can count the freckles on Blake's face. A chattering in his earpiece snaps his focus.
"Do you have eyes on the target?" a woman asks. The man sighs.
"I do."
"Good," she answers. "Remember, you only have three shots, so make them count." He breathes in.
"Are you sure about this? Why him?" The woman's voice huffs, making her exasperation evident to her hired gun.
"I don't pay you to ask questions. Now shoot the kid or I'll shoot yours. They're out playing in the yard at the moment, in case you were wondering. The little one is so cute when she twirls her skirt." His pulse quickens as his heart skips a beat.
"Okay, okay!" he says, taking aim. With his gaze down the sights and his finger on the trigger, he watches Blake and Rick talk. He can't hear them, but their conversation gives him the time he needs to aim for the perfect shot.
Below, Blake continues with questions for Rick. "Are you gonna work on your own music, or go back to doing guitar lessons?" He twists his gray vans on the step underfoot, wondering where his father is. Rick pauses a moment as an old motorcycle rolls by and to the parking garage.
"I think I'm gonna go back to giving lessons, I miss interacting with beginners," Rick answers.
Above, the man is close to pulling to trigger now. But the longer he watches Blake, the more he can't seem to shake the jitters rattling his trigger-finger. He'd done this before, so what was stopping him now? Maybe because the times before were for King and Country and his family wasn't being held at gunpoint for blackmail. He moves his face away from the rifle scope, shaking his head.
"No. I can't do this. I don't care if that psycho has my family or not, I'm not doing this."
He pulls his gun off the ledge and lays it in its case, but a shimmer of something catches in the corner of his eye. He looks up to find a saber pointed at his face.
"She told me you were weak," comes a voice. A light German accent drags at the words that send a chill up the man's spine. The full view of a purple mask, a brown jacket and a leather scabbard belt meets the man where he kneels.
"Please, we can't do this to him," he pleads.
"That is not for you to decide." The fellow in the purple mask sheaths his thin sword. "Step aside, Talbot."
"No, I won't let you do it, Zemo," Talbot yells. He pulls a pistol from a side holster but the gun shudders in his hand as Zemo approaches. The slender man in purple smacks the gun out of Talbot's hand with unbridled strength and shoves him down. He falls backward onto the asphalt roof but scrambles to get back up.
"Out of my way," Zemo says. He snatches the rifle from its case and points it down to Blake who's still on the steps. His aim is on the scrawny teen's neck when Talbot pushes the gun away. They struggle, both with hands firmly grasping the gun. Talbot knows he can't win this fight, not with Zemo's mutated strength, but he can prolong it.
"I won't let you ruin that kid's life!" Talbot shouts. Zemo pushes against him.
"Even at the cost of your own family?" They push back and forth, but Zemo twists the rifle and thrusts it into Talbot's chin. Talbot trips back and hits the ledge, dizzy from the blow. Zemo takes aim again, but this time, Talbot is too late to stop him.
Below, Blake pulls his phone from his pocket to check to the time. "What's taking Dad so long? We're gonna have to skip lunch or be late for the meeting with the admissions counselor." The teen walks to the bottom step and waits. He looks up, searching inside the lobby for any sign of his father but instead sees Rick jumping towards him.
"Blake, get down!" Rick pushes him to the pavement, but Rick rolls several feet from him, hunched over with something sticking out of his neck. The next few moments are soundless. Screams from the lobby fade as Blake kneels next to Rick, staring at a tiny, metallic disk locking onto his neck with a small tube jutting from the center. Green liquid sloshes in the tube then slowly disappears into Rick's body, leaving veins of emerald creeping under his skin. Blake's amber eyes frantically search for where the shot came from and land on the part of Stark Tower across from him. Two men fight each other over a gun, then suddenly, one breaks the other loose and shoots him point-blank. The shot forces his body over the ledge and the man lands just inside the Stark Tower gate, his body motionless on the black pavement.
Blake's body goes numb and a pair of thin arms wrap around him, dragging him into the lobby. Through the glass doors, he can only watch Rick writhe in pain as teal scales begin to break through his skin. His clothes tear as his body grows. Blake can just barely hear his rescuer and everyone in the lobby yelling over the ringing in his ears. Where is the ringing coming from?
"Dad," he manages. His voice sounds muffled to him, and the security officer who saved him drags him deeper into the lobby since his legs aren't working. Blake can't make out Rick anymore and a loud crash clears the ringing in his ears. The glass on the doors has been shattered, along with more glass raining down the side of the building. Blake's ears are now bombarded with panicked voices crying and screaming, "monster."
"Dad!" Blake says. The two are now crouched behind a service desk at the back of the room, lying in wait. The numbness in Blake's body has begun to fade and his vision clears enough for him to realize what's happening outside. "I need my Dad," he says.
"You need to stay here, kid," the security officer says. He leaves Blake and starts directing people towards the back of the room for safety. But as panic swells in Blake's gut as another sound comes from out front, a loud screeching like a bird. The other guy, he thinks. He has to know what's happening to Rick, or...whatever he is now. The teen's knees wobble as he pulls his body off the floor, using the service desk for support. Now on his feet, the scene is in full view—two towering creatures screaming at each other. One, a teal reptilian monster with spikes, scales and claws like a dragon. The other, a misshapen man-bird, his arms shifting into ruffled jet wings.
Upstairs, Bruce stops in Tony's doorway as Stark Tower shudders underfoot. He turns around slowly and locks eyes with Tony.
"Please, tell me you felt that?" Antonio moves towards the windows and peers down the side of the building, his electric eyes widening. Tony asks what he sees, but the young man is unable to speak. His father walks towards him and stops at the window, his eyes following Antonio's. Bruce, still in the doorway, comes to stand with them.
"Dad, I think we need to call SHIELD." As soon as the words leave his mouth, the glass shatters, surrendering to the ear-piercing shriek coming from down below. The men shield themselves as shards pelt them. The three look to each other, but Bruce's eyes hold terror in them.
"Tony, Blake...Blake was down there!" Antonio looks down at his smartwatch, his expression matching Bruce's. "James just texted me that he's in the parking garage. Dad, we have to do something!" In the next moment, Tony's demeanor changes. His expression shifts to serious and he starts strutting towards the door, snatching an earpiece and sticking it in his ear on his way.
"Jarvis, alert SHIELD. Howie, I'm sounding the building-wide alarms. I need you to make sure everyone is evacuated. It should be safe to send them out the cargo loading in the back. Bruce, you're with me."
"Wait, what are we doing?" Bruce asks. "What about Blake?" He and Antonio run to catch up with Tony who is almost to the elevator now. "Is it safe to take the elevator?"
"We'll be fine. Howie, take the stairs. Go through each floor and make sure everyone is out, got it?" Tony says. Antonio stops at the elevator.
"I got it, but, what are you going to do?" The elevator dings and Tony and Bruce step in.
"I'm going to get backup."
A/N: Did you see it coming? Drop me a comment and tell me how much you're freaking out. I'm freaking out. Megan's freaking out. The cat we found under our house is freaking out. What is happening? Theories. Hit me with them.
Up Next: The conclusion that only destiny can predict. Or maybe Jamie already did.