Night Time, The Future . . .
The southern end of the island was the worst part. Once it had been a glorious mecca, but now it was a ruin. The troubles at the turn of the century had left a battleground in their wake and the south end, already in bad shape from the troubles nearly a century before that, had gotten the worst of it. The only things here now were the Degen tribes, the cybergangs and other renegades of society.
The twin hover limos settled to the ground and were quickly surrounded by armed guards before the passenger door of one opened and a man emerged, causing the guards to straighten, even though their attention was mostly directed outwards. Quickly, the other limo disgorged more guards, some joined those guarding the limos, the rest formed up around the man.
"No need, Captain," he said. He was tall with a mess of brown hair and dressed in an expensive suit. His features suggested a mixed race ancestry and under the suit he was lean and long limbed. Despite the fact that it was night, he wore sunglasses. "I'm just stopping in for a quick chat. I won't be long." He smiled, showing a pair of small but impressively sharp fangs. "Well, I say chat, but I mean something else."
"But sir," the captain protested. Unlike most, he was well aware that his charge was not exactly completely sane, but there was usually a method to the Regent's madness.
Usually. Emphasis on the madness.
"It's fine, Ramon," the Regent assured him. "Besides, I'm not going in there alone." He turned back towards the limo and stretched out his hand. A hammer flew through the door and into his grip as though it belonged there. In a way, it did.
"Sir."
"Exactly." The Regent rested the hammer on his shoulder and strolled inside, whistling.
The Captain rolled his eyes and looked upwards. High overhead, only faintly visible in the gloom, perversely having survived everything, a single A was attached to the top of the tower. He snorted, what in the name of Almighty Thor could the Regent possibly want in this old relic?
Early Morning, The present . . .
If Natasha was surprised to find Coulson in the kitchen, it didn't show. Instead, both of them looked around the room, paying attention to the high spaces. Barton had a habit of hiding in the highest parts of the mansion and waiting for Stark to walk by. Or anyone else, for that matter.
As turned out, Stark could scream like a little girl.
In silence, Natasha and Coulson retrieved mugs and the tea before sitting across from each other, each with a drink in hand.
"Romanoff, you know Clint Barton better than anyone," Coulson said, breaking the silence. "What the hell is going on with him? I know he's always been somewhat . . . irreverent, but lately . . ."
"It's like he's completely lost his mind," Natasha finished. She looked down at her mug. "I think it was Loki." Natasha's hands tightened on the mug. "Everything about Clint was taken, twisted, turned inside out. He had someone in his head and that's . . . unpleasant." She drained the mug in one gulp as though trying to drown memories suddenly boiling up inside her. "Clint feels he has to prove to everyone that in the end, he is bound by nothing and no one."
"You're saying he's trying to deal with his experience by . . . trolling?"
"Yes, and if Stark hasn't figured it out already, he will soon. If they team up, God help us all."
They both looked up as Thor entered, Mjolnir in hand. The Asgardian's face looked far more troubled then either had ever seen him. Jane entered a moment later, looking frightened.
"Thor?" Coulson asked. "Is something wrong?"
"Gather the Avengers, Son of Coul," Thor said. "I have just had a most strange . . . chat."
"Okay," Tony ventured, "here's what I don't get. How did this guy-"
"He said to call him Mike," Thor said.
"Mike. Right. How did Mike get his hands on Mjolnir in the first place? For that matter, if he was actually talking to you from the future . . . how?"
"I'm wondering about that too," Natasha said. "I thought only Thor could use it."
"The enchantment says 'Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor'," Jane pointed out. "There's nothing that says it actually has to be Thor who holds it."
"Mjolnir has many powers," Thor pointed out. "When first given to me, Father said that it would take all my life to know all that Mjolnir could do."
"Something must have happened," Bruce noted. "Something bad. Thor would never relinquish Mjolnir unless he had to."
"Aye," Thor agreed.
"As to the how," Bruce continued, turning to Jane and Thor, "Thor, you said that Mike was the room."
"Aye, I could only see the mirror, but the room behind him was in ruins."
And he just appeared in the mirror?"
Jane nodded. "Thor was on the bed and I was . . . never mind. The point is, the mirror faces the foot of the bed and when Thor stopped paying attention, I looked and saw that it was no longer his reflection in the mirror."
"Mjolnir in the same space at two different times," Bruce nodded and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. "In a nutshell, matter cannot occupy the same point in space as another piece of matter at the exact same time." He pulled the salt and pepper shakers towards him. "Let's say the salt is Mjolnir as held by Thor, and the pepper is Mjolnir as held by Mike." He drew a square in the paper and set the salt in it. "Thor and Mjolnir occupy this point in space. At some point int he future," he switched the salt out for the pepper, "Mike comes along with Mjolnir and occupies the exact same space."
"You're saying that there's a connection," Steve pointed out. "Because Mjolnir is in the same place, Mike can use it to reach back in time to talk to Thor."
"Right," Bruce agreed.
"And he did this because this . . . Kron guy came back?" Tony asked.
"Aye," Thor confirmed, "a mad dog in a human body. It would seem he courts violence, and revels in its causing."
"Meh. Call Animal Control," Tony said dismissively. "Besides, from what Thor said, this Mike guy is from Crazytown."
"Nay, I only said that he did not seem entirely sane."
"Tony, we can't just brush this off," Bruce pointed out. "Kron is from an unknown number of years into the future and he's considered dangerous there. Dangerous enough that Mike felt compelled to warn us and if he brought any future tech back with him . . ."
Steve nodded. "Bruce is right, we can't ignore this. Natasha, Clint. Someone knows something. Saw something. Find them, find him, call it in." Barton and Natasha nodded and left the room. "Bruce, rig a spectrometer. If he did bring back tech, maybe it gives off some sort of energy signature. Load it into the Quinjet and have Morse fly you around the city. As for the rest of us, be ready to move the moment Clint and Natasha or Bruce and Agent Morse find something."
"Jarvis, put tower security on alert," Pepper said. "Male, pale-skinned, late twenties, white-blond hair, approximately six feet. Pass that description on to HSO and the NYPD and say he's a tech-terrorist."
"Not gonna tell them about the time travel?" Tony asked.
Pepper snorted. "I married you. That's enough insanity for my public image, thanks."
"Happy to oblige," Tony replied, toasting her with his coffee cup.
Agent Morse showed up just as Bruce was pushing the spectrometer up the Quinjet's ramp.
"Sorry," she said. "I was in Hoboken when the call came in." She set down the backpack and the soft case she was carrying and helped him push.
"What were you doing- No. Sorry. None of my business."
"Agent Sitwell."
"Huh? Oh. Oh! Uh . . ."
She shrugged and jogged back down the ramp to retrieve the case and the backpack. "What can I say? Good looking people in glasses get me. Especially the glasses." She grinned wickedly at him and Bruce flushed.
Morse burst out laughing. "You're adorable, Doc. C'mon, let's do this whatever it is."
"You don't know?"
"Coulson said I'm to fly you around the city. So, by his command, we fly." She stowed the bags while Bruce connected the spectrometer to the Quinjet's systems. "I figured you can brief me in flight."
"Coulson commands, you obey?" Bruce asked, amused.
"Hill, Coulson, Fury, they're all pretty much the same thing." She flipped switches and the Quinjet hummed as its engines powered on. "Strap in, Doc." Bruce strapped in.
"It's flying all that hard?" Bruce asked. "I don't fly much and I've often wondered."
"It's always made more sense to me than Biology," Morse replied, "and I have a PhD in that." She shrugged. "For me, best feeling in the world is flying. Better then sex." She pushed the throttle, the Quinjet leaped forward, and then they were in the air. "Well . . . maybe not better, but it's up there."
Bruce felt himself flush again.
New York was noisy, crowded, full of big huge buildings, and Doreen was loving every second of it. In fact, Peter was pretty sure her tail hadn't stopped twitching with glee from the moment Gwen, Harry, and Mary Jane had showed up that morning to announce that it was time Doreen got aquatinted with her new home.
Tony, clearly distracted by something, had given him and Doreen a few hundred dollars each and sent them off with barely a "have fun". But then Pepper had taken the hundreds back, given them each a pair of twenties, cautioned them to be careful, made sure that they had cell phones and reminded them that dinner was at six sharp. . She'd seemed distracted too, but less than Tony, and Peter chalked it up to what Uncle Ben and Aunt May had referred to as "the marriage thing".
"So, Tiger," Mary Jane said as they descended the steps into the subway, "what's it like living with the Norse thunder god?"
"He's not a God," Peter corrected, "The Asgardians are extradimensional aliens who had visited earth centuries ago."Jane had been very clear on that. Frighteningly clear.
"So he's not the Thor the myths speak of?"
"He is, the myths just got stuff wrong. I mean, they're myths."
And does he have power over the weather?"
"Well, yes."
"Then he's the Norse thunder god," Mary Jane concluded.
Peter sighed.
"So, Tiger," Mary Jane said, linking her arm through his, "what's it like living with the Norse Thunder God?"
"Pop Tarts."
"Pop Tarts?"
"Yeah, when Thor first came to earth, all Jane had was pop tarts and cereal. Thor liked pop tarts and Jane would live on them if it wasn't for Darcy."
Ahead of them, Gwen, who had been walking with Harry and Doreen, turned. "Darcy? Whose Darcy?" She jogged up the steps and took Peter's other arm.
Doreen watched in confusion.
"Ah, the dance continues," Harry said sardonically as the trio stepped past them.
"Dance?" Doreen asked, looking confused.
"Oh, right, you don't know. So, Pete's the only one in our school who doesn't know that Gwen's been after him for years even though she's like, the only one who understands him when he goes into full on science mode and Mary Jane . . . honestly, no one knows if she's after him or not." Harry started walking down the steps again and sighed.
"Somethin' wrong?"
"Ah . . . just a bit jealous, I guess," Harry shrugged. "I mean, Pete's my bud and all, but he got lucky. Big brain, girls fighting over him, living with Tony freakin Stark. Me, I got this oversized nose and if it's not english, I suck at it. I wish my dad would do science with me, but I barely passed chemistry and that was with Pete pretty much holding my hand every single step of the way."
"Then why take it?"
"Me and Pete can hang, and I need it for college and then maybe my dad-"
Doreen raised one finger. "My Daddy was the greatest man in the world," she said, her tone making it a simple statement of fact. "But he didn't define me. Nor did my Momma. He always said that I was the only one who defined me."
"But you talk about him a lot."
"I admire him, an' he had a lot of things to say that make a powerful lot of sense, but I ain't him an' I don't wanna be him. You wanna be your daddy when you should be you." She smiled. "An' there ain't nothing wrong with your nose. Reminds me of this eagle I knew."
"An eagle?"
"He lived in this tree behind the trailer park back . . . back home. I always thought he was very handsome."
For the rest of the day, Harry could not shake the idea that he'd been told something very important, but for the life of him, he had no idea what it was.
The Blue Sky Bar had a few things going for it. The drinks were strong, the women were pretty or at least mostly easy on the eyes, and the bartender couldn't remember faces if you paid him. That particular combination tended to attract that certain type of clientele that made it Natasha and Barton's first stop of the day.
"Blood and Skulls," Natasha noted as they approached the stairs that led down to the Blue Sky's entrance. She indicated the six or seven motorcycles lined up at the curb. "Motorcycle gang and muscle for hire."
"Damn nice bikes, though," Barton said appreciatively.
"Hm." Natasha agreed.
The inside of the Blue Sky was neat and tidy. Low hung ceilings with polished lamps and pool tables neatly lined up in two rows to the left with chairs and tables to the right facing a small stage. The bar occupied the back wall. Several very large men were seated there and they all turned at the sound of the opening door.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them growled.
"This is Arrow," Natasha replied. "I'm Sword. We're looking for someone."
"Don't care," the leader growled. "I know cops when I see them and there ain't no weasels here, so get out."
"Cops," Natasha scoffed. "Please." She removed her jacket, handing it to Barton. "One more time," she said cooly, walking into the middle of the room. A few of the bikers let out wolf whistles. "We're looking for someone. You either know something, or can tell us who does. Either gets you a hundred."
The gang leader stomped forward and grabbed Natasha's arm. "I told you to get out."
Barton took two steps forward and Natasha turned her head just enough to look at him. "Go sit down, Arrow," she said. "I got this."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I didn't get a workout in this morning."
"Suit yourself," Barton shrugged and sauntered over to the bar as Natasha broke the gang leader's wrist. "Whaddya got on tap?" He set a ten on the bar.
"Old Paul, New Amsterdam, and Polished Goat," the bartender replied. He was a big man, like Rogers, with black hair, mutton chops, a bushy mustache, and blue eyes.
"Gimme a pint of the goat," Barton decided.
The bartender drew the pint and the ten vanished. "Hope you brought a mop, friend," he advised. "The Skulls don't leave much behind when they rumble with someone."
One of the bikers flew over the bar and smashed into the shelves. "Neither does Sword," Barton replied and took a sip. "Hm, not bad. Boston, right?"
"Maine," the bartender replied and then dodged as a second biker hurtled over the bar and crashed into the cooler. "The boss likes microbrews."
"A man with taste," Barton approved, taking a drink. "So, like Sword said, we're looking for someone. Late twenties, white hair, might have fancy tech. Hear anything?"
"Look, I don't know who you are, but you ain't cops and-"
"Here, friend," Barton said comfortingly, "what sounds worse? Making an easy hundred, or her," he indicated Natasha with a tilt of his head, "finding out you knew something and didn't say anything?"
A third biker crashed into the barstools and the bartender sighed. "Okay, look. Word is that Dino Spinelli brought in some ringer with a fancy flamethrower to off Chilly Navarrone when he couldn't do it himself. For payment, ringer got the plans for some fancy hotel on the West Side. Tenant lists, security layout, the works. Navaronne not only got iced, but then, just last night, they find Spinelli roasted up the same way along with some bird for hire."
"Which hotel?"
"Don't know, don't want to know."
"Oh?"
"My buddy is a Spinelli guy," the bartender elaborated as out on the floor, Natasha broke a chair with a gang member's head and then used the legs as batons. "He was there when the ringer came for his pay. See, it wasn't just Navaronne that got iced, it was his whole damn family. Men, women, mooks, and the kids." The bartender shuddered. "Dear God, the kids." The bartender leaned closer. "My buddy, he's seen shit. Heavy shit. But this guy, chilled him to the bone."
"Why's that?" Barton took another drink. He was gonna have to convince Stark to lay in a supply of this stuff. It was damn good.
"The guy, he comes back from Navaronne's calm as you please, tells Spinelli all about what he did, and then he smiles like a man that just got a blowjob from God."
Barton raised an eyebrow. "What an interesting and highly sacrilegious visual."
"Yeah, well he thinks he's a writer. Point is, Spinelli had ice for blood and even he couldn't wait for the guy to get the fuck out. This is the guy who ordered the hit on some cop who was getting to close to his operation. If it hadn't been for Navarrone's goons, the cop would be dead too. Lost his family in the crossfire as it was. Damn shame." Something flashed in the bartender's eyes, too quick to be noticed.
"Damn shame," Barton agreed, raising his glass in a toast. Then he turned in his seat. "Almost done?"
Natasha snatched a pool cue from a thug's hand, rammed in between his legs, and then swung it around and dislocated the thug's jaw. "just about," she grunted and turned to face another opponent. "What's he got back there?"
"She knows how to work a stick," the bartender observed.
"You should see my ex-wife," Barton replied and glanced at the back shelf. "That first guy you threw broke the good shit," he told Natasha. "I see some of that Kettle stuff."
"Nothing else?"
"Just the well junk."
"It'll do," Natasha said in disgust.
"Double Kettle on the rocks for the lady," Barton said as the last Skull flew into the air and came down on a table head first. Natasha was already halfway to the bar by the time the Skull hit the floor adminst the splinters.
"On the house, Ma'am," the bartender said respectfully as made the drink and set it before her. "That was impressive."
"I've fought better," Natasha snorted. "It was more of a warmup." She knocked back the vodka in one gulp.
"We got a lead," Barton told her, reaching into Natasha's jacket and pulling out the hundred. "We'd better call it in." He set the hundred on the bar and added a five as a tip. "We were never here," he told the bartender.
"And I have no idea where this money came from," the bartender agreed as the cash vanished.
Barton nodded. "Something for everyone then."
"Luck, friend."
"Same to you," Barton replied and he and Natasha left.
Out in the street, Barton looked over the motorcycles again, his eyes drawn one painted in purple, right next to one in red.
"Clint, no," Natasha protested, but it sounded weak.
"C'mom, Nat. Besides, I saw you steal their keys."
Natasha sighed and tossed him a set of keys. "Coulson's not gonna be happy."
"He deserves it for not warning me about Bobbi beforehand," Clint muttered, swinging a leg over the bike saddle. Natasha, already on her bike, fired up the engine and pulled away. Clint started up his bike and then looked thoughtfully at the others and then kicked the nearest one over which started a domino effect and knocked them all over. Nodding, he twisted the throttle and followed after Natasha.
Down in the Blue Sky, the bartender finished sweeping up the damage and and stacking the remains of the table and chairs. It wasn't necessary, but it helped him think. Arrow and Sword, whoever they were, whatever they were, they weren't cops and neither was stiff enough to be the feds. Black ops freelancers maybe, except Sword's moves were clearly based around Systema, which Russian Intelligence at a minimum and that meant deep shit he'd be a fool to wade into without more intel.
Finishing his sweeping, he took the broom back to the storage closet and gazed thoughtfully at the man on the closet floor. A man who looked exactly like him save for being bound and gagged with a massive goosegg on his head. The bartender nodded to himself and left the door open before returning to the bar. Pulling out a small case, he removed all the money from the register and the safe and placed it inside and then removed the mustache and the mutton chops, setting them on the counter. Then he picked up a metal bat and walked out onto the floor to where the Skulls lay, one whimpering in pain.
The bartender's grip tightened on the bat and his blue eyes blazed with an unholy ferocity as he looked at the bodies. The rage he'd kept bottled up to play his part surged through him as he breathed deep, hate for the Skulls, hate for what they'd done, hate for what they and their ilk were filled him to the brim. The scum on the floor had been beaten to within an inch of their lives, taken an incredible amount of punishment, but it was still less punishment than they deserved.
Fortunately, that was a discrepancy he could easily correct.
When accused of swaggering, most people would deny it. Tony Stark was not most people. Despite the fact that he was no longer CEO of his own company, Tony still walked into the boardroom, a swagger in his step. Behind him. Pepper and Julia Carpenter looked at each other and then rolled their eyes. Tony knew they were rolling their eyes, and they knew he knew. After that, it got complicated.
"Let's save time, Ladies and Gentlemen," Pepper announced as she picked up her pace. "We know about the Hammer buyout attempt, we know who has pledged their support-"
"And we know none of you are stupid enough to actually sell," Tony finished as he took a stack of folders from Pepper and moved around the table, dropping a folder in front of each person. "StarkCom and StarkTech earnings are climbing, Iron Man Merchandise is raking it in, and we have the marketing rights for the Avengers, and we hit the 500 million mark on Tuesday for that." He waved the last folder in the air. "Now, there's lots of numbers in here, all of which end in lots of zeros, which means we all should be very, very happy and Hammer Industries can go jump off a bridge."
"I thought he hated board meetings," Julia whispered to Pepper.
"He does," Pepper whispered back. "Being the center of attention on the other hand, he loves that." She began to unpack her briefcase. "Stane was able to lock out Tony because of the distance between Tony and the Board."
"A distance Stane created in the first place," Julia noted.
"Yeah," Pepper grimaced. "Anyways, one of the reasons we came to New York was so Tony could reconnect with the Board and the company and now there's the kids, so he feels he has to set an example."
"That puts him one step above my ex at least," Julia said with a sneer. "Which reminds me."
"It does?"
"I did some digging into Mars 2112 and I'm not so sure we should rule it out." Pepper raised her eyebrows, which Julia took as an invitation to continue. "They're packed most nights, but about all they're doing right now is breaking even and the owners are looking to re-capitalize, if not outright sell. They need to update and upgrade and there's nothing to work with. If we buy in for say, ten percent, it could be the shot in the arm they need."
"You have numbers?"
"Back in my office. After the meeting, I'll send them over. It can't hurt to look into it, at least."
"True enough," Pepper agreed as Tony wound up his opening remarks. "Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen," she said addressing the room as Tony took his seat to her right and Julia to her left. "Shall we begin?"
Bruce and Agent Morse returned just in time for lunch.
"Anything?" Barton asked around a mouthful of chips.
"Not really," Bruce said, sitting himself at the counter. "Just a beta particle reading on the upper East Side that should probably be checked out." He set a flash drive on the countertop.
"You think it's Kron?" Steve asked.
"I doubt it," Bruce said. "Beta particle research fell through back in the seventies as far as I know. You guys find anything?"
"Sort of," Natasha admitted. "Apparently Kron hired himself out to one of the minor bosses and killed his rival in return for plans to a hotel on the upper West Side. Then he killed said boss."
"Which hotel?" Morse asked.
"Unknown. The informant got that from a buddy who's a mob peon. Apparently the informant wasn't inclined to name names, if he knew anything to begin with." Coulson explained. He picked up the flash drive and plugged it into his laptop. "Are these levels dangerous?"
Bruce waved his hand. "I'm not sure. No long-term studies were ever done."
"If I may," Jarvis said, "these readings, if measured by by Doctor Jonas Tarin's papers on the beta particle, suggest a reactor of some sort, which was Tarin's original intent. However, like the Arc Reactor, Tarin's design was not cost effective, and unlike Howard Stark, Doctor Tarin did not have the resources to build it anyway."
"Maybe he found some way to pay the bills." Barton suggested.
"Unlikely," Jarvis replied, "as doctor Tarin died in Nineteen Seventy-Three."
"So then who the hell is building a beta particle reactor in New York?" Barton wondered.
Morse grinned. "Let's go ask."
Nick Fury put his hands on his hips and turned around once, taking in the entirety of the room. The air stank of ammonia and was filled with the sounds of Shield agents talking quietly as they worked. "Talk to me, Romanov," he said at last.
"A trap, Sir," Natasha replied. "Of sorts. The layout and security features on this building were designed to trip the paranoia circuit in any cop or soldier who comes through the exterior door and force them to take time to search and secure the perimeter before moving inwards." Her mouth thinned in a frown and Fury could sympathize; Both of them specialized in manipulating events and people to their own ends and having the tables turned was upsetting. "Of course, there were no traps, but whoever built this place knew that we'd have to check. Or even take the time to call in for reinforcements before proceeding."
"And just who built this place, and why?" Fury demanded.
"The building itself was constructed in the fifties," Natasha replied. "It's been retrofitted several times since. The last recorded sale was five years ago to a private holding company which we've discovered does not exist, but still paid their taxes and bills promptly and on time. The name on the records was L. Cranston who has an office on fifty-sixth and also does not exist."
"A shadow, eh?" Fury made a noise that might have been a chuckle. "I suppose it would have been too much for him to use 'B. Jonas'," he mused.
"Sir?"
"Later, Romanov. So why go through all this trouble?" He sniffed. "And what's with the ammonia?"
"That's the interesting part," Natasha replied. She led him through the room down a short hallway and into what Fury recognized as an operating room, but smaller. Over in the corner, Banner and Stark were working on some kind of machine while overhead, a multi-armed disc with a bright light in the middle shined down on what was clearly an operating table. "According to Banner and Stark, this was an operating room configured for open heart surgery on a male patient performed entirely by that robot." She indicated the disc. "We've also found that there are enough supplies here for one person, suggesting that whoever built this place was also the patient. There's a recovery room next door and two other robots. One designed for cleaning, the other a nurse, of sorts." She led him down the hall to the next room. "We found a charging station for an electric wheelchair and abandoned meal. Forensics says that they're pretty sure that whoever was here, they were still here when we came through the exterior door and gone by the time we'd secured the entrance area."
"And the ammonia?"
"Sprayed everywhere. Any DNA samples we find would be useless and the cleaning robot was through. It's last act was to drop the dishes in the sink and then it fried itself. The surgeon and the nursebot were also fried." She pointed. "There's a hidden door across the way with one of those wheelchair elevator platforms that goes down stairs and it's big enough for the bed if necessary. At the bottom is an old maintenance track for the subway and there's signs that some sort of vehicle was there. Rogers and Barton are leading search teams along the track, but they don't expect to find anything."
"So we come in, trigger an alarm, and Mr. Patient Man gets out of bed, rolls across the hall, and rides away. Meanwhile, the robots mop up and then self-destruct."
Natasha nodded. "Everything electronic self-destructed or wiped it's memory." She lowered her voice. "Sir, this all suggests massive planning and preparation years in the making. Coulson thinks this is someone on Stark's level; someone who also has access to vast medical knowledge and deep pockets. The robots are all custom built, with no serial numbers or way to trace their origin."
"What about the robo-doc?" Fury asked. "That's some science-fiction stuff there."
"Not really," Banner disagreed as he entered. "From a purely technical standpoint, surgery is nothing more than knowing where to cut, clamp, and sew. The human element is being able to react instinctively when something goes wrong and wing it if needed. You can't write code for that."
"Which means our boy either figured out how to do so, or was prepared to accept his fate, live or die," Fury concluded. "I do not like the picture this personality profile is painting."
"Oh, it gets better," Coulson told them from the door. "You're gonna want to see this, Sir." He led them back out into the hallway and towards the entryway to the warehouse. "We found a subterranean chamber." He turned to the left towards the exterior wall. "One of the things the police do to catch pot growers is look for excessive electrical use in places where that level seems excessive. Indoor gardens require a great deal of electricity and water."
"So why didn't they turn up here?" Fury asked.
"Because it wasn't really using the local grid. Oh, it was drawing power, but only enough for an alarm system and some lights, same as anything else in the area." Coulson led them down some stairs. In the middle of the room was a clear cube the size of a washing machine and inside the cube suspended between what looked like some electromagnets was a slowly pulsing sphere of blue energy." That's what's powering the micro hospital upstairs. Tech says it's a beta particle reactor in shut down mode. The manual controls have been slagged and the main computer has fried itself. We couldn't start it back up if we wanted too." He turned and picked up something from the top of the nearby crate. It was a piece of metal, one end was scorched. "We found this tossed into the corner. Looks like our mystery man made his first mistake."
Banner took the piece of metal and turned it over in his hands. "Director, I'll need to run tests to be sure, but I think this is synthetic vibranium. Huh."
"'Huh?'" Fury repeated.
Banner held up the metal piece and pointed at one end. Engraved into the metal was a heart shape.
"Not a mistake," Fury snarled, "that's a message. Coulson, the Avengers' top priority is this guy. I want him neutralized and I don't care if he's in chains or a body bag."
"Isn't that a little harsh, Director?" Bruce ventured. "I mean, we don't know why he did this. This could all be an act of desperation to save his own life or someone he cared about."
"Then why not go to an actual hospital?" Fury asked. "Heart surgery is relatively routine and if you can afford all this, you can afford human beings. No, Doctor Banner, you do not go through this much trouble unless you intend to start some shit, so no, not harsh at all."
Bruce raised his eyebrows. "I suppose not," he mused.
Since Doreen and Peter had entered the picture, Tony Stark had displayed a new, somewhat baffling behavior. Pepper was used to Tony's weirdness, even found it a bit charming, but there was always a method to his madness and it usually involved something blowing up. But not this time.
Every day, usually just after lunch and without fail, Tony would close himself in a small workspace in the corner of their room with a laptop and and a Starkpad and write for a few hours. Pepper didn't think he'd snapped and was writing a manifesto, and he'd never struck her as the book writing type, so exactly what he'd found to write about was a mystery. Especially since he'd said that one of the reasons he'd invented Jarvis was so that he'd never have to write again.
He'd been doing this for a couple of weeks now and while Pepper was pleased that Tony was doing something that didn't involve Iron Man, the Avengers, or something to make the Stark Industries lose stock points (she hoped), she was beyond curious as to what he'd found that was holding his interest. When she'd asked Bruce, he only shrugged.
Because of Stark Industries business and then Tony getting called away to the Upper East Side, it had been after dinner when Pepper had finally decided to flat out ask. Peter and his friends were ensconced in the Rec Room and the rest of the Avengers were doing their thing, which meant now was a good time as any.
"Tony?"
"Yes, Dear," Tony responded his tone indicating that he wasn't really paying attention to the outside world. "Are we done with this?"
"Indeed, Sir," Jarvis responded. "The next book is Jonathan DeGlaser's Computer Psychology, Fourth Edition, Page Three Hundred and Seventy-Four, as cited in your notes. When you were at MIT, the book was in first edition, however, the relevant section is unchanged. I have updated the citations section accordingly."
"Hm," Tony grunted, which was Tony-Speak for "Thanks."
"Also, Sir, you have forty-five minutes remaining in this session."
Tony grunted again and Pepper decided she could wait forty-five minutes. Grabbing her Starkpad, she took the time to answer some emails and attend to some minutiae matters until the sound of a foghorn rolled through the room and Tony stopped typing.
"Well done, Sir," Jarvis informed him. "You have typed some four thousand words and completed ten more pages with fifteen more to go. You have an accuracy score of eighty-five percent on grammar and ninety-three on spelling, making an improvement of five percent up from yesterday and nine percent overall."
Pepper looked up from the seating area and raised an eyebrow. "Tony, what are you doing?"
"Huh? Oh, hi, Pep."
"Hi, Tony. Tony, what are you writing?"
"Ah . . . it's old project left over from college."
"Tony, you have no unfinished projects from MIT . . . and why are you wearing spectacles? Your vision is beyond perfect."
"Hm? Oh." Tony removed the slim glasses from his nose. "Barton found them in some dollar store. He said if I'm writing so much, I should use them." He held the glasses at arm's length. "I have to admit, I feel all writer-ish with them on." He put the glasses back on and grinned. "Awesome, right?"
"Okay, I guess," Pepper asked, trying to ignore the urge to throw Tony to the floor and have her way with him because she was now realizing that Tony in glasses was a definite turn-on. "But Tony, what are you writing?"
Tony scratched the back of his head. "Well, I mean . . . I've been trying to pay more attention to the company and then the kids . . . I mean, I can't really . . . it's my thesis." Pepper's eyebrows disappeared somewhere into the stratosphere. "Well . . . thesis-es . . .?"
"Theses, Sir," Jarvis corrected.
"Tony, you grad - you never competed any of your theses?"
"Well . . . no. See, being me, they sort of just passed me from undergrad to grad to doctoral and then told everyone I graduated for the PR. I didn't care at the time, but now . . . responsibility, you know?"
Pepper sighed and then smiled. "I know." She crossed the room and perched in his lap. "Now, then, Mister Stark . . . speaking of responsibility . . ." she kissed him very seriously.
Moments later, the glasses went flying. Oddly, despite their cheapness, they did not break.
Home for Chris was a third floor converted loft in Brooklyn. The neighborhood wasn't the greatest, but the rent was cheap enough that with roommates, Chris could pay his bills.
"I owe, I owe, oh dear God, how I owe," he muttered as he climbed the stairs. For fun, he was talking in Russian, but the mantra soothed him. He fumbled with his keys and then unlocked the door.
"You call that fucking?" demanded a voice from inside. "I thought you were a man!" Whatever else the voice had to say was muffled by howls of laughter.
Ah. Phil was back.
Sighing, Chris closed the door and walked into the main room. On the couch, surrounded by chinese food and a six pack of beer, Phil Urich lounged, clad only in a tank top and boxers, hooting with laughter as on the TV, a blonde with breasts the size of the Hulk's head berated some poor man covered in sweat as he worked to pleasure a brunette whose moaning, while enthusiastic, didn't quite match the bored expression on her face and the guy looked like he'd rather be elsewhere.
So did the blonde, for that matter.
"Yo," Phil greeted him, waving his chopsticks. On the screen, the blonde delivered a detailed, obscenity laden assessment of the man's carnal abilities which sent Phil off with more howls of laughter.
"Hey, Man," Chris replied, setting down his bag. Chris had met Phil back in college, and they'd gotten along well enough that when their other roommate, Richard, had gotten a line on this place, they'd both signed on. However, it was not until after the fact that Chris had learned two key facts about Phil; he was an unmitigated slob and he regarded porn movies as hilarious comedies which he insisted at watching at near top volume. Chris could hardly cry foul on the first and as for the porn, well, he'd heard of worse. Rich wasn't in much, but since he and Phil both paid their share of the rent on time, Chris had decided he could live with it.
"So how was your week?" Phil asked. "Lots of conference rooms booked in the name of the mighty Stark Empire?"
"Got a promotion, actually," Chris said, "no more internship. Raise too, I think."
"Awesome." Phil pulled a bottle of beer from the case and lobbed it in Chris' general direction, who had to do a half hop to his left to catch it before it hit the wall. "You want some?" He waved the chopsticks at the chinese food boxes. "Got extra."
"Chang's again?"
"Dude. The delivery chick is hot."
Chris couldn't quite argue with that. "Eh, why not?" He popped the beer cap off, dumped his coat and tie next to his bag and reached for the nearest box of food. "What's this one?"
"'Sex aliens in my closet'. The blonde chick is possessed by this alien whose gonna make humans fuck each other into letting it take over the world. Except the chick it possessed is a total nymphomaniac and she has sex with a guy, the alien will die. Or something."
"Ah, a cinematic masterpiece," Chris replied with heavy sarcasm.
"Yeah. Oh, had a Rich sighting."
"Seriously?" Chris shoveled some sweet and sour spicy chicken into his mouth. Phil was an editor or something over at J3 Media and occasionally had to travel, but Rich was gone for weeks at a time and neither had any idea what his job was. All Rich would tell them was that he worked in law enforcement.
"Yeah, he was on his way out when I got in. Left his check for the rent on the table. Swear to God, he's just renting his closet so he has a place to hang his clothes while he's off killing spies." Phil was convinced that Rich was the American version of James Bond. "Anyways, left my check on the table too."
"If you think you're gonna get off like that," demanded the blonde, "you've got brains smaller than your balls."
Somewhere in deep space, the ship plunged through the cosmos, only one of it's mighty engines lit, traveling more on momentum than the engine. It's hull was scorched and burnt, only some of it's weapons still functional, and others were outright missing. Inside, the ship fared much worse. Many of its compartments were flooded, or filled with poisonous gas, or simply inaccessible. That the ship was still functional at all was a testament to the quality of its construction and the dedication of those who had served aboard. Perhaps even moreso was the fact that it's cargo, it's precious, precious cargo remained intact.
Sadly, where the crew had once numbered a dozen, now there was only one. He sat in his seat in the control room, eyes glued to the screen before him. He could do nothing but wait, and that did not sit well with him; he was a warrior, not a Maker, and right now, a Maker was needed more than a warrior ever was. Grimly, he focused on the distant yellow sun ahead. Energy bursts from that star suggested inhabitants with advanced skills. People who could repair the ship, and, perhaps, even offer sanctuary, if not a new home.
He held out no hope that he would find any of that there, but he was without choice; The inhabitants of that system must be contacted and somehow, he must secure their aid, even if in the end, to traffic with them proved dangerous to his mission.
On the other hand, he reflected, he who was without choice could prove to be the most dangerous of all.
Author's Note:
To reply to a few comments:
- The man in red from last chapter is Daredevil. I have no plans for him, so that's a freebie.
- The fake bartender in this chapter is the same one as the man with "hands of death" in the last chapter. If you haven't figured out who he is yet, shame.
- As far as the F4 showing up, maybe. While I have a plan, it's flexible.
For those scratching their heads over Fury and Natasha's exchange in this chapter, it's a reference to the Shadow, the main character in a series of pulp novels and was made into a decent (not great, but decent) movie starring Alec Baldwin back in the early 90's. The Shadow had an office where the name on the door was "B. Jonas" that was essentially a message drop. The Shadow's civilian identity was Lamont Cranston (except it wasn't). So when Fury muses that it would have been too much for mystery man to use "B. Jonas", he's simply agreeing that you can only take a reference so far.
This has no particular meaning other than the fact that Fury, the mystery man and I all read pulp novels and Natasha doesn't.