The Task Master had thought that Iron-Man would save Lee. He was only partly right. Lee's freefall lasts only ten feet before she is caught by a flying suit. The metal engulfs her as if she had fallen face first into a river of ice water. The impact sends a shutter through her body, but the secondary shock-absorbers within the suit keep her body from snapping into dust. Mind awakening and eyes wide open, adrenaline dissolves Lee's blood, leaving nothing in its wake but more energy. Before her, the suit's readout screen runs a million operating systems at once, and she can see through the eyes that she is currently hovering mid-air, the suit hesitating without any direction from her. The crowd that has formed erupts as they watch the suit; flashes fill the air and Lee's stomach rolls. She does not have the courage to look up the way from which she came; she cannot look to see if the Task Master has noticed her miraculous recovery. Her breath comes in mad pants and her eyes try to focus themselves.
"Welcome to the Iron Man Operating System. My name is JARVIS-" That familiar voice of Tony's robotic butler fills the suit, and Lee's head wildly swings at the shock of the sudden introduction to a noise that isn't her own hyperventilation.
Outside of the suit, someone is trying to contact her by shouting into a bullhorn, voices are screaming their fear and support below, but all she can think of is the pain in her body and the rampage in her heart. The homing bracelet worked; she's in the suit. Now, what? Voice more breath than sound, mind racing too fast for thoughts to get caught in her shaking grasp, Lee says the first thing that comes to mind.
"How do I fly this thing?" She asks.
She wants to be moving, wants to be doing something rather than waiting for someone to come and save her. What if no one is coming? What if she is the only thing that stands between New York and destruction?
What a story that would make.
Jarvis' voice strikes her again, and Lee's mind focuses and narrows until all she can see is certain salvation. It spices the metallic taste in the back of her throat and burns at her eyes.
"Automatic piloting engaged," Jarvis commands, and she feels the suit shudder in preparation for the action that lies ahead.
Lee's heart falters and she struggles to shake her head within in the suit's helmet. For all of her study of the suit, she knows that its automatic piloting function is less than satisfactory, especially in a battle situation. It might be good enough for Tony to operate, but not her. If this is her weapon of defense, then she will command it; not some computer. Her voice is stronger now, powered by her fear and excitement alike.
"No, no! Manual. Manual piloting!" She interjects before narrowing her eyes and looking through her viewfinder toward the building where the Task Master is standing, "Talk me through this."
No sooner do the words come out of her mouth than an electric shock powers its way through her body, and her world short-circuits once again.
Tony has been talking to Pepper for the last ten minutes. Or, rather, he's been listening as a confused and frazzled Pepper hurls all of her emotions his way, hoping that he might catch one and share in its torment with her. After waking up from his painful knock-out from a self-motivated iron suit, he's been pacing around the building, waiting for someone to give him instructions and half-listening as Pepper attempts to calm herself enough to make decisions and see the situation clearly. When he realizes that no such instruction is coming and that neither he nor Pepper, for all of their investment in this young woman's life, will ever see this situation clearly, he begins the climb to the control deck, where he is sure that he will have to fight Fury tooth and nail for a place behind a microphone and in front of a monitor.
"Just, breathe, Pep," he finally sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose anxiously as he tries to speak peace into Pepper's soul when he clearly has none in his own, "I'll be home in a few hours."
He isn't sure that he believes that and Pepper has absolutely no faith in it, but it's a comforting phrase to hear all the same. She used to get no such promises from him, not when he was an Avenger. This startling sentence brings with it a whole new round of complications as Pepper realizes that the page is about to turn on his time as an Avenger. The future is close enough that she can reach out and brush it with her fingers if she so chooses. Perhaps it is her fear for Lee, or perhaps it is her uncertainty of what is to come, but Pepper reaches out toward that future as if Tony had any right or ability to make her such promises.
"And you're bringing her with you, right?" Pepper asks, the hope as evident in her voice as the terror should that hope turn to ash.
Tony stops in his ascent up the stairs, hesitating for a hitch of breath at Pepper's question. That isn't a discussion they're allowed to have now; it isn't something he's going to allow himself to think about. There isn't the time and there isn't the security to have such thoughts now.
"If she comes out of this thing alive, that's a conversation to have after about ten years of therapy," Tony says dryly.
Though, if he means therapy for him or therapy for Lee, he isn't quite sure.
Pepper huffs on the other end of the line, her frustration bubbling until it's all that she has left. She clings onto it for dear life, her eyes turning to fire as the thoughts consume her and run her straight through. For Tony to joke at a time like this, or for Tony to say what Pepper thinks is a joke at a time like this, fuels a spark within her.
"Tony Stark-" She reprimands, her voice sharp and focused squarely on him.
Tony begins taking the stairs two at a time when a savior beep cuts into Pepper's tone. Another call is waiting for him to answer, and he sees this as his perfect out. Voice vaguely apologetic but not at all sincere, Tony cuts off Pepper's diatribe.
"Other line," he says, clipped and distancing.
Eyes widening and certain that smoke is coming out of her ears, Pepper roars at him, uncaring who hears her.
"Don't you dare-"
But it is too late. Before the sentence leaves her mouth, Tony has put her on hold and accepted the second call. Having reached the top of the stair well, he pushes his shoulder into the door, moving into the hallway leading to the control deck. Around him, bodies fling themselves around in space, faceless creatures in blue suits running in flurries of skin and polyester like deranged snowflakes. When he answers the phone, he recognizes the voice and the sound of sirens immediately.
"Tony," Bruce says.
So, he must not have deployed his inner monster yet, Tony thinks to himself as he pushes past two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents desperately attempting to sort some deployment orders out on a tablet. Tony's mouth rests in a thin line and he wonders why in the hell Bruce hasn't thrown himself into the fray yet.
"I'm on my way up to the control deck. What do you want?" Tony barks roughly.
Bruce's voice has lost some of his gentility, some of its spark. He's breathing heavily and erratically, the sure sounds of an attack about to come on. Tony is instantly put on edge, but continues his storm toward the control deck, his single-minded determination not to be dettered by something so simple as a bit of Bruce's fear.
"How fast can you meet us?" Bruce asks.
Even knowing that Bruce cannot see him, Tony shakes his head. Absolutely not. Absolutely not. He cannot go back out there- He cannot- Tony thinks about the last time he went out into New York- with the Chitauri- with the Tesseract- The more he thinks about it the more his heart feels like it's going to fearfully shrink from his chest and like his mind just might give up. He tries to turn away from the memory but the more he turns the more he's faced with them; it's as if his mind has turned to a mirrored fun-house of nightmares.
"I'm not meeting you. I'm out," Tony eventually finds his way of choking out.
Bruce stoops to Tony's level, hoping that might pull him out of the mire and into action.
"Just for shits and giggles. How fast could you be meet us?" Bruce rushes, trying to capture some of that Stark dryness, but failing miserably.
Growing more and more impatient and almost wishing he were back on the phone with Pepper's comforting distress, Tony snaps, hating the feeling of lost control but unable to keep himself from it.
"I'm not in the mood-" He growls.
But Bruce is not taking no for an answer. Tony will learn soon enough that he shouldn't have wasted these precious moments with senseless bickering. There is no hint of irony and no room for debate in Bruce's tone.
"ETA, Tony. Now," he commands.
The authority in his voice takes Tony aback, and he shoots out a knee-jerk response without even really realizing what it is that he's doing.
"Eight minutes. Give or take," Tony replies, his words more like vomit than a sentence.
Bruce bites his lip hard enough to draw blood; the pain brings him a perverted sort of pleasure, a detached kind of self-retribution. The blood fills his mouth, but he still speaks through the bitter red painting his teeth.
"You're going to want to make it faster," he says.
Reaching the end of the hall and the door to the control deck, Tony's eyebrows furrow. What could possibly be so disastrous that he would want to-Surely they wouldn't have fucked this up so thoroughly so quickly-
"Why?" He asks.
Tony throws open the doors and sees it. Images crossing a screen so terrifying that they will haunt his dreams into eternity. A fear runs through him the likes of which would stop the beating heart of a weaker man.
"Turn on a TV," Bruce says.
But he doesn't have to. He's seen it. Tony doesn't even hear that last sentence. Instead, he just drops the phone, crushing it as he carelessly runs it over on his way out of the control deck. Pepper and Bruce find their phonecall disconnected.
"Tony?" Pepper asks.
"Tony?" Bruce asks.
Neither of them receive replies.
Peter Parker is caught somewhere between consciousness and sleep, that sort of mental pendulum swing that can only come after losing one's self to tears and misery. He's allowed himself to wallow, keeping his face turned down into a pillow, the pain radiating in his chest keeping him from moving. He recognizes that it's foolish, that tears will solve nothing and sadness is useless when it makes him so purposeless, but no matter how logically he attempts to process his feelings and put them aside, they come in rolling waves all the same. The cycle of grief-logic-grief doesn't cease until he receives a telephone call. The shrill ring breaks the silence of his house, and he holds the phone up to his ear lifelessly, not even bothering to offer a greeting. Not that he would have been able to give a greeting, as the voice on the other end of the phone breaks as soon as Peter breathes into the receiver.
"Peter!" His aunt shrieks.
Immediately sitting up, Peter uses his free hand to rub his eyes and nose free of the evidence of his pain. He sniffles and coughs, but the tears roll anyway even as he attempts to sound a fraction of normal for his aunt. He performs the role to the best of his abilities.
"Hey, Aunt May. What's up—How are you-" He stumbles.
But she picks up on the irregularity in him immediately. She is not fooled for even a second. Concern filling her, especially after what she is watching on the television, she turns distressed for Peter.
"Are you alright?" She asks, her voice tender, wondering if she should try and get a train to take her back into New York, or if they will all be shut down by now.
Peter rubs traitor tears on his hoodie sleeve again, trying to shake the migraine from his head.
"Yeah. Of course. Just the sniffles," he says, brushing off her concern, knowing exactly why she's calling, "What's-"
He doesn't get to finish the question he knows the answer to; Aunt May tramples over his question before he has the chance to ask it.
"Are you at home?" She asks.
"Mm-hm."
This, at least, brings Aunt May some measure of comfort. Breathing a sigh of relief, she counts her lucky stars for that small grace. At least she won't have to worry about him running about Manhattan without any regard for the madness currently wracking her streets.
"Turn on the TV," she tells him.
That is the last thing that Peter wants to do. The last thing. He doesn't want to know how the Avengers heroically rescue her, saving the day and foiling the Task Master. He doesn't want to see them do the very thing that he was prepared to do just the night before.
Or, worse still, he doesn't want to watch them fail. He doesn't want to watch them lose Lee.
"Aunt May, I don't-" He protests, a sigh of his own falling from his lips.
"Turn it on," she reiterates.
Knowing better than to deny Aunt May in one of these moods and knowing better than to attempt a lie, Peter reaches for the remote control and clicks it on. The house is filled with the noise of sirens and reporters attempting to get information from passer-by, as the split-screen displays something that rattles him to the core. He is silent for a long while. Silent for longer than he should allow himself to go without speech or thought.
"Are you watching?" May asks.
Peter nods, but then realizes that she can't see him. Clearing his throat in an attempt to keep from losing his composure, he breathes in deep the sterile air of his house and attempts to cough out a word of assent.
"Yes," he says.
Aunt May's gentle voice pushes him gently.
"Don't you know her?" She asks.
Voice operating like the music of a jack-in-the-box, mechanical and inauthentic, he speaks again.
"Yes."
He can't tear his eyes away from the screen. It's consuming him, its shadowy fingers filling every inch of his universe until its all he can see.
"It breaks my heart. Using the girl as a pawn like that," May says, a tut in her voice.
"I'm sure she can take care of herself," Peter says, his lips barely parting for the words to pass.
Aunt May's voice is tinged with faith. Faith that something will happen to this girl, that some good will resurrect itself from the flames of this disaster, of this terror.
"Maybe someone will save her," she offers delicately from her end of the phone.
Oh, Peter is certain of that.
"The Avengers will take care of it," he bitterly mutters.
But, then, Aunt May says something that shakes Peter's world forever.
"Or maybe Spider-Man could do it."
Again, I am sorry, sorry, sorry for the long time between updates. I'm in a pretty difficult life-place right now with my health and with school and stuff, so it is really tough to get updates out. But thank you all for sticking with Lee for this long! I hope you LOVE this chapter and are ready for the next one! Please let me know what you think. I would love to hear your thoughts, friends! They always brighten my day. :)
Also, if you are confused about what has happened to Lee, don't worry! It will all be explained in the chapter to come. I wanted there to be a little bit of mystery...