Note: In my search for words and phrases to name the remaining chapters, I came across this alternate use of the word 'caustic,' which is both confusing and fascinating! The easiest way to explain is to tell you to look up the phrase 'caustic light reflection' and click 'images,' but I'll give it a go.
Have you ever noticed the patterns of light made against the surfaces near a swimming pool when the sunlight hits it, or the odd half-moons of reflected light in various intensities clustered around a glass of water set somewhere that a ray of light hits it? Those patterns are 'caustics,' and some artists have made some fabulous glass structures that take advantage of this particular, peculiar light reflection.
A caustic echo as used here is a reflection of something or someone familiar seen in a different light, a new way of seeing a person or event. The characters have been in possession of the component pieces all along, but only now are able to see things in the proper perspective, with the light of the sun shining through.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Caustic Echoes
Emory's shaken awake to a dark room.
"Hey, Em. Really hoping you're not hung over," Clint says.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow you out the window," she groans, pulling the pillow over onto her head. He chuckles.
"You'd never do it, we're friends now," he teases. "I got the call. Time to move out."
"Can I play my 'get out of mission free' card?"
"Nope. Get dressed, okay? Should be out the door in ten."
With that, Clint pulls the door shut behind him but leaves the overhead light on, the bastard. Emory pushes the pillow off of her head onto the floor and winces at the brightness.
"Fuck," she says. Forcing herself to her feet, she gets dressed in the simple black suit and blue blouse that Nat had given her. The jacket has a lot of hidden pockets, and when Natasha first handed it over, Emory had joked about whether the pockets numbered more than Agent Harris's secrets. Black Widow's enigmatic smile and shrug hadn't been very comforting then, and the memory isn't very comforting now.
"You almost ready?" Barton calls out from the hallway. Emory grabs her phone, slips on her sturdy black boots, and rushes out to follow him. "Oh. Stick that back on to charge," Clint says, nodding to her phone. "Communications dark."
"Even if I promise to leave it off?" Tony had given her the phone, it's somewhat of a mental lifeline.
"Yeah. Even if that wasn't part of the plan, I'd feel better if you did. Who knows what Stark installed on that thing?" As if that was the end of the argument, he goes over to the basket on the counter and grabs an apple. "Want one?"
"That better not be a Stark vs. Apple joke," she warns. "Be right back."
His laughter chases her down the hall. Right before she plugs her phone in, Emory pops the device out of its protective case and tucks that into one of the hidden pockets of her jacket. Tony had given her that, too, and it's better than nothing.
It's still dark when they take the stairs down to the parking garage to find Natasha's car in a darkened corner. Nat gets out and hands over a phone that's the same make and model as the one left behind in the apartment.
"This has a full contact list including messages. You'll want to go over them, especially the ones between you and Agent Harris."
It hadn't occurred to Emory that not having a phone might be suspicious. "I will, thank you," she tells Natasha, holding her phone up for Clint, who is piling his gear into the trunk. "You could have warned me, 'William Never-Tells!'"
"It's official. That is the worst archery joke I've ever heard. Stark's gonna dump you."
"If you want good jokes, don't wake me up before 7 AM!" she snipes back. In response, Clint adjusts the arrows in his quiver to look like a held-up middle finger before hopping into the front passenger seat. "Why can't he be the mission leader?" she groans, leaning her head onto Natasha's upper arm.
"You'll do great. Remember, every insecurity just makes you more credible. We'll build you back up when it's all over, ok?" Nat says, petting her head before stepping back.
These two agents feel like her friends, not her coworkers. Emory's touched, but she also remembers what Tony had said about something being 'off' at SHIELD. Impulsively, she steps close to Natasha and lowers her voice to a whisper, even though it's 5:20 in the morning in a deathly quiet residential parking garage.
"Tony told me the mission data for SHIELD is strange, like something's not right," she says. It sounds childish when spoken aloud, but Emory presses on. "Whatever it is, he's doing more investigating, but it sounded serious. The kind of thing that a long-time employee can recognize, even if you brush it off as unrealistic unless it's not just you that's noticing."
"But he didn't try to stop you from doing this mission?"
That's a valid question, but Emory has a counter to it: "I need the serum, and maybe SHIELD's a safer bet than some of the bad guys that are out there?"
Natasha's face twists into a self-deprecating smile. "That's the damned truth." Her watch chimes some kind of an alarm. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," Emory says. She watches the two agents drive away with mixed feelings, but smiles at Clint's wink. "Chaotic dad energy," she whispers to herself.
Without them, Emory feels terribly exposed. She looks down at the phone in her hand- and realizes that it would probably fit in the case she's got hidden in her jacket.
She's barely finished messing with it when a cherry red SUV pulls into the parking garage and drives right over to the darkened area where Emory is lurking. Before it's fully stopped, the passenger door on her side slides open and a red haired woman wearing Emory's exact same outfit steps out. She's a little taller, but everything else is spot on.
"Thanks, Amanda," Agent Harris says as she gets out on the driver's side, handing over a shopping bag and a set of car keys.
"Good luck," the woman says. "It'll be nice having my own hair back, anyway." From the bag, she pulls out a baseball cap. A minute later, she's got most of the hair twisted up underneath it, and she's swapped her black blazer with a jean jacket from the bag. Her appearance has gone from 'finance professional' to 'exhausted grad student' in ninety seconds.
"Lay low for a few days. Stick the wig in your hope chest for Roleplay Night," Harris says with a crooked grin. She seems like a completely different person than the cool, standoffish agent Emory knows her as.
"Sure." Amanda rolls her eyes. "The day Richard proposes is the day I stop going undercover, so, probably never? See ya. Stay safe."
"We'll try."
Emory watches the other woman walk confidently off into the depths of the parking garage before turning to look at Agent Harris. "I didn't realize we needed a decoy," she whispers. Behind them, a car door closes, followed by the sound of an engine starting up.
"Your boyfriend's the one who almost tossed a million-dollar wrench into my op!" Harris says. "Amanda helped us get the necessary optics in case you were otherwise occupied. Get in, we need to get moving. I have some fast talking to do with the charter company about that tank."
Emory does as she's told, but she wonders what happened in the last day or so to change so much of the plan- unless this was always going to happen, and she's just out of the loop. As soon as she's settled in, Harris shifts into drive, literally and figuratively.
"The tank has two valves. One controls the oxygen that leads to your mask. The other will release an aerosol agent that had been shown to incapacitate anyone with the DNA changes prompted by the serum we're after," she says, expertly navigating the city streets on the way to the airport. She looks back at Emory in the rear view and adds, "That's why you were still unconscious when you arrived at the Triskelion."
All Emory can do is stare at her. She wants to ask if Tony was around when they puffed experimental incapacitation dust in her face to see what it would do- but she's consumed by something more pressing.
"None of this was in the briefing. You left out everything important! Is this how SHIELD treats everyone, or just me?" The accusation is over the line, but if she can't challenge this bullshit after Harris has admitted to testing untried chemicals on her, then she'll never get the chance.
The initial silence from the driver's seat bolsters her courage, which is good, because they've arrived at the airport. Every cell in her body longs to get the heck out of there, but while Emory doesn't need the wheelchair yet, her joints hurt like hell. It's only a matter of time.
"Thinking over the sequence of events, I'll admit it's not-" Agent Harris's voice falters a little.
Emory wonders if this sudden display of conscience is studied, intended to elide responsibility. It's a cynical view, but she feels used. At least the conversation is dampening her power generation.
"I knew I'd end up having to fight some of the clients I was assigned," Harris starts again. Emory can see that her grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. "Maybe I spent a little too much energy pulling back from them, and you got caught up in that. I'm sorry."
Emory had steeled herself for cold indifference, and this vulnerability throws her. The reflex to say 'it's okay' is strong, but she pushes that aside with great effort and asks the other question that has her anxious. "Speaking of fights, how are we going to get on an airplane with a weaponized oxygen cylinder?"
"Don't worry about it, I've got that covered." Harris says, facing forward again. She slows the car to a stop and reaches over to pull something out of her purse to hold up for the security guard. "Flight plan's already in place," she says to him, her tone far more friendly than the one she'd just used with Emory.
"All right," the guard says, stepping back into the booth and hitting a button. "Safe travels."
"Travel will be the safest part," Harris mutters once they're moving again.
Their ride to Sokovia is a chartered jet. The story Harris tells the crew is the one they'd prepped for, that Emory is suffering from a rare condition and needs to see a specialist based in Novi Grad. Preflight and takeoff are completely uneventful, and as she looks out the window at the clouds below them, Emory realizes that if SHIELD hadn't used experimental gas to knock her out for the flight from Afghanistan, they would have used drugs. They had followed standard operating procedure for the agency: compartmentalize the 'Need to Know' and isolate team members from key information on the off chance it could ruin the mission.
She drifts off to sleep in her airplane seat wondering how often not knowing key information caused the strange results that Tony noticed.
88888888
Flying back to NYC in the late evening makes it a bit too late to talk to Emory, so Tony sleeps on the plane, dreaming of various innovations he could use on her armor. Both Happy and Pepper had chosen to stay back in California. They'll fly back with Stane in a few days. Tony's happy to see that Pepper had called ahead for a hired car to take him home. There's even a cup of coffee waiting for him in the cupholder, which wakes him up enough to carry his luggage into the basement lab.
Since the stairs are too much effort at 4 AM, Tony sits down at the computer and starts to sketch out what he'd seen in those dreams.
Without anyone around to hound him to take better care of himself, Tony throws himself into the design work, subsisting on smoothies and freeze-dried fruit pouches. Ten hours later he's too caught up to worry about trivial things like a change of clothes as he drives back over to Stark Industries to use the fabricator. He sneaks in via a side door and tells the scientist working in the room he needs that he'll fund the man's side project for a full year if he keeps Tony's presence in the building a secret.
As he works, Tony picks up his phone to text Emory multiple times, but she'd asked him to wait for her to send a message first on weekdays. There was always a chance that she'd be practicing power control, and as she'd put it, thinking about him is a 'delightful distraction.' It's a compliment, but he misses her, damnit. He's dozing at the desk waiting for the Bridgeport to finish up, his phone held loosely in his hand just in case, when he's woken by someone clearing their throat behind him.
A quick glance at his watch confirms what Tony's stomach is already telling him: it's just past and/or almost Burger O'Clock, aka 3 PM. Tony summons his best 'what the actual fuck are you doing' face for reputation's sake and swivels his chair around.
"Excuse me, sir," the man says, undaunted. "I wanted to tell you we do have some palladium in storage."
Tony doesn't remember mentioning palladium, but he recognizes the guy, and most of the day is fuzzy in retrospect. "All right, let's take a look."
The scientist seems surprised at this response, but he recovers and takes Tony to the secure storage area. It's enough for an insert. Tony decides to take it, signing the material out before setting up a pickup time for the piece he's machining. He heads home to eat something and make the tab, so he can swap his current one out. The SI development lab uses a higher purity level than they bother with for weaponry, and JARVIS has warned there could be some issues with long-term palladium exposure, depending on refinement. That's why he'd been in such a hurry to redesign the arc.
If it works out, that'll just confirm that he needs a new supplier. Tony wants the best he can get if he's going to have to cross an ocean to support Emory's mission. He'll stick the partially depleted tab into one of his armored suit's storage caches, as a backup.
88888888
Even though they'd taken off in the early morning, the plane lands in Novi Grad after midnight. With how tired she is, Emory is grateful for the wheelchair, but her face aches from wearing the oxygen mask for so long. It's hard not to be frustrated with Agent Harris for not warning her so she could be more used to the experience. It's particularly galling to think that for all she knows, this discomfort and mistrust is part of the plan- a way to keep Emory off balance and her powers at bay until they're needed.
At the front desk of their hotel, Harris gives her name for their reservation, then pulls out a wad of cash and asks if there's a chance they can upgrade. The clerk's eyes gleam in excitement, and soon they're ushered to a suite. The sweep Harris does for bugs yields nothing; if the previous room had been prepped for them, that's just too bad. Both Emory and Harris change for bed in their respective rooms without any chit-chat. Their meeting is scheduled for the next morning, eight hours away. There's no time to miss Tony, no time to worry about how things will work out, because every second of sleep counts.
It feels like as soon as Emory rests her head on her pillow and closes her eyes, she's woken up by a knock at the door.
"It's seven-thirty," Harris tells her through the closed door. "I have some last-minute details to go over."
"You can come in while I get dressed," Emory offers, stretching. Harris comes in and walks over to face the window to give her some privacy.
"Do you remember the keywords?"
"I mention the cave or Afghanistan to confirm I'm feeling safe, and I speak about D.C. or 'home' if I'm not," Emory confirms, gathering up the suit jacket and pants she'll put back on for today.
"Right. Any mention of Rory Fall by either one of us is a signal to be ready to fight. Try to avoid using her name if it comes up for some reason."
"I can't imagine that being a problem."
She doesn't tell Harris that her former friend and boss would have long-since collapsed into hysterics or given away the entire game by now, probably on national television. For the first time in her life, Emory takes this as a compliment on her own behalf instead of an indication that she'd failed her friend. The words Nick Fury had thrown in her face all those weeks ago have served their purpose, though she couldn't have known that at the time. Emory has responded to a medical and moral imperative, but as much as possible, she's done so on her own terms.
If that looks like obedience to SHIELD, well. That's their own fault, is it not?
In her rush, Emory drops her small travel bag when she pulls out the blue blouse she'll wear today. She sees the other agent turn to see if she's okay, and hurriedly pulls the shirt on.
"Red bra, huh? Wouldn't have expected that," Harris remarks.
"Tony likes it," Emory says, lifting her chin even as she feels her face flush as red as the bra. She likes the color too, but after a few months in the strange culture that is the apprenticeship program at SHIELD, she'd picked up a few things. Who you know is important, more so than who you are, and Tony Stark is rich, smart, and unpredictable.
She settles into the wheelchair after putting her shoes on, dons the mask, and pops a thumbs up for Harris. Whatever's about to happen, she's as ready for it as she'll ever be.
88888888
"It's two in the morning. We have to stop meeting like this, sir."
Tony couldn't sleep, so he's back in the workroom. "There's a word for this," he gripes. "Nagging. Nagging is the word! You're a nag, JARVIS. I went to bed at eight. I got six hours of sleep! What more do you want?"
"Oh, I don't know. Enough time to do my scheduled diagnostic without interruption, perhaps?"
"Don't go all Star Trek on me." JARVIS does periodically perform a subroutine in the middle of the night, and Tony has been keeping an irregular schedule, but lying awake in bed alone has never been his preference. "It's morning somewhere in the world, pretend that's where we are."
Tony expects JARVIS to respond with a crack about a healthy breakfast, but the resulting silence is deafening, even with the torch going full blast and a welding hood on. Blaring music would be admitting defeat, but after twenty minutes, Tony can't take it anymore. He chooses the lesser of two evils.
"ETA on Obie?"
"Mr. Stane is due to arrive at Teterboro at 1 PM. His assistant has sent a request to meet with you for lunch."
Tony's stomach roils at the very thought. Usually he snacks constantly when he stays up late, but the unresolved issues between him and Stane are nausea fodder, apparently. He doesn't even want to plan to eat something. Unfortunately the alternative is to have Obie visit the mansion, and that's even worse. Everything Tony's been trying to change is based here, and he wants to keep Obadiah Stane far from all of those things. He casts his mind around for what to do, but his first instinct, 'call Pepper,' is a no go. She and Happy are both undoubtedly asleep in preparation to fly back in the same jet as Obie will.
"Sir?"
"Ask me about it in a few hours," Tony sighs. He flips the welding hood up, unwilling to cloud the glass viewing slit with his huffed breath. "Right now I'd rather barf on his shoes, and no, you can't quote me on that."
"Beg pardon, but I meant to get your attention for something else. Miss Autumn's phone has registered at 100% charge for the past thirty-six hours. Its location has also remained static through that time."
Tony's completely blindsided. He barks out, "Initiate two calls to Fury's office number. One from my cell, and one from one of Stark Industries' main lines. Let me know if one of them connects."
"Calling now."
Flipping down the hood, Tony finishes the last few millimeters. It doesn't take long, but neither should the task he'd given JARVIS. "Well?" Each second represents a chunk of distance between them, and it's widening.
"Your personal number was routed to a voicemail line. I left a neutral-sounding request for a call-back. The company line is on hold-" JARVIS breaks off, resuming in a mildly apologetic tone. "Sent to voicemail. I disconnected."
Shit. "Thirty-six hours? She's already in Sokovia," Tony says aloud, shutting off the torch. It feels like he's shut off any hope of helping her in the process. No message and SHIELD is dodging his calls? The mission could be over by now. Time to shift gears and modify his suit for extraction/rescue, if necessary. "Keep calling both lines until someone actually answers," he says, feeling a vindictive sense of outrage. They know he's got her best interest at heart, but they're keeping things from him anyway? He'll make them work for it. "Bring up the schematics for that shoulder-mounted weaponry."
"Offensive, Flight, or Hybrid, sir?"
"Hybrid." He goes over to the silver suit he'd worn to bring her home with him last time. Much of it is solid, because that was the point. It would be better to build a completely new one, but he's on the wrong coast for that, realistically. Fuck. Tony grabs the table for support as a wave of nausea passes over him. He's worked himself sick before, but never this quickly. Maybe he can use how he's feeling to Stane at bay?
"Schematics fully loaded and ready, sir."
This situation can't be worse than building an arc reactor from memory, miniaturizing it, and then using it to power an armored suit built in a dingy cave with materials from his own weapons.
This time he has coffee.
"Good. Let's rock and roll."
88888888
When they arrive at the fortress, Emory's both comforted and concerned by the place. It doesn't look run-down or evil at all. There are high metal gates surrounding the castle-like building's extensive grounds, throughout which are scattered various statues. She can't see any of them clearly, but most are human-sized, and her first thought is that one of her fellow serum-takers had gained Medusan powers.
Even if that isn't the case, just implying as much displays horrifying genius.
They're greeted at the large front stairs by two figures wearing what can only be described as modern servant's livery. The high boots, tight fitting trousers, and buttoned-up vest are all jet black, but the shirt underneath is a pristine white, and the fancy jacket they're wearing on top of it all is covered with rich silver embroidery that travels from the lapels down to the sleeve cuffs and around to the long 'tails' in the back. There's an immediate sense that, while this group of people have a common bond, maybe even a sense of belonging, it's not like a family.
Whoever this scientist is, he's learned his history. HYDRA's heraldry and cult-like devotion to structure is on obvious display.
Agent Harris's own cleverness is equally evident, though. Thanks to Emory's wheelchair and accompanying oxygen tank, they're led around the front of the building to a side entrance. It's humid and mossy, a far cry from the grandiose front entrance. Once inside, the scientist's minions guide them through three different hallways, each angled upwards, until finally they cross through a doorway and into a lavish-looking foyer.
The second floor staircase arches across the space, leading to a balcony that is populated by at least four similarly-dressed henchmen. If it weren't for the winding path they'd taken through deserted hallways, past open doors showing empty, unfurnished rooms, Emory would have taken the number of people milling around the foyer to be indicative of the population of the whole building. The fact that they're all wearing the same uniform and gathered in the same place makes her think they're making a physical show for the meeting.
"The boss is in the ballroom today. I'll announce you," a young woman says. She has black hair pinned up like a crown on her head, and her eyes have a faint blue glow to them. Fascinated, Emory watches her closely, noticing a kind of blue haze around the woman's hand when she touches the doorknob to the next room.
"Ballroom. Sounds fancy. And big," Agent Harris says. Something in her faux impressed tone makes Emory wonder if they might need to modify the tank. If the term 'ballroom' is accurate, that could mean high ceilings and wide open spaces, or in other terms, a lot of airspace. That's useful if Emory needs the gas to fight with, but it could also make their secret weapon less effective.
She reaches out a hand to touch Harris's arm, making sure to do so tentatively, as if afraid she'll offend.
"Yes, what do you need?" Irritated deference.
"Can you check the flow? I might be breathing a little fast," Emory says, her voice muffled through the mask.
"I'm sure you'll be- Oh, all right," Harris says, leaning over to inspect the valve. The actual oxygen connector is hidden in the mount to the wheelchair.
The door opens, and the same young woman leans through, a neutral expression on her face. "It will be a few minutes."
Emory looks back at Agent Harris to see that she's at her watch, a pained smile on her face.
"Of course," the SHIELD agent says.
Emory doesn't bother to smile, knowing the semi-transparent mask she's wearing would obscure it anyway. In her head, she chants a mantra that's true in both original and coded wording.
I want to go home.
88888888
Tony ends up using the Disrobe-Bot to better dismantle the suit for modification. Installing shoulder-mounted weaponry takes a long time, longer than he'd wanted, thanks to whatever stomach bug he must have picked up in California. With JARVIS's help, he sets up a HUD-based firing sequence just in case he's not able to verbally command his AI to fire. If he looks up and to the left three times in rapid succession, that's JARVIS's command to fire available weapons at the most imminent threat. It's imperfect, and he'll need to find a place to test it that isn't in the middle of the city before he's satisfied with the concept. There's a non-zero chance that his house is staked out by paparazzi who would love to file a story saying they heard gunfire at Tony Stark's estate.
Eventually, his 'hungry, not hungry, nauseated/not nauseated' cycle forces him to snack on a packet of frozen raspberries that he hopes to hell hasn't been here since the late 90's. If it was, it's not like he'll be able to tell. He's halfway through it when he gets a call from Pepper.
"Hey, you about to board?" Tony says in greeting. Somehow it's past ten AM.
"No, I'm in my car. I was all set to leave, but Tony, there's something going on with Obadiah." She sounds upset, almost frantic.
"Okay pull over, okay? You're practically hyperventilating," he tells her, reaching back to find his rolling desk chair. The mere sound of her panic is making him dizzy.
"I'm parked at a gas station. You need to listen to me," Pepper says, a note of urgency in her voice. "Just now, before the flight, I went into your office to copy over some of your files to bring back. It's a big flash drive so I was just throwing everything on it- but there was a whole chunk of stuff that wouldn't copy because it's encrypted. I used your codes but they didn't work."
"So when you told me you didn't know those and hadn't ever tried them-" Tony starts to tease, but Pepper interrupts him. "Tony, Obadiah showed up within ten minutes of me trying to open those files. He was out of breath. It was barely six in the morning! He had to be somewhere in the complex already."
"Okay that's weird," Tony allows, adding, "But he could have been picking up the palladium, Pep. It's not something you'd want to keep at home, even if you're Stane." He's still hoping she's overreacting. Obie and Pepper have never gotten along well, and he wasn't there to mediate. She wouldn't even answer questions about what Stane's behavior had been like during Tony's kidnapping.
He's in the middle of tossing the frozen fruit pouch onto the desk a few feet away when her next words make him fumble the throw.
"When he saw the flash drive, he demanded that I give it to him. He was ANGRY, Tony, I've never seen him like that before. I didn't know what to do! You didn't put anything about your new armor on there, did you? I called as soon as I could."
He hadn't, but this is frightening behavior for Stane. Even at his most upset, the man usually displays an almost pathological friendliness. Obie can get cheerfully menacing, but never hostile. Raspberries start toppling from the fallen package onto the floor like blood drops as Tony tries to think about the implications of what Pepper is saying.
Reassurance first.
"Nothing new is on there," he says firmly. "Did he catch the flight? JARVIS?" Tony looks up at the ceiling.
"The flight plan was filed with no deviations, no delays reported."
Pepper speaks before JARVIS is finished, because Tony's not on speakerphone. "They're about to take off, Happy texted me from the plane. He wanted to keep an eye on Obadiah."
"Fuck, that's not the best idea," Tony blurts out. Pepper lets out a little hiccup of a distressed laugh in his ear. "Okay, so you don't have the drive, but the computer is still at the office?" As soon as he says this, Tony regrets it. Pepper would have to go in person to check, and Stane has buddies at the company. Fear mixes with the raspberries in his stomach, seasoned by whatever bug he's been plagued with today. It would be just his luck if he ends up too busy throwing up to figure all this shit out.
"He escorted me out to my car, and his driver was parked next to it when we got out there," Pepper says.
"Well that's not a good sign."
"I could barely pull out of the lot, I was shaking so hard! What do we do? There has to be something on that computer, something he doesn't want us to know about, and if that's true-"
"Then he'll probably send someone in to nuke it ASAP, yeah. Give me some time to think," Tony says. "Can you go find another flash drive? I can write something to bypass the encryption, but I can't do it remotely. We'd have to upload it onto the drive and have you go physically plug it in. Fuck, and Rhodey is in town with me, still."
"I could go look in the surplus supply office for another-"
"Do not go back there by yourself," Tony interrupts again. "Go buy one, biggest you can find, but use your card, I'll cover it. Keep under his radar. I'll send half of Rhodey's unit in with you if I have to. Just don't try to be a hero and go without backup. Happy would never forgive me, and I'm pretty sure I'd miss you eventually," Tony says, typing a few questions to JARVIS in the window at the top left of his screen they use for nonverbal communication.
His AI answers in the same place. Do I have your authorization to request our pilots disable the communication systems on the plane as a security concern on your behalf? It will not prevent Mr. Stane from using his personal devices, but could delay him while you and Miss Potts coordinate on the ground. And yes, there is Pepto Bismol in the upstairs bathroom.
"I don't think you could tie your shoes without me," she teases back, a little more confidence in her voice. "What's your social security number?"
Tony's busy responding 'Yes,' 'Good idea,' and 'thank FUCK' to JARVIS, missing most of what Pepper says except for the word 'number.' Shit. "Seven?" he tosses out.
"Seven? Yeah, that's what I thought," Pepper laughs. "Whatever you do, don't meet with him until we find out what's on that computer, okay?"
"Not even in the suit? Geez, thanks for the faith in my abilities, Benedict Potts!" Tony teases. He's found the program he wants to send over, but she'll still need to physically plug the drive in to use it.
"If we're talking Arnolds, I want you to be thinking Schwarzenegger, not spies! Promise me? It was hard enough talking Happy down, and I only told him Stane was acting strangely. He'd be going all Air Force One as we speak, otherwise."
"Spies!" Tony says, snapping his fingers a few times in happiness at what she's helped him figure out. "You are brilliant, beautiful, and behind on your responsibilities. Go get a flash drive, I'll talk to you later."
With that, he hangs up and heads for the upstairs bathroom, dialing the number for Agent Phil Coulson as he goes.
88888888
It takes over twenty minutes for the ballroom door to reopen. During that time, a further two black and silver-clad people join the others on the balcony watching Emory and Harris, but besides a few offhand comments, everyone stays silent. The stress makes Emory close her eyes and try to meditate. She and Natasha had discussed whether it would be a good idea to start gathering energy in the moments leading up to the mission, and in the end, they'd agreed it was a bad idea. Now, in the midst of a situation that she could use to power up, Emory's glad she doesn't have that pressure on her as well. It's very likely that this wait is intended to reveal her powers.
Finally, the door opens, and the blue-eyed henchwoman steps through, nodding at Harris and beckoning. Emory presses her arm against the shape of the phone in her pocket to bolster her courage.
The room she's wheeled into is dimly lit and very large. The lack of light surprises Emory until she reasons that most 'balls' are evening affairs. It would be useless to design the room with the kind of windows that would stream light into a space hardly ever used in the daylight hours. Still, the absence of sunlight and lack of lamps fills her with dread. What will they be greeted with at the shadowy other end of the room? A lab? A throne?
They pass four columns on the way to an answer to her question. Multiple rich-looking carpets denote a rich-looking office area against the back wall. In the very center is an enormous dark wood desk with a huge winged chair. The lights are all positioned behind the chair, so its occupant isn't fully visible until they're feet away.
She sees his hand first, as the scientist reaches toward a small lamp positioned at the close corner of his desk. Everything about the encounter so far is obviously theatrical, so Emory braces herself. Did this man's obsession with the serum turn cruel after his own use of it backfired into something horrible?
The light switches on, revealing that the chair is even more disproportionately large than she thought. Seated there is a matronly, slight woman with graying hair pulled back in a generous pouf on the top of her head. She's dressed in a black suit jacket and stark white shirt, just like her minions, though her clothes carry no embellishments. The desk is meticulously neat, with a few folders and the lamp, and nothing else.
"Welcome, my dear."
End note: Sorry this took a while to get to you. In the interim, I've celebrated my birthday, my husband's birthday, and struggled with a powerful sense of inadequacy and self-hatred. The reception to this story has been lovely, and I wanted to make sure that my own issues weren't reflected here.
It helps that my plans for this story and its sequels are something I'm looking forward to so much! I feel just a little bit of frustration at myself for 'hiding' them in a story that seems on its face to be a vehicle for romantic tension and not much else, but we learn by doing, and I think the characters in the story deserve the arc I'm giving them.
Lastly, just wanted to say, if you can, reach out to a person you care about and tell them what they mean to you? It can make a great big difference.