Apologies for the late update. I wasn't particularly happy with this chapter so I made myself rewrite major portions of it four hours before the update was due. Needless to say, perfectionism is a curse.
Please leave your thoughts in the comments down below!
Blow king to beggar and queen to seam
(blow friend to fiend: blow space to time)
-when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man
- What if a Much of a Which of a Wind; E. E. Cummings
Their masks arrive with their invitations. Identical phoenixes - one in blazing red, the other in sharp electric blue - with sharp, curved edges. There is no mistaking which belongs to whom.
August 16th, 2025
Madripoor
The roads streak past tinted windows, with destitute parts of the city at the shores of the island drowned out by the decadent skyscrapers coming to life.
The limousine pulls up around the circular driveway of an ostentatious manor - one meant to stay branded in the memory of even the ultra-rich. Two women emerge almost immediately into a ravenous horde of paparazzi who are always eager to trip celebrities into a quicksand of social faux-pas. With an ease born of long practice, they handle the cameras with grace then make their way into the vestibule.
Well-dressed guests gather around the wide, carpeted stairway that ascends to the ballroom. Isabelle slides her phone over to the receptionist for ID proof - standard routine overpowers celebrity status in a place like this, even for them - and looks at Pepper. "Been a while since I did this."
"It doesn't show," Pepper assures quietly.
Despite her words, her sister-in-law senses that Isabelle is not yet ready to socialize, and employs her innate magnetism to full effect. It might be personal bias, but this is the redhead at her most powerful, her most beautiful - mingling with other guests, resplendent in a dark gold strapless dress, which pairs beautifully with her mask.
The sight of it sends a bolt of unease through Isabelle, who feels the weight of her own. She switches on her comms. "You in, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?"
There's a hum of affirmation. "The encryption in the reception console was surprisingly inadequate."
"They're all inadequate compared to you. Anything useful from the logs?"
"Some guests I think you'll find interesting."
Her eyes flick to a woman lingering near a formless statue in a black gown exposing suspiciously muscular arms. "Fancy meeting you here, Agent Johnson," she murmurs when she's finally within earshot.
Framed by a glossy mask with purple highlights, Daisy Johnson's eyebrows twitch. "Coulson warned me you might be attending," she says neutrally.
"Not exactly a S.H.I.E.L.D.-friendly gathering to be gate-crashing."
"Strange then, isn't it, that our host invited not one, but two agents to his high-profile gala?"
"Strange, indeed," she agrees.
At that moment, in the face of their mysterious summons and the strength of the opposition that it might represent, they stand united, just for the duration of this grand evening.
Ballroom
The ballroom is glamorous.
Vaulted ceilings are interrupted by massive chandeliers glittering in the soft light. Thick velvet drapes frame French windows, which look out into moonlit gardens.
Isabelle makes her way to the drinks reception - they're serving complimentary cocktails along with the usual fare of champagne. "Sparkling water," she says, then sips at her drink slowly her eyes roving across the chic ballroom.
Everyone who's anyone in Madripoor is in attendance, faces framed by elegantly detailed masks. All potential investors who value their anonymity highly, on account of their fingers being knuckle-deep in various illegal pies.
Madripoor is a known haven for international criminals, due to its propensity to refuse extradition from within its borders. Not surprising considering its history - seized and ruled by freebooters for centuries, resulting in a non-interventionist government with regards to virtually any business transaction, no matter how morally depraved.
A worse shoal of piranhas than the paparazzi waiting outside, eagerly awaiting the slightest hint of blood.
And the worst of the lot hasn't even made an appearance yet.
Before she can take her first sip, however, a woman slides into the adjacent seat.
Something about her confident poise seems discomfitingly familiar, even beneath the nondescript mask. It's the voice that finally drives it home. "Feeling a little dehydrated there, Agent Collins?" Christine Everhart says.
Isabelle has had few interactions with the formal journalist, now WHiH News anchor, but there's still a not-inconsiderable and uncomfortable history between them. "Everhart," she acknowledges flatly. "I don't know why I'm surprised. Lawson doesn't seem to have a filter on the people he invites into his home."
Everhart smiles. It's not a pleasant smile. "Funny you should mention that. Because I've been keeping an eye on who's entering the building in the past few months."
"Why? Planning on doing a spread on our host?"
"My goals are a bit loftier these days. Like running down names of some discreet, top-class experts in fields you wouldn't expect - sociologists, anthropologists, linguists, psychologists."
"… Any eugenicists in that list of yours?"
Bemused, Everhart shakes her head.
"Then we're done here."
A moment later, Everhart pushes herself to her feet. She pauses in the middle of stalking off. "You should be careful about who you provoke here, Agent Collins."
Isabelle stills. "That sounded awfully like a threat."
But the arrogance she's expecting on the anchor's face isn't present. Even past the mask, she can make out the somber and subdued expression. "A warning. This territory is much more dangerous than you could possibly know."
"Step carefully."
She is still nursing her drink when Pepper comes up and orders a martini, extra olives. She looks flushed in a way Isabelle hasn't seen in a long time. Grief and the weight of single motherhood had aged her, but tonight, all of that has fallen away to the persona of a brilliant, radiant CEO.
A transformation Isabelle hasn't seen all too often these days. And if the stress that she's observed on Pepper's face in the past few years are any indication, it's not something she's likely to see a lot of in the future either.
"Madripoor hasn't changed a bit," Pepper says wonderingly. "It's been - what - thirteen, fourteen years since our last high-profile appearance? Usually, it involved RSVPing with sincere regrets because we couldn't be seen interacting with these people. Still can't, if I'm being honest."
"S.I.'s losing traction in international waters then?"
"It never did have much here, not after we shut down the weapons division."
"Well, pirates hardly have much use for clean energy."
Pepper arches a finely sculpted brow. "I burned a fair bit of goodwill accepting this invitation, Izzy. At least do me the courtesy of an explanation."
She finishes her drink, stalling for time, or perhaps for the appropriate words to placate her sister-in-law. Pepper deserves to know, yes, but it'd be better for her not to.
The truth is… she doesn't have any answers. She'd been startled when the invite had arrived, requesting their presence at an event for the 'camouflaged launch' of a new company. Any other day, she'd have ignored it, but then her brain had assimilated the host's name.
Pepper hadn't been happy but had finally caved.
"If this is a mission…"
Isabelle's already shaking her head. "I'm still suspended."
"Then what…?"
Her words are drowned by a round of enthusiastic applause. They rise and inch closer to the crowd. The stage curtains part slowly - as though building up the moment - to reveal their host.
Henry Lawson gazes at his audience, the corner of his lip sliding up in time with the intensifying applause. The man revels in it, absorbing it like a sponge.
Pepper has succumbed to peer pressure, but Isabelle's hands limp at her sides. The fizz stirs unpleasantly in her stomach.
It takes a while to dawn that Lawson has no intention of halting the applause, which peters out almost doubtfully - people glance around as though unsure in the presence of the lack of humility. But eventually, the ballroom falls silent.
Lawson takes a deep breath.
"Many of you might have noticed that this is a much smaller group than is usually present at such events. You might be wondering - why were we invited? Why were we singled out?"
Isabelle exchanges a look with Pepper.
"The truth is simple. You stepped up."
"We all know that the Decimation brought us to the brink of extinction."
"Infrastructure collapsed. Governments threw in the towel. Millions more died after the initial chaos of the Snap, but not because of horrific accidents or starvation."
"No."
" Diseases. Manageable ones like diabetes, easily curable ones like typhoid or flu even... yet, people died because there were no hospitals to go to nor doctors to consult."
"Illness was rampant, and healthcare nonexistent."
"Back then there were no charity galas, not even a street-side auction - and yet each of you stepped forward, helping those in need out of the generosity of your hearts. Lawson Worldwide was privileged enough to coordinate these efforts so they'd have a widespread reach, while also maintaining your anonymity."
"And despite all that, healthcare has always been about reacting to a bad situation. We're only ever avenging against diseases."
For a second, Henry Lawson's eyes seem to flick towards her. She would've chalked it up to her imagination if not for the fact that multiple eyes track his sight.
" But why stop there? Why provide healthcare when you can remove the need for healthcare in the first place?"
"Imagine... a world without cancer or plagues. Imagine... a world where all possible diseases or disorders have been identified and eradicated . It sounds like the ravings of a madman, but I assure you... this future is perfectly possible."
"With the New Dawn Corporation, humanity will be uplifted to the stars - stronger, smarter, brighter - free of that which would hold them back."
"Prevention, after all, has always been better than the cure."
Despite Pepper's assurances, she's still surprised at how easy it is to slip into this role.
Some things go deeper than training. Some things are just... instinct; aristocracy ingrained into her bones since the moment she'd been forced to learn to dance in high-heels, or charm people with her words and her wit, despite being only six.
A lifetime ago, long before Terrigenesis had sculpted her into a warrior.
Isabelle smiles and exchanges bon-mots with people whose names she doesn't bother remembering, almost overcome with nostalgic memories of the times she'd had to make an appearance at her mother's varied charity auctions.
It's the closest she has felt to Maria Stark in decades.
Pushing the wistfulness out of her mind, Isabelle deflects personal, sometimes downright scandalous inquiries about herself towards the one and only subject she's actually interested in - Henry Lawson.
And boy, do they have a lot to say about him.
"Did you know," one woman exclaims, her eyes brimming with the glee of possessing a piece of juicy gossip, " - this used to be the old Chancellor's manor before Henry bought it?"
Her companion, a tall man, is unimpressed. "Hardly an accomplishment for someone who once rented the Sovereign's penthouse for a couple of weeks."
"You don't say," the woman gasps. "I heard it's expensive enough to bankrupt some countries!"
When the stories start becoming a little far-fetched, she makes her excuses and extricates herself. Her gaze casually sweeps across the guests, landing on Daisy Johnson, who's conversing tersely with a dusky-skinned woman.
A member of the wait-staff blocks her gaze, presents her with hors d'oeuvres; she weaves around him. Sensing the scrutiny, their eyes lock for a moment before the woman solves the mystery by peeling off her black-and-white mask - an abnormality in this sea of carefully camouflaged faces.
It takes all of her training for Isabelle to not just stalk over, but her high heels still clack a little too loudly against hardwood floors.
"Operative Rambeau," she says flatly. "What an entirely unexpected surprise."
Monica Rambeau grins insolently. "Yeah, it's not really my scene, but I clean up nice, don't you think?" And she waves at her ivory satin gown, almost trailing at her feet. "Though the new shoes still need a little breaking in."
"I didn't think you were acquainted with Henry Lawson."
Her smile is sharp. "The Decimation made it a very small world, Collins. Not that I was expecting to be invited, which makes this a little more interesting."
It's been a year since the Peak - since she was revived by the very treatment that had failed to work on her brother. To say Isabelle's bitter and resentful is an understatement. If it weren't for Pepper's confirmation and Tony's unblemished body, she'd have thought Fury had lied to her about trying T.A.H.I.T.I. on him at all.
He's certainly capable of such heartless manipulation.
Johnson looks troubled. "Three Inhumans under one roof. That's not a coincidence."
There's something in the tone of her voice. "You know something?"
Johnson inhales deeply, as though mentally bracing herself. "Coulson claimed Henry Lawson demonstrated a suspicious amount of interest in Terrigenesis. He has access to S.H.I.E.L.D. files on all of us, dead or alive - me, you, Yo-Yo Rodriguez… more."
The background conversation fades away into a creeping cold silence that descends like a shroud. "Why? "
"It's what I'm here to find out. I was counting on a diversion to slip away, snoop around a bit. Not much security." She gestures towards the security detail scattered around the ballroom. Failing epically in their quest to appear unobtrusive, the looming guards are surprisingly scarce, appearing little more than a collection of mercenaries on very short leashes.
Isabelle mentally debates for a bit. "Here," she says, activating her omni-tool, " - coordinate with F.R.I.D.A.Y. If this really has something to do with Inhumans, we all need to know… regardless of our… differences."
Johnson hesitates, then nods grimly.
Just then, the heavy stage curtains peel back to reveal the string quartet. The violins introducing a decadent musical piece seems to be some form of an invisible signal because the crowd immediately clears a gigantic space in the middle of the room.
Isabelle hasn't been to this kind of scene in a long time, but she immediately knows where it's going.
The host has to make the first move, but his absence is prolonged enough to create a stir among the guests. Isabelle is replaying Johnson's suspicions in her mind. She would brush it off as a figment of the overactive imagination that all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents eventually seem to develop - if not for the blue phoenix pressing down against her cheekbones.
She doesn't notice the crowd parting around them until he's at her elbow.
"May I have this dance?" Henry Lawson says, and something about the way he holds out his hand makes it clear that it's not something she can refuse.
Rambeau and Johnson are suspiciously still beside her. Over Lawson's shoulder, Pepper looks troubled.
Gathering up every ounce of nobility pride her mother had ever instilled, Isabelle accepts.
"There's your diversion," Monica says.
Unease churns in her gut. She doesn't overthink her next decision - "Wanna come with?"
Monica straightens gracefully, smirks at her beneath the magpie mask. "Thought you'd never ask."
Dance Floor
The hall breaks into whispers as he leads her to the dance floor, fingers tight around hers. He seems at ease in his white suit - bright enough underneath the spotlight to make her squint - while her dress suddenly feels too constrictive.
They fall into a traditional waltz; his lead a little faster than appropriate. This close to him, she can see his eyes; blue-grey which bore into hers as though to suss out all her secrets.
"Isabelle Collins," he murmurs. "It's wonderful to finally meet you. I'm a big fan."
The plastic edge of her smile pulls at her cheek muscles unpleasantly. "You have me at a disadvantage then, because I hadn't heard of you until quite recently."
It's a sharp jab, bordering on an insult, but he doesn't seem to mind. "It is true; I did make my name during the Decimation. Before, I had a small business, hardly worth any attention." Cold eyes rove over her face. "I'm glad you chose to wear my gift. It suits you better than I'd hoped."
She hears something in his voice; an almost possessive quality - as though by wearing his mask, she's somehow marked herself as his.
Isabelle exhales softly.
The familiar movements of the dance help her slip further into the role she'd trained for a very long time ago. Maria's words ring in her mind. Dance is the reflection of a relationship. It brings out your partner's true nature.
Back then, the lesson had been to hunt for a potential husband, because even at that age, it had been obvious she didn't have it in her to take over Stark Industries. Her sole purpose in the household had been settled as much the same as her mother's - preserve and uphold the family name.
She has failed rather epically at that - she won't fail her mother in this.
"An exquisite piece; it fits well." A neutral answer, but a riposte is necessary. "I'm sure your... potential investors appreciate the discretion."
"True." His gaze sweeps across the crowd. "Nevertheless, one's choice of mask can, paradoxically, reveal much about oneself."
She hums. "And if your mask is provided by another, I suppose you know exactly what they think of you."
He smiles, twirls her for a brief instant. "Possibly."
Lawson's eyes haven't left hers since they started dancing. Rookie mistake, she thinks; not watching the traffic at all, and the other couples are forced to linger on the sidelines as his extravagant steps take up far too much room. "Then the phoenix was an excellent touch - the Blip does seem a lot like rising from the ashes."
He chuckles then. "You misunderstand. Yes, the Blip was... astounding, but it was not a miracle. A miracle, by definition, is something singular - like a phoenix. The Blip happened to half the universe."
"Then I'm afraid I don't follow your reasoning."
"Terrigenesis is a form of rebirth, is it not?"
Her mask conceals her surprise, but some of it must've seeped into her eyes because he looks almost... triumphant.
"Curious," he says, deceptively mildly, " - to find an Inhuman whose transformation preceded the Outbreak by decades."
"I'm hardly unique in that regard," she points out as calmly as can. "I'm sure there are plenty of Inhumans who chose to live very much off the radar."
"True; then perhaps the Phoenix is a testament to your singular ability to rise from the ashes so many times - Terrigenesis, the Decimation, the HYDRA Uprising... ULTRON."
Her heart gives a horrific lurch at the sound of that dreaded name.
I had strings, but now I'm free. There are no strings on me...
ULTRON's deep metallic growl rings through her mind until it's all she can hear. There's bitterness on her tongue, and she hurriedly swallows down the bile that comes rushing up to her throat.
"I apologize," he says, sounding not at all apologetic. "I shouldn't have brought up what is obviously a rather painful memory. I've been granted access to quite a few confidential S.H.I.E.L.D. files - it's why I'm such a big fan. You... you're a legend."
It's then that Isabelle realizes through the panicked fugue of her mind that this isn't a dance, it's a battle. And she's losing.
She had sabotaged it the moment she had accepted the invitation, or perhaps even earlier when she'd dosed herself with the red sand. The only thing she can do right now is damage control, because - despite the painful, hard-hitting jabs - there had been unmistakable awe in his voice, along with something she can't quite place.
Isabelle takes a deep breath, tries to figure out how to force him to reveal himself.
Lawson is no amateur at the movements themselves, but he has no awareness of intent. His movements are more demanding than inviting, prompting her to adapt quickly to changes in direction.
They're both experts at the push and pull of the tug of war that is their dance, but each has their own weaknesses. Being S.H.I.E.L.D.'s benefactor gives him an edge, but he's the one practically handing over his trump card every time; and she needs to grab it before it slips away.
The candle-lit tables at the corner of her vision spark an idea.
"You flatter me," Isabelle murmurs, subtly directing them to where she wants to go, " - but I'd have found your admiration to be more sincere if not for the fact that I wasn't the only one to receive such a marvelous gift." And she nods to her right.
The timing is perfect. The spotlight illuminates Pepper for a brief instant - herself in the arms of an unknown dance partner, looking as radiant as the mythical bird whose mask she wears - before casting her into shadow once again.
Lawson smiles slightly. "You and Mrs. Stark have a lot in common."
"Oh?"
"There's a great potential in humanity," he explains. "A potential for physical and physiological perfection. Both of you represent the admirable, yet an extremely specific group of people who have successfully managed to harness that potential." His fingers tighten momentarily. "Is it selfish to want a similar opportunity for all of us?"
Ah.
There it is.
That emotion she hadn't been able to place earlier.
Envy. The heart of this masquerade. The reason why he's so very interested in her, in them. Better healthcare is just a smokescreen. This is about something else, something more... powerful. "And if others don't share your opinion?"
His lip curls dismissively. "I've been known to be very persuasive."
With that realization, the dance comes to an end. The room bursts into applause, but they have eyes only for each other. In that instant, Isabelle understands Henry Lawson perfectly.
They've both agreed to a very temporary truce, but acknowledge that the next time they meet on the battlefield, it'll be far more bloody.
Home Office
She has never been envious of alternative superpowers.
Even in that brief period when she'd believed her Terrigenesis to be a curse instead of an awakening, she had only dreamt of being normal.
But Daisy can admit to a minuscule amount of childlike awe mingling with jealousy when Monica effortlessly vanishes them from the probing eyes of the guards as they head deeper into Lawson's manor.
Unlike almost everything in her life, it is ridiculously easy.
According to the blueprints F.R.I.D.A.Y. had provided, Lawson's private workspace is nestled behind thick glass doors in the library. It's almost coldly pristine, with lighting that seems to bleach the color from the room, glinting off the various screens on the workstation.
There are no signs of personalization whatsoever - no pictures of loved ones, or even a potted cactus to spruce up the distinctly unwelcoming atmosphere. Daisy can imagine Henry Lawson fitting here perfectly.
She slips behind the screens and sets up a bridge for F.R.I.D.A.Y. while Monica idly peruses the datapads on the desk.
She pulls up files as F.R.I.D.A.Y. excavates deeper, searching for specific keywords - S.H.I.E.L.D., Erich Paine, red sand, controlled mutations. Relevant documents pop up on the screen, revealing names, relevant locations, genome sequences, theoretical papers. "What am I looking at?"
"Mr. Lawson seems to show an interest in theoretical cutting-edge eugenics."
"How cutting-edge are we talking?"
"Isolating desirable sequences from various sources and amalgamating it with baseline X-chromosomes. Controlled mutations in existing genomes. Elimination of…"
Daisy cuts her off. "Anything on Erich Paine?"
"Negative, Agent. Certain personal notes seem to resonate with Paine's research papers in the past, but there's nothing that suggests contact of any kind whatsoever."
She hadn't expected otherwise. On a hunch, she types in another keyword - Inhuman.
The result is a mess of barely categorized files and Daisy can't make heads or tails of it. "Isolate Lawson's personal research from all S.H.I.E.L.D. files."
The screen divides into two adjacent columns, the one on the right much larger than the meager investigation S.H.I.E.L.D. has conducted on the barely understood phenomenon of Terrigenesis. Daisy feels a knot forming in her belly. There seem to be years worth of research in Lawson's personal database.
With a deep sense of foreboding, she flicks through the other documents to confirm her theory. "Most of these seem to be dated before the Inhuman Outbreak," she whispers. "He knew about us before the world did."
F.R.I.D.A.Y. hums in agreement. "Archived personal logs show that he was keen on discovering the origins of pre-Outbreak Inhumans - you, skipper, Eva and Katya Belyakov, many others."
"Anything on what he wanted with us?"
Surprisingly, it's Monica who answers. "He was trying to figure out why only some humans are born with the Inhuman gene. Check this out," she says, then flicks her fingers, projecting the datapad onto the screen in front of her.
The content manifests itself in the form of notes and diagrams in a neat, precise script, most of which are heavily redacted. "His notes on Terrigenesis have hyperlinks to all of these eugenics papers. Our buddy Lawson was doing some seriously heavy reading."
"He redacts his personal notes?"
"Operative Rambeau's hypothesis is sound. It appears he was looking to isolate the 0.2% of the genome found solely in Inhumans, perhaps even eliminate the recessiveness of the gene."
"But why?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Monica's voice is bleak. "He wants to create more of us. Probably to use as WMDs, like the Kree originally intended."
"He can't ."
"Oh, honey, he very much can. His type always can."
"No, I mean he literally can't," Daisy insists. "Inhuman gifts aren't random - there's a reason why we emerge from the mists the way we do. We're created to fill an evolutionary need at the time and to create equilibrium within the species as a whole."
"He won't get far trying to breed more of us. He'll just end up with… monsters," she says, thinking of the Primitives designed by Holden Radcliffe. Whose creation she had contributed in.
"You're saying - we have a destiny." Monica arches a brow. "Didn't peg you for the superstitious type, Johnson."
"I've seen it happen. Thrice," Daisy says, flooded with memories of Lincoln, of Charles Hinton, of Raina even. All of whom had been at the right place at the right time, in service to their fate.
"And what happened to them after they've done what they're meant to?"
Daisy stays silent.
"Right, so we're to be used and thrown away," Monica scoffs, tossing the datapad onto the desk.
"Sounds like destiny isn't all that different from Lawson."
Powder Room
She's never been in a room this quiet before.
The sound of the water running over her fingers barely makes a dent in the utter silence of the place, which presses down on her ears with a painful weight. It almost seems malevolent in its intensity.
The door opens, noiseless in any other setting. The room is small, divided by looming partitions which might well be made of vibranium for the way they cancel sound.
It's behind one of these partitions that a woman comes through. Isabelle resists the urge to groan.
"I don't think you can get rid of his touch that easily," Everhart says.
Isabelle doesn't reply, just dries her hands and heads towards the exit.
"Your interest in Henry Lawson is a little too obvious, Agent Collins." Everhart quickly intercepts her. "People are beginning to talk."
She sighs inwardly. "Sinking to the levels of gossip. For shame, Everhart."
"Investigative journalism 101 - vet the intel if you can't vet the source." She takes a step forward. "Just like I did with the photos of S.I. weapons in Gulmira, way back in 2009. That intel sky-rocketed my career."
Isabelle stills. Just for an instant, but enough for the hawk-eyed anchor, who immediately pounces.
"It took me longer than I'd like to track you down as the anonymous source," Everhart says. The look on her face reminds Isabelle of a hunter who finally has her prey right where she wants it. "The S.H.I.E.L.D. files dumped during the Uprising helped. In the beginning, I thought you sold out your brother because you were HYDRA."
Isabelle shuts her eyes. There's a lump in her throat. The media had loved to malign her brother, but they'd defended him viciously when the truth of her past had come out.
Everhart is on a roll though. "But that wasn't it, was it? You just wanted to expose whoever was selling weapons under the table by forcing Tony to investigate."
She doesn't know what it is about her face tonight that invites people to corner her and confront her with painful memories. "What do you want, Everhart?"
"Same as you," is the immediate reply, " - to peel back the layers of one Henry Lawson."
Isabelle works her jaw. Truth is, she can't refuse this any longer, despite her distaste for the anchor. Everhart had been an excellent investigator - undeterred by influential bigwigs, confronting them with harsh, unforgiving truths without giving them a chance to shrug off their complicity.
It's why she'd forwarded her those photos. Fury had been, well, furious that she'd just handed confidential information over to a journalist of all people, but had been forced to concede the matter when it'd all ended better than they'd hoped.
At worst, she'd have exactly what she has now… jack. "Alright, hit me."
"Henry Lawson is a phantom. He doesn't exist."
Isabelle takes a step forward, intrigued in spite of herself. "Explain."
"There are no records that exist of him before the Decimation. Not unusual - frankly an unimaginable amount of data was lost in those five years -," and for a moment there, an expression such abject loss crosses her face that makes Isabelle's chest tighten, " - but this was too… clinical. As though someone had deliberately wiped any and all mention of Henry Lawson."
"Reborn - like a phoenix from the ashes," Isabelle murmurs. "What about passports, birth certificates? He didn't just become a billionaire overnight."
"He may as well have. I haven't been able to get past Madripoor's laws on maintaining the privacy of its citizens. His past is like an impenetrable wall."
"What about during the Decimation? How much of that speech was true?"
The anchor snorts. "Lawson Worldwide did help dovetail the efforts, I suppose, but he's also polishing it up very well. The Decimation… simplified a lot of things, including laws. And humanitarianism has always been a good front for sharks."
"What did he contribute?"
"Millions of dollars into worldwide genetic treatment to push the limitations of human lifespan and endurance in extreme conditions."
Isabelle stares at her. "You're talking - immortality and invincibility. Governments wouldn't have agreed to this."
There's an awful look on Everhart's face. "The human race was on the brink of extinction, Collins. You haven't seen true desperation unless you've lived through the Decimation. The chaos never ended, not really." She exhales. "Besides, he didn't promise an infinite lifespan, just a significantly longer, more durable one."
"Did he succeed?"
"Guess we'll know in a few decades."
"But that's just the stuff the public knows about." She sighs. "I had a source on the inside, feeding me intel on the New Dawn Foundation. He was supposed to meet me last month to hand over hard evidence on what the organization's really a front for."
"Found him on the dock; needle marks on his arm. Overdose." Everhart's eyes are hard. "My source never touched drugs. Autopsy couldn't even tell which one it was. Something new, hadn't hit the market yet."
Isabelle grows cold, recalls the bitter yet heady taste of the red sand. "You get anything else?"
"Unsubstantiated rumors - gossip, but might be worth looking into. The Foundation is anonymously linked to and approved by a number of influentials around the world - UNAS Secretary Thaddeus Ross and the Chancellor of Madripoor among them."
She purses her lips, looking troubled. "Their main goal? To create an unstoppable army."
Home Office
"Operative Rambeau," F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, "I've encountered something you may find interesting. An anomaly in Mr. Lawson's recent logs. Upon further investigation, it appears to be a secret, unauthorized communication protocol from Lowell City, Mars."
Monica stiffens and leans over. "That's S.W.O.R.D. territory. All the colonists are supposed to be thoroughly vetted," she murmurs. "What's he got?"
In response, F.R.I.D.A.Y. brings up a pixelated holographic video of what's clearly recognizable as Earth. An aerial view of forests covering large swathes of land, interspersed with a clearing where a group of half-naked humanoids shakes their spears at the sky. "The hell is this?"
"If I'm not mistaken, those are Cro-Magnons, early human beings who lived around fifty-thousand years ago. This is footage of prehistoric Earth, oxymoronic as the concept may be."
Daisy blinks, certain she'd heard wrong. "A deep-fake?"
" No ."
"But… but the timelines don't match. The very first Inhuman was a Mayan. There were no Kree experiments before that."
"Yeah," Monica agrees, all too readily, but then Daisy remembers - she had spent almost her whole adult life among the Kree's - and by extension - the Inhumans' worst enemies. "The Kree hadn't even achieved spaceflight fifty-thousand years ago."
"You're telling me," she croaks, " - this was someone else?"
The other woman doesn't answer, continuing to stare at the looping video with furrowed eyebrows. The strange, anticipatory silence snaps like a rubber band as Monica leaps into a flurry of activity. Her fingers flying across the holographic keyboard, code springing up on the screen.
"What are you doing?"
"See the glitches? The flickers, the fluctuations in the recording? Not random."
At first, she doesn't notice it, but then - there! The patterns in the glitching - small but undeniably repetitive distortions that you wouldn't even know are there unless you know what you're looking at.
"Steganographic messages in the video?" she breathes, the honed instinct of a hacktivist kicking in. Her eyebrows rise. "That's how Lowell is communicating with him. Can't decrypt it without the key, though."
"A voice-based encryption, one-word password - I can reconstruct it with a programmed version of his voice."
Daisy blinks, bewildered. "Where did you even get the voice samples?"
"I eavesdropped through skipper's comms while they were dancing. He likes to talk. However, the permutations are infinite… and we have only three attempts before I'm locked out indefinitely."
"Random passwords aren't that common, and thinking of him as a family man is just creepy," Daisy says. "That leaves work. And hobbies."
"Obsessions, really," Monica says. "Try Inhuman."
F.R.I.D.A.Y. feeds the word through a voice modulator. " Incorrect password. Two attempts remaining."
"Terrigenesis?"
"Incorrect password. One attempt remaining. "
Everything they've learned about Lawson so far confirms they're on the right track. She can feel it in her bones. Daisy racks her brains, thinking furiously.
Monica is frozen, eyes darting between the video and the documents displayed on the adjacent screen with a strange, incomprehensible look on her face.
"What about Kree."
A deep silence follows as they wait breathlessly for F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s response. "Password accepted. "
Rows of what appears to be gibberish symbols crowd the screen, unlike any language Daisy has ever seen. Manifesting in various configurations - circular, spiral, even a strange, uneven shape she can't describe - the blocky, choppy hieroglyphs are undoubtedly alien.
There are hyperlinks that lead them right back to Lawson's eugenic notes. The previously redacted information bleeds away to reveal decent swathes of data - graphs and charts, diagrams of full-bodied humanoids that are just subtly different from current homo sapiens.
They weren't Lawson's personal notes. They were translations.
Certain phrases stick in her mind; " - genetic potential of humanity… ", " - curve of intellectual progression… ", " - high degree of variable genetic code… "
"Just what the hell is Henry Lawson up to?"
Balcony
The ballroom had grown uncomfortably hot, and so Pepper had retreated to the curved balcony on the upper level on the hunt for a breeze which now skates against her arms, heavy with the promise of rain. The railing is smooth beneath her palms, almost unnaturally pale in the light of the full moon.
"Breathtaking view, isn't it?" She feels the faint pressure of a hand at her back.
Henry Lawson slips in beside her. She resists the urge to give in to a full-body shudder. He's the slipperiest of all the snakes she's been forced to interact with this evening.
"One for the ages," she agrees perfunctorily. Privately, it's nothing to write home about - the majestic skyline of Hightown only reminds her of the starving thousands residing in the shanty towns of the coastline beyond it.
"Ah, but I disagree," he says, looking out at the same color-washed skyscrapers. "This, beautiful as it may be, is temporary. Soon enough, it'll all come crumbling down. All that we've built, all that we've endured, forgotten.
"I've always had trouble accepting that," he admits. "The thought of… bowing down to time. What's so wrong in wanting to make an indelible mark on history?"
This conversation is slipping dangerously into territory far too intimate for her comfort, despite the fact that they barely know each other, and she is perfectly sure she doesn't really want to know him. "Everything fades," she says carefully. "Eventually."
"Not legacy. Not dynasties, which can carry my line forward."
"You mean children." There's a prickling on her scalp. She can't quite shake the sense of something being very wrong.
"Yes. Someone to ensure my work here remains… unsullied. Of course, these are just nebulous, half-formed thoughts at best." He chuckles self-deprecatingly, then turns to her with a speculative look in his eye. "But what about you, Mrs. Stark? Do you want your dynasty to continue what you have built? To what once belonged to her father?"
Something about the way he emphasized dynasty instead of daughter sends alarm bells ringing through her mind. "It's a little too early to be thinking of that," she replies neutrally. "She's just seven."
"Oh, come now, Mrs. Stark," he cries. "Do you mean to tell me that the thought of leaving what's essentially a sinking ship to your only child has not occurred to you even once?"
Pepper's fingers tighten around her clutch purse. "Why was I invited to your gala, Mr. Lawson?" she asks, swiftly cutting through the endless circular talk.
"Because I wish to offer you a deal of a lifetime," he replies immediately. "Come work for me. My business will benefit greatly from your… unique qualities. Sentiment has its place, but your talents are being wasted trying to save Stark Industries."
She hadn't even been given an opportunity to fall back on her regular - and these days, overused - defense; fluctuating stock markers, strong foundations. Pepper's rage threatens to bubble to the surface. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll accept gracefully," he shrugs. "I just wished to offer my friendship before the inevitable."
"Inevitable?"
A lensman interrupts Lawson before he can reply. She smiles through gritted teeth as they pose together, resigned to the fact that her board members are going to have a field day about this ill-conceived venture.
"Stark Industries prides itself on inspiration and innovation," he murmurs as she blinks through the flash. "Even now, there's a way it can continue to do good, in the right hands, under the right… leadership."
Her stomach plummets.
"Are you certain, Mrs. Stark, that you're what S.I. needs right now?"
Guest Gardens
"Terrigenesis, aliens, unstoppable armies," Isabelle breathes. "This is much bigger than Erich Paine."
Johnson and Rambeau hadn't been all that pleased at the sight of Christine Everhart accompanying her through the network of arched arbors. It'd been a mutual feeling, and Isabelle, of all people, had been forced to mediate a truce in the face of a common enemy.
She leans against the fountain built into the outer wall of the manor. The arbors seem perched precariously on the verge of overgrowth by the vines along the lattice. Thin rays of moonlight just about illuminate the pedantically pruned symmetrical bushes on the sides, interrupted by color-coded flowers planted at equal intervals.
She feels like that, micro-managed, the wildness inside her unwillingly tamed by all this… perfection. She misses dust and blood, the purity of battle, where it is just her and her enemy, all their lies laid bare.
"Hardly seems real, even with everything," Everhart says. She'd recovered remarkably from the shell-shock after Johnson and Rambeau had dropped their various bombs. "But it… corroborates with the data I've gathered. That list I mentioned - people being invited to the manor? Some of those weren't just linguists - they were xenolinguists."
Rambeau nods. "A motley collection of experts that's only called when you're planning to infiltrate or cooperate with an obscure tribe or something. Or in this case, new aliens."
"Pieces solving a puzzle," Johnson murmurs. They all know exactly what she means.
"But what's the puzzle?" A voice calls out from behind them. Isabelle twists sharply, instinct forcing her to a combat stance before she recognizes Pepper's unmistakable form. Dry leaves crunch beneath high heels, and even though she is silhouetted by the moonlight, something about her posture brings a memory of scorching, vicious flames.
"Pepper," she says, stalking forward. Her sister-in-law fixes her with a blank, almost bottomless gaze. "What's wrong?"
"Can you tell me?"
Her stomach drops. "Rambeau," she snaps. Bright golden light pools out from the operative's fingers, draping gently over them. Isabelle's fingers frantically run down Pepper's arms, eyes cataloging every hair in disarray, every fold out of place, every stuck leaf.
No cuts, no tears. No dust. No blood.
Had she really been wishing for dust and blood not moments ago?
"I'm not injured, Izzy," Pepper assures quietly, blinking, some life returning to her eyes again. "I'm just… tired of the lies. The days of you keeping me in the dark are over."
Isabelle clutches her shoulders, trying to breathe through the ache building up in her chest. A question is stuck in her throat, waiting to be voiced, but she won't - not here, not in front of people who are little more than strangers.
Strangers who she had decided to trust more than her own family. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
And so Isabelle tells her - all of it, from the Circle and the red sand to Henry Lawson. She has shared them before, with Coulson, with Johnson, but she feels a strange sense of relief at having brought Pepper into the fold too. Perhaps it's because no one living knows her better than Pepper, who had loved a Stark despite all odds. Despite everything screaming at her not to.
And Isabelle has never been more of a Stark than when she's carrying the weight of the world.
Pepper is silent for a long time after she's finished. Her eyes dart between all of them, inscrutable.
"You know what I don't get?" Pepper asks. "Your role in this, Monica." Isabelle blinks at the unexpected familiarity, then remembers Rambeau's words - the Decimation made it a very small world. "Izzy is following up on Paine, Daisy's worried about Inhumans, Christine is… doing her own thing. Why are you here?"
Rambeau stills, then smiles ruefully. "Should've known you'd be the one to call me out, ma'am." History weighs heavily between them, like the promise of a storm. "I was ordered to wheedle my way into this party."
Isabelle should really have known. "Why?"
"Because you've been freezing out the chief, and he didn't know how else to get to you."
"I had my reasons."
She exhales. "It's what I told him, so he had you take the scenic route, hoping you'd stop at the same station."
"What?"
"The Circle," the other woman explains, the word immediately dropping like a bomb over Isabelle's head. "Orders to assign you to that clusterfuck of a mission came from Fury."
It washes over her, that cold sting of... she doesn't know what to call it, but the closest approximation is betrayal. That entire mission had huge holes in it, and while she hadn't been willing to use that as an excuse for her abysmal performance, it had certainly been a factor.
An Avenger on Nigandan lands could never have ended well.
But she hadn't questioned Coulson. Because somehow, somewhere along the way, she'd begun to trust him. Maybe not the way she used to, back when they were young and naive, but certainly enough to not manipulate her via missions.
"Why did he want me working the case?" she asks, fighting to keep her voice even.
"Because he knows what I'm only just figuring out - you only take missions that are personal to you, or those you somehow end up making personal."
She may as well have smacked Isabelle across the face.
Some rational part of her wonders why she's feeling this, because Coulson, despite being a Director, will always have it in him to obey Fury's orders.
Then why does it feel like knives in her lungs?
"Well then," she says through gritted teeth. "All that effort, spinning me around in circles - can't let it go to waste. I have a few words for your chief, anyway. You have transport?"
"Cloaked shuttle at the airstrip."
She laughs humorlessly. "Of course you do. He ordered you to knock me out and bring me anyway if I didn't agree, didn't he?"
There's no answer.
"I'll be there," she promises. "Now get out of my sight."
Rambeau doesn't bother arguing, slips away into the dark.
Johnson clears her throat. "Everhart and I… will coordinate. There's a possibility that this unstoppable army thing might have something to do with him trying to reinvent Terrigenesis. You'll… work the alien angle?"
She nods, rage sealing her mouth shut.
"Right then." She exchanges an unsubtle glance with Everhart. "Good luck," she waves awkwardly and exits at a rapid pace, leaving her alone with Pepper.
Isabelle's vision is tinting a brilliant blue. Her fists are so tight her fingers are cutting into her palms. She exhales, attempting to calm herself, but her breath mists over with her rage.
Suddenly, she feels the curl of familiar, warm fingers wrapping around her wrist. The simple touch ground her, almost as if Pepper's absorbing a fraction of her fury, sharing it, making it almost bearable.
Isabelle's reminded of flames again, red and savage and unforgivable and despairing. "What did he do?"
She doesn't answer for a long moment. "Apparently, I'm going to have to stave off a Stark Industries takeover because I turned down a very lucrative job offer."
Isabelle's learning to roll with the punches. But this one is easier, because it's not the worst hit of the night, not even close. It's still waiting to be acknowledged, so close it's at the tip of her tongue. "That's not why he invited you here."
"He talked about legacies, about what we leave behind - who we leave behind to."
Terror courses through her blood, her heart thumping hard enough to burst. On an impulse, she leans her head against Pepper's. "I'll tear his arms off before he even lays a finger."
"I'm not worried about me."
No, of course, she wasn't. Legacy. The footprints handed down through generations, through blood, through genes. Lawson had invited Isabelle Collins, Daisy Johnson, and Monica Rambeau tonight because they were Inhumans.
The question that had haunted her subconsciousness throughout this gala, that had lingered even when she'd been distracted - why had he invited Pepper Potts?
The answer was easy; the final piece of the puzzle.
A phoenix walking out of flames that had once seared - that, despite Henry Lawson's beliefs, hadn't passed down from mother to daughter.
Extremis.
MCU Context
Inhuman Destiny
I kind of loved this concept in Agents of SHIELD, even though I'm all about free will. But destiny and fate sound great when heroes are involved, and in the case of Inhumans, I rationalized it as a consequence of them having chosen by the mists. They are gifted with these powerful abilities - and in return, they're forever tied to a destiny that they can't escape from. Every step leads them to that destination.
Hmm. Wonder what Collins', Rambeau's and Johnson's destinies have in store for them? ;)
Christine Everhart and the Gulmira Photos
Okay, I couldn't help but bring her back. Despite the way she was portrayed in Iron Man, and her epic takedown by Pepper Potts, which immediately earned the latter a top rank in my list of topmost badass women in the MCU, I actually enjoyed Everhart's boldness.
She called out for accountability way from the very first movie. And her confrontation with Tony about Stark weapons in Gulmira was what galvanized him to start doing the right thing. In my fic's canon, it's Collins who mailed them to her anonymously, using S.H.I.E.L.D. resources.
I've left tidbits like this all over my fic, insinuating a history for my OC within the existing mythology of the MCU without breaking said mythology. I have some ideas about writing an adjacent story, snapshots of her history, her relationships, her mistakes, her successes - build her up a little more.
Let me know if you'd like to see something like that.
Comics Context
Madripoor
A fictional island in Southeast Asia. Super famous for its expensive hotels. Described as 'a place for the very rich and the very poor'. There's a very clear division of the cities - Hightown, where the rich dwell in skyscrapers, and Lowtown, where the poor barely eke out a living in shantytowns.
A Lawson Manor doesn't actually exist in Madripoor, unfortunately, but I can't imagine the guy living anywhere else.
The Sovereign is the finest and most expensive hotel in Madripoor. It has a triplex imperial penthouse that is said to indeed bankrupt most countries.
ME Context
Immortality and Immunity
This is probably the most unrealistic thing I've ever penned down, even though I'm writing a crossover between a word where a purple alien wiped out half the universe with six glowing stones and another world where... equally weird things happen.
But I needed this rather desperately.
Isabelle Collins, being an Inhuman, will live half again as long as an average human, give or take a few years. That's a comic-book fact of all Inhumans. But the humans of the MCU themselves are pushing middle age. Since I need quite a few of them to survive until as far as Mass Effect 3 even, I took this extreme and absurd step.
I liked to think humanity was pretty close to being extinct before certain individuals managed to yank it back from the edge of that cliff. Whether they did it for altruistic purposes or for their selfish reasons - can't rule a dead planet, after all - didn't matter at the time. How they did it didn't matter, either.
In the Mass Effect universe, humans on average live to a hundred-and-fifty, and most, if not all diseases have been eradicated. How nice for them.
So I decided to give it a little push, make it so that governments just let - well not a free reign - but there were no such things as clinical trials, FDA approval, and stuff. Desperate people are willing to do some pretty desperate things.
A desperate species, though? That's on a whole new level.
General Context
Anechoic Chambers
I've actually been in an anechoic bathroom before. That's where the inspiration for this one came from.
It was so silent I swear I couldn't just hear my heartbeat, but my organs sloshing around inside me. Human beings are not equipped to deal with the heaviness of complete, utter silence - it literally drives them insane if they're exposed for longer periods. I got out real quick.
For fans of Umbrella Academy, the chamber where Vanya was imprisoned in at the end of Season 1 is an excellent example of anechoic chambers. Boy, am I glad she blew that one up.
Investigative Journalism 101
I've no idea whether 'vet the intel if you can't vet the source' is an actual thing in investigative journalism; I just made it up. For the purposes of this story, it's true.
A/N:
Next chapter. Mars. Finally.