April 2014
Tony was very, very frustrated. He had been looking for months, and nothing . Not a single scrap of info on that mysterious sticky child. No S.H.I.E.L.D. file, no worthwhile police reports, not even a single blurry picture online. All he had were rumors, and those were barely tangible enough to get anything useful out of them.
He didn't like that. At all. The idea of an enhanced child playing vigilante didn't sit well with him.
And the lack of answers just raised even more questions. Where had that kid come from? Who was he working for? Was he using advanced tech or was he enhanced? Had he been experimented on?
Each of these held their own concerning implications; but there was one question in particular that kept coming back to the forefront of Tony's mind, turning over and over in his head, keeping him awake at night.
What did the kid want with Pepper and him?
Because the more he thought about it, the more he reexamined the kid's actions, the clearer it became that they were being specifically targeted. Why else would the kid try to break his trust in S.H.I.E.L.D.? And just his trust. No one else's. Tony had asked around and no other Avenger had received that cryptic warning.
And then there was what happened over Christmas.
The kid shouldn't have been able to find Pepper before Tony even knew where she was — unless he was involved in her kidnapping somehow. And sure, a part of Tony was grateful for his intervention — who knows what would have happened to her if the kid hadn't been there? — but the mystery surrounding him was too opaque for Tony to fully appreciate the rescue. There was something else going on. Something deeper. Something Tony didn't get. And there were few things higher on his hate list than not understanding something.
So every single night, after tossing and turning in bed, Tony would eventually get up and come down to the lab to clear his mind. He kept his promise to Pep, staying clear from armor work; but unfortunately that left him little else to do. And since he had just recently delivered the next generation of Helicarrier repulsor engines to Nick Fury, Tony was scrambling to find other venues to keep his thoughts away from the kid.
One thing led to another, and he ended up reworking the entirety of the Avengers Tower security system from the ground up. Because why the heck not? He put sensors on the exterior façades, updated Jarvis' detect and alert system, and re-encoded how comings and goings were monitored in and around the tower. .
Obviously, Tony wasn't doing any of this because of the child. Of course not.
But also, could anyone really blame him for playing the safe card in a world where kids could easily climb walls unsupervised?
And eventually, inevitably, most days found Tony's thoughts drifting back to the kid in the early hours of the morning. He would drop everything he was doing to chase down that one new lead he had just come up with, only to find the exact same result as the days before. Which was nothing. This kid was slowly driving him crazy.
Not this morning, though.
No, this morning Tony was busy with something else. See, the elusive spider-child wasn't the only mystery that had Tony scratch his brain raw these past three months, and today was the day he would finally get an answer to at least one of his burning questions.
He had dug up some old armor prototype pieces just for the occasion. They were pretty rudimentary: a barren glove, a half-dismantled helmet and a discarded torso design that hadn't quite reached the benchmarks he'd needed; but that would be enough for today's purpose.
Tony put a few last minute tools on the workbench, eyes darting up when the elevator dinged. Wiping his hands clean of left-over grease residue, he walked up to the family of three who'd just entered his personal workshop.
"Hi Misses Keener," he greeted, hand extended towards the mother. "Welcome to Avengers Tower."
She shook it, looking a bit star struck.
"Please, call me Macy. So this is the real deal, huh? I was half-convinced this was some kind of elaborate scam until your receptionist told us you were expecting us."
Tony raised an eyebrow at that.
"And you still decided to risk a trip to New York on a 'maybe'? Daring."
"Harley can be very persuasive," she explained, a slight note of weariness mixing with the pride in her voice.
Practically hanging from her mom's hand, Harley's little sister rolled her eyes.
"He wouldn't stop talking about it."
On the other side of Macy, the chatterbox in question was being surprisingly silent for once. Tony half-marveled at the rarity. Although judging by the boy's obvious fidgeting and the spark in his eyes—
"Is that a Mark V helmet?" Harley burst excitedly, eyes locked on the armor pieces Tony had prepared.
Ah, there it was. Tony couldn't help but feel proud at the kid's display of knowledge.
"Nah, the faceplate is just unpainted. This piece is actually more sophisticated than the Mark V, by far."
"How so?"
"Why don't you go see for yourself?" he invited, nodding towards the workbench.
Harley didn't need to be told twice. With a huge smile breaking out on his face, he rushed towards the old armor pieces, followed closely by his sister.
"And don't touch anything just yet!" Tony called after him.
The kid didn't seem to pay attention, already engrossed in explaining the tech to his sister.
Seeing the boy so close to his work... Tony was burning to go grill him already.
"So, about the September Foundation—" Macy mentioned hesitantly.
Right. First he needed to settle the mother's concerns before he could talk freely with Harley.
"Yes, full ride to the college of his choice," he butt in as he turned back to lock eyes with her, thinking he already knew where the conversation was headed. "And if he wants to attend any special high school, that'll be taken care of as well."
"No, what I mean is... It just sounds too good to be true, you know?" she rectified. "When I tried to look up the foundation online, I couldn't find anything about it."
"Oh, that. Yes, that's not surprising. It's all new, we haven't advertised it anywhere just yet. Harley will actually be the very first recipient. But it's all legit though, don't worry about it. Pepper will come by in a few to tell you all about the boring paperwork."
"Oh ok." There was an awkward pause. "Don't get me wrong, we're very grateful. I am very grateful, but… why Harley?"
Tony had half a mind to brush her off with a sarcastic comment, but she deserved the truth. Or at least the part he felt comfortable sharing.
"You know you've got quite the prodigy in the making, right? And your kid helped me in more ways than one back in December. I just want to pay it forward by making sure he gets into the right school, you know? And to be frank, today's meeting is mostly a formality. Legally I need proof that his skills got officially tested, but he's pretty much got the grant already."
None of it was a lie; he did really want to send the kid to college.
But what Tony wasn't saying was that he needed an excuse for a one-on-one with the kid. And since Pepper talked him out of heading back to Tennessee — which honestly would have been more of a pain now that he didn't have any armor to fly him out there — he had to get Harley here instead.
Using Stark Industries to sponsor young talents was Pepper's brilliant idea. It took much longer than he would have liked to execute, but she insisted it was a great way to both get answers out of the kid and thank him all at once. And sure, a full ride to college might be an overly expensive excuse to interrogate a preteen, but it wasn't like Tony couldn't afford it. And hey, the brat did deserve it.
"Abby, no!" Harley whisper-shouted.
Tony's head whipped back at the Keener siblings just in time to see the girl pull a finger off the glove.
"Hey, what did I say about not touching anything?" Tony scolded from afar.
"Don't look at me like that; I didn't break it this time!" Harley frowned defensively.
"What is it with tiny Keeners and ripping fingers off?" Tony muttered, striding towards the kids.
"It's ok, I can fix it," Harley said, snatching the disembodied limb from his sister's hand.
Tony kept a straight face, but inside he was boiling with excitement. This was the perfect opening.
"Oh yeah? Prove it," he challenged, knowing full well it would rile up Harley even more.
And sure enough, the kid beamed.
"For real?"
"Sure, you show me how you'd do it."
Harley looked like he was about to burst with excitement.
"Can you open it?" he asked, holding the glove up to Tony.
Tony deliberately shoved his hands in his pockets.
"I don't know. How would you go about that?"
"I know it can be opened manually, but doing it on the computer would be so much faster…" Harley prompted with false innocence.
"Can't wait to get started, huh?" Tony smirked knowingly.
"Are you kidding? I've been waiting for this for months!"
And so had Tony.
"Give it," he relented, holding out a hand.
It would have been interesting to see how the kid fared opening the glove. But that wasn't exactly what had him so eager to observe; and he was impatient to finally get into the thick of it.
In a few seconds, the glove was plugged into the nearest computer and opened wide.
"Alright Champ, show me some magic," Tony invited.
Macy lifted Abby in her arms and gathered around the workbench, curious to see Harley at work.
"I don't know why your receptionist had me sign an NDA. I don't even understand what I'm looking at," Macy muttered, squinting down at the layers of blinking electronics lining the inside of the glove.
But the complexity of the device didn't seem to bother Harley one bit. He took the time to observe the work ahead instead of rushing into the task as Tony would have expected. Only after careful consideration of the glove's layout did he grab a pair of tweezers and get to work.
In Tony's opinion, he was off to a very good start.
"Care to explain to your audience what it is you're doing?" Tony prompted.
He needed to know Harley's thought process.
"Yeah, sure! So, Abby disconnected the finger, right? Which means some connections got unplugged, and others ripped off, and I need to fix it. Like this cable for example," he explained, holding it up by the tweezers, its push-to-connect cap pinched between the little plastic ends. "I believe it connects to the... Uh... thermometer chip here?" He asked, sounding unsure, looking up at Tony for confirmation.
"What makes you think it's not for the motion detector?"
Harley pointed at the corresponding element in the severed finger.
"Because it's linked to this chip?"
Tony nodded. Satisfied he was right, Harley proceeded to reconnect the cable.
He kept going, gaining confidence as he went, all the while Tony watched him work carefully. He was both fascinated and weirdly proud of the kid.
Harley was good. Surprisingly better than Tony expected. Armor work was a massive leap up from potato guns, and yet, Harley seemed more comfortable than undecided most steps of the way. Of course there were a few hesitations here and there, but nothing that would eventually set the glove up for catastrophic failure.
Once the last cable was soldered back on — with all the proper security measures respected at that — Tony picked the glove up to examine it closely.
"The connections lack finesse, but it's solid work," he commented. "How did you learn to do that?"
"Internet?" Harley supplied.
"I meant working on technology like this."
"Er… still internet?"
Tony glanced skeptically at the kid.
"There are tutorials for such advanced tinkering online now?"
"No, just for soldering. And recognizing the different types of microchips. And working on computers and stuff. I just… went off of what I remembered and applied it here," Harley shrugged.
Tony nodded. He was more and more convinced that this was it: he'd found the answer he'd been looking for. Harley really had fixed the armor.
The elevator dinged, followed by the tell-tale clicks of stilettos growing closer.
"Well you definitely applied what you learned to good effect here," Tony complimented, laying the glove back down. He then turned to his partner as she joined their small gathering. "Pepper! Perfect timing. You can go sign the papers with Macy, he's all set."
She caught the look he gave her and quiet understanding passed between them: there would be one less thing on his mind tonight.
A genuine smile plastered on Pepper's face as she held out her hand to Macy.
"Hi, sorry I'm late. Pepper Potts," she introduced herself. "It's an honor to have Harley as the first recipient of the September Foundation."
"Thank you so much for everything you're doing for him. I didn't realize just how capable he was, or I would have accepted your offer way earlier."
"What matters is that you did eventually," Pepper dismissed politely. "Shall we go sign the papers? I think Tony is just as impatient as Harley to see it done."
"Yes, of course," Macy nodded amicably. "Abby, Harley, are you coming?"
Abby sprung to her mom's outstretched hand, latching onto it, but Harley was slower to react. In fact, he didn't move at all.
"Can I stay a bit longer?" He asked Tony, big blue eyes pleading. "I haven't even looked at the chest plate yet."
Macy answered before Tony could.
"Peanut, I'm sure Mr Stark is busy. We shouldn't take more of his time."
"Mom, don't call me that in front of Iron Man," Harley whined, clearly embarrassed at the use of the nickname.
"It's ok, I have nothing else planned today," Tony intervened, not ready to let go of Harley just yet.
There were still a few points he wanted to clear up.
Macy looked unsure. Her gaze jumped between Harley and Tony, reluctant.
"We can go in that room if that would make you more comfortable," Pepper suggested, pointing at the neighboring lab that was separated by a thick glass wall, a place she'd be allowed to keep an eye on her son.
"Alright then," she sighed.
"Can I stay too?" Abby immediately piped up, shaking her mom's hand to grab her attention.
"Don't start," the mom scolded.
"But it's not fair! Why does he get to stay and not me?"
Macy looked up at Tony, trying to gauge his reaction.
"She can stay, I don't mind," he shrugged nonchalantly.
Pulling excitedly away from her mom with a "Yes!", Abby ran back towards the workbench.
"Be good, ok?" Macy called after the kids.
"Always," they promised, almost synchronized.
This seemed to be the exact thing Macy was worried about. Looking unconvinced, she followed Pepper out of the room.
Tony turned back to the workbench, finding Harley already engrossed in examining the torso. Nodding, the billionaire half sat on a nearby desk, grabbing a screwdriver to keep his hands busy while his mind jumped back to his short stay in Rose Hill.
"Thanks, by the way."
"For what?"
"Don't play dumb, you know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I just thought you could do with a bit more juice, is all," Harley shrugged evasively.
"You did a lot more than that, though."
Harley's head whipped up, eyes wide like saucers.
"You noticed?"
"You really think I wouldn't realize my armor came back in better shape than I left it?" Tony asked, one eyebrow raised.
"I— uhh…"
"Why didn't you tell me you could work on way more complex stuff than potato guns?" Tony asked, rolling the screwdriver between his fingers.
"You didn't want my help," Harley answered instantly.
"Touché. But still, I thought you would have loved to."
"But I did! I helped. You just weren't there to see it."
There was something odd with that answer. Why was he so defensive all of a sudden?
Tony changed his approach, hoping to better understand the kid's reasoning.
"Care to tell me how you did it?"
Harley shrugged and went back to examining the torso.
"I just… ran a diagnostic scan? And then fixed what I could. No big deal," he said casually, brushing the subject off.
Huh. Weird.
"Really? Do you mind telling me how you overrode my one-of-a-kind artificial intelligence to run a diagnostic scan, Peanut? " Tony prompted, to which Harley just shrugged again, growing beet red.
…So now the kid was being purposefully evasive?
His relief at finding an answer to the mysterious repair job was slowly starting to fray. There was definitely something more going on here.
Tony wished he had at least taken the time to investigate the upgrades further before he'd lost all the data in the explosion that killed Killian. If he could ask much more specific questions, he might nail what was bothering him about the whole thing. But well, his mind was on more important matters back then.
In his periphery, he noticed Abby staring intently at him. Not the armor. Him.
He shared a playful look with her.
"Can you believe it?"
"No," she said flatly, catching Tony by surprise.
For the second time, Harley's head whipped up. But this time his attention was directed at his sister, his frown trying to convey a silent message.
This piqued Tony's interest.
"You know something I don't?" he nudged the girl.
"Abby, don't," Harley warned.
But it was too late. Whatever was driving Abby was too strong.
"He couldn't have done it without his friend's help," she blurted, index finger pointed at her brother.
Tony's stomach dropped.
"His friend? What friend?"
"Abby, you promised to keep it a secret!" Harley yelped, indignant.
"And you gave him my watch without asking!" she justified self-righteously.
"You're such a tat—"
"Wow, hey, there's no need for that!" Tony intervened, hoping to mitigate the verbal fight. "Harley, what friend? What is she talking about? Was there someone else with you?"
"I wasn't supposed to tell…"
Tony's stomach sank.
At this moment, Macy came back into the room.
"What's going on here?" She asked, clearly upset.
"Nothing!" Abby answered.
"She's being a jerk!" Harley said at the same time, pointing at his sister.
"I left for two minutes! Two! And you're already at each other's throats?"
"It's not my fault!" Harley defended himself.
"I don't want to hear it. Come. Both of you. Clearly I can't leave you alone."
"But Mom…" Abby complained.
Harley, however, didn't protest; in fact, he seemed all too relieved to leave the conversation. At his first fleeing step, Tony caught him by the shoulder. Harley went very still.
"Actually, I'd like to have a talk with Harley," he informed Macy.
She nodded and held her hand up towards Abby.
"Come," she told her daughter.
After a couple more minutes of protest, Tony was finally alone with Harley. He turned towards the boy, look severe.
"Now, hey. This is important. I need to know if someone else had access to my tech."
"…Yes," he admitted, looking everywhere but at Tony.
Oh no. This was bad. He should have known there was no way the kid could have done it on his own.
"Who? Who was it?"
Harley shrugged.
"I don't know, he wouldn't tell me his name."
Tony's mind was running a hundred miles per hour. Was it Obadiah? He was supposed to be rotting in prison. Had he escaped?
"What did the man look like?"
Harley's face screwed up in a puzzled frown.
"Man? He was barely older than me."
That gave Tony pause.
"What? What do you mean, 'barely older than you?' "
"I don't know, you tell me! He said you didn't know him, but he knew your tech so well I'm pretty sure he was lying."
Tony didn't like the sound of that. He was positively sure the only kids who had ever gotten that close to any of his armor were the Keener siblings, but he kept that information to himself.
"Harley, answer the question; this is important. What did he look like?"
"I don't know! He never showed me his face. He was wearing this stupid red mask with a painted pattern he insisted was a spider-web?"
The way he phrased it made it sound like he was expecting Tony to know exactly what he was talking about. And unfortunately for Tony's nerves, he did.
"Could he stick to walls by any chance?"
"Yes! And ceilings too," Harley replied instantly, relieved. "See, it's fine, you know who I'm talking about."
No, it was anything but fine. Tony leaned against the workbench, needing the extra support to hold his weight.
How was it even possible?
He tried to stay calm, to not show the mounting anxiety churning his guts.
"What did he know about my tech that makes you think he was so familiar with it?"
"Are you having another panic attack?" Harley asked instead, ever the perceptive, tactless one.
"Answer the question."
"Everything. He showed me how to fix it all."
Tony swallowed.
"Did he tell you what he wanted?"
Harley seemed to pick up on his worry.
"He was just trying to help, I swear!"
Tony could see Harley had good intentions, but he couldn't help the resentment.
"You were supposed to guard the armor. You promised to not let anyone touch it."
"I did, I swear! I tried to chase him off at first! I wouldn't have let him stay if he didn't seem trustworthy."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"He didn't want you to know," Harley answered, voice small.
Tony's anger intensified.
"And you listened?" he bit out. "You didn't find it weird that a masked kid wanted to keep his involvement a secret?"
"Tony, please—"
"Did he threaten you? Did he do anything to make you feel unsafe?"
"No, not at all! He just—"
"Then you should have told me!"
A heavy silence settled between them. Tony needed some time to try to manage the mix of fear and anger fighting inside him. More than Harley allowed him.
"Tony, I—"
"Go to your mom," Tony dismissed, emotionless.
For once, Harley finally listened. He left the room, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts.
The kid had lied to him. Even after Tony had tested his skills. If it hadn't been for Abby, Tony might never have known.
Maybe Harley didn't deserve the grant after all. He'd have to think about it.
In fact, he had a lot to think about.
Martin Li put a lot of value on punctuality. For such a busy man, it was more than just etiquette; it was a show of respect to all parties involved.
When people he met with were tardy, it told him they didn't value his precious time. When he was late, it was his way to convey that they were unworthy of collaboration.
So when his own financial advisors showed up almost ten minutes behind schedule, Martin didn't take it well. When they ignored his orders to cut the meeting short, causing it to spill over the next item of his day, he took it personally.
Now even more behind schedule and down a couple of staff members, Martin glared out his car's back window. He was fortunate the participants of his upcoming meeting had agreed to delay, especially considering the tour was now bound to go well past their corporation's closing time.
"Sir?"
He took a deep, grounding breath and looked up at his driver. He had been so focused on his thoughts he didn't notice Paul had lowered the window separating them. As his eyes met his driver's through the rearview mirror, the low, monotonous voice of a local news station reporter trickled into Martin's side of the vehicle from the opening.
"There's some kind of disturbance on 6th Avenue," Paul announced. "The traffic is severely slowed down. It may be faster to go around."
"Can't we just go through?"
"I would advise against it, Sir. I see at least one police car already."
"Do what you think is best, then."
Paul gave a short nod and rolled the window up.
Martin's now ex-financial advisors would definitely be leaving without severance pay.
With a sigh, he picked up a confidential file lying forgotten on the leather seat next to him and started leafing through the loose pages. If he had no choice but to be late, he might as well make sure he knew every detail of the projects surrounding his most recent acquisition for Roxxon Energy's R&D department.
There was no way Harley could have made up the kid. It was impossible; you just didn't come up with things like that.
But a part of Tony was still in denial; he needed proof Harley wasn't messing with him. So he started going through all the news footage he could find from Rose Hill, on the night of December 23rd. After those yielded no results, he moved on to the few digital surveillance videos he could still get his hands on four months after the fact, beginning with the ones overlooking the streets — traffic cams, corner store security tapes — to more and more obscure feeds as desperation drove him.
There wasn't that much material to work with, but the workload was still massive. Jarvis helped by shaving off portions of videos that were entirely still, leaving only the ones where he could detect movement of any kind, but that was about as much as he could do; the AI had no way to automate the process any further. His search parameters couldn't account for a kid that he had no visual or auditory frame of reference for.
It took Tony hours to comb through the grainy pictures frame by frame; the entire afternoon in fact.
But eventually he found it. The proof he had been looking for.
The black and white video was from a bank. The camera had been near the entrance, oriented at the door. The interior of the bank, itself, was of no interest; but its front wall was mostly windows. Through the large panes of glass and similarly clear front door, Tony got a decent view of the street and single-story buildings across the way. The camera's wide angle even allowed for several feet of rooftops to be exposed.
It lasted barely a few frames. An almost invisible silhouette, veiled by the night's shadows, dashed across the rough, composite tiles. But when Tony paused the video and enhanced the resolution as best he could, the symbol on the hoodie was unmistakable.
Unfortunately, even with the best AI in the world, the video was too low quality to feed Jarvis' database for future pattern recognition. It was blurry beyond salvage, and the kid's head was cut off halfway, anyway.
But still. Proof was proof.
Tony leaned back in his chair, at a loss.
This finding had heavy implications. The kid had been way more involved in the Mandarin debacle than even Tony could have guessed.
That did nothing to reassure him. If anything, it only served to increase his worry. The time frame didn't add up; there was no way he could have gotten to Miami so quickly the following day — at least not without help.
Tony needed to check the airlines connecting airports in Rose Hill's vicinity to Florida. If he could scrounge up some sign of the kid, any sign, then maybe Tony could use it to reverse locate the teen, maybe even uncover who he was working for. But should Tony find nothing?
Then the kid worked with someone wealthy and powerful enough to send him across the country in half a day, undetected. And Tony would have even more to worry about.
As was often the case, Erika Jankovic looked everything but professional when she greeted Martin in the lobby. Her dirty blond hair was haphazardly thrown in a bun on top of her head, she wasn't wearing any makeup — not even to hide her dark circles — and there was definitely a hoodie poking out from under her lab coat.
If it weren't for the confidence and deep knowledge oozing out of her thin frame, Martin would be very concerned about her being in charge of his latest investment. But as it was, despite her looks and poor manners, Erika had proven herself throughout her years at Roxxon. She had climbed the ranks with dedication and earned her current position as Head of Research and Development. She tended to spend long hours in the lab, sometimes days in a row, when she got passionate about a new project. And despite a few eccentricities and lack of social etiquette, she was one of the company's most valuable employees.
This was why Martin opted to let this obvious lack of respect slide without comment. It was also why he let her enthusiastically rattle on about the results of their latest experiments as she lead him through the most secure corridors of the facility.
"We've made tremendous progress in the last couple weeks, despite that, though. This substance is absolutely fascinating. It obeys only half the laws of physics — and that's just for the ones we got to test!"
The chatter went on for a few more minutes before he decided he had indulged her long enough.
"Have you found a way to contain it with minimum waste?" Martin interrupted.
If Erika noticed he wasn't asking just to make conversation, she didn't seem to mind.
"We did," she beamed, proud. "It's still a bit experimental for now, but we're in the process of getting the final container manufactured. It should be delivered next week."
Martin nodded, satisfied with her answer.
She stopped in front of the lab's observation theater, holding off from opening the door.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Martin looked at her expectantly, hiding his annoyance at the interruption.
"When I suggested getting our hands on dark matter, I was more or less just daydreaming. I mean, it's such a rare material, the technology to harvest it in space doesn't even exist yet—"
"Get to the point."
She wasn't phased by his no-nonsense approach.
"How did you manage to get your hands on some?"
"That's none of your concern," he answered matter-of-factly, readjusting his tie with a frown.
Contrary to her implication, the way Martin had acquired the dark matter was perfectly legal; he just didn't feel entitled to share the source with her. And even if he had, the NDA he signed prevented him from doing so.
Damage Control held bi-yearly auctions of their most-interesting, otherworldly finds, for which the attendance was limited to a small group of scientific organizations that had been pre-vetted. In exchange for getting their hands on exotic alien tech and biomaterial, the only requirement was that buyers must submit the results of their subsequent research to D.C. The aim of these auctions was to help fund the clean-ups, develop new equipment, and streamline protocols designed to protect the sanitation crews. What the organizations made of their acquisitions after the fact was entirely up to their discretion. And if they hit massive breakthroughs that earned them millions? Well, that was just a side benefit.
These auctions were a pretty closely held secret, both to avoid attracting the wrong sort of crowd and to limit the number of participants to a minimum. After all, less competition meant more chances to lay claim to the current members of this selective club.
"Right," Erika said after the uncomfortable beat, once she realized her curiosity would go unsatiated.
She slid her access card into the padlock and the door unlocked with a buzz.
Beyond the thick glass of the observation deck, the laboratory had undergone a massive change since Martin had last seen it. The work stations had all been pushed against the walls to make way for a hulking contraption that took up the room's center. The machine let out a quiet rumble, audible even through the glass.
The device was cylindrical in shape, at least five feet in diameter and stretching near to the ceiling. Thick rolls of ziptied cables ran all across the floor, only forking to migrate into several ports situated around the gadget's Tungsten base. Judging by the size of the individual wires, they were meant to hold substantial loads of electricity. Above the ports lived the UI, complete with keyboard, screen, graphics and charts. But above even that was the real prize — his dark matter — the void of color and light deceptively peaceful where it hung suspended in a large glass tube. It remained utterly still under Martin's watchful gaze, until its black nothingness tricked his brain into perceiving it in only two dimensions.
This was Roxxon's future.
Fascinated, Martin opened the door to the lab, curious to get closer. The ambient grumble of the machine grew even louder.
"Mr Li, this area is off-limits," Erika reminded him.
Martin frowned.
"And who owns this facility, Miss Jankovic?"
"My lab, my rules," Erika doubled down. "If you're insisting on getting inside, I want you to at least wear the proper PPE."
Martin didn't protest further; once more his Head of RnD had proven she was deserving of her position. He didn't have an ego so big that he would challenge reasonable safety measures.
Once he was equipped with a visitor's lab coat and class two protective eyewear, he was finally allowed to approach his precious asset. Despite the constant thrum and the occasional thump the container emitted at uneven intervals, Martin didn't hesitate.
It was the first time since acquiring the dark matter that he'd been able to see it up close. Up until now he'd always laid eyes on it from afar, or from behind the safety of a computer screen. He slowly circled it, almost hypnotized. He was half-amused that the silhouette seemed to morph when he moved, proving the substance to be anything but flat.
"Careful where you walk," Erika warned as she, too, stepped over one of the many electric cables. "This does the job for a temporary holding measure but, well… As you can see, the design isn't exactly polished yet."
Martin heeded the warning by coming to a full halt.
"How did you manage to maintain the suspension?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of the rare material.
"We're using distilled, electrified water," Erika commented, absorbed as if it were both her first and thousandth time seeing the substance. "The precise voltage is continuously calculated to counteract all the electrons' movements. It's the only solution we've found to neutralize the dark matter's more destructive aspects. No other containment methods we've tried have held up to the corrosion so far. It makes retrieving samples a bit more challenging, but we've found ways around that."
Martin struggled to hear over the rumble of the machine and its punctual banging. As interesting as all of this was, the noise was getting obnoxious. He stepped back to give his employee his full attention.
"Does that also make it less dangerous?"
"In a way, yes, if you consider the reduced spillage risk."
She wasn't telling him everything.
"But?"
"…But we also found out that for some minutes after retrieving a sample, any organic matter that comes into contact with it reacts very poorly — worse than any other storage method we've tried."
That didn't sound good.
"How?"
"It's… difficult to explain. I have never seen anything like it, but the best analogy I can make is that it's a bit like what a virus does to corrupt healthy cells? But much, much worse. As in it infiltrates them and splits their core structure."
Martin let his eyes and attention wander upwards as he contemplated this new bit of information. Which made him notice that the raucous noise he'd first attributed to the machine actually seemed to be coming from the floor above. He briefly frowned at the ceiling, but decided to ignore it for now.
"That sounds rather concerning. Is that slowing down your other tests?"
"Not by much. We need to take extra precautions to prevent accidents, but nothing out of the ordinary. We're still on schedule for now."
Martin nodded.
"Good. Make sure to keep it that way."
He turned back to the dark matter, his soon to be cash cow.
"Any idea yet on how we could turn it into an energy source? Would that even be possible?"
"Actually, yes! I have several hypotheses already—"
A big crash sounded on the floor above, and Martin couldn't feign ignorance any longer.
"What's going on up there?" he scolded, scowling at Erika expectantly.
She looked confused, as if unsure.
"The biofuels department is just above us. We have flammability tests scheduled for tomorrow; it's probably just the team moving the tanks to prep the room. I wouldn't worry too much about it. I'll go check that out right after our meeting."
He had a feeling Erika wasn't being entirely honest with him.
"I think we should go now."
The ceiling caved in.
Peter let out a low moan. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he had been doing. All he knew was the terrible headache that clouded his brain, and the sharp, insistent ringing that deafened the world around him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting against too bright light — although, actually, maybe it wasn't; it just felt blinding — to examine his surroundings.
The first thing he noticed was that everything was hazy. Great, he was most likely concussed.
The second thing he noticed was the massive hole in the ceiling, and rubble strewn around him. He shifted a little and — yup, he was definitely lying on the floor. Ok, that probably explained the concussion.
The third thing he noticed was the dark silhouette looming over him.
It was surprisingly similar to the nightmarish sight that had plagued his sleep for months all those years back. The giant metal wings seemed cruder than the ones in his memories, but the acidic green lenses? Close enough to the real deal to send a shiver down his spine.
He watched groggily as one wing rose higher and higher, positioning itself just above him, ready for a strike.
If it wasn't for his spider-sense, Peter's leg would have been impaled right then and there.
He rolled away in the nick of time, jostling his aching head in the process.
"You're surprisingly resilient, I'll give you that," Adrian Toomes growled.
The sound of the familiar voice washed over Peter like a bucket of ice water, clearing the daze, if only a little.
Right. He had been fighting the Vulture. Not how he had expected his day to go when he'd woken up that morning.
"Am I supposed to say thanks for the compliment?" Peter grunted, getting back up on shaky legs.
His left knee almost buckled the moment he put weight on it. A quick glance revealed a pretty deep slash on his thigh. Seemed he hadn't avoided that wing fast enough after all. Ouch.
Vulture didn't look like he was in much better shape. His suit had a few tears, and the bits and pieces dangling from his wings were blatant signs the fight had dragged all across town.
But now that they were inside a building, Peter should finally have the advantage. Vulture thrived in wide open spaces. But him? He worked better mid to close range. And in such a confined place, maintaining the upper hand shouldn't be too difficult.
Across from him, the rogue shrugged nonchalantly.
"That's what a polite kid would do. But then again, polite kids wouldn't go messin' with a grown man's business."
"Yeah, and grown-ups shouldn't sell weaponized alien tech. But hey, I'm just an inconsiderate brat, what do I know?"
The irony of his statement was lost on Vulture as Peter lunged at him, more than ready to end this fight once and for all. But the punch he threw must have been sloppier than he thought.
"So what, you think I'm doing this for the fun of it?" Toomes sneered, side-stepping it with ease. "I gotta bring food to the table, Kid."
Damn concussion. Maybe if he wasn't seeing double he'd be able to land a hit.
"Have you considered a professional reconversion? It's never too late to retire from criminality," Peter quipped back, shooting a web at a stool somewhere behind Vulture.
He was glad to see this time his aim was true. He made note to let his instincts do the work; they seemed to have a better grasp on things than his main senses right now. Peter yanked on the web.
"Reconversion? How the hell's a kid like you learn a word like that? You think you're real funny, don't cha?" Vulture growled, right before the stool collided with his back, making him stumble.
"Well, one of us has to be," Peter smirked.
Too bad it was lost under the mask.
With a growl, Vulture took off, hovering a couple feet above the ground and pointed a shaky finger at Peter.
"Let me tell you something, Kid." Toomes shouted to be heard over the obnoxious sound of the rotors, his voice dripping with anger. "The world isn't as black and white as you think. The line between right and wrong isn't as clear as your bedtime stories make it out to be. The rich, the powerful—"
Peter rolled his eyes.
"Let me guess: 'They don't care about us? We have to eat their table scraps'?" he quoted. "Yeah, I've heard the spiel before."
He used a web to slingshot towards the ceiling and bounced off it, taking advantage of the momentum to tackle Toomes to the ground. Before he could get back up, Peter encased him in webs against the floor for extra good measure.
He crouched next to the man, satisfied that his foe was finally pinned down.
"So let me ask you something: where does you trying to murder someone stand in that gray world of yours? 'Cause no matter how I look at it, that still seems pretty dark to me."
Vulture squirmed in his restraints, trying unsuccessfully to free himself.
"I didn't mean to. I lost my temper," he grunted with effort. " You made me lose my temper. If you hadn't been meddling in my business, none of this would have happened."
"Yeah, well…"
Peter trailed off, his attention suddenly drawn to the other side of the room, an urgent whisper putting his senses on high alert.
" Shit, there's biofuel leaking from the ceiling. "
Peter realized with a pang that they weren't alone.
A couple people were hiding behind the lower wall of what must have been an observation theater, if the shattered glass walls were any indication. Their heads dipped out of sight like startled prairie dogs when they realized they had been spotted.
And worse than that, this got him to finally take a proper look at the environment they were fighting in. Horror dawned as he recognized the room they had been trashing was a laboratory; in the middle of which, just mere feet away, was a contraption that had Peter's spider-sense crawling just by looking at it. He wasn't sure if it was the inky blackness floating inside that was causing it to to go haywire, or if—
Shoot. The lady was right; something was indeed leaking from the hole that Vulture and him had ripped between the two floors. The liquid dripped out onto a stud, the inclined, broken steel sending it into freefall right over the container. It was just a small trickle, but if it really was biofuel running onto this very obviously DIY, electric-powered container… This was bad.
Peter mentally slapped himself over his negligence. Usually he kept a constant eye out for secondary dangers while fighting. This concussion really had him out of it.
Distracted as he was, Peter didn't notice the fist coming right for his jaw until it hit him. With the force of the blow his head whipped to the side and he stumbled back.
Vulture stood with his wings extended wide, severed webbing still dangling from their blades.
"Is that the best you got?" he scorned.
Peter would have to tread carefully. His priority had suddenly shifted from blindly stopping Vulture to making sure the weird device didn't explode on them. Which would have been much easier to do if Toomes had just stayed down.
He really hoped the civilians would be smart and run at the next opportunity. It was difficult enough to focus in this state without having to worry about them on top of it.
"I don't know. Wanna see?"
He shot a line right at Vulture's face shield. With a gasp, Toomes' hands sprung up to try and pull the offending web off. Peter used the distraction to jump on his back. He needed to disable those wings first and foremost. The man staggered under his weight, but Peter didn't let that bother him. He only had time to pull the cover off the back piece before Vulture caught his hoodie with a wing and threw him aside. Peter twisted in mid-air, ready to land on his feet, but Vulture cut the move short, slamming him full force onto a workstation at the far end of the room. He dragged Peter across the length of its top, beakers filled with dubious contents breaking under him until he hit the corner of the room. Ouch.
"I know what you're trying to do," Toomes said, words oozing contempt. His face shield was gone, no longer hiding the strength of the rage twisting his expression. "It's not gonna work."
Peter laid there a second, trying to get his bearings back. His head hurt so much it felt like he'd been locked in a giant centrifuge. As he blinked away black spots, movement caught his eye. Somewhere behind Vulture, on the other side of the room, the two civilians were arguing.
"What are you doing?" an Asian man in an ill-fitting lab coat whispered angrily.
He was holding the other civilian, a true scientist — if her haggard, messy features were anything to go off of — by the sleeve.
"We need to stanch the leak!" she protested.
"Are you crazy? It's too dangerous!"
"It'll be a hell of a lot more dangerous if the container explodes!" she retorted, pulling her arm free of his hold.
Unfortunately for them, the commotion they made also seemed to catch Vulture's attention. Head turning towards them, the thief noticed the container for the first time. He stilled, a trick of the light making his goggles glow brighter as he suddenly let go of Peter.
"Well, well, well… And what do we have here?" he mused, entranced by the black substance.
Battle forgotten, he closed in on the glass, head tilting to the side as he took in its content.
"Hello there," he cooed, resting a hand on the thick barrier between him and the mystery substance.
The civilians panicked even more.
"Don't even think about it!" The woman yelled, pushing what was left of the glass door to rush to him.
She pulled on his arm, trying to yank him away with little success.
This had Peter startle out of his daze; that woman really had a death wish. He got up on one elbow, ready to go distract Toomes from the lady, shards of glass cracking under his weight. He looked down to avoid hurting himself any further; instead his eyes caught on a label stuck to a miraculously intact tube: Glycine . One of the main components of his webs.
This gave him an idea; but he'd have to be quick. He set out in search of the other ingredients he'd need, all the while keeping an eye on Toomes, ready to drop everything and intervene at a moment's notice.
Vulture rounded on the scientist, effortlessly freeing himself from her grip in one swift move. He twisted her arm in a way that could be nothing but painful and glowered over her.
'Please hold out just a little bit more, lady ,' Peter mentally pleaded, opening a cabinet and—
"What's this?" Vulture asked with a jerk of his head towards the container.
"Let me go! Don't you see this thing could explode at any moment?" the scientist begged between gritted teeth.
—Bingo! Reaching inside, Peter grabbed a beaker and, with a nervous glance over his shoulder, got to work.
"Come on, don't play games with me." Toomes twisted the scientist's arm just a little bit more. To her credit, she didn't whimper. "This thing looks rare; I bet ya paid a pretty penny for it. Lotta debt behind this glass."
Vulture glanced toward the other civilian, eyes taking in the expensive suit hiding beneath his lab coat and pristine haircut.
"Or maybe not," he added flatly, redirecting his next question at the man. "So, Mr. Big Wig, what's your fancy new toy do?"
Peter's spider-sense was slowly turning from a constant hum to a loud and clear shout. There wasn't much time. He had to take Vulture down for good before everything went haywire.
Forget his headache, forget how dizzy he felt, none of this would matter if they all got caught in the blast of the upcoming explosion.
He spun around and threw the hastily mixed beaker at Vulture's back, hoping he got the old formula right. It was a failed one from his early web-making days, but that was just what he needed right now.
The glass shattered on contact, and strands of webbing flew everywhere, catching all over Vulture's wings and sliding into the rotors. Before Toomes could fully understand what had just happened, the webs hardened, locking everything in place.
Yes! Wings successfully clipped . No more airborne Vulture.
Caught by surprise, Toomes let go of the scientist. Not losing a second, Peter fired webs from both wrists at once, aiming for the wings. The shots landed true and Peter yanked hard, dragging his foe back a few paces.
"You heard the lady! Stop being such a creeper and fight me instead!"
Martin watched the scene unfold in bewilderment. In less than a minute, the quaint lab had turned into a playground for supervillains. Right inside his building. In the very room that held Roxxon's future.
Erika was right, they couldn't let the place explode. And not just because of how dangerous dark matter was.
Harnessing his courage with a steadying breath, Martin left the protection of the observation deck. While Erika and the kid distracted the winged man, he got to work, unplugging the electrical cables from the machine one by one.
Martin kept toiling, trying not to think about what either of the intruders would do to him once they'd finished the other off.
The container suddenly powered down, its resonant rumbles dying out. As the dark matter started to sink slowly towards the bottom of the container, Martin looked up in bewilderment, finding Erika on the other side.
"Emergency shut off switch," she mouthed in explanation, before rounding the machine to join him. "But the cables are still powered. We should keep removing them, just in case."
"Can't we just flip the breaker?"
"Yes, but…"
Erika gestured with her head towards the other end of the room. Martin followed her gaze to an electrical box surrounded by a bunch of OSHA posters and safety data sheets. Right behind the raging fight.
"I'll try to go turn it off. You keep doing what you're doing."
She was about to leave when he grabbed her sleeve for the second time tonight. She gave him an annoyed look, mouth already open to protest, but something stopped her.
"Be careful," was all Martin said before he let go.
She nodded and slunk towards the most dangerous part of the room. He kept an eye on both her and the brawl. She was going slow, trying not to draw attention to herself.
Before Martin could finish removing the last few cables, a drop of biofuel fell on his hand. The leak was worsening; it was starting to seep into the electronic parts of the container. Panicking, he dropped the cables and, in his overwhelmed state, removed his lab coat to soak up as much of the biofuel as he could. But it wasn't doing much to staunch the increasing flow. A puddle was growing at his feet, slowly sneaking towards a branch of ziptied cables that were still plugged into the container. That probably wouldn't be much of an issue in normal circumstances, but several cords lay flayed open by wingborn injuries, raw wire peeking through their slashed up insulation. Martin was no scientist, but he knew enough to be aware that nothing good could come of it.
He glanced down at his hands still full of lab coat and fuel, then back to the cables that were plugged into the other side of the machine, out of reach. He couldn't do both at once.
His only hope was Erika and the breaker.
At a loud CRACK, everything grew quiet. Martin's curiosity won out and he looked up, the fuel coating his hands completely forgotten.
At the other end of the room, a full workbench had been thrown on its side against the wall, pinning the winged villain in place. Martin could tell it was him only because metallic feathers poked haphazardly from behind the table's top and the younger villain stood panting nearby.
After roughly ten seconds of catching his breath, the kid carefully approached his adversary, bent over the crevice between the wall and workbench, and sighed with relief after reaching inside.
But then he suddenly straightened. Moving eerily fast, he lunged at Erika, who had almost reached the electrical box.
"Get down!" he shouted urgently.
Before she could even react, the kid grabbed her and bolted to another workbench. As he was flipping it over to create a makeshift barricade between them and the device, the kid's eyes met Martin's, and his lenses grew wide.
He started to say something, but Martin never heard it.
The container exploded, and everything went black.
For a moment, all of Peter's senses went haywire, before everything died down. The sprinklers activated, the fire alarm started to blare, but Peter barely registered them; it all sounded muffled by the renewed tinnitus.
He glanced at the scientist beside him. She coughed and rubbed at her ears, but seemed relatively unharmed otherwise — which was short of a miracle all things considered.
He didn't lose time asking her if she was alright; instead he pushed the table away and set out at a hurried limp to find the businessman.
The room was turned upside down, the strange goo sprinkled all over. But the man was nowhere near where Peter had last seen him.
He started circling the room, vertigo making his steps unsteady and nearly toppling him sideways into an overturned chair. Even still, he was careful to avoid touching the splatters. His spider-sense went crazy whenever he got too close.
Peter grimaced.
He had been so out of it, so focused on finishing the fight. He hadn't seen the man until it was too late. He thought for sure that Mr. Moneybags would have stayed hidden. That he had fled even. Not that he would try and quench the leak with his bare hands.
Peter felt awful for his presumptions. And his own failure. He should have paid more attention.
He finally saw the man, several feet away from the remnants of the container. Peter hurried as fast as he could to him.
The business man was in a terrible state. He laid there unconscious, weak, raspy gasps accompanying each slow rise of his chest. It sounded like every breath he took could be the last. He was covered both in third degree burns and black goo — with enough of the later to prick the hair on Peter's neck just by approaching.
The scientist rushed to her partner's side and dropped to her knees.
"Oh no, this is bad," she lamented, hands coming to hover just shy of the man's body. "Really, really bad."
She clearly wanted to help, but didn't dare touch him.
"Why? What's that stuff do?"
She shook her head.
"Nothing good."
A pang of panic ripped through Peter at the heaviness in her voice.
"Then how do we help him?"
"I— I don't know," she stammered.
"Okay, let me start over. What is the black stuff?" Peter started toward the electrical box on the far wall, intent on consulting the safety data sheets he'd noticed earlier. "If I know what we're dealing with, I might be able to help."
"You don't understand. This is uncharted territory. All I know is that no one who's ever come into direct contact with dark matter has survived."
"Dark matter. As in the stuff from space, dark matter?" Peter mentally cursed the crack in his voice.
She nodded.
A stone dropped in Peter's stomach. Even with his uncommon life experiences, it wasn't anything he'd ever encountered before.
At a loss, he fished his earphones from his pocket.
"Karen, what do you know about dark matter?" he asked, once she was set up.
"Well, Peter, it is a hypothetical form of matter that is believed to interact with neither light nor electromagnetic fields. It is often used in science fiction to—"
"No Karen, real dark matter."
"There's no such thing in my database, Peter."
Peter held back a choice swear word.
Ok, time to think. Lab safety rules would have them start by removing the contaminated clothing.
"Call 911, tell them where we are and that there's been a victim of a hazardous material spill," Peter instructed the scientist, taking over.
He crouched down and started removing the man's safety glasses.
"Whoa whoa whoa, hey, what do you think you're doing?" She scolded, grabbing his hands by the wrists and wrenching them back. Peter was surprised that she'd managed it, but with how exhausted he was, he really shouldn't have been.
"We need to take them off, the dark matter might eat through them and fall into his eyes," Peter explained matter-of-factly, forcing his arms back down toward their task. They trembled against her hold, but he managed.
"No, stop that; you're not wearing any PPE!"
"He needs our help!"
"And I need to not have the death of some teenager on my conscience!" she exploded. "Listen, I appreciate you trying to help, but you gotta leave." Her voice dropped lower. " Now . Actual help will be here soon."
Sirens mixed with the ringing in Peter's ears and he realized she'd heard them first.
He winced.
She had a point, and yet it felt wrong to leave a man so close to death.
But realistically, there was nothing he could do. He had no clue how to deal with dark matter. He didn't know its properties, didn't know its quirks. Really, he barely knew the first thing about it. He doubted he could even find sufficient PPE in the short time he had before the police arrived. It didn't help that his spider-sense was continuously yelling, 'Don't you dare touch that!' like he was some ill-behaved child.
"Kiddo, you need to go," she said more softly, noting his indecision. "I'll take care of Mr Li."
The sirens were getting closer. He knew there was nothing else he could do.
And he couldn't get caught.
So he did the unthinkable. He left.
Peter ran and ran across rooftops. He didn't pay attention to where he was going; he just needed to put as much distance as he could between his guilt and himself.
After a while that felt like forever and yet no time at all he eventually stopped, his slashed leg giving up under him. He collapsed against an air vent, stiffly sitting back against it.
The bare roof in front of him wouldn't register to his eyes. His mind, still stuck on the sight of Mr. Li's charred body, kept repeating the same words over and over, like a broken record.
"It's my fault."
Between heavy breaths he said it again and again, his mouth echoing his thoughts as if it would undo his mistake.
It wouldn't. Nothing could.
"Why do you think that?" Karen asked suddenly.
Peter jumped. He had forgotten he still had earphones on.
"I shouldn't have fought Vulture. I wasn't supposed to. Not yet."
Anyone else would have tried to reassure him, to find reasons why it wasn't his fault, to convince him that everything would be ok. But not Karen.
"Then why did you?"
Peter shook his head.
"I didn't want to. It just happened."
He knew he couldn't take on Toomes yet; the man was too important for his own future. But he couldn't let the weapons roam free either.
So he'd found a compromise.
He tried to keep track of the sales and sabotaged a chunk of them. Most often it went fine; but this time Toomes was present at the meeting.
Peter knew he shouldn't have meddled. The moment he saw the man, he should have just turned his back and left. He knew that.
And yet he still wanted to try something. Nothing fancy, nothing big, but apparently Peter had tampered with Vulture's work one too many times.
When the weapons he was set to sell suddenly vanished, Vulture got mad, accusing the buyer of theft. It went south so fast Peter had to intervene.
He thought he could just quickly interrupt the brawl and be on his way; but what was supposed to be a short scuffle turned into a full on fight. It dragged all throughout the city, keeping mostly to rooftops, until they crashed into the lab.
"And now a man might die because of me," he whispered, unable to speak any louder.
"Peter. Vulture's weapons were responsible for hundreds of deaths in our timeline. Many more people would have died later on without your intervention."
He knew that somehow, somewhere — in a non-shellshocked version of his mind — Karen had a point. He knew it. And yet it didn't alleviate the weight of the guilt. Any civilian injury under his watch was a failure on his part.
And this one, especially, could have been prevented.
"I should have paid more attention…" he trailed off.
There were so many things he should have done differently.
He should have kept a closer eye on the civilians in the room. He should have tried to take the fight elsewhere once he realized the ambient danger. Should have been more careful of the biofuel containers they trashed. Should have— should have just backed off from the sale the moment he saw Vulture.
Vulture who was now going to be arrested ahead of time because of his intervention.
His breathing became shallower. Faster.
"Oh gosh. What's going to happen if Toomes is sent to prison so early? What's gonna happen to Liz?"
"Peter, you appear to be spiraling. I'm activating the Lullaby protocol."
Her voice took on a softer tone. Peter latched onto it like a lifeline.
"I need you to take deep breaths for me. Can you do that?"
He nodded and immediately regretted it. Ignoring the pounding in his head he followed Karen's guidance, breathing in rhythm with her instructions until his nerves settled somewhat.
"You did what you had to, Peter," Karen resumed once he was more receptive. "You are not clairvoyant. You may know what the future could entail, but you can't predict it for certain. Not anymore."
"Yes, but—"
"None of us could have known," she continued. "There is nothing in my database about dark matter. I gather that in our original timeline it might never have been an issue, but things are different now. Maybe it would have become more of a problem if it hadn't been spilled today. Or maybe not. There's not enough data to make solid projections."
"You're right. You're right, I see what you mean, but it's just... I feel like it's my fault, you know? Me being here is changing so many things already, and now Toomes is going to prison, and an innocent man might die—"
"Peter, stop. You're clearly injured. You should go easier on yourself," Karen said softly.
"Yeah, I think I might be concussed," he chuckled humorlessly.
"See? Let's take care of you first, and then we can worry about the rest tomorrow."
He leaned his head back, looking up at the night sky. Even though it was overcast, the faintest glow of the moon was visible where the cloud cover was thinnest.
"Yeah, ok," he agreed tiredly.
"Try not to fall asleep on me, ok?"
Peter hummed in answer.
His mind was still churning, but a wave of exhaustion was starting to settle in. He closed his eyes.
"Peter?" Karen asked after what felt like a minute or two. "We might want to keep you moving."
"Mhm."
"Come on. Let's get you some food and water."
"Ugh. Alright."
It was only because it was Karen asking it of him that he begrudgingly got up and started the long swing back to the bakery.
Tony heard Pepper before he saw her. And judging by the strong clacks of her heels, she wasn't happy.
"Tony, what the hell is that about? The papers are signed!"
Called it.
He spun on his stool to face her.
"I don't believe the kid deserves the grant anymore," he said, not able to completely conceal the note of betrayal from his voice.
She didn't soften, the contract ruffling in the air as she gestured wildly.
"That's not how it works, and you know it! You can't retract the grant once both parties have signed!"
"Yes you can."
"Not without it being a huge hassle for me! It took months to set that up, and now you expect me to spend double that time undoing everything? I have better things to do than bend over backwards to accommodate your every whim!"
"I'll do it myself, don't worry," he dismissed.
Her arms flapped uselessly at her sides.
"I don't get it. I thought you gave me the green light this morning."
"I know, I'm sorry. Something came up right after."
His apology caught her off guard.
"But didn't you say he has the skills?"
With even just half the knowledge Harley showcased, Tony would have granted him the scholarship.
"He does. That's not the issue."
"Then what is ? Are you gonna tell me what's actually going on, or do I need to play 20 questions until you stop being cryptic?"
Tony tiredly rubbed his hands over his face.
"The kid lied to me, Pep'. He tried to take credit for fixing the armor all by himself. But apparently he wasn't the only one there. He worked on it with someone else and never once thought to tell me."
Pepper finally softened, her voice growing concerned.
"What do you mean, someone else? Do you know who?"
He nodded, pulling up the incriminating screenshot. Pepper frowned, bending over the hologram to better decrypt the blurry mass of pixels.
"What am I looking at?"
Tony pointed to a fuzzy emblem nearly swallowed by the shadows.
"Look here. Notice anything? This picture was taken in Rose Hill just hours after the fight."
"How is that even possible?" she finally asked, now recognizing the boy who had saved her in Miami.
Tony shook his head, at a complete loss.
"Beats me."
She stared at the picture, pensive.
"I understand why it upsets you, I really do, but... Is it really such a bad thing? That Harley got help from this kid in particular, I mean."
"You're joking, right?" Tony deadpanned.
"He didn't seem like such a bad person when I talked to him," she shrugged.
"But we know jack shit about him!" Tony blew up, his accumulated frustration breaking the dam. "He's an enhanced kid who somehow crossed the country in half a day without using any major airlines, who knows my tech well enough to train another kid on it, and who's able to fly so low under the radar that I haven't been able to find a single thing on him in months! For all we know he could be working for someone else, trying to soften us up to play spy or worse!"
Pepper eyed him like a stubborn child throwing a tantrum.
"What are you so worried about, exactly? Obadiah's in jail. Killian's dead — assuming our kid even worked for him anyways. Which I doubt. He strung up their weapon supply at the port, remember?"
Our kid? How could she be so nonchalant about this?
"So the fact that our kid," he emphasized with a bite, "knew where to find my armor, and then where to find you twelve hours later, on the other side of the country, doesn't bother you? At all?"
"Don't get me wrong, it is weird but… I might've died if it wasn't for him. He seemed nice. And capable. I don't know what else to tell you."
"You don't become capable without training."
"Tony..."
"What if he hacked the armor, huh?"
She rolled her eyes.
"You blew it up. Even if he did there's nothing salvageable from it. You said so yourself several times."
Tony stared at her, bemused.
Honestly, if she couldn't see the problem at this point, then no amount of reasoning would work on her. He gave up.
"Ok, Fine. Whatever." He snatched the contract from her hands. "I'll deal with the Keeners. And the kid. You just go enjoy whatever you had planned tonight."
He turned back to his workstation, passively dismissing her.
"Look, you're angry. That's understandable. But please don't take it out on me. Or Harley. Put the grant on hold if you have to, but at least wait until you've cooled off before making any harsh decisions."
He didn't answer, busying himself by leafing through the document.
She huffed in frustration.
"This kid is becoming an obsession. You need to let go or you'll drive yourself mad," she declared before heading for the exit.
If it had been a swinging door, she would have likely slammed it on her way out.
Finally alone with his thoughts, Tony leaned his head into his hands, allowing himself to slump over his desk.
"Yeah, I know."
For days after the fight, Peter kept track of the news, looking for anything on the Roxxon incident. He needed to know if Mr Li had survived his injuries. He needed to know if he had blown his own cover during the fight with Vulture.
But there was nothing.
Sure, the explosion at Roxxon had made the news; there were talks of something crashing into the building, of injured people, of an arrest made. But nothing more specific than that. Beyond Adrian Toomes' name being dropped, beyond the critical state Mr Li was in, nothing.
Peter kept expecting the other shoe to drop because, surely, it couldn't be that easy, right? Especially not after messing up as bad as he had.
But so far his anonymity had been spared.
He broached the subject with Karen, trying to understand how that could even be possible in the first place.
That there were barely any recordings of the Roxxon fight made sense; after his stay with Coulson's team got him borderline paranoid, he had set up a new privacy protocol with Karen. Whenever he activated it — usually prior to a patrol — Karen was set to auto-connect with the local network of any building they entered, hack into the security system, and cut off all cameras. It had taken a good chunk of his free time at the cybercafé to make it work, but, boy was it worth it.
What was a bit harder to understand was how everything that'd happened before their crash in the lab hadn't gotten reported yet. Maybe it was because the sun had already set? Maybe because the fight had happened hundreds of feet in the air? It seemed far-fetched, but maybe with these two factors combined, it was safe to assume no one had really noticed.
It still felt surreal to Peter.
Almost too good to be true.
It was a couple weeks after the event, as he was walking past a newspaper stand, that an unrelated New York Bulletin headline caught his attention.
S.H.I.E.L.D. HELICARRIERS CRASH IN D.C.
The Multibillion Dollar Mistake
Peter stopped dead in his tracks, an unexpected rush of adrenaline squeezing his chest. He grabbed the newspaper, unfolded it.
The front page showed a picture of the crash site from afar, of three gigantic Helicarriers resting in the Potomac River. Columns of thick black smoke still rose in places, surrounded by teams of firefighters trying to put out the last stray flames. They were attacking from the water, standing in boats that looked disturbingly small when compared to the colossal size of the Helicarriers. In the background, the Triskelion looked just as damaged as the flying bases, if not worse. The entire north side looked in danger of collapsing any minute.
Peter opened the newspaper to the first page and skimmed through the massive article once. Then a second time, just to make sure.
Something was blatantly clear: Hydra wasn't mentioned anywhere.
The agency was putting the blame on a malfunction, but it was still standing.
S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't fallen. Not this time.
Peter's breath caught in his throat. This was gonna change so many things.
Putting this massive, overwhelming info aside, Peter quickly leafed through the rest of the newspaper until another article caught his eye.
Roxxon Owner Awake
Following the tragic incident in Manhattan that left 27 injured, Roxxon Laboratories owner, Martin Li, awoke from his coma just yesterday evening. Metro General staff say this is nothing short of a miracle. "He is stable now, and we seem to be looking at a partial recovery," ICU physician confided to our reporter, without revealing any more specificities regarding the nature of the injuries.
The man suspected of being responsible for the explosion, Adrian Toomes, has since been identified as the leader of a black market weapons operation (read our full investigation page 8).
Martin Li would live. He would live.
A weight lifted off of Peter's chest, a weight he'd grown so accustomed to in the last couple weeks that he didn't know it was there anymore. Peter almost sagged in relief.
Out of curiosity, he turned to page 8. In the article, they dove deep into Vulture's operations, exposing his wares and his sourcing methods. With such a thorough investigation out there, the man and his accomplices were doomed to a long-term stay in prison.
But that was it. Still no mention of Peter anywhere.
The relief he was feeling paled in comparison to his growing suspicions. Something else was going on.
Because no matter how he tried to rationalize it with Karen, something should have slipped to the press by now. What had happened at Roxxon was huge; there was no way his role in the whole ordeal wouldn't have been reported to the media one way or another…
…Unless someone was trying to keep it all under wraps. And as much as Peter wanted to believe in a secret benefactor looking out for his well-being, he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with him. At all.
His presence wasn't the only thing that had eluded public knowledge: he had yet to see a single mention of the dark matter either.
He strongly suspected Roxxon had a hand in the cover up. Chances were they probably didn't want their rare possession widely known about; and if it was doing Peter a favor for now, he'd have to keep looking over his shoulder — at least for a while.
Even with Karen's hack, there were still a few eye witnesses who had seen him, including the scientist. And if they wanted to keep him quiet, they might try to track him down.
Dammit. Just when he thought he could ditch his extra low profile. Instead he'd somehow managed to swap undercover Hydra agents for Roxxon investigators in his top three list of things to avoid.
A tap tap on the newsstand called his attention away from the paper.
"You gotta pay if you wanna read," the clerk said gruffly from behind the counter.
"Right, sorry."
Peter put back the newspaper and walked away. He had a lot to think about.
"What the hell am I doing here?" Tony asked as soon as Natasha entered the interrogation room.
He had been summoned to the closest S.H.I.E.L.D. bureau in no uncertain terms, and had been led to this room the moment he showed up. Since then, they had treated him like a vulgar criminal, leaving him to wait for hours with just a single water bottle as company. No amount of obnoxious taunting or asking what was going on yielded any result. And of course, they had locked the door, so he couldn't even try to leave.
Natasha moved next to him and leaned against the table, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was all business, holding none of the warmth he had slowly gotten to know over the last couple years.
"Did you hear about the Helicarrier crash back in D.C.?" she asked.
Ah. So that's what this was about.
"You mean that mess that's been all over the news since yesterday?"
She didn't so much as blink at the call out.
"What exactly do you know about the incident?"
"Nothing more than what was on the news since Fury won't pick up his damned phone. Why? You think I had something to do with it?"
An outrageous thought crossed his mind.
"No way. Don't tell me you guys are blaming me for this. Was there a repulsor engine malfunction? 'Cause if that's the case I call sabotage. The technology I delivered was top quality, I made sure of it. Checked them all myself several times."
The gaze Natasha leveled him with was drained.
"Tony, that's not the reason why you're here."
"Oh yeah? Then what is?"
She gracefully moved to the other side of the table and settled in the chair across from him.
"What do you know about Project Insight?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.
Tony's brain tried to crank out an answer but the name eluded him. He was stumped.
"About what now?"
"Tony, I need an answer."
He gestured vaguely, at a loss. What did she expect?
"Nothing. I know nothing. Why? Should I have heard about it? You guys never include me in the game until it's time to play."
She stayed stoic.
"How did you know about Hydra?"
This gave Tony pause. He didn't like where this was heading.
"Hydra? What do they have to do with any of this?"
"Eleven months ago, you told me, and I quote, 'Let's imagine — hypothetically of course — that S.H.I.E.L.D. would secretly be Hydra.' Why did you say that?"
Tony's blood ran cold. Once again, the kid had gotten involved in his life in a way Tony least expected. That dubious piece of intel, written on a dirty piece of cardboard, had come from their very first meeting.
"No, no, no, wait. Backtrack a little. Are you telling me it's real? "
She just kept looking at him, waiting expectantly for an answer Tony didn't have.
"Was Hydra actually involved in the crash? I need to know," he insisted.
She must have picked up on his burgeoning agitation, because she finally sighed.
"We recently learned that Hydra has been growing inside S.H.I.E.L.D for a very long time. They were rooted deep. So much so that they had planned to use the Helicarriers to take us over. They didn't crash, Tony. We had to shoot them down."
So the kid had been right all along. Tony tried to digest that info.
"One of our teams found out about them ahead of time, and worked in the shadows to put a clamp on their operations," she continued. "Thanks to their action we could stop them before things progressed too far, but we still lost the Helicarriers in the process. Right now S.H.I.E.L.D is going through a major restructuring while we extirpate the last double agents."
Tony was floored.
That stupid, unbelievable piece of cardboard sloppily stuck upside down on his window at 3 in the morning had not only held actual truth, but specifically classified information. Something that just a handful of agents knew about until recently. And Tony had outright dismissed it.
"Guess that must explain why Fury is unreachable," he said mechanically.
"Look, you're not in trouble." She softened a little. "But we need to know how you heard about it before everyone else. This could have jeopardized our entire operation. And we can't afford any more leaks in the future," she said, the implications heavy.
Tony found himself at a crossroads.
Telling Natasha about the kid now would be his chance to get S.H.I.E.L.D.'s help in finding him. He had been looking for so long. Having such a powerful organization at his back would be tremendously helpful.
But something in him had twisted between the moment he had entered this room and now.
There must be a reason why the kid chose to warn him. Him , of all people. There must be a reason why he infiltrated every nook and cranny of his life. And if at first it felt ominous, threatening, now it was personal.
If he sold the kid over to S.H.I.E.L.D., he might never get a chance to talk to him, a chance to figure out his motivations.
And Tony needed to understand. He needed to know why.
Why would the kid give away such important intel in such a sloppy manner?
Why would he fix Tony's armor behind his back and refuse to take credit for it?
Why would he come to Pepper's rescue and bolt like a thief right after?
He would find the kid first. Find out who was behind his actions. And only then, after he'd got his answers, he'd involve S.H.I.E.L.D.
Tony finally looked up, leaning back in his chair casually.
"I don't know why you seem to think I actually knew something. I was testing out an employee's experimental prototype that helps go through some old memories, and I just happened to remember how my dear ole dad once mentioned hiring a couple ex-Hydra scientists at the foundation of S.H.I.E.L.D. It got me wondering. Simple middle of the night musing. Why? Do you intend to arrest a dead man?"
Natasha was silent for a moment, expression unreadable.
"Ok," she said curtly, getting up. The metal chair scraped on the ground as she pushed it. "The door's open, you're free to go."
She headed for the door, but stopped before opening it.
"And Tony? I hope that whoever you're protecting is worth it. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't take too kindly to traitors, especially not these days. If you change your mind, you know how to contact me."
"And I hope you get better water," he shot back, holding up the empty bottle.
She left, not bothering to give in to the taunt.