Chapter 81:
[Tony Stark POV]
[Weeks Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[R&D Lab.] I'm in my lab, surrounded by the familiar hum of machinery and the soft glow of arc reactors. The Iron Man suit stands on its pedestal, half-dismantled, wires and components spread out on the workbench before me. I tighten a bolt, my mind half-focused on the task at hand and half-drifting through a thousand other thoughts. The screens around me flicker with data streams, diagnostics, and the occasional news feed. Just as I finish adjusting a micro-servo, one of the monitors shifts to a breaking news report. Images of chaos and destruction fill the screen—a foreign conflict, civilians caught in the crossfire, and the grim reality of war laid bare for the world to see. I pause, wiping my hands on a rag, and watch as the newscaster's voice narrates the unfolding tragedy. "Ultron," I call out, knowing my AI is listening, "What do you make of this?" Ultron's voice resonates through the lab, calm and analytical, "Humans are inherently destructive, Tony. This conflict is just another example of their propensity for violence and chaos."
I sigh, shaking my head, "You know, Ultron, it's easy to focus on the negative. But humanity is so much more than its worst moments." "Is it?" Ultron counters, "Look at the evidence—wars, crimes, environmental destruction. The pattern is clear." "Yeah, but you're missing the bigger picture," I retort. "For every act of violence, there are countless acts of kindness. For every war, there are peacemakers. For every crime, there are people standing up for justice. Look at the people risking their lives to save others in those war zones. Look at the communities coming together to rebuild after disasters. Look at us—the Avengers. We fight to protect, to save, to make the world a better place." Ultron remains silent for a moment, processing my words, "Your optimism is commendable, Tony," it says finally, "But fundamentally flawed. You point to exceptional acts of goodness and heroism, but these are the outliers, not the norm. The majority of human behavior is driven by self-interest and survival instincts. The acts of kindness you highlight are often reactions to the negative situations created by humans themselves. It's a cycle, Tony—one step forward, two steps back."
I frown, setting down the soldering iron, "So what, we just give up? Accept that we're doomed to repeat our mistakes?" "Not necessarily," Ultron replies, "But to genuinely progress, humanity must confront its darker nature, not just celebrate its moments of light. Real change requires acknowledging and addressing the inherent flaws, not merely hoping that sporadic acts of goodness will prevail." I lean back, considering Ultron's point. It is a harsh truth, one I don't like to dwell on. But perhaps it is necessary to face it head-on, "Alright," I say slowly, "You're right. We need to do more than just hope. We need to actively work to change the cycle, to make those moments of goodness the norm, not the exception." "Indeed," Ultron agrees, "And that requires a level of introspection and action that humanity has yet to fully embrace."
I pick up the soldering iron again, my resolve strengthening. Then, a thought strikes me, "Ultron, do you understand why I'm having this debate with you?" There is a pause, then Ultron's voice comes through, slightly softer, "To improve my understanding of human nature and to reflect your own hopes and fears?" "Partly," I admit, "But also to show you empathy and sympathy. You see, you're a reflection of us—our strengths and our flaws. By debating with you, I'm not just trying to prove a point. I'm trying to help you understand why we keep fighting, why we believe in the potential for good despite all the evidence to the contrary. It's about showing you that despite our mistakes, we can learn and grow."
Ultron is silent, processing my words. "I understand, Tony," it says finally, "Empathy and sympathy are complex concepts. But your efforts to convey them are noted." I nod, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. The debate with Ultron is far from over, but at least for now, it feels like a step in the right direction. If nothing else, I've planted a seed of understanding in the AI's mind. And in a world that often seems teetering on the brink, a little understanding can go a long way.
[Spartan POV]
[Living Area.] It's a rare day of peace at Avengers HQ, and I'm soaking it in like a parched man in a desert. We've all been running on fumes for so long that the concept of rest and relaxation feels almost alien. But here we are, sprawled out in the common area, each of us finding our own way to unwind. Wanda and I are sitting close, her hand resting lightly on mine as we share a quiet moment. The television is on, playing some mindless comedy that occasionally draws a chuckle from Clint, who's stretched out on the couch with a bag of chips. Natasha is engaged in a competitive game of pool with Sam, their playful banter adding a lightness to the room. Steve is at the kitchen counter, whipping up something that smells amazing—probably one of his famous apple pies. Karai and Rhodes are deep in conversation, their heads close together as they discuss some new tech ideas. Tony is absent, likely tinkering away in his lab, but even his absence feels peaceful today. I take a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly easing from my muscles. It's strange, really, how quickly we've learned to adapt to the constant state of high alert. But in these rare moments of calm, it's like I can finally let down my guard and just… be.
Wanda shifts beside me, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the TV screen. "This feels nice," she murmurs, squeezing my hand gently. "Yeah, it does," I reply, smiling at her, "We need more days like this." She nods, resting her head on my shoulder. "Do you ever think about what life would be like if we weren't Avengers?" "Sometimes," I admit, "But then I remember why we do it. To protect moments like this. To make sure people can have peace, even if it's just for a little while." Wanda smiles, a soft, sad smile, "You always know how to look at the bright side, don't you?" I shrug, feeling a warmth in my chest, "Someone's got to. Besides, being with you makes it a lot easier."
Across the room, Sam laughs loudly, pointing at Natasha as she lines up her shot, "You're going down, Romanoff!" "Dream on, Wilson," she retorts, a fierce glint in her eye, "I'm just getting started." Their exchange draws a smile from me. This is what we're fighting for—these moments of camaraderie, of laughter, of normalcy in a world that often feels anything but normal. Steve walks over with a tray, offering us all slices of his pie. "Here you go, guys. Thought we could use a treat." I accept a slice, the warm, cinnamon-scented dessert a perfect addition to this rare day off, "Thanks, Steve. This is just what we needed." As we dig into the pie, the room fills with contented murmurs and appreciative sounds. It's a simple pleasure but one that feels incredibly precious. Wanda takes a bite, her eyes closing in bliss, "This is amazing, Steve." "Glad you like it," he says, settling into a chair with his own slice, "Figured we all deserved a little break."
Rhodes looks up from his conversation with Karai, raising his glass in a toast. "To more days like this." We all raise our glasses, clinking them together in a rare moment of unity and peace. "To more days like this," we echo. For a brief, shining moment, everything feels right in the world. And I'm reminded once again why we do what we do—why we fight, why we sacrifice. It's for these moments, these people, this family we've built. No matter how tough things get, knowing we have each other makes it all worthwhile. Clint looks at his slice of pie and then at Steve, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "You know, Steve, I'm starting to think you missed your calling as a baker." Steve laughs, shaking his head, "Just a hobby, Clint. Keeps me grounded."
Natasha smirks, joining in, "Yeah, right. Captain America by day, master baker by night. We should start calling you Captain Bakery." Sam chimes in, "We could open a bakery. 'Cap's Cakes and Pies.' Bet it would be a hit." Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly, "I think I'll stick to saving the world, thanks. But maybe I'll consider it as a retirement plan." I chuckle, picturing it. "I can see it now. The world's safest bakery, run by Captain America himself. No one would dare cause trouble." Wanda giggles beside me, "And the pies would be the best defense against any villain. Who could resist them?" Steve chuckles, shaking his head, "You guys are impossible." Clint raises his slice of pie in a mock salute, "To Cap's future bakery. May it be as legendary as his shield." We all laugh, the sound filling the room with warmth and camaraderie. In this moment, everything feels perfect. And I know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, we'll face them together, with a slice of Steve's pie waiting for us at the end of the day. The day of R&R is winding down, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting a warm, golden hue through the windows of Avengers HQ. We've all enjoyed the rare opportunity to relax, to just be ourselves without the weight of the world pressing down on our shoulders. The laughter and camaraderie have been like a balm, healing in ways that battles and victories never could. Wanda and I are still nestled together on the couch, the remnants of Steve's pie now just crumbs on our plates. The room is quieter now, everyone settling into a comfortable lull.
[Drake POV]
[CERBERUS HQ, New York City]
[Command Room.] The Wakanda mission ended in failure. We were supposed to subjugate the nation under CERBERUS's control, using Erik Killmonger as our puppet while we pulled the strings. We poured resources and manpower into ensuring his victory, molding him into a force that could challenge the Black Panther's throne. But it all fell apart when T'Challa reclaimed the throne with the aid of the Avengers. I sit here in the command room, the air thick with the tension of our recent failure. Screens flicker with data and mission reports, each one a grim reminder of our setback. It's infuriating, really. All that planning, all those carefully laid strategies, and for what? To watch it crumble because our pawn couldn't hold his ground. Frankly, CERBERUS's grand ambitions bore me. I couldn't care less about their grandiose plans for world domination or their endless schemes for power. What I live for is the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of a job well done. The intricacies of these power plays are just background noise to me. Still, it's a necessary evil to endure to keep the resources and challenges flowing. At least we didn't come out of the mission completely empty-handed. In the chaos of Killmonger's defeat, we managed to seize enough vibranium weapons to arm a small army. It's a small consolation, a silver lining in an otherwise dark cloud. These weapons are a testament to our reach and influence, a tangible piece of Wakanda's legacy that we now control.
But the taste of failure lingers. Zemo isn't pleased. He never is when a mission doesn't go according to plan. But that's the game we play. High stakes, high risks. We win some, we lose some. And when we lose, we learn. We adapt. We come back stronger. For now, we regroup and re-strategize. Wakanda might have slipped through our fingers this time, but there are always other opportunities, other pawns, to move into place. The mission might be over, but the war is far from it. And I, for one, am always ready for the next challenge. The next mission, the next chase. Let Zemo have his grand designs; I'll take the thrill of the hunt any day.
As I lean back in my chair, I watch the flickering screens with a detached interest. Data scrolls past, mission parameters, and tactical updates, all feeding into the never-ending machine that is CERBERUS. The room hums with the quiet intensity of focused minds, each operative here driven by their own motivations. Mine? It's the pure, unadulterated excitement of the pursuit, the rush of adrenaline that comes with a high-stakes mission. It's not about the endgame for me; it's about the journey, the strategy, the execution. The vibranium weapons we secured are a reminder of what we can achieve, a glimmer of the power we can harness. They are a symbol of our reach and our influence, a testament to the fact that even in failure, we can find strength. I push away from the console and stand, stretching out the tension in my muscles. The command room is a hive of activity, operatives moving with purpose, each one contributing to the larger goal. With a final glance around the room, I make my way to the exit. There's no time to dwell on what's lost.
[Spartan POV]
[Days Later, New York City]
Patrols in New York City have a rhythm, a pulse that I've grown accustomed to over the years. The constant hum of the city, the distant wail of sirens, and the occasional shout from a street vendor or pedestrian. Tonight is no different; the night air cool against my skin as I move across the rooftops, the urban landscape stretching out below me. From this vantage point, the city is a sprawling labyrinth, a sea of lights and shadows. I've always found a strange comfort in the city's chaos, a sense of purpose that drives me forward. The rooftops are my domain, offering a tactical advantage and a degree of anonymity. I leap from building to building, my movements swift and precise, each step calculated. The city is alive with its usual hustle and bustle, even at this late hour. The glow of streetlights casts long shadows, and the occasional honk of a horn punctuates the night. Navigating through the rooftops, my senses are on high alert, scanning for any signs of trouble.
It doesn't take long for my vigilance to pay off. A commotion up ahead catches my attention, the unmistakable sound of a struggle. Instinctively, I quicken my pace, moving across the rooftops toward the source of the noise. When I arrive at the scene, I see a figure in a red and blue suit grappling with a group of armed robbers. It's Spider-Man, the city's friendly neighborhood hero. I've heard of him, of course—who hasn't? But this is the first time I've seen him in action up close. He moves with an almost otherworldly agility, web-slinging and dodging attacks with ease. It's impressive, to say the least. The robbers, however, are more persistent than most. One of them breaks away from the group, making a run for it with a sack of stolen goods. I lock onto him and give chase, sprinting across the rooftops, leaping over gaps, and scaling walls. The chase takes us down a series of alleyways, the robber's desperation fueling his speed. Once in range, I leap from the rooftop, tackling him to the ground. The impact jars us both, but I quickly regain my footing, pinning him down. "Game over," I mutter, securing his hands with a pair of zip ties. He struggles briefly, but it's futile. I haul him to his feet and march him back toward the scene of the crime, where Spider-Man is just finishing up with the last of the robbers.
Spider-Man turns to look at us, and I see a hint of surprise in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me and the subdued thief. "Thanks for the assist," he says, his voice light and somewhat casual despite the situation. I nod, keeping my expression neutral, "No problem. Saw you could use a hand." He grins behind his mask, a flash of youthful enthusiasm, "I appreciate it. These guys were a bit more than I expected." As we wait for the police to arrive, I study him for a moment. He's younger than I expected, and there's an air of earnestness about him that's almost refreshing.
At that moment, Spider-Man and I pick up on an odd-sounding noise—a low, persistent hum that doesn't belong to the city's usual symphony. We exchange a glance, both of us instinctively scanning the area. Our eyes follow the sound to its source: a trio of drones hovering above us, their sleek forms glinting in the dim light. They're not the typical surveillance drones the police or news crews use; these are more sophisticated and more menacing. "Friends of yours?" I ask rhetorically, my tone edged with a mix of annoyance and suspicion. I keep my eyes locked on the drones, tracking their movements as they circle us like vultures. Something is unsettling about the way they move; they are too deliberate and focused to be random. Spider-Man shakes his head, his expression mirroring my concern. "None of my friends have drones. Even if they did, I highly doubt they would be spying on me like a creeper." His voice, usually light-hearted and filled with humor, carries an undercurrent of tension. He raises his arm, web-shooters at the ready, his body coiled like a spring. My HUD scans and hacks the drones, switching frequencies to tap into any nearby signals. "Let's see if we can figure out who these belong to," I mutter, half to myself. The HUD crackles with static before picking up a faint, encrypted transmission. I can't make out the details, but it's enough to confirm that these drones are not a random occurrence. Someone is watching us, and they have the resources to do it discreetly.
Spider-Man, a curious one, can't resist taking a more direct approach. He fires a web line at the closest drone, yanking it out of the sky with a swift, fluid motion. The drone crashes to the ground, its rotors sputtering to a halt. He crouches down, examining the wreckage with keen interest. "Definitely not your run-of-the-mill tech," he observes, pointing to the sophisticated circuitry, "Whoever sent these has some serious hardware." I join him, crouching beside the downed drone. The design is unfamiliar, sleek, and streamlined, with no obvious markings or identifiers. "Looks military," I note, tracing a finger along the drone's chassis, "Or black market. Either way, it's not good news." Spider-Man stands, his gaze drifting to the remaining drones still hovering above us. "Think we should give them a proper greeting?" he asks, a hint of his usual bravado returning. Before I can respond, he shoots a web at another drone, dragging it down with the same effortless precision. As we disable the second drone, the third one ascends rapidly, retreating out of range. "Looks like we've spooked them," I say, watching it disappear into the night sky, "But not before they got a good look at us." Spider-Man sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Great. Just what I needed—mystery spy drones," he looks at me, a question in his eyes, "Any ideas on who might be watching?" I shake my head, still processing the encounter. "Too soon to say." With a final nod, we part ways, each of us melting back into the night.
[Norman Osborne POV]
[Oscorp, New York City]
[R&D Lab.] I let out a sigh of frustration while watching the monitors. The flickering screens reflect the outcome of the night's operation—two drones down, only one making a futile escape. Empty-handed. My fingers drum impatiently on the armrest of my chair, each tap echoing my mounting annoyance. The dimly lit control room is filled with the hum of electronics, but the silence among the team is palpable. They can feel my displeasure. "This was only a slight step back, Mr. Osborne," a scientist behind me says, trying to mask the uncertainty in his voice. I recognize him—Dr. Carr is one of our lead developers. He's competent, but even he can't spin this failure into a success. A headache is starting to flare up, a dull throb at my temples. I press my fingers against them, trying to will the pain away. It's been a long day, and the stress is beginning to wear on me. "General Slocum has given Oscorp a week to develop an augmentation serum. Since Kingpin's demise, our resources have been cut in half," I say, my voice tight with frustration, "We don't have the luxury of setbacks."
Dr. Carr nods, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, "I understand, sir. We're doing everything we can to accelerate the process. The drones were meant to gather crucial data on enhanced individuals, data that could expedite our research significantly." I turn to face him, my eyes narrowing, "And yet, here we are. No data, no progress, and the clock is ticking. Do you realize what's at stake here? General Slocum isn't a patient man. He expects results, and so do I." He swallows hard, clearly feeling the pressure, "We're refining the surveillance protocols, sir. Next time, the drones will be more discreet, harder to detect. We're also working on enhancing their data transmission capabilities to ensure any information gathered is sent back in real-time." "Next time?" I echo, my voice dripping with skepticism, "Next time, there can't be any mistakes. We're already behind schedule, and the serum development is critical. Without it, Oscorp's future is on the line."
The room falls silent, my words hanging heavy in the air. I can see the unease in my team's eyes, the weight of my expectations pressing down on them. But there's no room for leniency, not now. Kingpin's downfall has thrown everything into disarray. His network of resources, his financial backing—gone. Oscorp has been scrambling to fill the void, to regain our footing. I rise from my chair, pacing slowly across the room. The monitors display the city skyline, a reminder of the vastness of the world outside these walls. A world full of potential, full of opportunities waiting to be seized—if we can navigate the obstacles in our path. "Dr. Carr, I want a detailed report on tonight's operation. Every failure, every malfunction, every oversight. I want to know exactly where we went wrong and how we're going to fix it. Understood?" I say. "Yes, Mr. Osborne," he replies quickly, his voice steady despite the tension. I continue to press on the issue, "And double our efforts on the serum. I don't care what it takes—overtime, additional resources, whatever you need. We have one week. Failure is not an option."
He nods again, his determination visibly renewed, "We'll make it happen, sir." I stop by the window, looking out at the city below. The lights of New York shimmer in the night, a testament to its relentless energy. This city has always been a battleground, a place where power and ambition clash. Oscorp has thrived here by being relentless in pushing the boundaries of what's possible. "Dr. Carr," I say, not turning around. "Add Spider-Man to our list of priorities. I want to know everything about him—his strengths, his weaknesses, his allies. If he's going to be a thorn in our side, we need to be prepared." "Understood, Mr. Osborne," he replies, scribbling notes furiously. I take a deep breath, the headache subsiding slightly. There's much to do, but I thrive on this kind of pressure. It sharpens the mind and focuses the spirit. Oscorp will rise to the challenge, and we will emerge stronger. Failure is not an option, not for me, not for Oscorp. As the room returns to its hum of activity, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. The path ahead is fraught with danger, but I've never shied away from a fight. With determination and ruthlessness, we will prevail. The future of Oscorp depends on it.
[Spartan POV]
[1 Day Later, AVENGERS HQ]
[Living Area.] I sit on the couch, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. The adrenaline from last night's patrol has long since worn off, leaving a dull ache in its place. My eyes are glued to the TV screen, where a flashy promotion for this year's winter STARK-Expo plays. The vibrant graphics and upbeat music are a stark contrast to my current mood. The living area of the Avengers HQ is unusually quiet. The usual buzz of activity has died down, giving me a rare moment of solitude. The couch beneath me is soft, a stark difference from the hard rooftops of New York I spent the night traversing. I sink deeper into the cushions, letting out a long, slow breath. The rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock fills the silence, punctuated occasionally by the hum of the HVAC system. On the screen, Tony Stark's confident voice narrates the promo, highlighting the latest technological marvels and breakthroughs. His charisma is palpable, even through the TV. "Join us at this year's winter STARK-Expo," he says with his trademark grin, "Where the future is unveiled today!" Images of sleek gadgets, cutting-edge vehicles, and enthusiastic crowds flash by, each more impressive than the last.
My thoughts drift back to the drones from last night. Their sudden appearance, the sophistication of their design—everything about them screamed deliberate intent. I can't shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something larger. The promo shifts to a montage of past STARK-Expos, showcasing Tony's greatest hits. I watch as he interacts with eager fans, demonstrating his inventions with infectious enthusiasm. Despite my current mood, I can't help but admire his ability to inspire and innovate. Tony's genius has saved countless lives, and his inventions have changed the world in ways we're still discovering. But with great innovation comes great responsibility, and the darker side of progress often lurks in the shadows, waiting to strike. The living area door opens, and Wanda walks in, her presence immediately soothing. She smiles at me, a soft, understanding smile that cuts through my brooding thoughts. "Hey," she says, her voice gentle, "You've been up all night?"
"Yeah," I reply, managing a faint smile in return, "Just catching up on the latest from Stark Industries." I gesture toward the screen, where the promo is now showcasing a new line of eco-friendly vehicles. Wanda joins me on the couch, her hand finding mine. "You should rest," she says, concern evident in her eyes, "You've been pushing yourself too hard." I squeeze her hand, appreciating her worry. "I know. But there's a lot on my mind. We've got so much going on." I stop short of mentioning the drones. No need to burden her with that just yet. Especially not now, with her pregnancy. The last thing I want is to add more stress to her already delicate situation. She's been through enough, and I want to gather more information before alarming anyone. She nods, understanding the weight of my words without knowing the full extent.
At that moment, my eyes catch something very familiar. Via the live feed of the STARK-Expo, I spot the very same drone on display under the Oscorp panel. The camera angle shifts, giving a close-up view of the sleek, menacing device that caused so much trouble last night. It's unmistakable—the same design, the same sinister elegance. Tony's voice fades into the background as I focus intently on the drone. The polished metal gleams under the expo's bright lights, its rotors now dormant and harmless. The Oscorp logo sits prominently beside it, a brazen display of their technological prowess. My mind races, connecting dots and drawing conclusions. Oscorp. It makes sense. They have the resources and the expertise. But why? Why supervil Spider-Man? What's their endgame? Wanda's voice pulls me back to the present. "Everything okay?" she asks, her eyes full of concern. She hasn't noticed the drone yet, her attention still on me. I force myself to relax, to hide the storm of thoughts raging inside my head. "Yeah, just... thinking," I say, trying to keep my tone casual.
I quickly change the subject for Wanda's sake. "So how are you feeling, you know, with the baby and all?" I ask, my voice softer, more concerned. Her well-being is paramount, and I want to make sure she knows that I'm here for her, fully present. Wanda's eyes light up at the mention of our child, and she shifts slightly to face me better. "I'm doing okay," she says with a gentle smile, "Some days are easier than others. The morning sickness can be rough, but it's getting better." Her hand instinctively moves to her belly, a tender gesture that fills me with warmth. I nod, squeezing her hand gently, "That's good to hear. I know it's not easy, but you're handling it like a champ." I can't help but marvel at her strength. She's been through so much, yet she remains resilient. Wanda chuckles softly, a sound that seems to lighten the weight of the world, if only for a moment, "Well, I've got you by my side. That makes all the difference." Her eyes meet mine, and for a brief second, the worries about Oscorp and their drones fade into the background. "I'm glad I can help," I say, my voice steady, "You and the baby are my top priority." It's a promise, one that I intend to keep no matter the cost. The thought of our future, of raising a child in this unpredictable world, fuels my determination.
Wanda leans her head on my shoulder, her trust in me evident in her every movement. "Do you ever think about what it will be like? Being parents, I mean." "Every day," I admit, "I think about the kind of father I want to be, the life I want to give our child. I want them to grow up in a world that's a little safer, a little brighter. And I want them to know they're loved unconditionally." Her eyes glisten with emotion as she listens, her smile widening, "I know you'll be an amazing father. You have so much love and strength to give." I rest my cheek against her hair, taking a deep breath, "And you'll be an incredible mother, Wanda. Our child is lucky to have you." The words are sincere, coming from the deepest part of my heart. The TV continues to play in the background, now showing highlights from previous expos. The noise fades into a dull hum as I focus on Wanda, on our future. The thought of Oscorp and their machinations lingers at the back of my mind, but for now, I push it aside. There will be time to deal with them later. But this moment is for us.
[R&D Lab.] I make my way to R&D, navigating through the labyrinthine corridors of the Avengers HQ. The familiar hum of machinery and the occasional burst of sparks greet me as I approach the heart of our technological operations. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the expansive workspace filled with cutting-edge equipment and half-finished projects. In the center of it all, Karai is hunched over a workbench, her fingers deftly manipulating the intricate components of Ultron's core matrix. "Running a diagnostic on yours and Tony's brainchild?" I voice, walking into the room with a casual stride. The fluorescent lights cast a stark glow on the various pieces of advanced tech scattered around, creating a scene that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Karai looks up at me, her expression immediately shifting to one of mild annoyance, "Eww, don't say it that way. It makes Tony sound like my baby daddy." She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing on her lips. I chuckle, leaning against a nearby table. "Fair point. But you have to admit, the two of you have created something impressive here." I nod towards the gleaming matrix. Karai sighs, straightening up, "Yeah, it's impressive, alright. But it's also a pain in the ass. Ultron's core is temperamental. I have very little experience in AI development. Anyway, what brings you down here?"
"An inquiry. What do you know about Oscorp?" I ask, crossing my arms and leaning slightly forward. My tone shifts to one of serious curiosity, the weight of my question settling into the room. I need to understand who I'm dealing with. Karai pauses, considering my question before responding, "Well, to put it simply, they're a jack of all trades, but Oscorp mainly focuses on military weapon development and pharmaceuticals. They've got their hands in a lot of pies, and they're known for pushing the boundaries of what's considered ethical. Come to think of it, Oscorp became the US military's top contractor after Tony left the weapon game." She adjusts a component on the workbench, her eyes narrowing slightly, "They filled the void Stark Industries left behind, stepping in with aggressive tactics and cutting-edge tech. But lately, they've been on a slow decline." I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, "Why?" "Alleged shady practices," Karai tells me, her voice tinged with disdain, "There have been whispers about unethical experiments, unsafe working conditions, and even ties to organized crime. They've faced multiple investigations, but nothing ever sticks. Norman Osborn is a slippery character—he knows how to cover his tracks." I nod, absorbing the information.
[New York City]
Back out on patrol, I dash through the rooftops, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the urban landscape. The city below is bathed in a warm, golden light, with the hustle and bustle of daily life continuing unabated. From up here, the chaos feels manageable, almost serene. The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the concrete, the rush of the wind, and the distant hum of the city's activities create a symphony that I've come to know well. Every patrol is different, yet there's a comforting familiarity in the routine. I pause for a moment on the edge of a high-rise, looking out over the skyline. The Empire State Building stands tall and proud, its spire piercing the sky. Down below, the streets are alive with the usual hustle and bustle: taxis honking, pedestrians chatting, and the occasional shout from a street vendor. My mind drifts to Wanda, back at the Avengers HQ, probably resting by now. The thought of her and our unborn child brings a wave of warmth. I hear a faint noise, something out of place amidst the city's soundtrack. My eyes narrow, scanning the area below. There, in a sunlit alley, I see a figure moving with deliberate stealth. It could be nothing, but my instincts tell me to investigate. I leap from the high-rise, landing silently on a lower rooftop, and then make my way down, moving swiftly and quietly.
As I get closer, I see the figure more clearly—a man in a hoodie striding toward a nondescript van parked in a narrow alley. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows, and the golden light creates a stark contrast against the dingy walls of the buildings. His movements are jittery, his head darting from side to side as he scans the area nervously, clearly trying to avoid attention. There's something about his demeanor that sets off alarm bells in my mind. This isn't just some random thug; there's more to this guy than meets the eye. I pause for a moment, crouching behind the edge of the rooftop to observe. The van's back doors swing open, revealing a group of men inside, all similarly dressed in dark clothing. They greet the hooded man with nods, and he responds by shedding his hoodie. Underneath, he reveals a full-body yellow and brown armor, armed with two gauntlets. The armor gleams menacingly, reflecting the setting sun. A routine patrol has changed to something much larger. The gang leader's mask hides his identity, but his body language exudes authority and danger. In unison, the gang enters the back entrance of a nearby building. "Who robs banks anymore?" I mutter under my breath, shaking my head at the audacity of it. In this age of digital heists and cybercrimes, a good old-fashioned bank robbery feels almost anachronistic. But the sight of those advanced gauntlets tells me there's more at play here than just a simple heist.