Mount Sinai Hospital, Intensive Care Unit, Fourth Floor 4:15 p.m.
Roberta pressed her hand against the hand-sanitizer dispenser a few times, collecting a generous amount of the sanitizing foam before rubbing it vigorously into her hands.
"Hey, Max, how you feeling tonight?" she asked her patient, an elderly man who'd taken a nasty fall at home and had picked up an infection during surgery to correct the broken arm he'd collected. He had rotten luck, basically.
"I'll give you three hundred dollars if you bring me a beer."
"No dice, Max."
"Four hundred."
"Max, you're gonna be out of here soon enough that you can have a whole six pack at home. Think of all the money you'll be saving!"
"I ain't going to the pearly gates sober."
"I hear you, Max. I keep a fifth in my purse for exactly that reason."
"Five hundred!"
The door clicked shut on his pleading and Roberta moved to the next room, collecting a generous amount of sanitizer and massaging it into her hands as she entered. "Hey, Mab, how're you doing tonight?"
"I've been better," she rasped. All of her medications were at maximum and she had developed an unhealthy gray coloration. Organ failure seemed imminent.
"I see you've been writing - anything good?"
"I wrote something to give to Steve."
"Aww, that's so sweet." Roberta pulled on her gloves.
"Maybe, I don't know. It's a little different."
The vastness of the world calls out with violence
Empty places between our held hands
Atoms of air keeping us apart
But the world seems so small when it snows.
"Yeah, maybe I just don't get poetry."
"Birdie," Mab asked, calling Roberta by the tender nickname she only shared with her favorite people, "if something happens, can you make sure that it gets to Steve?" Mab patted the sheaf of loose papers on her tray. Loopy crawl, half-cursive and half-print, Mab's handwritten poems had been scrambled in with the hospice paperwork waiting to be signed.
Roberta wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that she'd leave the ICU on her own two feet, but she also knew Mab was intimately familiar with her reality.
An alarm went off.
Roberta's head snapped up, the high-pitched keening alarm not anything like the ones she remembered. Not a paged alarm from the nurses' station, calling out a cardiac arrest or infection control, but a whining, keening alarm that just continued to rise in pitch. What the fuck is that?
A deep, rumbling tremble wobbled Roberta's balance and sent her scrambling for something to hold. Earthquake? In Manhattan?
"What the hell?" her patient asked, then paused. "...do you smell that?"
There wasn't time to make a decision. Roberta's body moved without her needing to think about it, grabbing Mab and hauling her with a power Roberta hadn't known she possessed out of the bed and down to the floor.
The walls exploded and fire poured in.
Avengers Tower, 90th floor, 4:17 p.m.
Tony was trying to be good. He really was. Pepper had threatened to cut the electric service for the entire building if he didn't sit down and go through the stack of legal paperwork for the upcoming purchase. Boxes upon boxes of financial reports, legal nonsense, and nearly a pallet of deposition records. Those, at least, could get interesting.
The moral of the story, which Pepper had long understood better than Tony, was to never let a CEO actually speak, and especially not in front of lawyers. And especially not when anyone was recording. Depositions had a lot of both. The nearly thirty-year-old deposition was about as entertaining as they came.
Q: So you agree?
A: I disagree with the characterization.
Q: CareStar's Cardiothoracic scanners fail spectacularly to achieve this 99.9% reported accuracy, and you disagree with the characterization of malpractice?
A: Yes.
Q: How would you characterize it?
A: It is a training failure, not a failure by CareStar or its equipment.
Q: A training failure.
A: That's correct. When used correctly the scanners use a combination of ultrasound and 3D imaging software to diagnose perforations and structural abnormalities with a reported 99.9% accuracy rating.
Q: You mentioned the software. How often would you say CareStar sent out software updates to equipment?
A: I don't know.
Q: The system keeps a log. On average, a new software update is pushed via Wi-fi about once a month. How often does CareStar host formal training sessions regarding those software updates?
A: I don't know.
Q: That's okay, there's an archived calendar. CareStar hosted annual training sessions, but hospitals could also attend an online session semi-annualy, but it was voluntary. The exact language regarding training is listed on the informational site, can you see that?
A: I can.
Q: Can you read it for me?
A: Technicians are recommended to attend semi-annual training, or whenever the software is updated.
Q: How are technicians made aware that the software on CareStar's scanners had been updated?
A: The touchscreen had an informational display.
Q: Did an alert pop-up to inform users that the software had been updated?
A: No.
Q: A warning light, then?
A: No.
Q: I'll repeat my question - how are technicians made aware that the software had been updated, and they would need to attend a training session before using the system with a patient?
A: Technicians are not required to attend training before using an updated system. It's a recommendation.
Q: What about maintaining their certification?
A: An initial training certification is all that is required to be certified to operate the diagnostic equipment.
Q: What role does the operator play in operating a CareStar Cardiothoracic scanner?
A: The technician positions the equipment according to prompts given by the machine, confirming readouts on measurements taken via ultrasound, and applies them to a selection of options presented by the machine.
Q: When the software is updated, are new selection options and measurements required added to the machine's steps?
A: Sometimes. Not every time.
Q: Would a technician that was trained on one version be able to follow prompts to accurately measure the new dimensions presented by the scanner?
A: A sufficiently trained Technician should be able to follow all prompts by CareStar equipment.
Q: Even for dimensions or organs that they weren't trained on, and may not have seen at all before?
A: If the technician has questions, CareStar had a hotline.
Q: Is a hotline a substitute for recertification requirements? And is that hotline staffed 24-7 by doctors and nurses? Clinicians?
A: That's a matter of opinion.
Q: A nurse is a matter of opinion?
A: You're being argumentative.
Q: Clinical results from these devices show that, due to severe training deficits and outright guessing by technicians who didn't have the leave to take voluntary training, CareStar's cardiothoracic scanners had only a 27-46% accuracy rating, depending on the severity of the training deficit.
A: Those allegations are unfounded.
Q: The March Cohort says differently. Which is why we're here.
The March Cohort. Or, as Tony would call it, the Bane of CareStar's existence. A collection of families whose children had been diagnosed with horrific and incurable heart defects that no one could confirm without those exact scanners, then subjected to years of painful and invasive treatments.
The company had been smart, though, and settled out of court as quickly as possible before swiftly removing the scanners from the market and recalling any still in use nearly thirty years before their records had landed on Tony's desk. If the families had wanted to go public more than they wanted to crawl out from under medical bankruptcy, there wouldn't have been anything left of the company for Stark Industries to buy.
He threw the deposition back in the box. Or just a random box. He wasn't much for organization. "Just buy it. Bury it. I'll fix their terrible tech later." It wasn't exactly what Pepper had asked him to do, but it was as much mental energy as he could bring himself to devote.
"Shall I run a conflict-of-interest check first, Boss?" the computer program asked, the not-so-subtle way of reminding him he'd skipped a few steps.
Tony waved a hand dismissively. "Sure, have at it."
An alarm went off; piercing and unnecessarily loud, Tony nearly ducked under a table. "Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, is that the usual one or a new one?"
"Same but different, Boss. It's reading as a panic button for the research station at Mount Sinai."
"Get Spangles and the Fight Club suited up -" he stopped mid-order. "Why does Mount Sinai Hospital have an Avengers panic button?"
Avengers Tower, 87th floor, 4:18 p.m.
Steve sketched a long shape in his notebook. It was just a rough thought, something that would definitely need to be polished and run by a few more mechanical minds, but he couldn't shake the idea. If he got it right, made it from the right materials… it would fit right in the palm of Mab's perfect hands.
A very belated birthday present, he would say with a smile. Maybe Natasha could help him - her hands were about the same size.
He glanced up as a knock on his open quarters door interrupted the train of thought. It took a second take, Steve dropping his pencil at Sam's face. "What is it?"
Sam's expression wavered between concern and a slow anger. "Friday finished the processing."
He didn't expect it to be good. "What was he saying?"
Sam had to force it out. "They promised I would be okay."
An alarm went off, and they both started slightly; it was always so damned loud. It sounded just like the usual Sokovia Alarm, but Tony's voice quickly replaced it. "Alarm is coming from Mount Sinai - some kind of breach on their research floors."
Mount Sinai?
Sam shot him a fiercely worried look. "Steve, isn't that-?"
On his feet, before the thought could finish processing, towards his gear, towards the transport already warming up, not yet, too many things left unsaid, not yet-
Mount Sinai Hospital, Research Sub-Basement, 4:00 p.m.
Paul shifted nervously in his cheap plastic seat. He'd been used to seeing nurses that looked like nurses in scrubs, not nurses dressed like soldiers. The ceiling seemed really low in this basement-below-a-basement at the bottom of the hospital. If he held his breath he could almost hear the Subway rattling by. He wanted to leave, but he really needed the five thousand dollars.
What kind of medical research pays out five thousand dollars? It was the question he'd been sort of avoiding asking, but at that moment something kept throwing up red flags faster than he could ignore them.
The waiting room wasn't so much of a waiting "room", but a collection of felted cubicles with a single cheap plastic chair. After the brief check-in and confirming his medical history and supplement intake hadn't changed, he was sent to the boring space to wait. He heard other people come and go, but couldn't see them at all. It was very private. Very isolated.
A woman in dark military fatigues stepped into his cubicle, reading off her clipboard. "Brennan? Paul Brennan?"
He raised his hand awkwardly as he stood. "Me."
"Follow me, please," she turned and walked without waiting for him. "My name is Nehir, I'm going to be your nurse for today."
The hallways were empty as she escorted him, though he could hear muffled conversation through every exam room door they passed. The nurse seemed sure of where she was going even though none of the doors or hallways were marked. She led him into one of the unmarked rooms and invited him to sit in a plush-looking chair with almost a table-like extension on one side. "We're just going to take some blood and run it through a quick test. Did you sign all the forms? Any questions before we start?"
"Yeah, the 'nondisclosure of source material' threw me off a bit." The room was throwing him off, too. Starkly white, no informational posters or collection of pamphlets. Just a room with his single chair and a rolling sample cart. The room smelled so strongly of bleach Paul was worried it might take the color out of his clothes.
Nehir nodded as she pulled on gloves, snapping the wrists a bit. "It's just standard stuff about not disclosing that you gave samples today. If your sample is viable, and you keep to the nondisclosure, you could be invited to participate in the more involved active study, which pays a salary."
"And that's paid by…?" He couldn't see any insignia on her uniform, now that he was close, military or otherwise. But the nurse was definitely giving off 'I'm in the service' vibes.
"It's a government-backed study," she said vaguely, before offering a smile. "Lots of nondisclosures attached, you understand."
He didn't, really. "What's the button for?" Paul asked, feeling nervous. The button on the wall had been bothering him from the second he sat down.
Unlabeled, innocuous, but nearly a fluorescent red sealed behind a plastic covering that looked nearly sealed shut. A thin zip-tie held the paneling shut and he imagined it would take a pretty significant yank to get it open. But it didn't have any markings, not even a 'lift with force to open for alarm' or any of the usual text written on it.
"We're in a hospital - it's a cardiac alert button. You know, 'code blue, code blue!'." She waved her hands mockingly.
Paul kept his mouth shut, pursing his lips to keep the argument inside. When he'd worked on the bus systems there had been a near-obsessive tendency by the regulatory folks to label everything. Typically, both the button and the area surrounding it were both labeled, just in case.
But he really needed the five thousand dollars - for Janice, for his kids, to pay the rent - so Paul kept his mouth shut.
The nurse laid his arm on the little desk attachment of his comfortable chair and strapped the usual elastic around his bicep, pulling it tight in search of a vein. She found it easily and set up her blood-draw set. The plastic vials she set out in preparation had neon orange caps on them. He hadn't seen that color before.
"Little pinch," she said, the common lie.
But the rest seemed normal. She took a few more vials than Paul thought was necessary, stripped off her gloves, and reported that she'd be off running a quick test in another room but she'd be able to tell him right away if he was eligible to apply for the salaried study.
So Paul waited. It took almost no time at all, oddly enough before Nehir was back, a new set of gloves on and a beaming smile on her face. "Good news, Mr. Brennan! With your blood markers you're eligible for the salaried study!"
Paul should have been relieved, but he was distracted by something sparkling on her sleeve. He thought it might have been some broken glass, so he helpfully reached out.
"Hang on, you've got something on your sleeve," Paul said, reaching to pick it off on some stupid impulse. It was like a purple splinter, barely visible against her dark uniform. It was the kind of thing he did for his kids, not something to do to a stranger or medical staff, but something about that sparkle drew his attention in a magnetic way.
Nehir glanced down at her sleeve as he reached. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, trembling, in abject horror as Paul plucked it off her sleeve.
She nearly flew backward, but it was too late.
Paul looked down at his thumb, the little shining sliver of flawless blue-purple gemstone. It kind of looked like a bit of, what was that gem Janice liked again, Tanzanite. Beautiful, he couldn't take his eyes off it.
Nehir flung open the clear panel over the red button, slamming it with her palm.
An alarm went off. Paul jumped, dropping the little piece of gemstone. It shattered on the floor, atomizing into a mist of hazy glitter. He sneezed.
Nehir was screaming something over the blasting alarm, but the door had been locked, it seemed.
Then things seemed to slow. He was having trouble moving his feet, and Nehir was sobbing, and as he tried to step back he felt slower and slower, like he was turning to stone. And as Paul looked down, he could see he was turning to stone. Or, stone was creeping up him like some horrible cocoon.
It was dark. Dark, and he was burning.
And then he came apart.
Fractured.
Splintered and grew into a thousand, ten thousand, an uncountable number of selves.
He was…
He? Who was he?
The thought trundled along down new pathways, new collections of thought and memory that, newly formed, were still collecting sensations and form and structure.
The old ways had been lost, scattered along the many copies of himself that were trying and failing to act in proper coordination.
Copies.
Sibling selves, each small but mighty.
They could feel themselves warp and twist over themself, each little mind working together to create this larger sense of self, rustling and whispering into a cacophony of information.
A coarse but writhing, undulating, wrapping, a mess of sensation slipping and sliding over itself, a new texture they couldn't remember being their own. Their own. As each part moving over another had its own part of the collection that made… them.
And suddenly the cocoon was a prison. It was a box too small for all the pieces of them. They and all of their selves bunched up against the walls of it, writhing and twisting into ropy balls of power until the stone cracked against them, crashing outwards, and they were free.
The freedom and sweet air ran over and through the mess of them, the richness of breathing in suddenly pure energy and fuel, rushing into action to build, to expand, to grow.
More sibling selves splintered off as they grew, and in mere moments that sweet-scented room was also too small. No room to grow anymore, the branches and vines and tiny budded leaves cried out against the building pressure of trying to grow in containment.
Grow. They were a green thing that needed clean air and sunshine. All of their selves that lived in all the green and rooted parts of them, moving to make some measure of shape, ached for pure sunshine.
The ache became rage, trapped there with no place to grow, so they roped themselves into power again, pushing out and up, through the walls and steel and concrete, reaching for the sun.
Grow. They just wanted the sun. To feel rainwater slide across wide leaves and chase it down the vines of his arms. To quench dry roots.
The walls rumbled and the air spoiled with a slippery, sweet, acrid poison. They recoiled, swatting at it with a spread of wide, coiled arms, like they could catch it from the air and contain it.
Something metal and heavy crumpled under their wrath. The poison spilled out, thick and rich onto dark halls. The lifeblood of a machine. They swung at it, trying to push it away from their tender roots, to keep from choking on it.
Metal groaned and crushed in on itself, sparking in protest. Then-
Light, heat, burning.
They were burning.
They fled, spinning against themselves to snuff the fire eating them whole. They fled into the dark places, seeking sanctuary and silence over sunshine.
They fled, the alarms blaring overhead for fire, for panic, for them.
A/N: The Terrigen Mists Return! I sure hope you've watched Agents of SHIELD otherwise it's hella confusing lmfao.
This chapter is all plot, and honestly it's super weird. I kept having the temptation to pull things into different chapters because I'm a fan of dropping big plot bombs at the biggest moment, but it's Four Alarms - red flags and Big Bad Things Happening. I had some doubts about adding Tony's content, but I've been hinting at it for a few chapters and needed to get into the meat of it before I ran out of runway.
The hardest part, in a way, was actually putting them in some kind of order. So I went in order of dread, and of course Paul had to be last.
Now the real plot begins.
PLEASE COMMENT AND REVIEW!