//------------------------------// // Some Re-Assembly Required // Story: A Tale of Two Worlds // by The King of Gingers //------------------------------// "Wakey wakey, eggs and bacey," Tony Stark quipped as he strolled into the top floor of the Stark Tower. "Daddy's home and he's got good news." The black-haired billionaire's stride was confident even in the low light. The lights blinked on, flooding Tony's eyes with their sterile, humming warmth. Stealing a glance at the wall just opposite him, Tony cracked a smile as he saw the battered remains of the Mk. VII armor. Encased in a vacuum-sealed glass cage, the armor stood sentinel over Tony's workspace. "Good afternoon to you, too, sir," Jarvis' dry voice resounded from everywhere at once. "What is the good news this afternoon? Crash another expensive racing car, perhaps?" The darkly-tinted windows faded clear, letting in the bright mid-afternoon sun. "Well, technically it's morning somewhere all the time." Tony smirked, the gesture magnified by his signature, angular goatee. Setting down his breakfast of Starbucks coffee and a danish, he continued. "Also, that thing about the car? I didn't actually crash that." Taking a bite of his danish, he spoke through a mouthful of crumbs. "It was kind of whipped out from under me. No, the good news is you've got a bouncing baby sister going up in Hong Kong." Sliding his hands out, palms down, Tony pulled up the holographic interface of Stark Tower. Manipulating files and directories with his fingertips, he pulled up a three-dimensional model of a tower even larger than the one in which he stood. Its design was much more in keeping with an Asiatic sense of style, sleek walls and modern glass mixed with classical Chinese architecture. "The best one yet," Tony continued, walking around his hologram with a smirk. "It'll run itself for three years, more or less. Thirty stories taller, and with a version of you that speaks perfect Cantonese in a calming female voice." Picking up his coffee, Tony took a sip. Almost immediately, he spit it back out, the image of the tower wavering. "Dammit. Never going there again. That's whole milk, not two percent." "An excellent development, sir," Jarvis stated, ignoring Tony's outburst with programmed ease. "Counting the ones in Berlin, Tokyo, and London, that would make four." "Five," Tony corrected, taking another sip of his coffee with a grimace. "Counting this one. Though we probably shouldn't, as this is still technically a prototype." Stuffing nearly half of the danish into his mouth, he spoke as crumbs flew from his lips. "We should probably install one of the new Arc reactors in here soon. We're gonna run out of juice on..." Tony checked his watch. "Tuesday." "Very good, sir." Jarvis pulled up a holographic map of the month, a specific date standing out in red. "Shall I pencil in a call to Ms. Potts to make the arrangements?" Tony nearly choked on his coffee. "Ms. Potts. Yeah. I was gonna give her a call. Crap." He ran a hand through his short black hair, running through his holographic matrix to grab up his telephone. He sat back on his large, black leather couch, setting the phone down on the glass coffee table in front of him. "Jarvis, get Pepper on the line." "Sir?" Jarvis queried, even as her picture appeared on Tony's phone above capital letters reading CONNECTING. "Sir, it's 2 AM in Hong Kong. Don't you think we should—" "Tony?" Pepper's voice sounded distant as her video feed came up on his phone. The sound of shuffling was followed by a blinding light, illuminating her as she sat up in her hotel bed. Her red hair was a mess, falling in strings around a thin, freckled face puffy with tiredness. "Woah, hey." Tony raised his eyebrows, an amused smile teasing at the sides of his mouth. "I'm looking for Pepper Potts. She looks a lot like you, but she's usually more, hmm, awake. And not quite so disheveled-looking." Pepper sighed, blowing some of the hair out of her face to fix Tony with an icy stare. "Tony, you always know how to make me feel better about myself." Sitting herself up, she picked up her phone and brought it closer, brushing her dazzling red hair out of her face. "See, now you look more like Pepper," Tony retorted, sipping at his coffee. "Because you look like you want to kill me. And, um, in a very painful fashion from the looks of things." "I'm envisioning something along the lines of pliers and toenails, yes." Pepper smiled, laying her cheek in her hand. "So why is the great Tony Stark calling me at two in the morning?" "Two in the afternoon," Tony corrected, finishing off his danish and wiping his hands together. "Jeez, where are you, China? Anyway, just calling to see how the talks are coming with the People's Republic. Is their building code just as backwards as I remember?" "No, no. Things are getting better, actually." Pepper slid a hand through her hair, her voice taking on Jarvis's dry wittiness. "I was only congratulated on being good for a capitalist ten times instead of twenty." "Wow, things have been getting better." Tony sipped his coffee, stealing a glance over at his minibar. "Any word on Madrid?" "Tony," Pepper sighed, "you didn't just call me to talk about your buildings and anti-capitalist sentiments in the People's Republic of China." "What? I can't be concerned about the direction of my company?" "My company, Tony. I'm the CEO." "My name's on the building. And the NYSE." "That can be fixed." Pepper raised a single, challenging eyebrow. "Pepper Industries?" Tony made a face, downing the last of his coffee. "Sounds like a spice company. And Potts Industries? There's so many ways that can be misinterpreted." "Goodnight, Tony." Pepper made to reach for the phone, seeking the DISCONNECT button. "Woah, woah, wait wait wait, woah!" Tony waved his hands in front of the transparent glass screen. Pepper's image remained, her face set in a look of sufferance Tony had become quite used to seeing. "I just called to say how thankful I was for all the hard work you're doing." Pepper's face brightened with a smile, her natural beauty shining through even Tony's tiny screen. "Aw, Tony. Why didn't you just say so in the first place? Thank you." Tony coughed softly in the back of his throat. "Well, I was just going to just say it, but then you showed up looking like the Wicked Witch of the West and—" "Goodnight, Tony." Pepper's face hardened in an instant, her eyes rolling as she reached out to cut the call. "Hey, she was really hot in the new movie." Tony called out before the screen went black. Reaching up, he ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. "Well, it's really hard to make that actress look ugly." He said musingly, standing and walking over to his minibar. Arrayed underneath the black marble counter were several glass bottles, each holding alcohol of varying color. Tony deliberated for a moment before he reached down and grabbed an aged, expensive scotch. What brand he didn't remember, but it didn't matter for his purposes. What mattered was the taste: classy and reserved, just like the person to whom he was going to drink. With ice in a glass, he poured a generous amount of the dark, warm-looking liquid. Picking the square glass up, he examined the liquid for a few seconds. Shifting his eyes, he stared at a particular patch of floor in the room before raising the glass higher. "Sleep well, Agent. Happy Memorial Day," Tony said, bringing the glass to his lips. The lights flickered for a fraction of a second, the low hum of Jarvis' positronic brain hitching like a record's needle skipping. Tony lowered his glass and looked around, raising a single black eyebrow in silent confusion. "Jarvis?" Tony set his glass down, his toast to his old friend stalled but not forgotten. "What just happened?" Silence followed Tony's question, the billionaire's eyes flitting toward the secret compartment where his current suit was hidden. "I am unsure, sir," came Jarvis' reply, the computer's voice as puzzled as Tony's. "Give me a moment." The holographic display buzzed to life once more, revealing the system specifications for the entire building. Memory dumps and page files rocketed past at lightning speed, small sections highlighted in the blur as Jarvis' sought out the source of the malfunction. "Here, sir," Jarvis said, a small line of code highlighted a few feet from Tony's face. Stepping through the haze of hash marks, Tony squinted at the code, reaching up to scratch at his goatee thoughtfully. "There appears to have been an attempt to hack into our files." "Did you stop the hack?" Tony reached out and grabbed the line of code, widening it and bringing it closer. From what he could tell, the code governed the camera systems on every floor. "Yes, I—" Jarvis' voice cut out as the power dipped again, this time for a second and and a half. Tony made a half-turn for his armor before the lights glowed back to life. "Sir, it appears there is another hack under way. They are trying to get into our financial records." "Lock it down. Trace the source of the hack." Tony nonchalantly brought his cup of coffee up to take a sip. Remembering that he'd finished his coffee beforehand, he grimaced and tossed the empty cup into a waste basket. "I'm trying, sir," Jarvis replied, his voice twitching and stuttering. "Whoever is doing this appears to be using some kind of IP address ghosting program. Every time I try to get a lock on him, it redirects me to some other server." "Hammer?" Realization swept over Tony's face, the image of his former competitor rising to his mind. Just as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. Justin Hammer was rotting away in a prison in upstate New York, his fortune locked by government bureaucrats to prevent a repeat of the Stark Expo incident. "Sir, I've almost got a lock." A map of the United States appeared before Tony, a large rotating reticule hovering over the eastern seaboard. The reticule twitched and shrank, centering by degrees over New Jersey. "Ninety-five percent complete. Ninety-eight. Sir, the hacker is using a computer at a Starbucks in Montclair, New Jersey." The location flashed red on the map, the hacker's IP address appearing above it. Tony smirked and shook his head. Pulling his cell from his pocket, he turned and walked towards the far wall, pressing an activation switch. Several panels in the wall pulled back, slowly revealing the shiny red-and-gold hull of the Mark X armor. "What've we got on this guy, Jarvis?" Pressing another button on his phone, the armor slowly unfurled like a blossoming flower, its power systems humming online. "Tracing now, sir." Jarvis' voice compressed down into the environment of the suit as it closed around Tony, enfolding him in its familiar metallic cocoon. Holographic GUIs and an HD representation of the outside world sprung to life before him. "I'm afraid I can't get much, sir. The computer he is using is conspicuously absent of any identifying information." Stepping out with a hydraulic hiss, Tony felt the comforting strength of his suit flowing through him. "Don't worry, Jarvis." His voice came out with a robotic echo, lending him an inhuman quality that the quite human snark of his voice balanced out. "I'll probably ask him after I send a repulsor shot through his ear." "I suppose I should phone the lawyers in advance?" "Yeah, you do that, Jarvis," Tony chuckled, walking with purpose toward his large, spacious balcony. As the door opened, the weather warning systems flashed up on his GUI. Looking up, his holographic interface outlined the dark, swirling edges of a thunderstorm, hanging low over the tower. Lightning crackled through the sky, thunder following in its wake. "Jarvis?" Tony's voice had a mere shadow of his previously confident bravado. "Where did this come from?" "It appears to have formed during the hack, sir." Tony's GUI shifted to a satellite view of the storm. Its formation had appeared in the last five minutes, flowing literally from nothing. "When it rains, it pours," Tony whispered thoughtfully. A coruscating pillar of light shot down from the rainclouds. He had just enough time to raise a hand and charge a repulsor shot before the pillar slammed down onto his balcony. The thunderclap sent him flying back through his balcony door, shattering the double-strength safety glass into a shower of tiny shards. ----------------------------- Bruce Banner snapped awake. His brow shone with sickly, oily sweat, eyes wide and staring off into the bright, sterile light of his laboratory. The building rumbled around him, the sound of thunder echoing off into the distance. Reaching up, he rubbed a hand over his face, coughing harshly. His entire back called out to him, a cacophony of pain as his tense muscles begged for a reprieve. Stretching out, he groaned as his spine popped a few times. He coughed a few more times as he settled forward, pressing a hand to his throat. His acid reflux kicked in even as a harsh headache began to throb at his temples. Staring down at his notes, he brushed them aside for the time being and stood up from his research table. Across the length and breadth of the large, wooden structure, tables and graphs detailing his own genetic code lay strewn haphazardly. Notes scribbled in increasingly erratic shorthand detailed his research, though the numerous strike-throughs also showed his recent failures. Moving with slowness born of sleep deprivation and various other neuroses, Bruce walked from his lab, through his living quarters, and into his bathroom. Standing in front of the sink's mirror, he stared at his own reflection. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks sallow. His jaw worked side-to-side as his teeth ground together subconsciously. He didn't bother to stop, knowing he'd be doing it again in moments. Opening the mirror up, he stared at the pharmacy he'd collected in his time living in Stark Tower. Medicine for acid reflux, hypertension, migraines, and insomnia. Picking out the bottle for acid reflux, he popped the top off and downed a few of the bitter-tasting pills. Replacing the bottle in the cabinet, he shut the door. Staring at his reflection again, his heart raced. Standing in the mirror, staring back at him, was the green-skinned source of all his problems. The Hulk glowered at him, lips pulling back in a wordless snarl. Banner cried out, stepping back and throwing his hands out in front of him. A blink later, the image disappeared, replaced with his own sweaty, pale form. Banner's entire body shook, cold perspiration rolling down his body. His stomach knotted inside him, his bowels feeling seconds from giving way. With tentative steps he walked back to the sink, pressing his hands down on the cool porcelain surface. "Just a mirage, Banner," he whispered to himself, his voice low and reedy. His once-tense body now felt ready to drop out from under him, his legs shaking like jelly under him. Screwing his eyes tight, he gripped the sink harder. In his mind's eye, he forcefully recalled the image of Thaddeus Ross, the man who had made his life a living hell for years. The headache slowly began to throb once again, even as his stomach churned deep inside him, sending splashes of acid up into his throat. Licking his lips, he kept his concentration centered on the infuriating man, ignoring the intensifying side-effects. By degrees, he could sense the Hulk beginning to retreat. Snrrk-snrrk-snrrk went his teeth, grinding against one another, his jaw tightening up painfully. Bruce leaned back up, staring at himself in the mirror. His face had regained some of the color it had lost, his eyes still as sunken as ever. He looked calm, almost inhumanly so. He slid a hand through his black hair, bringing it back to some semblance of order before smoothing out his rumpled white shirt. "Banner." Tony's voice shot through his living quarters, calling Bruce's attention to the communication hub in his bedroom. Walking out of his bathroom, he waved a hand in front of the clear glass screen. Tony's Iron Man suit popped into existence on the screen, his face plate lifting up to reveal his friend's worried face. "Jesus, buddy," Tony continued, the corner of his mouth pulling back in concern. "You look like hell." "Yeah, I kinda feel like it." Banner spread his hands in an almost apologetic display, unconsciously hunching his shoulders. His back complained once again, but he ignored it. "Keeping a lid on it?" "Barely." The vision of the Hulk in his mirror returned to him and Banner pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is you're gonna get to let your freak flag fly here pretty soon." "Tony, no." Bruce sighed and waved the idea away. "I've been a year without an incident. I'd only let the other guy out for another invasion." Tony chuckled sadly, moving aside. The camera slowly refocused, showing a hazy, glowing figure in the background. "That's the bad news," he added, forcing humor into his voice. Banner pulled his glasses from his breast pocket, sliding them on and stepping closer to the screen. The figure came into better focus, his heart slowly sinking down into his stomach. "Son of a bitch," Bruce whispered flatly before coughing. ----------------------------- The trees whispered as the wind rustled through them, their green leaves contrasting the yellowed grass below. Headstones reflected the sun, pearls of off-white in a wild ocean. Captain Steve Rogers noted that, if this were any other day and any other small plot of land, it would actually be rather pleasant. Steve adjusted the tie of his dress uniform, looking down at the medals resting on his chest. His grave had been exhumed upon his revival so they could retrieve his many posthumous awards. The Congressional Medal of Honor twinkled in the midday sun, clipped snugly next to his Purple Heart. Steve stopped in front of one particular grave, going down to one knee and pulling his cap off. Brushing his blond hair back, he opened his mouth to say something. Swallowing hard, he looked down, covering his mouth with his hand. "Hey, Buckey," he finally managed, looking back up at the off-white headstone for his best friend. James 'Buckey' Barnes, Master Sergeant, United States Army, 1920-1944. Proper, professional. It was an injustice to Steve's eyes, those paltry words insufficient to properly describe Buckey. "I didn't think it would be right for you to be alone. Especially today." Steve looked out around the expanse of the graveyard. Across the way, he could make out the figure of another, what looked to be a hunched elderly man. He wondered, briefly, if he knew the man. Regarding Buckey's headstone, Steve tried and failed to muster up something to say. Despite his legendary status as a hero of the American ideal, Steve often found himself without an inspiring speech. Quite often he said what was needed and nothing more. Standing with a defeated sigh, he straightened himself up to attention. Replacing his cap atop his head, he raised his right hand to his brow. "Happy Memorial Day, Buckey," Steve spoke, snapping off a crisp salute. Turning on his heel, he marched out of the graveyard, the nagging feeling that he should have said more eating at his stomach. Once outside the aged gates of the graveyard, Steve gave his first thought to what he might do for the rest of the day. Brooklyn was as active and bustling as he remembered it being back in the 40's, though he couldn't shake off that constant feeling of fundamental wrongness. As he reflected on the passage of time, a couple walking hand-in-hand passed him. With a second look, he saw that it was a pair of women, holding hands and happily chatting with one another. Steve furrowed his brow and slid his hands into his pockets as the couple disappeared around a corner. Scanning the block, he saw a coffee shop across the way and decided that now would be a good time to grab a cup. A few honked horns later, he was across the street, entering the air-conditioned building behind a giggling group of teenage girls. Could their pants be any shorter, he wondered to himself as he fell in line behind them. It only made his discomfort worse that nobody else seemed to care. Everyone else in the shop sat at their little tables, working on their portable telephones or their flat computers. He couldn't remember the last time he saw somebody reading a book. "Hello, welcome to Starbucks," spoke the young girl at the register. Steve guessed she was some kind of Oriental person, judging from her dark complexion and heavily accented voice. "What would you like?" In his reverie, Steve had never even looked at the menu. Finally glancing up at it, he was mystified. Who demanded such choice? Four different sizes of dozens of kinds of coffee seemed absurd. "Um," Steve started, his face screwing up in confusion. "I'll just have a medium coffee." "What flavor?" The girl asked the question as if the lack of a flavor in his order was an oddity. Steve raised his eyebrows and looked up at the menu. "Coffee-flavored coffee?" "Okay. $4.50." He pulled a five from his pocket and handed it to her, dumping the fifty cents change into a small container asking for money to cure cancer. Leaving the Starbucks, Steve note that he'd never been thanked for his business. The girl had never smiled once, either, or even asked him how his day was going. Thankfully, the coffee was decent after a bit of cream and sugar. Sipping at the hot liquid, he stood outside for a few minutes and simply watched the traffic. Across the street, a sickeningly obese man waddled on the sidewalk. Steve could hear his labored breathing even through the traffic. "Sometimes I think I got the short end of the stick, Buckey." Steve half-smiled, swishing his coffee in a circle to get the sugar mixed up again. Drinking some more down, a buzzing in his pocket made him jump. A split-second later, he chastised himself internally. It wasn't some kind of animal loose in his pants, it was just the portable phone Tony had given him. Setting his coffee down on a covered trash can, Steve fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up in front of him. It wasn't often he used the alien device and it showed in the multiple failed attempts it took him to answer the call. Tony's face finally appeared on the small screen. "Tony?" Steve took his cap off and held the phone closer. "Hey, Cap." Tony gave a mock salute, his informal demeanor as charmingly ingratiating as Steve remembered. "Hey, yourself." A note of surprise crept into Steve's voice. It had been several months since he and Tony had last talked. "What's going on?" "Oh, the usual." Tony shrugged, the gold-and-red shining on his shoulders giving Steve his first inkling that this was more than a social call. "New towers going up, Jarvis getting hacked, and this." Tony reached out and turned the camera, shifting it to the left. A glowing blue figure came into frame. Bringing his phone closer to his face, Steve squinted at the tiny screen. It took him a few seconds for the image to register in his mind. When it did, his eyebrows shot up. The moment of shock passed as quickly as it had come, Steve's soldier's instincts as sharp as they had been seventy years ago. "I can be at the tower in thirty minutes," Steve said, turning his gaze to look south. Sliding his finger across the screen, he tried in vain to end the call. After a few failed attempts, he deposited the phone in his pocket with a sigh. ----------------------------- The elevator doors slid open with a soft swish, the computer's merry chime catching Tony's attention. Turning around, his Mk. X suit whirring as he moved, he smiled as he saw Steve Rodgers exit his elevator. "Steve," he said, taking the Captain's outstretched hand. "Glad you could make it." "Well, I couldn't miss it, could I?" Steve responded, glancing down at the glass strewn across the floor. The sun shone through the open hole, the day bright and blue outside. Walking around Stark, Steve waved at the seated doctor. "Dr. Banner, good to see you. Doing all right?" "No, but not much I can do about it," Banner grunted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His back was particularly whiny about being in a seated position for more than a few minutes. "Well," Tony said, looking between his two friends,"now that the Backstreet Boys are together again, guess it's time to see what our first tour's gonna be ab—" "Sir," Jarvis interrupted, bringing up a hologram of the SHIELD logo, "Agent Hill of S.H.I.E.L.D. is on line one." "Perfect timing," Steve responded, a spark of amusement in his voice. "Let her through, Jarvis." "Mr. Stark." Agent Hill's stern, humorless face sprang to life in front of Tony, her holographic image floating mere feet from the gathered trio. Steve slid his hands into his pockets, shaking his head slowly in quiet bemusement. "We detected anomalous weather patterns around Stark Tower nearly twenty minutes ago," Hill continued, her voice clipped and professional. "Director Fury wants to know if you have anything to report." "Yeah. I want to file a bug report." Tony crossed his arms, the metal of his armor squealing as he rubbed the plates together. "Before the perfect storm descended on me, somebody in Jersey was able to hack into my company's secret files about as easily as I can hack into yours. You wouldn't have any information on that, would you?" "We'll look into it." Hill's face remained impassive, though her voice wavered in annoyance. "Now, about your weather conditions." "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Jarvis, send her the recording. It'll be easier if she just sees for herself." Tony reached out, bringing up a file folder and selecting a file marked 'Help Me, Obi-Wan Kenobi'. The file transferred in a few seconds, Agent Hill turning her head to the left as it showed up on her screen. For a few seconds, Hill's face seemed to have frozen on the screen, illuminated by a pale blue light. Turning her attention back to the screen, she frowned. "Is this accurate?" "It's legit," Tony confirmed. "Understood." Agent Hill reached up, pressing a finger to her ear. After a few seconds, she shifted her eyes back at the gathered heroes. "Director Fury will be patched through in a few moments. He expects a full briefing." Before Tony could confirm or deny anything, the screen snapped shut, replaced with a floating S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol. "So," Tony said, clapping his metallic hands together. "How's the New Army treating you, Cap? I've heard some interesting rumors about your work this past year." As he spoke, he headed across the room to his minibar, holding out an empty glass in Steve's direction. Steve shook his head in reply, hooking his thumbs on his pants' pockets. "No, thanks. And it's fine, though I can't really say much more than that. National security, you know." "Come on, Cap," Tony insisted, pouring himself a measure of bourbon. After a moment's thought, he poured some mineral water as well, sipping the mixed drink and walking back to join the group. "When you say 'fine', I hear 'not fine'." Steve reached up, removing his cap to run a hand through his short-cropped blonde hair. He took a sidelong look at the floating emblem mere feet away. "They changed the uniform." "Wait, wait, wait." Banner shifted in his seat, sitting forward and raising his hand in an inquisitive gesture. "You mean the standard fatigues or the uniform?" "I'm a captain, I don't wear standard fatigues," Steve corrected. "Apparently the new higher-ups thought the red, white, and blue would make me too much of a target." He let out a derisive laugh, shaking his head. "Eyesight must have improved in seventy years, because I hid from Hydra pretty well back in '45." "Tell me this isn't a government operation." Tony mirrored Steve's head shake, downing the rest of his drink. Steve smiled, wondering how he'd ever thought Tony was a bad person. The conversation died as Banner coughed suddenly, leaning forward in his chair to cover his mouth. His entire body quaked as his stomach tried to force itself up through his neck. Steve rushed to the ailing doctor's side, slapping his back to try to help. "I've got it, I've got it," Banner spoke through hacks and sputters. With an immense force of will, he fought down the acid in his throat, leaning back in his chair. He shook with barely-contained coughs, pressing a hand to his mouth. "Yeah, you've got it, all right," Tony spoke, his face lined with worry. "Look, you need to stop keeping a lid on this thing before you explode." "That's exactly what I'm trying to prevent," Bruce retorted, his voice quavering. "I think Tony might be right, Dr. Banner." Steve went to one knee by Bruce's chair, getting down on eye-level with the seated doctor. "Being angry all the time can't be good for your health." "It isn't," came a voice from across the room. The assembled men turned to see the stone-set face of Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D., staring back at them from the holographic screen. Regarding the heroes with a sweep of his one good eye, the eyepatch-wearing leader turned his attentions on Tony specifically. " However, Dr. Banner's health must wait for another time. Mr. Stark, I believe you have something to show me." "Our lead singer is back," Tony quipped, spreading his arms in a magnanimous fashion. "And just in time for the main event, too." Setting his glass down, he stepped away from the center of the room, Steve following suit. "Jarvis, begin playback." "Yes, sir." The lights in the room dimmed, the windows darkening to a near-impenetrable black. With a mechanical whine, a beam of light speared the center of the room, spreading out into a rotating column of individual streams. The streams moved faster and faster, building out the frame of Thor's tall, noble frame. "Beginning playback," Jarvis announced, as Thor's holographic image started moving. "Tony Stark, my friend," the Asgardian began. "I am afraid I have news of the most dire nature. My brother, the treacherous Loki, has recently escaped Asgard. At the present time, we have no clues as to his whereabouts. "I am currently in the process of rebuilding the Bifrost, the link between Asgard and the rest of the Nine Realms. Until that time, I am regrettably unable to render assistance. I do hope, however, that this warning will suffice for the time being. "Our guardian, Heimdall, is on a constant vigil at the termination of the Rainbow Bridge. When he finds Loki, I will contact you again. I know I can count on your aid in retrieving him. Be safe, my friends." The image of Thor froze before flickering and disappearing. The windows lightened, letting in the afternoon sun once again. "That's the message that got beamed down to my tower," Tony added, stepping forward to stand in front of the screen. "This doesn't make any sense," Fury mused, crossing his arms and reaching up to stroke his goatee. "You're tellin' me," Steve agreed, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Excuse me," Banner interjected, raising a hand like a child in class. "Does anyone want to elaborate on what, exactly, doesn't make sense?" "Why now?" Tony answered, turning his gaze from Fury to Banner then back again. "If Loki could escape, why not do it sooner? Why wait a whole year?" "Maybe he couldn't have until just now," Steve offered. "Maybe he just saw an opportunity and took it." "Somehow I doubt that the Asgardians are the kind of people to offer many opportunities to someone like Loki," Fury said, effectively ending the argument. "Regardless of why or how he escaped, he's out there somewhere. It goes without saying that his freedom poses a huge security risk." "Right, right," Tony added impatiently, stepping up to face Fury. "We need Barton and Romanov in on this, too. If we're going to go after him when he shows up, we need as many people who've fought him as possible." Fury heaved a sigh, shaking his head slowly. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Mr. Stark. Agents Barton and Romanov don't have clearance for this kind of mission. None of my agents do." "Excuse me?" Steve asked incredulously, stepping closer to the screen. "'This kind of mission'? What kind of mission?" "The kind that involves activities off-world, Captain." Fury turned to look at Tony. "Do you remember what S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for, Mr. Stark?" "Strategic Homeland something something," Tony responded, waving the question away as an irrelevancy. "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, And Logistics Division," Fury corrected, earning an impatient scoff from Tony. "The key word in this is Homeland. As our acronym suggests, we are an entirely protective body. We monitor and police potential threats on Earth; the rest of the universe is far outside our current jurisdiction." "'Jurisdiction'?" Banner stood from his seat, his once-pallid face alive with indignation. "This is Loki, Director Fury. You can be damn sure whatever he's planning will end up inside your 'jurisdiction' sooner or later." "And when it does, Dr. Banner, we'll deal with it." Fury's stared down at the doctor, his uncompromising gaze brooking no further argument. "Until that time, S.H.I.E.L.D. will not be going off on a cosmic chase that could bring even more trouble down on our heads." "With all due respect, sir, this is bureaucratic nonsense." Steve crossed his arms, his face pulled tight in annoyance. "We can't just sit on our hands while Loki's out there planning his revenge." "Who says you have to?" Fury smirked softly, shifting his gaze from one man to the next. "Agents Barton and Romanov have to obey our rules regarding an agent's zone of engagement. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but members of the United States Armed Forces, private citizens, and Asgardian royalty don't automatically qualify as agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." Tony, Steve, and Bruce looked at each other, the weight of Fury's words sinking in. "Just remember," Fury added, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Whatever you intend to do, I've got my eye on you." The screen once again went blank, shifting out of focus and disappearing to leave the room empty of holograms for the time being. "So we're down by two," Steve finally said, shattering the silence that had descended around them. "And two of our most experienced, as well." "We've still got Point Break and the Jolly Green Giant," Tony offered, giving a smile at Banner. Banner favored Tony with a gesture that made Steve shake his head. "I'll keep my ear to the ground, too. If there's anything that looks like an invasion, I'll sound the alarms." "Good, good," Bruce nodded, rubbing a hand on his chest. His acid reflux had thankfully decided to abate, leaving him feeling more or less human for the time being. An odd thought struck him, and he looked at Tony. "What about that hacker?" "Doesn't seem like a priority right now, does it?" Tony waved a hand, bringing up a report of the hack. "He didn't get what he was after, and I got his IP address. Even if I don't go after him, he knows I have the capability." Tony smirked, shutting down the report. "I think he'll be too scared to try something like that again." ----------------------------- Hiram Riddley's apartment could have been the definition for controlled chaos. Pizza boxes and soda cans stood haphazardly next to a monolithic computer center. Sticky notes detailing code and reminders of all kinds lined the four monitors hanging above a tall computer tower, humming gently in the low light. In contrast, the rest of his apartment was a model of cleanliness. The uninformed person might assume that Hiram suffered from a selective form of OCD. They wouldn't be incorrect in that assumption. The door opened and Hiram wandered in, tossing a sack of McDonald's onto his mini-kitchen's tiny table. The blonde-haired young man stretched his arms out above himself, sliding his jacket off and draping it over back of an aged EZ-chair. Unslinging his laptop case, he set the computer down before moving to the kitchen. His McDouble was unwrapped and almost to his lips when his cell rang. Grunting in annoyance, he tossed the snack back into his bag, fishing his inexpensive pay-per-minute phone out of his pocket. "Hello?" He pressed the phone to his ear, tucking it between his shoulder and neck. "Hello, Hiram," came the voice on the other end, a gruff and aged voice with whom Riddley was quite familiar. "I got your data transfer. You'll be happy to know that what I was looking for was in your package." "What did I tell you? Best there is at what I do." Hiram smirked, taking a bite of his double cheeseburger. Walking across his small apartment, he plopped down in his computer chair, shaking his mouse to wake his tower. "I'm glad you are, Hiram," the voice responded. Hiram brought up his web browser, shifting over to his bank account and typing in his password. "You'll find your payment has been transferred." "I see it, Thunderbolt." Hiram grinned, looking at his account numbers. His heart did a few calisthenics, imagining a life without the debts he'd accrued. "This is more than enough to cover what I owe." "Excellent," Thunderbolt said. "Now, how would you like to be in the black for the first time in your life?" Hiram cocked an eyebrow, finishing off his cheeseburger and crumpling up his wrapper. "Doing what? Breaking into Stark Industry's secure files was risky enough as it is." "Just making a few phone calls for me, Hiram, that's all. I'm sending the information now." Within seconds, a list of contacts popped up on Hiram's computer screen, listing aliases, names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses. "Look," Hiram said, copying the list to his hard drive for future reference, "more money is more money, but why are you having me be your personal secretary? Your personal hacker I can understand." "This is a list of wetboys that the government has been keeping tabs on," Thunderbolt answered. "That would be 'assassins' to a civilian, though the truth of their profession is far more complicated. For obvious reasons, I can't have them linked back to me." Hiram shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "And what am I contacting them for, exactly?" Another file opened on Hiram's desktop. The picture appeared to be from some kind of security camera, showing a short, nebbish man bent over a microscope. Even from the picture Hiram could tell the man was in some kind of discomfort. "This man," Thunderbolt said, "is an escaped government experiment. Tony Stark is currently housing him in his tower in New York. That's all you need to know about the target. Your job is to get one of these wetboys to extract him using any means necessary. Price is no object." Hiram narrowed his eyes, staring at the picture. "That's all?" "That's the depth of your involvement, yes," Thunderbolt responded. Hiram heard a tinkling in the background, like ice in a glass of alcohol. "An extraction point will be sent to you once you've confirmed someone's good for the op. Do we have a deal?" "Is price an object for my job as well?" Hiram leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs with a smirk. Thunderbolt chuckled. "Hiram, you're a smart kid. But you're not that smart. Don't make me come up to New Jersey and shove my boot up your ass." The line went dead. Hiram was left alone in his apartment, a knot of ice forming in his stomach. Reflexively, he stood up and walked out to the single window of his apartment, shoving the curtains closed. Slinking back to his battle station, Hiram sat for a few moments staring at his screen. "Computer hacker to assassin secretary," he spoke to himself, rolling his eyes about. Was his apartment bugged? Was Thunderbolt watching right now? Picking up his cell phone off his computer table, he brought up the table of contacts. Casting a paranoid look over his shoulder, he scrolled all the way down to the last number on the list. Working his way up, he dialed each number in turn, working late into the night compiling responses, leaving messages, and sending e-mails.