Barry Thorne.
Barry was openly nervous.
A shitty habit picked up back in his boot camp days, when every field exercise ended in some kind of complete clusterfuck, hadn’t left him even after ten fucking years full of blood, violence, corpses, and his own wounds.
He was long past being that green private from Texas whose only assets were simple implants already obsolete by the last Corporate War, armed with an old piece of scrap metal instead of a proper rifle, but every time he went into battle, it felt like the first.
A vile sensation.
Nauseatingly repulsive.
But he had grown used to it; a man had to eat something, and preferably not the synthetic plastic slop or whatever other garbage the corporatals’ imagination proved rich in.
“Now there’s someone who definitely isn’t nervous,” Barry noted, casting his eyes over the massive brute—over two meters tall (the armor added height, of course, but not that much!)—in high-tech armor, with a hammer on his belt and a huge machine gun that he hauled around as if it weighed nothing.
Throughout his career as a mercenary, he had seen all kinds of clients, from ordinary civilians seeking vengeance for their families to corporate bigwigs who treated everyone like dirt.
But this specific one left the strange impression of a young but tough fixer who had only just stopped being a solo—meaning he was already flush with connections, debtors, and a reputation, but hadn’t yet forgotten how to properly hold a gun.
“Moving out,” the man said, rising from one knee.
After a quick sweep over the corpses of the facility guards (and there were plenty of them), he personally led the squad into battle, marching down the twisting corridors of the underground bunker with a swift, confident stride.
“Strange guy,” Barry concluded once again.
“But dangerous,” he added a second later, as a five-man corporate security detail rounded the corner ahead of them and was cut down by the machine gun like trees facing a circular saw with a diamond blade.
All the while, the employer didn’t even slow his pace; with a single smooth motion, he raised the barrel, squeezed the trigger, swept through the guards, and just as calmly returned the machine gun to its previous position.
“What kind of ammo is he even running?” he wondered, staring at the literally melted corpses and wincing at the smell of scorched human flesh.
“Hold up! There’s a Minotaur further ahead!” warned the captain of another squad, who had pushed slightly ahead.
Judging by the pile of corpses around them, they had fought hard, but not without losses.
“I know,” a muffled, killer-calm voice replied from beneath the helmet.
What happened next was sudden.
Their employer accelerated sharply, tossing a smoke grenade pulled from his vest mid-stride, and ran diagonally toward the corporate troops entrenched behind a barricade supported by a Minotaur-type walker and two heavy wall turrets.
Barry only had time to see heavy assault rounds from the turrets and the mech slam into the giant’s armor before everything was swallowed by smoke.
“Fk, after him!” the captain of the squad holding the line finally snapped out of it.
An employer dying is always bad, but it’s especially bad when he’s the one paying the second half of the bounty.
It took them a mere four seconds to push through the particularly thick smoke screen, but in that brief window, Barry heard the gunfire of the guards’ rifles cease, replaced by the pitiful groaning of metal and the death rattles of dying men.
Bursting through the veil, the mercenaries witnessed their employer finishing off the last three enemies with mechanical precision, while the wall turrets—hijacked by an unknown netrunner—poured a leaden rain over those holding a distance.
With one hand he fired the machine gun, riddling an Arasaka officer backed by two privates; with the other, he wielded a strange hammer, whose strikes left no corpses behind—only a bloody mist and mangled remnants of flesh that slammed into the walls and ceiling from the sheer impact, depending on where the kinetic energy had been directed.
Barry’s gaze involuntarily locked onto the Minotaur.
An armored, multi-ton machine of war armed with a pair of heavy machine guns and a rocket launcher, it was the embodiment of death for ordinary soldiers in the trenches.
Even professional solos who had sunk a literal fortune into their guns could rarely handle a creation of Militech’s dark military genius without casualties.
Yet here, their employer had dealt with such a threat in a second, reducing it to a piece of twisted scrap metal with a single blow.
“Does he even need us?” someone standing nearby blurted out as the guards’ final resistance was crushed.
“He does,” Barry replied.
“To draw attention, to keep them from overwhelming him with numbers, and to force the defenders to concentrate their forces in one spot.”
“Let’s move,” their employer muttered, returning the hammer to his belt and steering his boots deeper into the complex once more.
“We’re close.”
The mercenaries, those hounds of war, simply followed their employer in silence.
If there was one thing thugs who sold their lives for cash truly respected, it was strength.
And strength had just been demonstrated to them.
Tony Stark.
Same place.
Same time.
Feeling an unpleasant tugging in the tendons of his legs, a dull ache in his back from the excessive strain, and sweat stinging his eyes, Tony allowed himself a slight grimace.
The armor he had cobbled together on short notice was excellent in every regard except comfort and proper weight distribution.
When designing it, his primary objective had been to create maximum protection capable of giving a Stark—who wasn’t all that experienced in firefights—an undeniable advantage over everyone else.
On the whole, the armor delivered, but he had underestimated the resulting strain.
Or, conversely, he had overestimated his own body.
As a result, instead of transferring the main load to the waist, which would have fundamentally eased wearing the suit, the entire weight bore down on his back, and even his enhanced physiology was struggling with it.
He couldn’t pull off many fancy maneuvers either; he had already tried a sharp flanking move to avoid the walker’s guns, almost tearing his tendons in the process.
Unpleasant, but manageable.
The armor plates were holding, ammo was plenty, Omnissiah was seizing control of the complex’s digital systems (the ones with independent power supplies), and Tony was almost at his goal.
Fighting through halls crawling with guards was quite the chore, especially considering the paranoia of the corporates, who over the past half-century had engineered an architectural style meant to turn any corporate facility into a fortress merely pretending to be an office building.
Still, the armor, the machine gun, the hammer, a support squad of elite mercenaries, and Omnissiah were getting the job done.
“Good thing I decided to play it safe,” Stark thought, nodding to himself as he watched a squad of defenders get completely shredded by a synchronized volley from security turrets controlled by a certain troublesome AI.
While drafting the plan, he had anticipated a failure during the phase involving the elimination of the nuclear reactor or the security systems’ own power sources (at least the most vital ones).
He had chosen to leave Omnissiah in a hidden data center, prioritizing electronic support over an incredibly potent assault asset.
And as it turned out, he had made the right call.
Very little ground remained between him and the room where Lucy and the children were being held, and resistance was thinning out as they neared the secret elevator.
The mercenaries funneled through the main gates were doing their part, drawing all of the security guards’ focus, who were openly panicking over the capture of the elevator.
Apparently, during the assault, the mercs had lucked out and killed the head of security, and now his deputies were either struggling to divide power or simply weren’t as competent as their boss.
Tony didn’t know, nor did he care.
The raid was going well, and that was what mattered.
However, when they finally took the elevator down to the lower levels, they were greeted by a crowd of terrified civilians.
Disheveled, some dressed in pajamas, others in hastily thrown-on uniforms, their eyes fearful and uncomprehending—they clearly hadn’t expected to see them here.
And Tony…
Tony tilted his head to the side as if lost in thought, his eyes behind the armored lenses of his visor scanning their faces, searching for signs of remorse, sadness, soul-searching, or the presence of even a shred of conscience.
“Fire,” he commanded quietly.
A dozen of the best fighters signed to the contract immediately opened fire on the densely packed crowd, wasting no time on sentimentality.
Bodies devoid of combat implants and ballistic vests were pierced right through, tearing and coming apart under a dense rain of lead, literally turning the elevator entrance into a small lake of blood with floating chunks of human flesh.
“Let’s go,” Tony said cold-bloodedly, stepping over the slaughterhouse he had ordered, walking across the crimson floor without an ounce of emotion.
Stark didn’t quite know how to feel about this action.
After all, killing unarmed people was completely out of character for him, but this wasn’t his old world.
Where the name Tony Stark held weight, he could have captured all these people alive and been certain they would face due punishment; here, he was certain they wouldn’t spend a single day in prison.
Back there, he had loved ones standing behind him, many of whom were total idealists who could never justify a massacre like this under any circumstances.
Here, Stark saw what happened as…rational.
The optimal solution among those currently available.
What unsettled him, though, was that he only remembered morals and ethics after the fact, once the order had already been given.
It wasn’t his first time killing people, but this level of cold-bloodedness was something new.
Yes, all the facility workers were scum who experimented on children and sent them to their deaths—this was literally unjustifiable—but Stark had never considered himself a judge.
Being a reasonably wise man, Tony understood that any eye could become blurred and biased, which is why the decision of punishment should be left to a soulless system, never to a person involved in the apprehension and capture of the guilty party.
“Ah, so that’s it,” Tony realized.
“There just isn’t a system anymore.”
Whatever anyone said about the USA in his world, the judicial system there was as independent, impartial, and incorruptible as possible.
Too many interested parties made sure it stayed that way, mercilessly slapping the hands of anyone trying to bend the courts to their will and punishing corrupt judges without a second thought.
It was a sort of unspoken agreement among the powerful of the world, silently agreeing to have someone disinterested pass judgment in the event of their defeat.
Here…there was none of that.
All the courts were corrupt, all the officials were on the payroll of gangs, the gangs themselves were extensions of corporations, and the corporations had turned governments into a utility service—forced not to maintain order by keeping the overly arrogant in check, but to clean up after the corporates while pretending they still amounted to something.
Tony simply had no one to rely on for judgment, and because of that, he involuntarily became the sole and most righteous judge.
Still, such philosophical musings didn’t stop Stark from monitoring his surroundings and marching toward his objective.
Not much further now.
The next day.
Washington.
A small, unremarkable hotel—one of thousands in Washington—located somewhere on the edge of the city, had seen many visitors throughout its bleak history.
Someone’s path ended here for good, someone’s was just beginning; for some, it became a fresh start, and for others, a springboard followed only by an even deeper abyss.
And as depressing as it was, pairs consisting of a little girl and an adult guy were a frequent sight here too.
In an age of total moral decay and universal indifference, it was hard to find a person who would look at such a thing even critically, let much take action.
Is the little girl here voluntarily?
Well, then everything’s fine.
And besides, maybe he’s her relative, or maybe she isn’t a little girl at all—who could tell in an age of high tech?
“What an absolute abomination,” Tony grimaced, sipping the synthetic slop the locals called coffee.
A rare kind of nasty, tasting like burnt plastic, but it did its job, waking him up incredibly well.
“Should’ve packed some supplies with us.”
“Uh-huh,” Lucy nodded.
They were both sitting on their beds, eating a quick breakfast of cereal with milk (though what kind of milk it was, Tony didn’t know, and he was frankly afraid to read the ingredients).
Stark slurped his coffee, while Lucy drank juice.
Unhealthy, filling, packed with sugar—just the thing to wake up, stock up on calories, and boost the mood.
And simply to recover from the long journey, the flight, and all the madness that had thrown itself at them.
The assault on the Arasaka base had concluded successfully.
The mercenaries (those who survived) received their fair bounty and scattered to the four winds.
Tony handed the surviving children over to Polish government agents, then scooped up Lucy and placed her on a diplomatic plane, which they reached under government plates, with an escort and bypassing airport security.
Furthermore, Tony managed to make some money and slightly mend his financial situation by selling his gear (except the hammer) to his escort, along with the documentation.
Squandering his knowledge again?
Who would argue!
But against the backdrop of technologies Stark considered truly valuable, the gear he sold for a very hefty sum was total junk—cobbled together in a rush out of limited materials, and with teething troubles to boot.
Back in the day, Tony Stark had propelled his company to the top of the world’s weapons manufacturers solely through his genius; what were a couple of raw mock-ups put together practically in a garage to him?
This way, things would be a bit easier for him and Lucy in the new place.
“How are you? Coping with what happened?” Tony inquired, stripping any playfulness from his voice and instead filling it with genuine concern for the psychological state of his sweet kitten.
“I still can’t believe it’s over,” Lucy replied in a slightly detached voice, her blank gaze hypnotizing her bowl of cereal as she sluggishly ate it.
The only comforting thing was that with every spoonful, her movements grew more active.
The little girl clearly enjoyed her first sweets in a year.
“I understand,” Tony nodded seriously.
When he escaped captivity from the terrorists, he also couldn’t believe it was over at first.
The ambush, the missile explosion, shrapnel in his heart, captivity, grueling work on an escape with the constant risk of being caught red-handed, the escape itself, and the death of a friend…
and then a flight on an untested jet system, crashing in the desert, and days of wandering, not knowing what would give out first—his body, deprived of water and food, or the arc reactor, which could be blasting him with a lethal dose of radiation right that second since it was built in crude conditions without proper equipment.
And when it all ended, when he found himself at a US base and, after all the medical checks, inside a military plane…he just couldn’t process that that was it, he had made it out.
The brain flat out refused to switch to a new track, resembling a jammed mechanism—still running, but due to a breakdown, unable to change power or even turn off.
The toggle switch became the thought that he was hungry, and that he wouldn’t mind a good old-fashioned burger.
Only after devouring that damn burger from the nearest joint did he fully realize it was over.
“We’re having a treat day today,” Tony declared.
“A treat day?” Lucy snapped out of her daze.
“Yep. From what I gather, they weren’t spoiling you with delicacies over there, so we’re going to make up for lost time,” Tony said, his eyes narrowing slyly. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping . com.
And that’s exactly what they did.
Quickly finishing breakfast, they left the hotel, hailed a cab, and headed downtown.
The Washington of the second half of the 21st century didn’t differ much from its past self.
Sure, there were quirks tied to modern realities, but overall, due to its status as the political center of the US without any other standout merits, it had taken far less of a beating than New York, Texas, California, and others whose assets could be physically touched and utilized regardless of the state and integrity of the United States.
The US collapsed?
Then few people had a use for Washington.
The situation was gradually improving now, but traces of abandonment were still visible; yet there were no noticeable ruins, rampant crime overrunning everything, or decay here.
Ironically, the collapse of the US had helped Washington survive the past half-century quite peacefully and without major upheavals, and where there is peace, development follows one way or another.
Now, with Militech arriving in Washington, the city was starting to come alive, once again becoming the political hub of a newly forming superpower.
Still, Tony and Lucy were far more interested in cafes, restaurants, and street food stalls; in this regard, the NUSA remained true to itself, gathering all the national cuisines of the world.
“Alright, we started the day with sweet cereal. I suggest we keep it going with something meaty. A burger? Hot dog? Shawarma?”
“Meat crepes?” Lucy offered a compromise.
She didn’t care much for meat or pastries, but she had a massive respect for sweets.
Meat crepes, in her eyes, were almost the same as fruit crepes—except instead of washing away the taste of the sweet crepe, the meat complemented it.
Makes sense, right?
Well…maybe.
“Okay, so we need a Russian restaurant,” Tony nodded, starting to scan the area for the right spot.
On the whole, Washington was a pleasant city—certainly better than Warsaw, which was surrounded by slums packed with criminal elements of all types and ranks, some of whom had arrived from abroad.
Sometimes being useless to everyone pays off, especially when the whole world is going to hell in a handbasket.
They found the restaurant quickly, ordered tea, the crepes…plus syrniki, jam, honey, and sour cream.
Tony had dated Black Widow for a while, and in the mornings, as a thank you for particularly wild nights, she would occasionally treat him to Russian cuisine.
Tony didn’t care much for borscht—he didn’t like soups in general—but crepes, buckwheat, draniki, and even okroshka hit the spot for him (especially the latter paired with beer).
“Here, try this,” Tony suggested, mixing sour cream and strawberry jam into a pink paste and spreading the resulting artwork onto his crepe.
“Delicious,” Lucy nodded importantly, delivering her professional opinion as an exterminator of sweets.
Lucy was gradually thawing out, which couldn’t help but bring joy.
Of course, what she had endured was bound to leave its mark, but seeing a smile on young Kucinada’s face was already a massive relief for Stark, against which all other worries seemed petty and trivial.
They spent the day that way, walking around the city and stuffing themselves with treats.
Hot dogs with heaps of ketchup and fried onions, burgers with juicy patties, cotton candy, waffles with chocolate and nuts, lollipops, and tons of other things.
By the end of the day, Lucy was walking with her little belly pushed forward, holding it with her hands and breathing heavily from being so full.
“You really are a kitten,” Tony chuckled, sipping his coffee.
A proper one this time, bought at some pompous cafe.
“Why?” a certain white-haired individual inquired lazily.
“Because only a kitten, with a stomach the size of a thimble, can eat its own weight in food.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied indifferently.
Lucy was feeling far too good to react to Tony’s teasing.
Unfortunately, back in their room, the mood once again turned far from joyful, even if it wasn’t as tense as it had been in the morning.
“Tony,” Lucy started, clearly not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer, “what…what are we going to do next?”
“Next?”
“Uh-huh,” Lucy confirmed, hugging a pillow and burying her nose in it so only her eyes were visible.
The girl was visibly nervous, but she brought up the topic anyway.
Despite her age, she understood perfectly well WHAT Tony had sacrificed for her sake.
Factually everything—prospects, his inheritance from his parents, his childhood home, connections, his future!
“Well…” Tony mused out loud for effect.
“How about ‘and they lived happily ever after’?” Tony asked a highly provocative question, leaning back against his pillow and resting his hands behind his head.
Granted, he didn’t realize it was provocative himself.
As mentioned earlier, morals in the society of the second half of the 21st century had plummeted incredibly low, and though Lucy was a sheltered girl raised in a good family with an elite education, she was still a child of her time.
A child with the skills of a pretty decent netrunner, who had access to the net and consumed information from it with all the typical consequences.
“What…?” flushing a deep crimson from her scalp down to her neck, Kucinada squeaked half-choking as she pressed herself harder into the pillow.
If Tony simply meant a good future for the two of them without troubles or cares, viewing Lucy more like a troublesome younger sister—no matter how hard Omnissiah and Claire had tried back in the day—Lucy definitely heard something else entirely.
Those striking, iridescent eyes darted frantically around the room in panic, her little heart pounded so loudly it echoed in her ears, and a mind superior to most humans began pitching one dirty future scenario after another.
“W-well…” Lucy ventured, shifting nervously in her spot.
“…I haven’t had those days yet, but if you want to, I don’t min—e-e-e-e-p!” ultimately failing to handle her embarrassment, she vanished entirely into the pillow space.
Because of that, she failed to notice how a pair of stunned blue eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets.
“What the hell is going on inside her head?” Tony thought, a cold chill running down his spine as he realized he was going to have to reject a female, albeit a tiny one.
When it came to his tastes, everything was crystal clear: tall, with a large chest, a toned ass, and long legs.
Ideally taller than him, so he could bury his face in her chest.
Weird?
But convenient!
Had She-Hulk possessed a different personality and didn’t threaten to snap his spine in a fit of passion (or crush something far more vital), she would have been perfect.
So little girls, no matter what kind of cute, genetically modified monsters they were, were entirely out of the question.
Completely!
He could sort of understand a lolita, especially with a large chest—there was something to that contrast (yes, he was a hound dog.Got a problem?)—but a tiny squirt who didn’t even have anything to hold onto?
Let’s put it this way: he had once bedded an exceptionally skinny model, and he ended up with bruises from her pelvis afterward.
The ensuing conversation was bizarre, awkward, and flat-out unhinged to the core, yet by some miracle, it concluded with…
“…as soon as you grow up, that’s when we’ll continue,” Tony said, wishing with every fiber of his being for THIS to end as quickly as possible.