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I opened the outer office door, quickly spotting the open door to the private alcove in the back. It took only a moment for me to reach the inner doorway, and I spotted the office's occupant sitting with his back to the door and watching. . .a YouTube of cats doing cat things. Not what I expected, but cat videos are more ubiquitous than roaches at a dump—even I watch them now and again.
After a moment, the man seemed to sense my presence and turned to look at me. I looked him directly in the eye and was surprised when he kept a perfect poker face. You'd think the unannounced arrival of a billionaire philanthropist genius playboy (reformed) superhero might cause a raised eyebrow, or a quickened breath. Just a quiet, noncommittal acknowledgment of my presence with his dark eyes. I remained silent, and after a moment he decided to ask the obvious question in a neutral but polite tone, “How did you get in here?”
I gave him the grin that had graced the cover of TIME Magazine and an hour long interview on “60 Minutes.” He seemed to register the gesture, but his gaze remained neutrally inquisitive. I sighed at the lack of reaction to my hard-earned charisma and replied, “Guy named Paul—your department secretary. It's amazing what someone will do for an offer to hang out at a pub with Tony Stark for a couple of hours while he tells stories about Captain America and Thor.”
The man winced, then replied in an amused tone, “I hope it was worth it.” He closed the computer, and his gaze once again demanded explanation.
I took that as my cue and pulled a folded piece of paper out of my jacket, handing it to him as I smirked and responded, “We'll see. I need this translated right away, Dr. Grant.”
Grant smirked in reply and added in a sardonic tone, “Of *course* you do.” He glanced at the traced runes on the page with interest, then mild puzzlement, before commenting, “I'm afraid that ancient Norse mythology isn't my field, Mr. Stark. Perhaps you should consult Dr. Olsen, at Yale, if you're looking for a consult in the U.S.”
I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively at him, mostly as a matter of pride. At one time a six foot blonde PhD with the body of a professional cheerleader would have definitely drawn my attention even if all I needed was directions to the nearest bathroom, but even if I wasn't uninterested in cheating on Pepper I know full well she would know the second I got back: I learned long ago that hiding things from her was a futile effort. Grant reacted to the eyebrows with a sigh, making it obvious that he was familiar with Dr. Olsen's physical attributes, and his next comment was mildly reproving: “She's very good at what she does.”
I nodded, because he was correct, of course, and elaborated: “She sent me to you. She said it wasn't ancient Norse, and that it must either be a contemporary dialect or possibly a joke or a fraud, and that you were the guy I should talk to either way. She said not to take no for an answer.”
I saw something flash briefly in his eyes, but chose not to comment aloud regarding my quick conclusion. None of my business what two consenting medieval linguistic experts do in their free time, after all. He was silent for several moments, then spoke quietly: “She's right. I don't know what it is.” He traced the runes with a finger and added, “Maybe it is a fraud. Where did you get it?'
“It's a long story,” I replied, walking back out to the main part of the office and retrieving the black plastic case I had left near the outer door. When I walked back into view of Grant, I saw him flinch reflexively towards a pile of papers near him before relaxing and moving his hands back in front of him. Moving slowly so as not to provoke him into using the weapon he clearly had hidden in the papers, I flipped the case open with a graceful gesture and removed the sword from it, handing it to Grant hilt first.
I watched him heft the blade, then study the runes on its surface before taking an experimental swing with it. For the first time, his level tone seemed forced as he asked, “Where did you get this?” while giving it an experimental swing, then another.
I waited a moment before responding, watching him handle the blade resting in his left hand. The first part of the motions made it clear that he'd never held this particular blade before, but the rest of it seemed comfortable and infinitely easy to him. It reminded me of how Clint handles his bow, or even how Thor handles Mjolnir—the weapon was an extension of his body and almost literally part of it. It was time for me to let the other shoe drop, and I didn't hesitate further before answering with another grin: "It turned up in my office unexpectedly. We don't know where it came from.” (Both true—and I was speaking literally. The damned thing just appeared on my desk while Pepper and I were discussing post-invasion repairs to the Stark Tower. It is a symptom of the truly odd life that I live that this was only the third oddest thing that happened to me this month: the other two having been respectively resolved by the aid of a team of superhumans at almost the cost of all our lives, and by Pepper managing to find an antique tea set on E-Bay. Seriously.) “I was hoping you could tell us. I mean, you are The Swordsman, aren't you?".
I've seen people move fast. Clint, Natasha, and Steve move faster than most studies I've read on human limits—and I've read quite a few while coming up with the design parameters for the Iron Man armor, trying to avoid anything that would literally rip me to shreds regardless of any safety systems I built in—say anyone should be able to move. In Steve's case the Super Soldier formula is the obvious culprit—I don't know what the deal is with the other two and I'm rather reluctant to piss them off by trying too hard to find out. Thor and the Hulk can move even faster than that, though they rarely bother to. So it's not trivial when I say that Grant literally moved faster than anyone I've ever seen in having the edge of that blade at my throat, in the midst of a blink. I felt a moment of fear and knew it showed on my face, but I'm sure he could see the excitement of discovery there, too. Besides, it was a thrusting weapon—if he was really serious he would have the point at my throat or chest, right?
Grant glared at me and snapped, "Why would you think I'm The Swordsman? I'm a linguistics professor. In Minnesota. I drive a Volvo."
"And you have very impressive academic credentials," Which was absolutely true—I found those readily before I got to the good stuff. "It just so happens that I watched that video a number of times, using very sophisticated technology to zoom and sharpen the images. Also when Dr. Olsen recommended I speak with you, I ran an extensive background check and facial recognition scan. The results were-- interesting." I made it a point to meet his gaze without blinking until I stopped speaking.
Grant absorbed the explanation without seeming particularly disturbed, and replied, "But not legally evidence."
"Of course not." I felt a little bit of guilt there—given who I had just suggested he was and what I had been doing in public lately, I should have realized he thought I might be here to bust him. "I wasn't threatening you, Dr. Grant."
Grant smiled just a little at that, and agreed: "No--I was threatening you. Too subtle?"
I chuckled just a little at that, and admitted,"Maybe a little--it takes quite a bit these days. Something to do with the company I keep, probably."
The smile became an open smirk, and Grant pointed out, “I could cut off your head if I were the Swordsman. One fell swoop.” He tapped my throat with the blade once for punctuation.
My mind involuntarily flashed back to the grainy cellphone video that had been all over Facebook—couldn't they come up with a better way to express one's opinion about a fight to the death ending in decapitation than a “Like” button--and decided that a bit of regrouping was called for. “It isn't sharp enough,” I pointed out. Not for human or low end metahuman strength anyway, not with one stroke, anyway. Thor or the Hulk could do it, but both would probably be insulted at the suggestion they'd need an even moderately sharp object for such a trivial task as knocking someones head off.
The smirk grew a little more pointed—as if to say “Wanna bet?”--before Grant's expression relaxed back into neutrality and he asked, “What exactly do you want from me, Iron Man?”
The blade was still at my throat, but the question was a reasonable one. I started with a half-truth: "I was just going to get you to translate the runes."
Grant frowned and replied, "Well, I can't. They're gibberish in any language I know, and they aren't a modern forgery. So, not from around here. Which you knew. What do you want from me?"
He'd called my bluff, and it was time to show my cards: "I want someone who knows how to use that, who can fight with us.”and I think maybe whatever sent it meant it for you."
Grant moved the blade away from my neck and lowered it to the desktop next to him without releasing the hilt. He looked away from me, apparently deep in thought. He clearly knew who “us” meant, and the meaning of the offer was. If someone had told me two months ago that I'd be in Minnesota headhunting (yeah, the pun fits—sue me) a college professor with a secret life as a superhumanly talented swordsman for membership in the Avengers, I. . .would have found it plausible but wondered what in the hell had set up *that* situation.
Grant turned back to me and I could see the ambivalence on his face, echoed in the tone of his answer: “No.” He seemed to gather himself for a moment, then repeated with a lot more certainty: “No.” He released the hilt of the sword and looked back at me before concluding, "I think I'm done with saving the world."
It was an odd way to put it, but it seemed to be his final answer, at least for now. That wouldn't stop me from leaving the door open to a change of heart, though. I nodded to him and acknowledged his answer: "Okay." I turned and inclined my head at the sword before heading for the doorway, concluding, "Well, why don't you hang on to that for me." I left quickly, before he could try to change my mind.
As I left the building, I wondered how long it would be before I heard from him again. The microtransmitter I had placed in the hilt would let me track him down if this move had turned out to be a bad one on my part, whether it involved Grant using the new shiny to create a new online decapitation sensation, or Thor scowling at me and wondering why I gave some stranger Excalibur or something. No point in worrying about it now. Plenty to keep me busy while I waited for Dr. Grant to decide he'd look good in costume.