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You’re sifting through the seemingly endless boxes of stuff the Inventor left behind when you find a faded low-color photo of a whole group of lowbloods in an antique army camp. At the front is a stick-thin rustblood shaking hands with a familiar-looking seadweller. You flip it over and, yep, it’s Hauard Starck, the illustrious Inventor. Your ancestor.
There’s another name, one you don’t recognize, scribbled down below it: Steave Rojers. You guess he’s the lucky lowblood the Inventor chose for his infamous hemoboosting experiments.
You wonder absentmindedly whether this Steave was the only success from the project, who went on to become Captain Alternia.
“Jarvis, give me everything you can find on one Steave Rojers. I think his symbol’s Pentaclus, rustblood. Oh, and he was part of Project Rebirth.”
“Yes sir.” Jarvis was quiet for a bit and you pull out more junk from the box. “Sir, some of the information you seek is restricted to blue-level clearance.”
You sigh and prick your finger on the scanner, plum-colored blood verifying your authority. The computer processes the hue while you dump a whole bunch of old books into the ‘toss’ pile.
There’s a ding (really, that took far too long, you should get around to upgrading your security uplink) and then paintings, pictures, and grainy film reels fill the room with color and light and the good Captain Alternia.
You really ought to brush up on your history. Officially the Defender, Captain Alternia was your ancestor’s life’s work, even if he did end up crashing on some planet and eventually getting your ancestor decried as a heretic and exiled.
*
Pepern drags you out to get food and you have a breakthrough on the tracking system for the ship-to-planet bombardment systems and you forget all about the Defender and your ancestor’s folly.
Later, after a kidnapping and an invention and far too many near-death experiences, you wish you’d taken the time to read up in more detail on the Defender.
*
You’re not the first they tell when they find him but you’re one of the first to know, thanks to a few clandestine viruses left in SHIELD’s computers.
You don’t believe it at first—because, really? They found a folk hero who’s been dead for hundreds of sweeps and they think they can revive him? You bring up security cameras until you find the lab where the Defender is supposed to be and—
Well. You guess they did find a folk hero who’s been dead for hundreds of sweeps. He’s mostly covered in ice, shield leaning against the ice, mediliquidators and attacknicians looking on. Damn, if you could get your hands on that shield…
(Unsurprisingly, you’re more interested in the shield than the hero, since he’s probably dead and vibranium. You would do many unspeakably evil things to get your hands on vibranium.)
Your phone rings and you shut off the feed. It’s the familiar voice of Fury, SHIELD’s Director.
“Starck,” he says, ever civil.
“Fury. What’s rachetin’?” You slip an admittedly stupid pun in because you know he hates them.
“We’ve made a find that you should get a look at. Come over to HQ asap.” He hangs up and you grin. You always love getting the drop on Fury.
*
An hour later and you, Hawkeyes, and Nataya are sitting in a conference room, waiting for somebody to show up.
“So, Tony,” Hawkeyes says, “I’m sure you know what we’re here for. Care to share with the flock?”
You look up from your phone briefly. “I want to see the look on your face when Fury tells you. Also, I told you before, it’s Litheart.”
“Whatever, I told you you should have gone with Lifeglow.”
“All right, boys, break it up,” Nataya says. “Fury’ll be here in five.”
Five seconds later, Director Fury steps into the room. Nataya has a near-perfect sense of where people are in relation to her, which is weird because she’s not a psychic. (You hope.)
“What I am about to tell you three is to be kept under the strictest secrecy until you are told otherwise. Anybody without SHIELD-BLUE clearance should be kept out of the loop, you three not included.” Oh. Right. You technically only have jade-level clearance with SHIELD. Not that it took you very long to hack yourself to pink-level.
The Director straightens his jacket and gets right to the heart of the matter: “Have any of you heard of Captain Alternia?”
You do your best to act interested while redesigning the hand repulsors for your Iron Troll suit in your head; Hawkeyes and Nataya talk with Fury about stuff you already know. You pay attention when Fury switches to present tense.
“The Defender is currently in the process of being revived and since he’s now a strong candidate for the Avengers Initiative, SHIELD would like you three, as trolls rather than SHIELD agents, to adjust him to modern life and try to recruit him.”
You don’t bother to protest, even though it sounds like the most boring job ever (really? wigglerwatching an ancient warrior?), because Fury’s already made his decision. Hawkeyes does, and is argued down quickly.
“He should be mobile tomorrow. I want you three here tomorrow evening, early.”
*
You arrive at SHIELD HQ around dusk and meet up with Nataya and Hawkeyes in the lobby.
“Hey Starck, did you finish those shrapnel arrows for me?” Hawkeyes asks.
“Keep calling me my wiggler name and I won’t make you anything else, ever,” you shoot back, without much vitriol.
“Fine. Litheart. Did you finish the shrapnel arrows?”
“Yeah, they’re done, but not tested yet.”
He punches your shoulder hard enough for you to feel but not enough to hurt. “Hey, I might get some use out of you yet.”
You smile a little and look over your sunglasses at an approaching Fury. “So, boss, what’s up?”
“We’ve got a situation,” Fury says, leading them at a brisk pace toward a bank of elevators. “Rojers is proving to be somewhat uncooperative.”
“Let’s see what we can do, then,” Nataya says.
*
As you walk in to see the Defender holding his own against a whole horde of SHIELD agents, you realize belatedly that he is an angel ascendant, an emissary of the sun, a winged troll; his wings were nearly impossible to see in the photos you saw but here they’re glaringly obvious, the slightly tattered gauzy things. But he’s definitely sun-cursed—his green eyes are bright and his hair looks sun-bleached and he’s hot and sharp and bright and gloriously angry and Tony keep your pants on, SHIELD definitely has psychics on you.
When he sees you he stops, surprised, takes in your blood and symbol emblazoned on your shirt, and says, “Hauard?”
You shake your head no, because you’re not your ancestor by any stretch of the imagination, and he looks so utterly defeated, eyebrows pinched together and mouth closed in a grim line, that you blurt out, “He was my ancestor.”
He sits down on the reclining mat so fast it looks like he collapsed and waves the SHIELD agents off. He drops his head into his hands with a sigh and says, “It really has been that long,” quiet voice muffled by his hands. It only takes him a few beats to pull himself together and he stands again.
“Polymath Litheart,” you say to introduce yourself, offering your hand out. He takes it and wow his hand is burning hot but not painfully so (the rational part of your think pan wonders if it’s an angel thing because he is far warmer than even a rustblood) and you almost miss his reply of “Steave Rojers” in your astonishment and Tony get your mind out of the gutter!
Nataya and Hawkeyes step forward then when you can’t think of anything witty to say in response and the Defender switches his attention to them. She looks almost bored as she introduces herself as “Nataya Romanov” but her moirail is grinning from ear to ear as he says “Marksman Hawkeyes”. Suck-up.
Fury chivvies you three out after that, to “Give the Defender some time to think.”
Your hand is still warm as you leave.
*
“You okay there Tony?” Hawkeyes teases. The three of you are sitting the lobby, waiting for Fury to return.
“Shut up,” you growl, eyes determinedly fixed on your phone.
“You looked like you were going to swoon,” he says, grinning.
“Shut up!”
“Didn’t know you were into wings, Tony.”
You look to Nataya for help but her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter; you’ll get no help from that corner, then.
“But hey, hanging out with him is our job for the next few nights. You should be pleased.”
You slouch deeper into the chair and try to ignore him. You’re not very successful.
*
Director Fury returns in a few minutes, looking slightly pleased. You hope that’s not because he’s gotten permission to actually gut you rather than metaphorically gut you, since he’s threatened it more than once.
“Good work,” he says and you don’t think he’s ever said that to you. “The Defender has agreed to work with you three in the coming nights to get adjusted to current fleet life.”
The three of you look at each other and you find your lip curling up of its own accord.
Looking after the Defender might not be so bad after all.
*
Later in the evening, you’re wandering the bowels of the ship, tinkering with the design of something-or-other when you hear someone calling your name.
Across the hall is the Defender at the door of what appears to be a gym, and it feels like your think pan comes to a screeching halt as it tries to process a sweaty, tousled Steave Rojers, and no stop that think about Pepern.
“Uh, hi,” you say and capchalogue your phone.
“I think I broke the stuffed sparring rod,” he says, out of breath but smiling.
“I’m sure there’s another,” you reply and the two of you search the entire gym only to find the spares in the next room down the hall.
As the Defender effortlessly lifts the new punching bag onto the hook, he says, “So, Litheart—can I call you that? I’ve never really talked to older highbloods and, you know—”
“Litheart is fine, and I’m only seventeen really. You’ll have to choose a name for yourself at some point, though, aside from Defender.”
“Can’t I just be Steave?”
“You’re kind of an honorary highblood, Cap. It would be like calling me Antony all the time, it’s just not how you want to be known.”
“Antony Starck?” he asks with a grin. “I like the sound of that.”
You sigh and try to hide a smile. You guess you wouldn’t mind Captain Alternia calling you your wiggler name. “Fine, you can call me Tony when Hawkeyes isn’t around, if I get to call you Steave.”
“Deal,” Steave says, and the warmth in his eyes makes the remnants of your collapsing and expanding aquatic vascular system do strange things. Your eyes flick down at the arc reactor embedded in your chest but its light is steady and bright and maybe it’s not such a bad feeling after all.
“So Tony,” he says, “What’s up with that that light in your chest?”
“The arc reactor?” You tap it with one finger through your shirt. “It’s a power source, mostly. About a sweep ago I was kidnapped by some lowblood rebels, second-sufferists I think, and they wanted me to make them weapons, ‘cause that’s kind of what I did before that whole fiasco, and they kind of, uh, wrecked my heart? This thing keeps me alive, pretty much.” You pull up your shirt and show him your arc reactor in all its metallic glory.
“Wow,” he says, and his voice is all wonder, without any of the shock or repulsion you normally get. His hand reaches up toward the arc reactor but he stops it an inch away and looks at you. You nod and he covers the arc reacor with his palm, the light leaking through at the edges.
*
Nataya takes her turn with Steave later in the night and Pepern calls you away on business and you don’t get a chance to say goodbye to him. You tell Hawkeyes to tell him for you and you mean to get his trolltag but it slips your mind and then things kind of get blown all to hell anyway. (In retrospect, the racecar was probably a bad idea even under the circumstances.)
Captain Alternia is the last thing on your mind when you head back to your SHIELD quarters, which are where you spend most of your days in anyway, but an angry Defender enters the entryblock a few minutes after you flop down on the reclining mat with a medicinal kit.
“Tony?”
“Yeah?”
He turns around, mouth open and obviously ready to scold you, but when he sees you patching up your wounds he stops.
“What happened?” he says, tone neutral.
“I was on a business trip last night, with Pepern,” you say, “for Tangates Industries. It was on Monacio Colony—I think that’s after your time, but it’s pretty swanky—and it’s famous for its races and there was one that night, so I joined in. I was doing pretty well when this crazy rustblood with these electrified whips destroys half a dozen cars and nearly kills me and Pepern broke up with me and—!”
You realize that you’ve nearly crushed the bandage in your hands and your teeth are bared and you’re ranting at a troll you’ve known for less than a week.
“Fuck, just—I don’t mean to drop this on you, it’s none of your business.” You grab the tube of sealing gel and smear it on your arm, hissing slightly as you reopen a cut with an imprecise stroke.
Steave is quiet for a little while, and then he says, “You don’t have to say anything, but I’m listening if you’d like to talk.”
“…Was that a pale proposition, Steave?” you ask, not entirely disappointed.
“What? No!” He actually blushes, his skin tinting green, and for some reason it’s adorable. “It’s just, when I was with the Howling Commandos, it was just us a lot of the time, and I got used to sort of conciliating for everybody.”
Even Steave doesn’t want to be in a quadrant with you. Figures.
You settle for glowering at your hands and trying to ignore all the tiny cuts all over your body, and Steave sits silently beside you, drawing shapes in the air with his finger.
You’re so caught up in the curls and lines he’s drawing that you don’t notice that you’ve started until you’re already talking, quiet and fast and angry at yourself, at Pepern, at Vancko, at the world. That feeling is back in your heart, but it’s sharp this time and not entirely comfortable.
*
In retrospect, you should have checked out your arc reactor sooner.
You say your goodbyes to Steave and Nataya and Hawkeyes the next night, because you need to sort out Tangates Industries and get back together with Pepern and stop mooning over the mysterious stranger in town.
But you end up doing none of those things, because it turns out your arc reactor is fucking killing you, and suddenly life is short. (You wonder, is this what being a rustblood is like?)
So you seclude yourself in your private workship in a quieter, seablooded corner of the main fleet and set up the autopilot to just jump with the fleet. It takes the combined efforts of Pepern, Rhodes, and Steave (through video--SHIELD won’t let him leave their flagship) to get you out of there. You give Rhodes one of the earlier Iron Troll suits and put Pepern in control of Tangates Industries in retaliation.
Then you and Pepern have a disgustingly fluffy feelings jam and you’re officially moirails now but you can’t inflict a dying Tony on Steave so you zip your lips to Pepern even though it hurts.
*
When you finally return to the SHIELD flagship, you have a new arc reactor and are under close surveillance since you destroyed a sizeable portion of Flushing Meadows (along with Rhodes, you point out to the Director), and Steave is nowhere to be found.
You mope in your block for a while before pulling up his info on the system. He’s registered on trollian as considerateAdjutant (you file that away for future reference) and when you ping his block he doesn’t respond.
You check the trackers and of course he’s in that gym again. You take a roundabout way towards the gym that might have lost your tail but you stop next to the windows, just out of his sight. You can hear the muffled thump of him punching the stuffed sparring rod, and when it finally hits the floor you decide to go in.
“Hey,” you say. It’s been at least a perigee since you’ve actually talked to him (not counting when he kicked you out of your workship) so you don’t want to address him too informally.
“Tony!” he says, but his surprise isn’t entirely pleasant and his smile isn’t as wide as the last time you found him here.
“Sorry I disappeared there for a while,” you say. “Mind if I stay awhile?”
“Be my guest,” he says, hefting another rod onto the hook.
Neither of you talks for the next few hours, but you take solace in his presence and find yourself with a silly little smile on your face for the rest of the night.