The aftermath was a whirlwind of noise—Kate's breathless questions, the groans of incapacitated kidnappers, the approaching wail of sirens. Aaron stood as the calm center of the storm, his enhanced senses tracking every variable.
"Are you a Superhero? Like Iron Man, but without the suit? That was so much faster than the news says he moves!"
"Do you know the guy in the devil costume in Hell's Kitchen? You're way better!"
"Can you teach me? Please? I'm a really fast learner, I promise!"
"Hey, are you listening? Big Brother?"
Aaron felt a flicker of amusement mixed with mild regret. Kate Bishop was a precocious vortex of curiosity, an unending stream of consciousness given human form. His Superior Cognitive Matrix could parse terabytes of data, but filtering the enthusiastic interrogation of a pre-teen was a uniquely taxing challenge.
He was aware of the two new figures who had materialized from a nondescript sedan just after the confrontation—serious men in dark suits, hands resting near concealed holsters. Private security, Bishop assets. They watched him with professional appraisal, their postures tense but not hostile. His intervention had been… efficient.
To Kate, however, logic and backup plans were irrelevant. He was the archetypal savior, stepped right out of a comic book panel. And a visually striking one at that, which her ongoing commentary made abundantly clear.
"Katherine." The voice was smooth, controlled, and carried an undercurrent of steel that cut through the chatter.
A woman in a tailored crimson business suit approached, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the pavement. She moved with the assured authority of someone accustomed to rooms parting before her. Eleanor Bishop.
"Mama!" Kate chirped, darting to her side before remembering her decorum. She straightened, adopting a polished smile that looked strangely mature on her youthful face. "I wasn't being that bothersome, was I?" she whispered.
Eleanor's gaze barely flickered to her daughter, her primary focus locked on Aaron. Her eyes were sharp, missing nothing—the unnatural stillness of the four attackers, the lack of any visible strain on Aaron, the way her own security detail regarded him with wary respect. She extended a hand.
"Mr. Aaron. My people have briefed me. You have my profound gratitude for intervening on my daughter's behalf." Her handshake was firm, dry, and brief.
"It was a fortunate coincidence," Aaron replied, his tone neutral. "Kate is… memorable. Letting harm come to her would have been a stain on the neighborhood."
Eleanor's smile was a professional curve of the lips. "Your modesty is commendable." She glanced dismissively at the would-be kidnappers now being loaded into an ambulance by arriving NYPD officers who seemed to be coordinating smoothly with her security team. "I understand your situation may be delicate. You needn't concern yourself with any official inquiries. Bishop Security will handle all interactions with the authorities. This incident will be resolved as a failed commercial kidnapping attempt, with no mention of any… extraordinary intervention."
It was a clean, powerful offer. Absolution from bureaucratic entanglement.
"And," she continued, a subtle shift in her tone, "while gratitude should never be transactional, please allow me to express ours tangibly."
A man with the build of a linebacker and the demeanor of an accountant stepped forward, opening a sleek aluminum briefcase. Neat, banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills filled it.
"One million dollars. A small token of our appreciation for Kate's safety."
Aaron's face remained impassive, but internally, his analytical mind noted the psychology. It was a test as much as a reward. A million dollars in cash was a life-changing sum for most, a temptation to gauge his avarice or desperation.
He gave a slight, acknowledging nod. "Your generosity is unexpected."
Eleanor's eyes gleamed, reading his controlled reaction. "The sum is admittedly modest given the circumstances. Time constraints limited what we could mobilize immediately. A further four million is available. If you provide an address, it can be delivered discreetly."
The language of extreme wealth, Aaron mused. A 'modest' million, with four more held in reserve. Not a bribe, but a calibrated display of capability and leverage.
"Unfortunately," he said, shrugging slightly, "I am currently between permanent addresses. New York is… new to me."
"I see." Eleanor's smile became more genuine, a problem she could solve. "In that case, allow me to offer a practical solution. I maintain a renovated townhouse in the East 70s. It is currently unoccupied but fully serviced. Please, use it for as long as you require. Consider it a safe harbor while you acquaint yourself with the city."
For a fleeting second, Aaron felt the surreal sensation of being a kept man. This was the casual power of capital: problems like housing vanished with a wave of a hand. But the feeling was swiftly overridden by cold analysis. It was a strategic offer. It placed him in a known location, obligated him slightly, and allowed her to observe. It was also incredibly useful.
After a calculated pause, he nodded again. "That is exceptionally kind. I accept."
Eleanor's satisfaction was palpable. "Excellent. Derek will see you there immediately with the keys and access codes." She finally turned a more maternal eye to Kate, who was vibrating with suppressed excitement. "Come, Katherine. Let's allow our benefactor some peace. You have quite the story for your journal."
Kate's protest was a silent, pouting look, but she obeyed, casting a longing glance back at Aaron as she was shepherded away. "Bye, Mr. Aaron! Thank you!"
Soon after, Aaron found himself standing in the minimalist, luxurious silence of a three-story townhouse. The sterile, designer-perfect environment felt more like a high-end hotel than a home. He set the briefcase of cash on a marble countertop. The first phase was complete: capital and shelter acquired through a combination of demonstrated power and accepted patronage.
Now, for phase two.
"Priority: Legal Identity," he murmured. In the quiet, his mind illuminated. His Superior Cognitive Matrix and Network Interface Protocol activated in tandem. He no longer needed a physical screen; information cascaded in organized streams within his consciousness. He was a walking cybernetic system.
He began a deep, rapid dive into the digital underbelly of New York, bypassing standard firewalls and accessing the murky forums and encrypted channels where real business was conducted. His goal wasn't just a fake ID; it was a real ghost identity—a social security number, a digital footprint, tax records that would withstand mid-level scrutiny. He quickly identified a handful of reputed forgers with the alleged connections to inject data into foundational government systems. One name, procured from a chain of dark web referrals and cross-referenced with hacked FBI non-priority watchlists, seemed most promising: a fixer known only as "The Curator."
Concurrently, he siphoned and processed vast amounts of public and lightly secured data to build a timeline of this world. The information crystallized.
Current year: 2010.
Tony Stark has publicly declared, "I am Iron Man."
The incident in New Mexico with a mysterious hammer… not yet recorded.
The Avengers Initiative: likely in formative stages.
The wider cosmic threats: dormant, but approaching.
A wave of grim relief washed over him. Time. He had precious, volatile time. The cataclysmic dice roll of the Snap was years away. Five years of development lost to a coin flip was an unacceptable risk. His path was clear: accelerate, accumulate power, and transcend the narrative before it could crush him.
He compartmentalized the global data into mental folders and turned his immediate focus to a more mundane but urgent task: acquiring biological samples. A pet store, a zoo, a biological supply company—all were potential sources for the Furnace's next forging.
He moved toward the townhouse's front door, his mind already mapping the optimal route. As he grasped the handle, his Enhanced Sensory Array pinged—a small, familiar bio-signature, laced with nervous anticipation, standing just on the other side.
He opened the door.
On the pristine stoop, shifting her weight from foot to foot, a backpack slung over one shoulder and her earlier polish replaced by a look of determined guilt, stood Kate Bishop.
"Kate?" Aaron said, one eyebrow lifting. "Shouldn't you be writing in your journal?"