Two hours later, Tony was leaning forward on the couch, completely absorbed.
"Wait, wait," he said as the end credits rolled on episode six. "So Patsy figured out that her best friend was shoplifting because she noticed the friend's spending habits didn't match her income, and instead of reporting her, she *helped* her return the items and talk to her parents about their family's financial problems?"
"That's character development," Pepper said smugly. "Patsy could've just told an adult. But she chose empathy. Chose to understand the problem before judging. That's what makes her special."
"And this was on network television in 1987?" Barry asked. "That's... actually pretty sophisticated for a family sitcom."
"That's what I've been saying!" Pepper was practically vibrating with vindication. "Everyone dismisses *It's Patsy* as just another 'kid learns a lesson' show, but it dealt with real issues. Poverty, divorce, social pressure, identity. All wrapped in comedy and warmth and Patricia Walker's incredible performance."
"She was twelve in this," Tony observed. "Twelve years old and carrying entire episodes. That's talent."
"That's Patricia Walker," Pepper agreed. "She was extraordinary. And then she grew up, went to college, studied journalism, came back as a serious interviewer. But she never forgot where she came from. Never forgot the importance of empathy and understanding and asking real questions."
"Which is why *Trish Talk* is different," Barry realized. "She's applying the same principles—empathy, understanding, asking real questions—to real issues."
"Exactly!" Pepper looked delighted. "And that's why I knew she'd defend Tony. Because Patricia Walker—Trish Walker now—she doesn't just follow narratives. She looks deeper. Asks why. Tries to understand before judging."
Tony was quiet for a moment, staring at the paused screen showing young Patricia Walker's smiling face frozen in time.
"I want to meet her," Tony said suddenly.
"Obviously," Pepper said. "That's why we're doing this. Building context."
"No, I mean—I want to meet her soon. Not eventually. Not 'when we have something to show.' I want to meet the person who understood what I was trying to say when everyone else called me crazy." Tony turned to Pepper. "Can you set that up? Reach out to her people, arrange a meeting—not a formal interview yet, just a conversation. I want to thank her. For getting it. For saying what needed to be said when no one else would."
Pepper's expression softened. "I can try. But Tony, she's probably very busy. *Trish Talk* is getting really popular. She might not have time for random meetings with CEOs who watched six episodes of her childhood sitcom."
"Then I'll make it worth her time," Tony said. "I'll show her the arc reactor technology. Give her an exclusive look at what we're building—the clean energy future, the transformation, all of it. She wanted to know what Stark Industries could do if we weren't focused on weapons. I'll show her."
"That's actually a good idea," Barry said. "Build trust first. Show her you're serious. Then when you do the formal interview, it's not just PR—it's a genuine conversation between people who respect each other."
"See?" Tony pointed at Barry. "The speedster gets it. We do this right. Personal first, professional second. Build a relationship based on mutual respect, not just media strategy."
Pepper was already typing on her tablet, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. "I'll reach out to her production team. See if we can arrange something informal—maybe coffee, maybe a tour of the workshop. Something where she can see what you're building without the pressure of cameras and formal interviews."
"Perfect." Tony stood, energy returning. "And in the meantime, we keep working. Mark II, Barry's wrist reactor, the clean energy program. We build things that matter. Things that prove Patricia Walker was right to defend us."
"Us?" Barry repeated.
"You're part of this now," Tony said simply. "You saved my life. You're helping me build a better future. That makes you part of the team. And speaking of which—" he turned to Barry with that particular gleam that suggested Incoming Idea, "—we should probably talk about your suit."
"My suit?"
"The red one. The one I built you in the cave." Tony gestured toward the workshop. "It works. It's functional. It kept you alive and operational during the escape. But let me ask you something—do you want to be a hero?"
Barry blinked. "I... yes? I mean, that's what the Flash is supposed to be. That's what the Speed Force chose me for."
"Then you need a suit that says 'hero,'" Tony declared. "Not 'I survived a terrorist compound with improvised tactical gear.' A real suit. Something that looks like it was designed with purpose, with power, with the weight of what you represent."
"Tony's about to design you a superhero costume," Pepper translated. "This is happening whether you're ready or not."
"I design you a suit, you become an actual capital-H Hero, and everyone wins," Tony continued, warming to the concept. "Plus it'll be fun. I haven't built powered armor for someone with superspeed before. The engineering challenges alone are fascinating. How do you protect someone who can vibrate through walls? How do you provide support for someone who experiences forces that would liquify a normal human? How do you make something that looks amazing *and* functions at Mach speeds?"
"Those are good questions," Barry admitted.
"Those are *great* questions," Tony corrected. "And I'm going to answer all of them. JARVIS, pull up a new design slate. We're building a speedster suit. Full specifications. Nothing held back. This is going to be beautiful."
They descended back into the workshop—Pepper following with her tablet, already making notes, Barry feeling a weird mix of excitement and apprehension. Tony moved to the center, hands already moving through holographic space.
"Okay," Tony said. "Let's start with the basics. Your current suit—the one I built in the cave—was designed for survival. Kevlar reinforcement, heat-resistant boots, arc reactor integration. It works. But it looks... utilitarian. Military. That's fine for escaping terrorists, but if you're going to be a hero—a real hero—you need something that inspires people. Something that makes them look at you and think 'here comes someone who's going to save the day.'"
"No pressure," Barry muttered.
"All the pressure," Tony countered cheerfully. "But that's okay. Pressure makes diamonds. Also makes people panic, but we're focusing on the diamond thing. Now—" he gestured and a blank human form appeared, rotating slowly, "—let's talk materials. Your current suit is kevlar-based. Good for bullets, decent for friction, but ultimately limited. What we need is something that can handle the actual physics of superspeed."
The hologram shifted, layers appearing around the human form—materials, stress points, energy dispersal patterns.
"When you run at, say, Mach 1, you're generating heat through friction that would cook a normal person alive. Your boots handle that through ceramic coating. But what about the rest of you? Your chest, your arms, your face? We need a material that disperses heat across the entire surface, channels it away from your body, prevents localized burning."
"Heat management," Barry said, understanding. "That's been an issue. Sometimes when I push really hard, I feel like I'm overheating."
"Because you are," Tony said. "Your metabolism compensates, but that's inefficient. The suit should handle it. Which means—" he manipulated the hologram, "—we build with next-generation alloy plating. Titanium-carbide composite. It's what I'm using for the Mark II. Lightweight, incredibly strong, and crucially, it has exceptional thermal conductivity. Heat gets distributed across the entire surface and radiated away before it can build up."
The hologram's surface gained a metallic sheen—deep red, polished like liquid chrome.
"That's the base layer," Tony explained. "Titanium-carbide plating, formed into an exoskeleton that moves with your body. Provides structure, protection, heat management. But we don't just coat you in metal—that's too rigid. We need articulation. Movement. So—"
He gestured and the plating segmented, becoming more organic, following muscle groups.
"The armor follows your musculature. Shoulders, chest, ribs, forearms, thighs, calves—anywhere that experiences high stress during superspeed movement gets reinforcement. Gold accents—" the hologram's stress points shifted color, "—using Stark-grade titanium-gold alloy. It's not just aesthetic. The gold alloy has different stress properties than the red. Creates a balanced system where different parts of the suit handle different types of force."
"It's beautiful," Pepper said quietly, watching the design take shape.
"It's functional," Tony said. "Beauty is a side effect of good engineering. Now—" he focused on the chest, "—let's talk about the arc reactor integration. Your current setup has the reactor external, strapped over the suit. That works, but it's vulnerable. What if someone hits it? What if you crash into something at Mach 2?"
"Bad things happen?" Barry guessed.
"Very bad things," Tony confirmed. "So we integrate it properly. Build a housing directly into the chest piece. And instead of just a generic reactor glow, we make it mean something."
He sketched quickly, and the chest piece transformed—the circular reactor housing expanding, stylizing, becoming...
"A lightning bolt," Barry breathed.
"The Flash emblem," Tony said. "Your symbol. But it's not just decoration—it's functional. The lightning bolt shape is actually a conductive capacitor. It stores Speed Force energy when you're running, redistributes it when you need a burst of speed, prevents catastrophic overload when you push past your normal limits. It's power regulation disguised as a logo."
"That's brilliant," Barry said, leaning closer to examine the design.
"I have moments." Tony continued working, moving up to the head. "Now, the mask. Your current one is functional but basic. Fabric, eye holes, very 'I improvised this from available materials.' What you need is full face protection. Sealed helmet. Built-in HUD. Environmental systems."
The hologram's head gained a sleek cowl—metallic red matching the body, with polarized white lenses where the eyes would be.
"Polarized lenses adjust to your speed of perception," Tony explained. "When you're running at normal speed, they're clear. When you accelerate to Mach speeds, they automatically darken and filter, protecting your eyes from debris, wind shear, insects, and random objects that would otherwise turn your eyeballs into jelly."
"That's a disturbing but accurate assessment," Barry said.
"I'm a realist." Tony added detail to the cowl—sleek lines extending from the sides. "These are stabilizers. Gold-plated atmospheric sensors. They serve two functions: one, they monitor environmental conditions and feed data to your HUD. Two, they act as small repulsor-style thrusters for course correction at extreme speeds. You're running so fast you overshoot a turn? These kick in, give you a fraction-second burst of directional control. Keeps you from splattering into walls."
"I appreciate not splattering into walls."
"Everyone appreciates not splattering into walls. It's a universal preference." Tony pulled back, examining the full design. "The suit also has vibrational dampening woven throughout—micro-weave technology that adjusts to your phasing frequency. Makes it easier to vibrate through solid matter without leaving your suit behind. Plus temperature regulation—constantly adjusting to counter the heat from running. And—this is my favorite part—"
He zoomed in on the suit's joints—wrists, belt, shoulders.
"Modular gold actuator plates. They look like reinforcement, but they're actually storage for nanobots."
"Nanobots?" Barry repeated.
"Microscopic self-repair robots," Tony explained. "You damage the suit in combat—tear, burn, structural failure—the nanobots deploy and fix it. Automatically. In seconds. You could get hit by a car, tear half the suit, and by the time you stand up it's already rebuilding itself. It's armor that heals."
"That's incredible," Pepper said. "Tony, that's actually incredible."
"I know," Tony said without false modesty. "This is probably the most advanced thing I've ever designed. And that's including the Mark II. The engineering required to make a suit that can survive superspeed, phase-shifting, lightning generation, and general heroic chaos? That's next-level even for me."
The complete design rotated slowly—sleek, powerful, beautiful. The deep metallic red caught light like liquid chrome. The gold accents provided visual balance and structural reinforcement. The lightning bolt symbol blazed at the chest, functional and iconic. The cowl suggested speed and power, the polarized white lenses giving an almost otherworldly appearance.
It looked like a hero's suit.
It looked like the Flash.
"When you run in this," Tony said quietly, "you'll leave trails of light. The Speed Force energy channeling through the suit—it'll glow. Gold tracery along the limbs, following the paths of highest energy flow. You'll look like a comet. Like lightning given form. People will see you coming and they'll know: here comes someone who can help. Here comes a hero."
Barry stared at the design, feeling something tight in his chest. This wasn't just a suit. This was an identity. A statement. A promise that he'd be better, do better, become the hero the Speed Force believed he could be.
"There's one more thing," Tony said, pulling up another interface. "The suit needs an AI."
"An AI?"
"Like JARVIS but personalized for you. Someone in your ear during missions, monitoring your vitals, running tactical analysis, managing suit systems. You're going to be moving too fast to consciously manage everything—you need someone who can process information at speeds that match your perception and make real-time adjustments."
Tony looked at Barry seriously. "This AI will be your partner. Your backup. The voice that keeps you grounded when you're moving at speeds that make the world freeze. So—" he gestured, "—what do you want to call her?"
Barry didn't hesitate. "Nora."
"Nora," Tony repeated. "That's your mom's name."
"Yeah." Barry's voice was quiet. "She died when I was eleven. Murdered by someone I couldn't stop because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't *enough*. The Speed Force entity appeared to me wearing her face—said it was for comfort, to help me process what was happening. And it did help. Having that connection, even if it wasn't really her."
He looked at Tony. "I know an AI isn't my mom. I know it's just code, just programming. But if I'm going to have a voice in my ear, someone supporting me, helping me be better—I want it to be her name. To honor her. To remember why I'm doing this."
Tony was quiet for a moment. "Okay. Nora it is. But Barry—I don't know what your mom sounded like. I don't have voice recordings, speech patterns, any of the data I'd normally use to model an AI's vocal characteristics. We'll have to work together on this. You'll need to describe her voice, her mannerisms, how she spoke. It won't be perfect. It'll be an approximation based on your memories. But—" he met Barry's eyes, "—we'll make it as real as we can."
"Thank you," Barry said. "That means a lot."
"Then we start there," Tony decided. "Before we build the suit, before we fabricate the components, we build Nora. We get the voice right. Because you're going to be trusting this AI with your life, and that trust needs to be built on something real. Something meaningful."
"How do we start?" Barry asked.
"JARVIS, pull up the AI development suite," Tony said. "We're building a new intelligence. Personality matrix—caring, protective, intelligent, with a sense of humor because anyone supporting Barry is going to need one. Voice profile—to be determined based on Mr. Allen's memories and descriptions. Primary function—speedster operational support, tactical analysis, suit systems management, and keeping our hero from making the same kind of impulsive decisions I make on a regular basis."
"I shall serve as a reference for behaviors to avoid," JARVIS observed dryly.
"Exactly," Tony agreed. "Barry, start talking. Tell me about your mom. How did she sound? High voice, low voice? Fast talker, slow talker? Did she have phrases she used a lot? Ways of expressing affection? Anything you remember."
Barry sat down, thinking back through layers of grief and time to the woman who'd raised him for eleven years.
"She had a warm voice," he began slowly. "Not high, not low—right in the middle. Gentle but strong. She could be soft when I needed comfort and firm when I needed direction, and you always knew she meant both because she loved you."
Tony was making notes, adjusting parameters on the holographic interface. "Okay. Warm, middle register, capable of range. What about tempo? Did she speak quickly or take her time?"
"She thought before she spoke," Barry said, the memories coming easier now. "Never rushed. Even when she was busy, even when I was asking a million questions like kids do, she'd pause and think and give me real answers. Made me feel like what I had to say mattered."
"Thoughtful pacing. Deliberate. Shows investment in the conversation." More adjustments. "What about when she was worried or scared? How did her voice change?"
"It got quieter," Barry said. "But more intense. Like she was channeling all her fear into determination. When my dad was wrongly accused, when everything was falling apart—she didn't yell or panic. She got quiet and strong and told me that we'd get through it together, that love was stronger than anything else."
Tony's hands paused briefly. "That's... that's beautiful, Barry. She sounds like an amazing person."
"She was," Barry said simply. "She made me believe I could be better than I was. Smarter, kinder, braver. She saw potential in me even when I couldn't see it myself. And when she died, I—" his voice caught, "—I promised myself I'd become the person she believed I could be. That's what the Flash is supposed to be. That promise, made real."
The workshop was quiet except for the soft hum of systems, the distant sound of waves against rocks.
"Then that's what Nora will help you do," Tony said firmly. "She'll be the voice that reminds you of that promise. The support that helps you keep it. JARVIS, are we getting a baseline profile?"
"Preliminary personality matrix established, sir. Vocal characteristics mapped. I'll need more data for complete accuracy, but we have enough to begin construction."
"Good. Barry, over the next few days, you and I are going to keep talking about this. More memories, more details. We'll refine Nora's personality until she feels right. Until hearing her voice doesn't hurt but helps. Can you do that?"
"Yeah," Barry said. "Yeah, I can do that."
Pepper, who'd been quiet through this entire exchange, spoke up gently. "This is good, Tony. What you're doing—helping Barry honor his mother while building something that will keep him safe—that's what Yinsen would have wanted. Building things that matter."
"I know," Tony said quietly. "That's the point. Everything from here on out—it matters. No more waste. No more building things that hurt people. Just technology that helps. That saves. That makes the world better."
He turned back to the holographic display, bringing up both designs—the Mark II and Barry's suit, rotating side by side.
"An iron man and a flash of lightning," Tony said. "Two impossible people in impossible suits, trying to make the impossible possible. We're going to change the world, Barry. You and me. Team Impossible."
"Team Impossible?" Barry repeated skeptically.
"I'm workshopping it," Tony admitted. "We'll figure out a better name later. The point stands—we're doing this. Building armor, building suits, building a future where people like us can actually help people instead of just watching from the sidelines."
"I like that," Barry said. "Not the team name. But the goal."
"The goal is all that matters." Tony clapped his hands together. "Okay! Next steps: I start fabrication on your wrist reactor—should have that done by tomorrow. Pepper, you reach out to Patricia Walker's people, see if we can arrange a meeting. Barry, you keep providing details about Nora so we can build her properly. And all of us—" he gestured around the workshop, "—we prepare for tomorrow's board meeting where Obadiah Stane is going to try very hard to stop everything we're trying to do."
"Strategic question," Pepper said. "Do you want me at the board meeting?"
"Do I want my new Chief Operating Officer and the only person who understands both the business and my insane technological ambitions at the meeting where we defend those ambitions?" Tony gave her a look. "Pepper, I need you there. You're the only thing standing between me and saying something phenomenally stupid that tanks the company."
"I can't promise I'll stop you from saying something stupid," Pepper said. "I can only promise I'll try to minimize the damage."
"That's all I ask."
They spent the next several hours in the workshop—Tony beginning fabrication on the wrist reactor, components taking shape under his skilled hands and JARVIS's precision guidance. Pepper worked on her tablet, drafting business plans, reaching out to contacts, preparing for corporate warfare. Barry assisted where he could, learning Tony's systems, providing information about his physiology for the reactor design.
It felt productive. Purposeful. Like they were building toward something real.
Around six PM, Pepper's phone rang. She glanced at it, and her expression shifted—excitement, nervousness, hope all at once.
"It's Patricia Walker's production office," she said, slightly breathless.
"Answer it," Tony said immediately. "Put it on speaker if they're okay with that."
Pepper answered, her voice shifting to Professional Pepper mode. "Pepper Potts."
A woman's voice emerged from the phone—efficient, friendly, very much a producer used to managing things. "Ms. Potts, this is Rachel Klein, senior producer for *Trish Talk*. I received your message about Mr. Stark potentially being interested in connecting with Patricia. I have to say, we were intrigued."
"That's wonderful," Pepper said, maintaining perfect composure despite the fact that Barry could see her hand trembling slightly with excitement. "Mr. Stark was very moved by Ms. Walker's commentary yesterday and wanted to express his appreciation personally."
"We were hoping that would be the response," Rachel said. "Patricia was pleased that her analysis resonated. She's very selective about her interview subjects—prefers substance over celebrity—but Tony Stark shutting down his weapons division? That's substance. That's a story she wants to understand better."
Tony leaned toward the phone. "This is Tony Stark. I'm here. And I just want to say—what Patricia Walker said on her show yesterday? That was the first time since I made my announcement that I felt like someone actually understood what I was trying to do. Everyone else called me crazy or traumatized or irresponsible. She called it a breakthrough. That meant something."
There was a pause. Then Rachel said, "Hold on one moment, Mr. Stark."
Muffled conversation. Someone else coming on the line. Then—
"Tony Stark." A different voice now. Clear, confident, intelligent. The voice from the TV, but more real, more present. "This is Patricia Walker. And I meant what I said. What you're doing—it's either the most courageous thing I've seen a CEO do in years, or the most catastrophic mistake. I'm betting on courageous. But I want to understand it. Really understand it. Not sound bites. Not PR spin. The truth."
Tony smiled. "Ms. Walker, I would love nothing more than to give you the truth. All of it. No spin, no handlers, no corporate-approved messaging. Just me, my workshop, and the technology I'm building to prove that Stark Industries can be something better than a weapons manufacturer."
"Your workshop?"
"I'm inviting you here," Tony said. "To Malibu. To my home, my workshop, my actual life. Not a boardroom. Not a studio. The place where I do the work. You want to understand what I'm building and why? I'll show you. Everything. Full access. The arc reactor technology, the clean energy program, the powered armor, all of it. And then if you want to do a formal interview after you've seen it for yourself—great. If not, at least you'll know I'm serious."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"That's an unusual offer," Patricia said carefully.
"I'm an unusual CEO," Tony countered. "Also, full disclosure—my COO is a massive fan of your work. Watched *It's Patsy* religiously as a kid. Still has the DVDs. Made me watch six episodes this morning so I'd 'understand your worldview.' So there's a chance she might faint if you actually show up. Fair warning."
Pepper made a strangled sound of horror and/or excitement.
"Your COO sounds lovely," Patricia said, and there was warmth in her voice now. "Tell her *It's Patsy* still means a lot to me. It was a complicated time but I'm proud of that work. And Tony—" her tone shifted, becoming more serious, "—if I come to your workshop, I'm bringing a camera. Not for broadcast. Just for me. To document what I see. I don't publish without consent, but I need a record."
"Bring whatever you want," Tony said. "I have nothing to hide. Not anymore."
"Then I'll see you this weekend," Patricia decided. "Saturday afternoon. We'll talk. You'll show me what you're building. And we'll see if the courage I think you have is real or if I gave you too much credit."
"You didn't," Tony said. "I promise you didn't."
"We'll see. Thank you for reaching out, Tony Stark. This could be very interesting."
The call ended.
Pepper looked like she might actually cry. "Tony. Tony, that was Patricia Walker. That was *actually* Patricia Walker. On the phone. Talking to us. She's coming here. To this house. I'm going to meet Patricia Walker."
"You're going to meet Patricia Walker," Tony confirmed, grinning. "This weekend. And yes, you can fangirl. I give you official permission to fangirl. You've earned it."
"I need to prepare," Pepper said immediately, her brain visibly shifting into planning mode. "The house needs to be presentable. The workshop needs to be organized. We need talking points, demonstration plans, safety protocols for showing her the arc reactor technology—"
"Pepper," Tony interrupted gently. "Breathe. We've got four days. That's plenty of time. And she didn't ask for polish—she asked for truth. We'll give her that. The workshop as it is. The technology as it is. Me as I am, which is charming but occasionally difficult."
"Occasionally?" Barry muttered.
"Shush, speedster. Adults are talking." Tony turned back to Pepper. "We're going to be fine. Better than fine. Patricia Walker wants substance? We've got enough substance to fill a documentary. This is going to work."
"Okay," Pepper said, taking a breath. "Okay. Saturday afternoon. Patricia Walker. In this house. Meeting us. Seeing the workshop. Possibly changing the entire trajectory of this company based on what she observes and reports."
"No pressure," Tony said cheerfully.
"*All* the pressure," Pepper corrected. "But you're right. We can do this. We just need to be authentic, transparent, and hope she sees what I see—someone actually trying to change."
"That's the plan."
They worked into the evening—Tony fabricating components for Barry's wrist reactor, Pepper developing presentations and plans, Barry learning systems and providing input. It was comfortable, productive, the kind of focused collaboration that felt like progress.
Around nine PM, Barry's new phone buzzed—a message from Tony: *Your wrist reactor will be done tomorrow by noon. Be ready for installation and testing. Also, start thinking about your superhero name. "The Flash" is taken in approximately zero dimensions except yours, but we should make it official. What do you want people to call you when you're running around saving lives in an extremely attractive suit that I designed?*
Barry texted back: *The Flash works fine. It's who I'm supposed to be.*
*Then The Flash it is. Welcome to superheroism, kid. Try not to die. It would make me look bad.*
Barry smiled and set his phone down.
The Flash.
In a suit designed by Tony Stark.
With an AI modeled after his mother.
Ready to become the hero the Speed Force believed he could be.
In a dimension that wasn't his own but was starting to feel like home.
Tomorrow they'd finish the wrist reactor.
Saturday, Patricia Walker would arrive.
And sometime after that—when the suit was built, when Nora was complete, when everything was ready—Barry Allen would run.
Not away from his problems.
Toward them.
As the Flash.
As a hero.
Just like his mother believed he could be.
*Don't waste your speed on things that don't matter*, Yinsen had said.
Barry wouldn't.
He promised.
And in the workshop below, Tony Stark worked late into the night, building miracles from metal and hope, preparing for a future where weapons became tools, where armor meant protection, and where an iron man and a flash of lightning would show the world what heroes really looked like.
The arc reactor glowed.
The designs rotated.
The future took shape, one impossible invention at a time.
And somewhere in the dimensional void, the Speed Force hummed its approval.
Her champion had found his path.
Now he just needed to run it.
—
**SHIELD Triskelion, Washington D.C.**
**The Morning After**
Nick Fury stood in his office overlooking the Potomac, eye patch perfectly positioned, coffee perfectly terrible, and mood perfectly calibrated to "controlled irritation"—which was his default setting on days ending in Y.
His tablet displayed multiple news feeds, all showing the same story from different angles of incredulity: Tony Stark had shut down Stark Industries' weapons division. Just... announced it. At a press conference. Without consulting anyone. While sitting on the floor like he was at a particularly informal board meeting.
Classic Stark.
"Sir." Agent Maria Hill entered without knocking, because Hill had reached the rank where knocking was optional and Fury's blood pressure was her problem. "We've confirmed the identity of the individual traveling with Stark from Afghanistan."
"Let me guess," Fury said, not turning from the window. "It's complicated."
"It's *very* complicated." Hill pulled up a holographic display from her tablet. A young man's face appeared—mid-twenties, dark hair, friendly features that suggested he'd never met a problem he couldn't science his way through. "Barry Allen. Age twenty-five. According to the documentation that appeared in multiple federal databases approximately forty-eight hours ago, he's a forensic scientist who was recruited into a classified DOD enhancement program called Project Swift."
"'Appeared in multiple federal databases,'" Fury repeated. "That phrasing suggests skepticism, Agent Hill."
"That's because the documentation is *too* perfect, sir. Birth certificate filed in Amador City, California—small town, spotty records. Parents deceased—car accident, no bodies recovered, cremation, very convenient. College degree from Central City University—a school that closed last year due to budget cuts, records currently being transferred to state archives where they'll be conveniently difficult to verify."
"Someone built him a legend," Fury concluded.
"Someone built him an *excellent* legend," Hill corrected. "We're running deep background checks, but whoever did this knew exactly which gaps to exploit. Small town records, closed institutions, deceased relatives. All the details check out on surface examination but are nearly impossible to verify thoroughly."
"Which means either he's exactly who he says he is and got unlucky with recordkeeping," Fury said, "or someone with significant resources created an identity designed to withstand scrutiny."
"My money's on the second option, sir." Hill swiped and the image shifted—grainy security footage from LAX, showing a blur of red and black moving at impossible speeds between frames. "Airport security captured this yesterday. That's Allen. Moving faster than the cameras can track. One frame he's at the convoy vehicles, next frame he's fifty yards away. The technical analysis suggests speeds exceeding four hundred miles per hour."
Fury finally turned from the window, his one eye focusing on the footage with the intensity of someone who'd seen too many impossible things to be surprised but not enough to stop being concerned. "Enhanced individual. Speedster-class. Traveling with Tony Stark, who just declared war on his own weapons division while wearing a miniature arc reactor in his chest that shouldn't be possible."
"And who, according to NSA intercepts, is building something called the Mark II in his workshop," Hill added. "We don't have details yet, but given that Stark built functional powered armor in a cave, I'm going to assume it's not a toaster."
"Two enhanced individuals, both with technology that rewrites what we thought was possible, both operating without SHIELD oversight." Fury's jaw tightened. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I, sir. But legally, we have no authority. Allen's documentation shows him as a discharged civilian consultant. Stark's a private citizen and defense contractor—was a defense contractor—with no obligations to report his R&D to us."
"Then we need to establish a relationship," Fury decided. "Before they become a problem. Or before someone else decides they're an opportunity." He moved to his desk, pressed a button. "Get me Coulson."
Thirty seconds later, Agent Phil Coulson entered—suit immaculate, expression pleasant, demeanor suggesting a man who could discuss the weather while defusing a bomb. Which he had. Twice.
"You called, sir?"
"I'm sending you to Malibu," Fury said. "Tony Stark just became very interesting, and I need to know why. His companion—Barry Allen—is even more interesting, and I need to know *what*. You'll conduct a debriefing. Friendly. Professional. Make it clear we're here to help, not threaten."
"Is that our actual position, sir?" Coulson asked mildly.
"Our actual position is 'we're assessing the situation,'" Fury said. "But Stark responds poorly to threats and enhanced individuals respond poorly to feeling hunted. So we go in friendly. You're good at friendly, Coulson."
"I'm exceptional at friendly, sir."
"Find out what Stark's building. Find out what Allen can do. Find out if they're going to be assets or problems." Fury fixed Coulson with his one-eyed stare. "And Phil? Stark's going to be difficult. He always is. Stay patient. Stay professional. And if he offers you alcohol, say yes. He respects people who drink with him."
"Noted, sir." Coulson paused. "What if they refuse to cooperate?"
"Then we escalate to Plan B," Fury said.
"What's Plan B?"
"I'll figure it out if we need it." Fury turned back to his window. "Dismissed. And Coulson? Don't let Stark blow you up. Paperwork's a nightmare."
"I'll do my best, sir."
Coulson left, already pulling out his phone to arrange transport.
Hill remained, studying the footage of Barry Allen's impossible speed. "Sir, if Allen really is enhanced to speedster-class capabilities, he could be extremely dangerous. One individual moving at those speeds could infiltrate secure facilities, assassinate targets, cause catastrophic damage before anyone could react."
"I know," Fury said quietly. "But he could also save lives. Disaster response, hostage rescue, situations where minutes matter. That's the problem with enhanced individuals, Hill. They're all knives—depends who's holding them and what they're cutting."
"And if they won't cooperate?"
"Then we watch them very carefully," Fury said. "And hope they stay on the side of the angels."
He looked at the news feed still playing on his tablet—Tony Stark's face, determined and sincere, saying words like "transformation" and "responsibility" and "doing better."
Nick Fury had been in this business long enough to know that good intentions didn't guarantee good outcomes.
But sometimes—just sometimes—they were a start.
"Get me everything we have on arc reactor technology," Fury ordered. "Historical files, Howard Stark's research, anything in our archives. If Tony Stark really miniaturized that technology, I need to understand the implications."
"On it, sir."
Hill left.
Fury remained at his window, watching the city wake up to a world where Tony Stark had a conscience and enhanced individuals appeared from nowhere with perfect legends and impossible abilities.
*This is going to be complicated*, he thought.
But then again, complicated was SHIELD's specialty.
Somewhere over Nevada, Phil Coulson reviewed his briefing materials and tried not to smile.
Tony Stark.
Enhanced individual.
Potential threats or potential assets.
Just another Tuesday at SHIELD.
He was going to need better questions.
And possibly that drink.
---
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