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69 Investigation
🕑 Added 2025-03-03 18:15:01 +0000 UTCNatasha sat cross-legged on the couch in Tony’s expansive living room watching the news. The footage on the screen looped for what felt like the hundredth time, showing Tony outside the hospital just hours ago as reporters jostled to shove microphones in his direction.
"Is that what you want?" Tony's voice boomed through the speakers, cutting through the buzz of the press. Natasha winced slightly as he tore off his sunglasses and stared straight into the phone camera.
"Here's a little holiday greeting I've been wanting to send to the Mandarin. I just didn't know how to phrase it until now," Tony declared.
Natasha’s jaw tightened as she watched Tony deliver his impromptu threat. She could see it for what it was: a desperate man trying to mask his fear and guilt with bravado.
"My name is Tony Stark, and I'm not afraid of you," he continued. "I know you're a coward, so I've decided—" He paused for effect, his eyes boring into the camera.
"You just died, pal. I'm gonna come get the body. There's no politics here; it's just good old-fashioned revenge. There's no Pentagon; it's just you and me."
Natasha’s eyes narrowed. "Classic Stark," she muttered under her breath.
On the screen, Tony rattled off his home address with the reckless confidence of a man who believed himself invincible. "And on the off-chance you're a man, here's my home address: 10-8-80, Malibu Point, 9-0-2-6-5. I'll leave the door unlocked," he added, turning to a stunned reporter with a sarcastic smirk.
The scene ended with Tony grabbing the phone of his instigator and hurling it against the wall, the resounding crash echoing even through the TV speakers. “Bill me,” he quipped before speeding off in his car, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Natasha rubbed her temples as the footage gave way to the studio anchors, their voices brimming with manufactured outrage and speculative drama. She muted the TV, letting the silence settle for a moment as she processed what she’d just witnessed.
Tony Stark, self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, and walking headache, had just painted a bright, neon target on his back and, by extension, everyone else's. For a man with a brain faster than most supercomputers, he had an uncanny ability to act without thinking. Reckless didn’t even begin to cover it.
Natasha sighed, pushing herself off the couch. “He’s going to give me more gray hairs than Clint,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a reluctant smirk.
Natasha shook her head. "You're playing a dangerous game, Stark," she murmured. But beneath her irritation, she couldn’t entirely blame him. Natasha understood the need to act, to seize control in a situation like the Chinese Theater bombing after Happy had gotten hurt.
Ignoring the growing headache Tony had bestowed upon her, Natasha headed toward the master bedroom. If Tony was going to play the world’s most reckless game of chicken, someone had to make sure Pepper wasn’t caught in the crossfire.
“You good?” Natasha asked, leaning casually against the doorway of the walk-in closet. She watched as Pepper moved around with frenetic energy, pulling clothes off hangers and tossing them into a half-packed suitcase. Two other bags were already zipped up and waiting by the bed.
Pepper paused, her shoulders stiffening at the question. Slowly, she turned to face Natasha, her usually composed expression shattered. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, the dark lines a stark contrast to the redness of her eyes.
“I don’t know,” Pepper admitted, her voice cracking as she let out a choked sob. “I really don’t know anymore.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, but it only smeared the makeup further. “First Afghanistan, then Stane, Monaco, New York twice...” Her voice rose with every word, the dam of her composure breaking. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this!”
Pepper clutched a neatly folded shirt to her chest like it was a lifeline, her breathing coming in shallow, uneven gasps. “Every time I think we’re past the worst of it, something else happens. And it’s always life or death. Always some world-ending disaster. And I—” She cut herself off, her voice trembling. “I’m so tired, Natasha. So tired of being terrified every time Tony leaves the house, wondering if this is the time he doesn’t come back.”
Natasha stepped forward, her expression softening. “Pepper…”
“And he doesn’t get it!” Pepper cried, dropping the shirt into the suitcase. She gestured wildly toward the door as if Tony were standing right there. “He doesn’t see what it’s doing to me. To us. Every time he puts on one of those suits, he says it’s to protect me, to protect everyone—but who’s protecting him? Who’s protecting us?”
The room fell into a heavy silence as Pepper slumped onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Natasha hesitated for a moment, then walked over and sat beside her.
Natasha crossed the room and sat beside Pepper, wrapping her in a firm, reassuring hug. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice calm and steady. “We’ve got this. Nothing is going to happen to Tony, or to you. I promise.”
Pepper leaned into the embrace, drawing a shaky breath. “It just feels like it’s always something, Natasha,” she whispered.
Natasha pulled back slightly, meeting Pepper’s teary gaze with a small, confident smile. “Maybe we should turn this into an opportunity,” she suggested. “Take it as a chance to disappear for a bit, clear your head. What do you say to a small holiday? Maybe a quiet island near Hawaii, somewhere no one would think to look. Just you, me, and the boys for a bit of peace.”
Pepper let out a snort of laughter despite herself. “Yeah, right. Like those meatheads would ever understand that plan,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Tony would see it as running away, and Harry—well, he’d probably think it’s some kind of tactical retreat.”
Natasha chuckled softly. “Tactical retreat sounds like something Harry would say. But, honestly, neither of them knows the first thing about taking a break, do they?”
“Absolutely not,” Pepper said, shaking her head with an amused smile. “Going to your place isn’t even a real safe house for Tony. It’s like going to visit my elder brother’s house”
“That’s true,” Natasha admitted with a smirk. Pepper laughed, a genuine sound this time, and Natasha felt a flicker of relief. “See? You’re already feeling better,” Natasha said with a wink.
Natasha smiled as she straightened up. “You need me to do anything?” she asked Pepper gently.
Pepper shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
“Alright,” Natasha said with a nod. “I’m heading down to help Tony with his investigation at the Chinese Theater. Come down to the workshop when you’re done, okay?”
“Will do,” Pepper replied, her voice steadier now.
Natasha left the room and made her way toward the workshop. On her way down, she spotted Harry stepping through the front door, dusting off his hands. “Wards all set?” she asked.
Harry glanced up and flashed a tired but triumphant smile. “Yup, just finished. The overhang section gave me a bit of a headache, though. Not exactly easy to cover without there being physical land to place the wards. But I made it work.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d have liked to extend the wards a little further out, but whoever designed this place clearly wasn’t thinking about magical defenses.”
Natasha smirked. “Yeah, Tony's style screams ‘flashy billionaire,’ not ‘paranoid wizard.’”
Harry chuckled. “Pretty much. It’s still solid enough for now. If anything slips past these wards, it’s not going to be subtle.”
“Good to know,” Natasha said, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the workshop.
Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “Where’s Clint?” she asked.
Harry let out a grumble. “He’s up on the roof, snug as a hawk in a nest. Says he’s better off keeping an eye out than being stuck inside helping with the investigation. Apparently, that’s more your ‘strong suit’ than his.”
Natasha smiled at the thought, already able to picture Clint perched up there with his bow, scanning the horizon.
“I tried telling him the wards will protect the house,” Harry added, crossing his arms. “But does he listen? Of course not. Stubborn as ever.”
“Let him be,” Natasha replied with a shrug. “The paranoia of being cooped up inside will only make things worse for him. Keeping watch isn’t just a hobby for Clint, it’s how he copes. It’s probably more therapeutic for him to feel like he’s actively protecting us than wandering around the house pretending to relax.”
Harry sighed but gave a reluctant nod. “Fine, as long as he doesn’t fall asleep up there. Or freeze.”
Natasha smirked. “It’s LA, he won’t. Clint’s Clint. Give him a thermos of coffee, and he’ll hold that position all night if he has to.”
“How’s Pepper holding up?” Harry asked as they continued walking towards the workshop.
“She’s hanging in there,” Natasha replied. “She’s almost finished packing.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t know what she’s so worried about. The wards are solid. They’ll hold.”
Natasha glanced at him. “Give her some space to breathe, Harry. It’s not just about whether the wards will work or not. She needs to get away from all this mentally. She was attacked by one of Tony’s suits last night, for God’s sake. That’s not exactly something you shrug off overnight.”
Harry winced slightly, remembering the incident. “I get that,” he muttered. “But the wards…”
“I’m not saying the wards aren’t good,” Natasha interjected, her voice softening. “But think about it. Even if the Mandarin doesn’t attack here, being surrounded by the constant reminders of danger isn’t helping her. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is let them step back and feel safe somewhere far away, even if just for a little while.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
When they stepped into Tony’s workshop, Natasha’s eyes immediately locked onto the holographic reconstruction dominating the room. The three-dimensional recreation of the Chinese Theater bombing floated mid-air. Debris hung suspended as though caught mid-flight, thermal outlines glowed faintly, and faint trajectories traced the explosion's chaotic path. It was Jarvis’s work at its finest, every fragment of data meticulously rendered into an eerily lifelike model.
“So, what’ve you found?” Harry asked, stepping forward. Natasha remained a pace behind, her gaze flitting across the projection like a predator surveying its prey.
Tony glanced up briefly before gesturing toward a section of the display. With a flick of his hand, he isolated a portion of the scene: Happy Hogan, sprawled on the ground but clearly pointing toward something at the blast’s epicentre. Tony zoomed in, and the holographic feed transformed, focusing on a faint glint of dog tags.
“Happy wasn’t just gesturing randomly,” Tony said, plucking the projected dog tags from the hologram as though they were solid. He held them up for inspection. “He was pointing at these. No mention of any service members among the victims in the public records, though.”
“That’s strange,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes. “Whose name is on them?”
“It’s blurry, but the name is Jack Taggart,” Tony replied, enlarging the etched letters for clarity. “Jarvis, pull up any information you can on him.”
“Right away, sir,” the AI responded as a side panel lit up with a loading graphic.
While the search ran, Natasha circled the hologram, her eyes scanning the scene. She crouched slightly, inspecting the angle of the debris and the scorch patterns. “How far apart were the detonation site and the dog tags?” she asked.
“Jarvis,” Tony prompted his focus now on Natasha.
“The dog tags are precisely at the epicentre of the blast, Miss Romanoff,” Jarvis replied.
Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes darted to a nearby piece of twisted metal. “Look at this,” she said, gesturing for the display to zoom in. “This fragment—it’s from the tags. They’re too intact. They didn’t just end up here by chance.”
“You’re saying they were planted?” Tony asked, intrigued.
“Or they belonged to someone caught in the explosion,” Natasha said, straightening.
“You think the Army man was the bomber?” Harry asked, watching her closely.
Natasha shook her head slightly. “Not necessarily. Let’s consider the bigger picture. All the Mandarin bombings share a key trait: no bomb fragments, no shrapnel, and no residue. Not a single trace of a physical device.”
Tony frowned, leaning against the workbench. “That’s been bugging me too. No fragments mean no bomb. So, when is a bomb, not a bomb?”
Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “When it’s magic?”
“Unlikely,” Natasha replied without missing a beat. “There’s no evidence to suggest the Mandarin’s using magic, and these attacks are too grounded in real-world tactics. It’s something else.”
“Jarvis,” Tony said, gesturing to the AI, “what’ve you got on Jack Taggart?”
“There is limited information available, sir,” Jarvis replied. “Jack Taggart served in the US Army and was honourably discharged. After that, there are no public records, no employment history, no financial activity.”
Natasha turned to Harry, her brow raised. “Sound familiar?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Too familiar. Jarvis, check his discharge records. Was there any mention of injury or medical conditions?”
“One moment, sir.”
Tony rubbed his temple, frustration creeping into his voice. “What am I missing?”
Natasha leaned against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. “When is a bomb not a bomb, Mr. Inventor?” she asked.
Tony glanced at her, his mind racing. “A bomb is not a bomb when it’s... a misfire? Something that doesn’t work as intended?”
Natasha nodded faintly, pressing further. “So why would someone use a product that doesn’t always work?”
Tony’s brow furrowed as he worked through her question. “Because the positives outweigh the negatives,” he said slowly, realization dawning.
“And what’s the biggest positive about these so-called Mandarin bombs?” Natasha asked, glancing at Harry.
“The device is completely obliterated. There’s no evidence left to trace back,” Harry replied, though his tone was sceptical.
“That’s a stretch,” Tony interjected, shaking his head. “Even when I made weapons, it was impossible to create a device that completely destroyed the device itself. You could minimize it as much as possible, but there would always be a trace.”
“Unless the device isn’t a device at all,” Natasha countered softly.
Tony’s eyes widened as the pieces clicked. “Jarvis, bring up thermogenic signatures again. Factor in a sustained three-thousand-degree output.”
“The Oracle Cloud has completed analysis,” Jarvis announced. “Accessing satellite data and plotting thermogenic occurrences over the last twelve months.”
The hologram shifted to a map of the United States, scattered with markers.
“Take away everywhere there’s been a Mandarin attack,” Tony ordered.
As the Mandarin-related incidents disappeared, Natasha leaned closer. Her eyes locked onto a marker in Tennessee. “What about Rose Hill?”
“Rose Hill, Tennessee,” Jarvis confirmed. “Incident involved a Chad Davis, former Army. Discharged due to nerve damage from a deployment in South America. The official cause of the explosion: self-inflicted. Suicide tied to depression.”
“That’s two Army men,” Tony muttered, his tone heavy.
“What are you two saying?” Harry asked, glancing between them.
Natasha stepped forward, gesturing for Jarvis to pull up both the Chinese Theater and Rose Hill bombing data side by side. The holographic display split, each scene rendered with the same meticulous detail. On one side, the chaos of the Chinese Theater; on the other, the wreckage in Rose Hill.
“Let’s break this down,” she said. She pointed to the epicentre of the Chinese Theater explosion. “Jarvis, highlight the thermogenic output here and overlay it with the Rose Hill incident.”
“Processing,” Jarvis replied. Moments later, faint heat maps appeared over both scenes, their intensity indicated by vibrant red zones radiating outward from the centres.
“Notice anything?” Natasha asked, her eyes sweeping the display.
Harry frowned. “The intensity at the epicenter is almost identical.”
“Yes,” Natasha agreed. “Three-thousand-degree heat sustained for several seconds in both cases. That’s not common for conventional explosives.” She turned to Tony. “Do you have any record of a device that can consistently produce this level of heat without leaving shrapnel or other fragments?”
Tony shook his head. “Nothing portable. Whatever caused this heat didn’t come from a standard device. And even my experimental tech leaves traces.”
“Then let’s dig deeper,” Natasha said, gesturing for Jarvis to expand the Rose Hill data. “Jarvis, cross-reference Chad Davis’s military discharge records with those of Jack Taggart. Look for similarities.”
“Working,” Jarvis replied. The display shifted to side-by-side profiles of Chad Davis and Jack Taggart. A detailed list of their military histories and discharge summaries appeared beneath their photos.
“Both served in high-risk deployments,” Natasha noted aloud. Her eyes flicked over the records. “South America for Chad. Iraq for Jack. Different locations, but look at the common thread, both were injured in ways that resulted in permanent disabilities.”
“Chad’s nerve damage,” Harry said, reading from the file. “And Jack lost his limbs in combat.”
“Both were honourably discharged,” Natasha continued. “But after their discharge, they drop off the grid. No employment records, no civilian medical treatment, nothing.”
“That’s not just unusual,” Tony interjected, rubbing his chin. “It’s practically impossible for ex-military to leave no trace unless someone’s deliberately erasing their tracks.”
Natasha studied the profiles of Chad Davis and Jack Taggart displayed in the hologram, her eyes narrowing. “Jarvis, can you dig deeper into their post-discharge activity? Medical treatment, addresses, even tax records?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Romanoff,” Jarvis replied. “There are no records beyond their discharge dates. Both men effectively vanish from any official system. No medical claims, no financial activity, and no civilian employment.”
Harry’s expression darkened as he stepped closer. “Jarvis, pull up everything we have on Corporal James from my old squad. He went missing after joining an experimental program.”
A third profile appeared alongside Chad and Jack’s. Like the others, James’s military history was detailed, with commendations, deployments, and an honourable discharge. But after that, a stark emptiness.
“Nothing,” Harry muttered, his jaw tightening. “No medical follow-ups, no records of where he went, no sign of him anywhere.”
Tony crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. “So, we’ve got three soldiers, all discharged for severe injuries, and all disappearing without a trace after leaving the military.”
Natasha leaned forward, her fingers tracing the holographic projections of Chad, Jack, and James’s profiles. She rotated each one, examining the glaring gaps where post-discharge records should have been.
“Jarvis,” she said, “pull up the metadata from these records. I want to know when they were last accessed or modified.”
“Processing now, Miss Romanoff,” Jarvis replied, the holograms shifting as layers of data unraveled. Strings of code, timestamps, and digital imprints hovered beside the soldiers’ profiles.
Natasha’s eyes darted across the cascading information, her brow furrowing. “These records weren’t just left incomplete, they were deliberately scrubbed. Look here,” she said, gesturing to a set of access logs. “The last modification on all three was made within days of their discharges.”
Harry frowned. “That could just mean standard military archiving.”
“Not when it’s this clean,” Natasha countered. “Every trace of their civilian lives, medical visits, job applications, even utility bills is missing. People don’t just vanish this completely. And look at this,” she continued, pointing to a line of metadata highlighted in red.
Tony leaned closer. ““Jarvis, cross-reference these identifiers. Do they match across all three records?”
“One moment, sir” Jarvis replied. The holograms flickered, and a new overlay appeared, showing identical user IDs linked to each modification. “Sir they tried to scrub the data but I can confirm that the records were accessed and altered by the same individual or entity.”
“It’s not just a coincidence,” Tony pointed out. “This is deliberate. Someone is erasing their lives, scrubbing their existence from the system. They don’t want anyone tracing them back to what’s really happening.”
Natasha nodded. “And the key similarity? All three of them suffered injuries that would make them prime candidates for experimental medical treatments. Think about it: if someone offered these soldiers a chance to regain their lost abilities, wouldn’t they take it?”
Harry’s expression darkened. “You’re saying they were turned into weapons.”
Natasha nodded. “I don’t think that the explosions are from bombs. They’re from people who’ve been modified. The injuries they sustained during service made them desperate enough to volunteer for something experimental, something dangerous.”
Tony folded his arms, his gaze hardening. “And when it goes wrong, they’re not just casualties—they’re the cause of the destruction.”
The room fell silent again as they processed the information.
The heavy silence in the workshop was shattered by Clint’s voice crackling through the comm system.
“We’ve got a civilian incoming,” Clint reported. “One female driver, approaching in a sedan. You want me to take her out?”
Tony’s head snapped up, and Natasha exchanged a glance with Harry.
“No need for that,” Harry said, closing his eyes briefly as he reached out with his magic to sense the approaching presence. A faint shimmer flickered around him as the wards responded to his intent. “She’s not here with hostile intentions.”
“Not yet,” Clint replied warily.
Harry smirked. “Trust me on this one.”
Tony stood, already moving toward his suit. “Let’s see what our uninvited guest wants before jumping to conclusions,” he said. Pieces of the Iron Man armor began snapping into place around him.
Natasha slid a compact handgun from her holster, checking the magazine before tucking it into her belt. “No harm in being prepared,” she murmured.
Harry nodded.
By the time the doorbell rang, the three of them were at the front entrance, fully equipped. Tony’s suit gleamed under the lights, while Harry and Natasha provided back up to Tony.
The faint hum of the wards around the property settled as the doorbell echoed again, the sound lingering in the tense atmosphere.
