Natasha steps closer, her gloved hand gripping Hammer's collar with enough force to lift him slightly off his feet. Her eyes bore into his, cold and relentless.
"Where is he?" Natasha's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. "Where's the scientist who did this?"
Hammer's face contorts with fresh panic. His pulse hammers in his throat as Natasha's grip tightens.
"P-please—" Hammer stammers, desperation cracking his voice. "Ivan Vanko! He's got a lab—old warehouse district, Pier 47! But there's others, safe houses, abandoned facilities—"
"Which one?" Natasha presses, shaking him slightly.
"The warehouse! Pier 47! That's where he's been working!" Hammer's words tumble out in a frantic rush. "You have to believe me, I didn't know what he was planning—"
Natasha releases him abruptly, her head snapping toward the stairwell. Happy is already there, moving with purpose.
"You need backup?" Happy calls out, his hand resting near his sidearm.
Natasha takes the offered support without hesitation. "Come with me. We move fast."
She turns back to Hammer one last time, her expression hard as stone. "Stay here. Answer questions when they arrive."
The two of them disappear into the smoke-choked corridor, leaving Hammer slumped against the console. Rhodey exchanges a glance with Coulson, both understanding they're buying time—time for Natasha to reach Vanko before he vanishes into the city's maze of abandoned places.
Coulson's comm crackles with updates from field agents. "All units, be advised—we have confirmed hostile movement, multiple locations converging."
Rhodey nods grimly. "Let's secure the perimeter. Make sure none of these drones decide to play hero."
Happy floors the accelerator, the engine howling as he threads the sedan between a fire truck and an overturned food truck. Expo traffic chokes the streets—emergency vehicles with flashing lights, civilians stumbling like sleepwalkers, the whole boulevard a river of brake lights and chaos.
In the backseat, Natasha peels off her skirt suit jacket with the precision of someone shedding skin. The fabric falls away to reveal the sleek black combat suit beneath, form-fitting and ready. She works the zipper down, her movements economical and practiced, each motion carrying the weight of a hundred similar preparations.
Happy glances at the rearview mirror, his peripheral vision catching her reflection. For half a heartbeat, his attention snags on the sight of her shedding the disguise like a snake sheds its skin. The car drifts toward the center line.
Tires scream against asphalt. A horn blares from a taxi swerving to avoid them. Happy's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, his face draining of color as he jerks the wheel back. The sedan fishtails, missing a streetlamp by inches.
Through the mirror, Natasha's eyes lock onto his. She doesn't speak, but the look she gives him could cut steel—a silent warning that snaps his focus back to the road. His heart hammers against his ribs, loud enough to hear over the engine's roar.
"Keep your eyes on the road," she says, voice low and dangerous.
Happy doesn't answer. He concentrates on the traffic ahead, on the route to Pier 47 that Coulson radioed through. His hands steady on the wheel, but his pulse still races from the near-miss.
* * *
In a hidden metallic lair beneath the city, Ivan Vanko watches the chaos unfold across dozens of monitors. His workshop hums with the quiet precision of machinery, arc reactors pulsing with controlled energy as holographic displays project the Expo's destruction in real-time. A satisfied, clinical smirk plays on his lips as Iron Man, Spider-Man, and the Digimon battle his engineered chaos.
His cold eyes track their movements with mechanical precision, noting every tactical adjustment and desperate countermeasure. The screens show Pepper evacuating civilians, Happy's reckless driving, Natasha's calculated approach toward Pier 47. Each figure dances exactly as predicted, trapped in the gears of his design.
"If you can make God bleed, people cease to believe in him," Vanko murmurs to himself, watching the heroes struggle against Hammer's compromised drones. "But watching them scramble like rats in a maze—it is far more entertaining."
He adjusts a dial on his console, and the purple glow in the drone targeting systems intensifies. Another screen shows the Mark V armor taking hits, Tony's movements becoming more desperate. Vanko's fingers trace the edge of his workbench, noting the elegant simplicity of his modifications to Hammer's designs.
"The power of industry, corrupted and turned inward. How poetic that Stark's own legacy should become his undoing." His voice carries the weight of inherited bitterness, the same fire that consumed his father's ambitions.
The security feed flickers in Ivan's peripheral vision, a minor monitor cycling through exterior cameras. A dark figure flows across the compound's metallic landscape with impossible grace, movements too fluid for any ordinary human trespasser. The silhouette resolves into unmistakable recognition—Natasha Romanoff, moving through his territory like a shadow.
Ivan's smug smirk vanishes instantly.
"Who is this spy?" he murmurs, studying her approach with clinical interest. "Another fool playing hero?"
His fingers dance across the console, activating station drones hidden in the warehouse rafters. Mechanical limbs unfold from concealed compartments, their targeting systems locking onto the intruder below. The drones whir to life, descending in silent pursuit of the woman who dares trespass in his domain.
The warehouse looms ahead, its rusted metal siding scarred by weather and neglect. Natasha pauses at the loading dock entrance, her gloved hand resting on the grip of her sidearm. She hears the sedan's door open behind her and doesn't need to look to know who's approaching.
"Stay in the car, Happy."
Happy Hogan steps forward anyway, his heavy boots clanging against the concrete. "I may be a driver, but I'm also Tony Stark's bodyguard. Trained." His voice carries that familiar stubborn edge she's heard a thousand times.
Natasha finally turns, one eyebrow arched in barely concealed disbelief. "You think training makes you a match for what's in there?" She gestures toward the warehouse with her chin. "I'm a trained assassin with twenty years of experience. What good is a bodyguard against Ivan Vanko?"
Happy's jaw tightens. "I've handled myself in worse places."
She studies his expression—the same one Tony wears when he's about to do something recklessly noble. Natasha exhales through her nose, recognizing the futility of arguing with either of them.
"Fine." She turns back toward the warehouse. "But stay close and don't get in my way."
The interior reeks of oil and ozone, machinery humming in the darkness ahead. Natasha moves like liquid shadow, her footsteps silent against the grimy floor. She can hear Happy behind her, his breathing audible despite his efforts to stay quiet.
"Tch." She doesn't bother hiding her irritation.
Happy stops ten paces behind her. "You're welcome to have my backup."
Natasha doesn't respond. She's already scanning for threats, her enhanced senses picking up the subtle whir of servos and the telltale glow of arc reactor energy bleeding through cracks in the walls ahead.
***
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