Harley glanced between the two adults. It didn't take a genius to see that Leander's patience with Maya Hansen was thinner than a sheet of glass. The way he looked at her—not with hate, but with a weary, judgmental disappointment—told Harley everything he needed to know.
This lady was definitely playing for the other team, Harley thought, his expression souring as he shifted his chair a few inches further away from her.
Maya was reeling. She'd spent the last few hours with a Leander who seemed like a polite, if somewhat eccentric, teenager. The sudden shift to the cold-eyed warrior who'd just barked a death sentence for Killian left her speechless. She opened her mouth to defend herself, then realized she had no ground to stand on.
Leander, however, wasn't just angry; he was struggling. As he stared at Maya, his heart began to hammer against his ribs—not with fear, but with a chaotic, surging energy. His vision flickered with gold static. He felt... wrong. Like his internal compass was spinning in a magnetic storm.
"Maya," Leander said, his voice dropping to a low, forced calm. "Stay put. Don't move. Just answer me: how many people have you actually put through this meat grinder? How many have you infected?"
Maya's face went robotic, a defense mechanism she'd honed over a decade of unethical science. "Approximately fifty or sixty. The success rate is... abysmal. Most don't survive the cellular transition to the second stage. We only count it as a win if they stabilize after the third reagent injection."
"Fifty people," Leander whispered, rubbing his temples. "Thank you for the honesty. It makes my job a lot simpler."
He turned away, looking sick. Harley noticed it immediately. The "Golden Legend" didn't look like a god right now; he looked like a kid who was about to pass out.
"Hey," Harley said, sliding a chair over. "You okay? You look like you're having one of those 'brain glitches' Tony gets. Is it the New York thing? You haven't been seen since the big hole in the sky closed. Where'd you go, anyway?"
Leander let out a long breath, patting Harley's head. The kid reminded him so much of Peter—smart, observant, and way too involved in things that should be above his pay grade.
"It's nothing, Harley. Just... call it a bad case of jet lag. I haven't quite adjusted to being back yet."
"Back from where?" Harley pressed, leaning in. "Did you go home? Like, back to New York?"
Leander looked at his hands, watching a faint spark of gold dance between his fingers. "Back to Earth."
Two days ago, he'd been a speck of dust drifting through the infinite, cold vacuum of the universe, staring at distant stars and wondering if he'd ever feel gravity again. Now, he was standing in a messy garage in Tennessee. The transition was jarring. His thoughts felt disorganized, like a deck of cards thrown into a gale. The silence of space was still ringing in his ears, making the sounds of the world—the hum of the fridge, the wind outside—feel deafening.
"Wait, you went to space?" Harley's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Like, for real space? Were you hunting more aliens? People on the internet have been arguing for years. They say the Golden Legend is the strongest Avenger, even stronger than Thor. Did you go out there to finish the fight? Did you kill the most Chitauri? That's what the forums say!"
"The forums talk too much," Leander said, managing a small, tired smile. "And so do you. It's late, kid. Don't you have school in the morning?"
"Schools are closed. It's Christmas, man," Harley reminded him, gesturing to a pathetic, half-decorated plastic tree in the corner.
"Right. Christmas."
A sudden, sharp pang of longing pierced Leander's chest. He thought of Aunt Jenny and George. He thought of the smell of cinnamon in the kitchen and the way George used to pretend he didn't know where the hidden presents were. Back then, the biggest mystery in his life was what was inside a wrapped box. Now, he was the mystery. He missed that feeling—the simple, uncomplicated warmth of a home that wasn't being hunted by super-soldiers.
"What about your parents?" Leander asked quietly.
"Mom's at the hospital working. Dad..." Harley looked down at his sneakers, a forced, practiced smile on his face. "He went to buy a lottery ticket six years ago. I guess he's still looking for the winning numbers."
Leander felt a heavy weight in his heart. He reached out and squeezed the kid's shoulder. "Hang in there, Harley. I have a feeling you're getting the best gift this Christmas. Maybe even better than a lottery ticket."
The DIY Arsenal
Hundreds of miles away, Tony Stark was walking through a brightly lit 24-hour supermarket, looking like a man on a mission. He was wearing a generic hooded sweatshirt, his eyes darting across the shelves with frantic, genius-level intensity.
In his mind, the grocery aisles weren't filled with detergent and gardening supplies; they were filled with weapon components.
He saw a bag of high-nitrogen fertilizer and saw a high-yield explosive. He saw a pack of heavy-duty oven cleaner and saw a corrosive propellant. He saw Christmas ornaments and saw the casings for flash-bang grenades.
He moved like a whirlwind. In less than thirty minutes, he'd filled two shopping carts with a bizarre assortment of supplies: copper wiring, batteries, duct tape, chemical solvents, and even a handful of toy parts. He checked into a cheap, roadside motel, cleared off the sagging desk, and went to work.
His hands, usually accustomed to billionaire-grade assembly lines, moved with the raw skill of a master tinkerer. By the time the moon was high, he'd produced a belt full of lethal surprises: electrified "shock" gloves, a pneumatic rapid-fire pistol, magnesium-based flash bombs, and a crude but effective fertilizer explosive.
He didn't sleep. He didn't rest. He just packed his bag, checked his pink digital watch, and set his sights on Miami.
The Call
Back in the garage, Leander was feeling the pull of the clock. He needed to move, but he couldn't leave Tony out there in the dark.
"Harley, give me the phone," Leander said. "Let's check in on our favorite mechanic."
Harley dialed the number and handed it over, looking a little nervous.
"Hey, Harley," Tony's voice barked through the speaker, accompanied by the roar of a car engine and the whistling of wind. "Stay put. Make sure the 42 stays on the juice. Don't call me unless the garage is literally on fire or you've grown three inches. I'm busy."
Leander signaled Harley to take the lead.
"Is... is everything okay, Tony?" Harley asked, glancing at Leander.
"I can hear someone breathing on the line, kid," Tony said, his voice dropping into a suspicious growl. "You got company?"
"No! No, I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Not yet," Tony grunted. "I've built some 'party favors.' It's a bit of a gamble, but I'm not waiting around for an invite. Go to sleep, Harley. Stop eating the gummy bears. Bye."
Click.
"He sounds like he's back in his element," Leander said, handing the phone back to a dejected Harley.
"He thinks I'm a pest," Harley shrugged. "He's just scared I'll ask him more questions he doesn't want to answer."
"That's just Tony being Tony," Leander laughed. "But seriously, Harley—what we're doing? It's better if you don't know the details. The bad guys we're hunting... they don't play fair. If they find out you know us, they'll use you. Keeping secrets isn't just about the mission; it's about keeping you safe."
"I get it. Like the movies. Don't tell the villain who your family is," Harley nodded, his expression solemn and decisive. "My lips are sealed."
Leander looked at the phone, hesitating. Part of him wanted to teleport straight to Tony's car and end this whole mess in three seconds. But he knew Tony. If he just swooped in and solved everything, it would bruise that massive ego beyond repair. Tony needed to be the hero tonight.
"Okay," Leander said, standing up. "We know where he's going. It's time for us to head to Florida. Miami's the place."
"Can I come?" Harley asked, his eyes wide.
"Too dangerous, son. You've done your part. Now, you work hard, stay smart, and maybe in a few years, we'll see about an internship," Leander smiled, ruffling the kid's hair.
"Sure. Everyone leaves. Just like my dad," Harley said, leaning back and hugging his knees, putting on his most pathetic "abandoned child" face.
Leander saw right through it. He leaned down and whispered, "Nice try, kid. But we're doing this to make sure you have a future to grow up into."
He grabbed Maya by the arm and led her toward the silver car waiting outside.
As the garage door hissed shut, Harley sat up, the "sad" look vanishing instantly. He was buzzing with pure, unadulterated excitement. He'd just sat on a stool three feet away from the Golden Legend—the strongest superhero in the world. Tony was cool, sure, but Leander Hayes was a myth.
He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, to post it on every forum from here to Tokyo. But as he looked at the Mark 42 standing in the corner, he knew he wouldn't. This was his secret.
The Predator's Approach
High above the clouds, Aldrich Killian was strapped into a luxury helicopter, his heart finally slowing down. His skin was still pulsing with a dull, angry heat.
"Dammit!" he hissed, slamming a fist against the armrest. "Maya actually went to find Pepper? What was she thinking? Was she trying to flip on me? And who was that kid with her?"
The image of the teenager who had shrugged off his Extremis flames and treated him like a nuisance burned in his mind. He'd checked the dossiers. The Vice President had assured him the Avengers were scattered and broken.
"Could he be a bodyguard? No, nobody is that fast," Killian muttered.
Fear was a new emotion for him, and he hated the taste of it. He had Maya in the wind, his most unstable weapon was out of his control, and a literal ghost had appeared out of nowhere to protect Pepper Potts.
'I need to move the timetable up,' Killian thought, his face flaring with an orange glow as his rage spiked. 'If I control the President and the Patriot, one kid doesn't matter.'
His phone buzzed. "Boss, we've got the Iron Patriot secured. We're touching down at the Miami port now."
"Excellent," Killian said, a dark, jagged smile spreading across his face. "I'm five minutes out. Let's see how much Stark loves his country when it's burning."