"It's the paint job."
Tony tapped the silver mechanical arm with two fingers, then pointed to the solder seams running along the underside with the gravity of a man identifying a structural flaw in a cathedral.
"This prototype looks low-end. I will not allow it to be released in this condition." He stepped back, tilted his head, surveyed the whole assembly with the focused displeasure of someone who has standards and intends to enforce them. "She was born to save the world. She deserves better than this."
Jordan and Banner looked at each other.
The shared glance lasted approximately one second and contained, without words, the complete mutual recognition that neither of them was going to win this argument.
Tony Stark and Thanos—both cursed by knowledge, both constitutionally incapable of accepting a suboptimal outcome in their respective domains—were, in this specific respect, the same species of problem. The methods differed. The underlying affliction was identical.
"You win," Jordan said, with the equanimity of a man choosing his battles. "The paint job."
Banner lifted both hands. "Whatever makes you happy."
"See?" Tony's expression cleared into satisfaction—the particular glow of a man whose aesthetic judgment has been validated by two people who didn't actually disagree with him so much as run out of resistance. He raised an eyebrow at Friday, and a mechanical tray glided in on boot-jet assist, carrying three glasses of champagne that were definitely not appropriate for 11 in the morning.
Tony lifted his. The gesture was practiced. Effortless. The movement of someone who had been to many—many—industry events.
"To obtaining every stone," he said, "and ending this."
Jordan and Banner picked up their glasses.
"Cheers."
One hour later, the conference room held a different kind of energy.
Steve Rogers stood at the head of the table with the particular stillness of a man who has run through every variable and arrived at a plan. The assembled Avengers were quiet in the way people get quiet when something is actually happening.
"Last reminder," he said. His hands rested on the table's surface—not gripping it, just present. "Each team carries exactly enough Pym Particles for one round trip. There is no margin for a second attempt. First time, every time."
Nobody asked questions. The operational briefing had covered specifics. This was the moment before the moment.
Thor glanced around the room. Registered that no one else was volunteering. Remembered, with a brief internal recalibration, that he was the strongest Avenger present.
"No questions," Thor said, with authority.
"Equipment check. Then we move."
The Quantum Time Travel Bracelets went on wrists. The large quantum shuttle hummed to life in the compound's yard, connected to the bracelet network, the portal above it cycling through prismatic colors as it stabilized.
Banner had his armor: light nanotech, not combat-primary—the Hulkbuster frame required enough nanometal to manufacture five Mark 85s, which was not achievable in three days even at Stark Industries' resource level, and in any case Banner's assignment was persuasion, not combat. Something that would stop a stray energy blast from ending him prematurely was sufficient. Jordan had suggested it. Tony had built it in about six hours and complained about the aesthetics the entire time.
"Good luck." Banner stood at the edge of the launch zone, watching the assembled team do final checks. "And—remember the return timestamps. Set them correctly."
"Don't worry." Natasha tapped her bracelet; the quantum suit materialized around her in white and red, clean and precise. "See you in a minute."
Jordan caught her eye as she turned toward the portal. "Remember—your objective is the Power Stone. Once you have it, don't linger. Come straight back."
Natasha gave him a look.
It was a specific look—the look of a woman who has been doing this for twenty years and does not require reminding. Then her gaze moved sideways, briefly, to Steve and Tony standing nearby.
"I know, Jordan," she said, in a tone of mild amusement. "But given the timing of that reminder—" her eyes tracked back to the two of them "—I'm a little worried Steve and Tony might get the wrong idea."
Jordan opened his mouth.
Steve and Tony's expressions developed the specific configuration of two men who have just been placed, without consent, in the middle of something.
Jordan closed his mouth.
Every Avenger raised a fist.
The circle formed without discussion—the spontaneous convergence of people who have done this before, or who have watched enough of the footage to know how it goes. Fist to fist. The contact that means we go together, we come back together.
In the middle of it, one blond young man stood with an expression slightly apart from the general determination around him. Not less committed. Just—processing a specific awareness.
I, Jordan thought, watching the portal above the shuttle cycle through its geometry, am going to be extremely busy.
The Pym Particles activated.
The group shrank. The portal accepted them. The compound yard went quiet.
New York, 2012.
The Hulk—the 2012 version, full power, excellent mood—was having a wonderful time.
A group of Chitauri infantry had just discovered what it felt like to be used as bowling pins by something that weighed approximately 1,500 pounds and had no interest in their opinions. The Hulk grabbed a taxi from the street margin and brought it down on the already-prostrate soldier in front of him with the focused enthusiasm of someone completing a set.
On a corner half a block away, Banner stood watching his past self with both hands over his face. The expression below them was the specific expression of a man discovering that the way other people see you and the way you see yourself have very limited overlap. He appeared to be trying to disappear into the soles of his own shoes.
"Doctor." Jordan had materialized beside him at some point, arm around his shoulders with the camaraderie of someone finding this delightful. "I actually like your violent side. Very direct."
"It can't be fixed," Banner said, removing his hands long enough to make a helpless face. He straightened. "Back to work."
Steve and Tony came up alongside them. Steve took one look at the demolished street—taxi pieces, scattered Chitauri, a green figure vanishing around a corner—and filed it under 2012, pre-intervention, normal.
"Three Infinity Stones in New York right now," he said, in the voice of a man triaging a logistics problem. "The Mind Stone is in the Scepter. The Space Stone is in the Tesseract. The Time Stone is with the Ancient One."
The first two: manageable.
The third one: the Ancient One was not an ordinary obstacle. If you adjusted the power-scaling framework and placed her in a different fictional universe, she would comfortably qualify as Nascent Soul—centuries of accumulated power, complete awareness of the timeline, and the particular quality of someone who had died strategically once and would not be impressed by most of what the Avengers could bring to a negotiation.
Banner pushed his glasses up and looked in the direction of the Sanctum.
Jordan looked in the same direction, running his own calculations.