Barry Thorn
Barry was openly nervous. A lousy habit, picked up during his training days when every exercise ended in some kind of mess, still clung to him even after ten goddamn years of blood, violence, corpses, and his own wounds. He was no longer that snot-nosed private from Texas, armed with nothing but outdated implants from the last corporate war and an old piece of iron instead of a proper rifle. But every time he went into battle, it felt like the first time. A nasty feeling. Sickening. But he was used to it—after all, he wanted to eat, and preferably not synthetic plastic slop or other corporate garbage.
"Now here's someone who's definitely not nervous," Barry thought, glancing at the towering figure over two meters tall (okay, the armor added some height, but not that much!) clad in high-tech armor, a hammer at his belt, and a massive machine gun he carried as if it weighed nothing.
In his mercenary career, Barry had seen all kinds of clients—from ordinary civilians seeking revenge for their loved ones to corporate bigwigs who treated everyone like dirt. But this one gave off the strange vibe of a young but tough fixer who had just stopped being a solo—someone who had already built connections, debts, and a reputation but hadn't forgotten how to hold a gun properly.
"Let's move," the man said, rising from his knee and personally leading the squad into battle after a quick sweep of the complex guards' corpses (and there were plenty). He strode confidently through the winding corridors of the underground bunker.
"Strange guy," Barry decided once again. "But dangerous," he added as five corporate guards rounded the corner, only to be mowed down by the machine gun like trees under a diamond-tipped circular saw. The client didn't even slow his pace—just smoothly raised the barrel, squeezed the trigger, swept the guards, and calmly returned the gun to its position. "What the hell kind of ammo is that?" Barry wondered, eyeing the literally melted corpses and wrinkling his nose at the smell of burnt human flesh.
"Hold! There's a minotaur up ahead!" warned the captain of another squad, stepping forward. Judging by the body count, they'd fought well, but not without losses.
"I know," came the muffled, deadly calm reply from beneath the helmet.
What happened next was sudden. Their employer abruptly accelerated, tossing a smoke grenade he'd ripped from his vest at some point, and diagonally charged toward the entrenched corporate guards—supported by a minotaur walker and two heavy wall turrets. Barry only caught a glimpse of heavy assault rounds from the turrets and the robot hitting the giant's armor before everything was obscured by smoke.
"F**k, after him!" the captain of the squad holding the position came to his senses. A dead client was always bad news, especially when he was the one paying the second half of the reward.
It took them a measly four seconds to break through the thick smoke screen, but in that time, Barry heard the guards' gunfire fall silent, the metal groan in protest, and the dying screams of the wounded. Breaking through the smoke, the mercenaries saw their employer methodically finishing off the last three enemies with machine-like precision, while the hacked wall turrets—controlled by some unknown netrunner—rained lead on those keeping their distance. With one hand, he fired the machine gun, taking down an Arasaka officer and two grunts, while the other wielded a strange hammer whose strikes left no corpses—just bloody mist and mangled remains embedded in walls and ceilings, depending on where the kinetic energy was directed.
Barry's gaze involuntarily locked onto the minotaur. An armored, multi-ton war machine, equipped with a pair of heavy machine guns and a rocket launcher, it was the embodiment of death for ordinary soldiers in trenches—and even professional solos, who had poured real money into their guns, rarely managed to take one down without losses. Yet their employer had dealt with such a threat in seconds, turning it into a twisted pile of scrap with a single blow.
"Do we even need to be here?" someone nearby blurted as the last of the guards' resistance crumbled.
"We do," Barry answered. "To draw attention, keep them from overwhelming us, and concentrate all defensive forces in one place."
"Let's go," their employer said, returning the hammer to his belt and striding deeper into the complex. "We're close."
The mercenaries, dogs of war, silently followed their employer. If there was one thing hired killers truly respected, it was strength. And they had just witnessed it in spades.
Tony Stark. Same place. Same time.
Feeling the unpleasant pull in his legs, the ache in his back from the excessive load, and the sweat stinging his eyes, Tony allowed himself a slight grimace. The hastily crafted armor he'd designed was excellent in every way—except comfort and weight distribution. His primary goal in constructing it had been to create the most reinforced armor possible, giving the not-so-experienced-in-firefights Stark an undeniable advantage over everyone else. And the armor delivered, but he had underestimated the resulting strain. Or perhaps overestimated his own body. As a result, instead of shifting the main load to his waist—which would have significantly eased wearing the armor—the entire burden fell on his back, and even his enhanced physiology struggled with it. And he couldn't pull off many fancy maneuvers—he'd already tried to quickly outflank the walker to avoid its guns, nearly tearing a ligament in the process. Unpleasant, but tolerable. The armor plates held, ammo was sufficient, Omnissia was taking control of the complex's digital systems (those with their own power), and Tony was almost at his goal.
Breaking through the guard-infested corridors was no picnic, especially considering the corporate paranoia that, over the past half-century, had created an entire architectural style designed to turn any corporate facility into a fortress masquerading as an office building. But the armor, machine gun, hammer, elite mercenary support squad, and Omnissia did their job.
"Good thing I decided to play it safe," Tony thought to himself, watching as a squad of defenders was utterly obliterated by a synchronized turret barrage under the control of one spiteful AI. When planning the operation, he had anticipated the possibility of failing to disable the nuclear reactor or the guards' power systems (at least the critical ones) and had chosen to leave Omnissia in the secret data center, opting for electronic support over an extremely powerful assault unit. And, as it turned out, he had made the right call.
There wasn't much left to reach the room where Lucy and the children were being held, and resistance was fading as they neared the secret elevator. The mercenaries, sent through the central gates, were doing their job, drawing all the guards' attention, who were openly panicking over the elevator's capture. Apparently, during the assault, they had managed to kill the head of security, and now his deputies were either unable to share power or weren't as competent as their boss. Tony didn't know, nor did he care. The assault was going well, and that was what mattered.
However, when they finally descended the elevator to the lower levels, they were met by a crowd of terrified civilians. Disheveled, some in pajamas, others in hastily donned uniforms, their eyes wide with fear and confusion—they clearly hadn't expected to see them here. And Tony… Tony tilted his head as if in thought, his eyes behind the armored visor scanning their faces for signs of remorse, sorrow, self-reproach, or at least a shred of conscience. Instead, he found only fear for their own skins.
"Fire," he ordered quietly, and a dozen of the best mercenaries under contract immediately, without hesitation, opened fire on the densely packed crowd. Bodies without combat implants or armor were riddled, torn apart, and shattered under the dense hail of lead, literally turning the elevator entrance into a small lake of blood with chunks of human flesh floating in it. "Move on." Coldly stepping over the carnage, Tony strode across the red floor without a hint of emotion.
Stark wasn't entirely sure how to feel about this act. After all, killing unarmed people was completely out of character for him. But this wasn't his old world. There, where the name Tony Stark carried weight, he could have captured all these people alive and been confident they would face deserved punishment. Here, he was certain they wouldn't spend a day in prison. There, he had people close to him, many of whom were idealists who, under no circumstances, could justify such a massacre. Here, Stark saw what had happened as... rational. The optimal solution among those currently available. But what unsettled him was that he had only thought about morality and ethics after giving the order. It wasn't his first time killing people, but such cold-bloodedness was something new. Yes, all the complex's workers were scum, experimenting on children and sending them to their deaths—literally indefensible. But Stark had never considered himself a judge. A wise man, Tony understood that any eye could become jaded and biased, so the decision of punishment should be left to an impersonal system, not to a person involved in the capture and imprisonment of the guilty.
"Ah, that's what it is," Tony realized. "There's no system here at all."
Whatever was said about the USA in his world, its judicial system was maximally independent, impartial, and incorruptible. Too many interested parties ensured it stayed that way, ruthlessly slapping down anyone who tried to bend the courts to their will and mercilessly punishing judges who sold out. An unspoken agreement among the world's powerful, silently agreeing to have someone unbiased to pass judgment in case of their defeat. Here, though... there was none of that. All the courts were corrupt, all the officials were on the gangs' payroll, the gangs themselves were extensions of the corporations, and the corporations had turned governments into utility services, forced not to maintain order by timely reining in the overly ambitious, but to clean up after the corporates, pretending they still mattered. Tony simply had no one to rely on for judgment, and if that was the case, he unwillingly became the sole and fairest judge.
However, such philosophical musings didn't prevent Stark from monitoring the situation and moving toward his goal. Not much left now.
The Next Day. Washington.
A small, unremarkable hotel—one of thousands in Washington—located somewhere on the outskirts of the city, had seen many visitors over its sad history. For some, their journey ended here. For others, it began. For some, it was a fresh start, and for others, a springboard to an even greater abyss. And, as sad as it was, pairs consisting of a little girl and an adult man were also frequent here. In an era of universal moral decline and general indifference, it was hard to find someone who would even disapprove of such a thing, let alone take action. Was the little girl here voluntarily? Then everything was fine. And besides, maybe he was her relative, or maybe she wasn't that little—who could tell in an age of advanced technology?
"What a mess," Tony grimaced, sipping the synthetic sludge the locals called coffee. It tasted like burnt plastic, but it did the job—it perked him up. "Should've brought my own supplies."
"Mhm," Lucy nodded. They both sat on their beds, eating a quick breakfast of cereal with milk (though Tony had no idea what kind of milk it was and was frankly afraid to read the ingredients). Stark sipped his coffee, while Lucy had juice. Unhealthy, filling, loaded with sugar—perfect for waking up, stocking up on calories, and lifting their spirits. And just coming to their senses after the long journey, flight, and all the chaos that had befallen them.
The assault on the Arasaka base had ended successfully. The mercenaries (those who survived) received their fair reward and scattered. The surviving children were handed over to Polish government agents, while Tony grabbed Lucy and put her on a diplomatic plane, which they reached under government plates with an escort and no inspection at the airport. Moreover, Tony managed to earn a little extra, slightly improving his financial situation by selling his equipment (except the hammer) to his escort, along with the documentation. Wasting his knowledge again? Who would argue! But compared to the truly valuable technologies Stark considered worth keeping, the gear he sold for a hefty sum was crude, hastily made from limited materials, and riddled with teething problems. Tony Stark had once propelled his company to the top of the global arms industry purely through his genius—what were a couple of rough prototypes, cobbled together practically in a garage, to him? And it would make things easier for him and Lucy in their new place.
"How are you? Have you recovered from everything?" Tony asked, stripping all playfulness from his voice and filling it with genuine concern for the moral state of his sweet kitten.
"I still can't believe it's all over," Lucy replied in a slightly detached voice, hypnotizing her bowl of cereal with an empty gaze and listlessly eating it. The only good thing was that with each spoonful, her movements became more animated. The little girl clearly enjoyed her first sweets in a year.
"I understand," Tony nodded seriously.
When he escaped from the terrorists' captivity, he also couldn't believe it was over at first. The attack, the rocket explosion, shrapnel in his heart, captivity, the exhausting work of planning an escape with the constant risk of being caught, the escape itself, and the death of a friend... and then the flight on an untested jet system, the crash in the desert, and days of wandering, not knowing what would give out first—his body, deprived of water and food, or the arc reactor, which could irradiate him with a lethal dose of radiation at any moment, as it was made in makeshift conditions without proper equipment. And when it was all over, when he found himself at a U.S. base and, after all the medical checks, on a military plane... he simply couldn't comprehend that he had made it. His brain flatly refused to switch to the new reality, like a jammed mechanism still running but unable to change power or even turn off due to the breakdown. The switch came with the thought that he was hungry and wouldn't refuse an old-fashioned burger. Only after devouring that damn burger from the nearest diner did he fully realize that it was over.
"Let's have a day of treats today," Tony decided.
"Treats?" Lucy perked up.
"Yeah. As I understand it, you weren't exactly spoiled with variety there, so we'll make up for it," Tony said, narrowing his eyes slyly.
And that's what they did.
Quickly finishing their breakfast, they left the hotel, hailed a taxi, and headed downtown.
Washington in the second half of the 21st century wasn't much different from its past self. Of course, there were peculiarities due to modern realities, but overall, thanks to its status as the political center of the USA—lacking other outstanding merits—it had fared better than New York, Texas, California, and others whose assets could be tangibly felt and used regardless of the state of the United States. The USA had collapsed? Then Washington was of little use to anyone. The situation was gradually improving, but traces of desolation were still visible. Strangely enough, the collapse of the USA had helped Washington survive the past half-century quietly and without major upheavals, and where there was peace, development, however meager, followed. Now, with Militech coming to Washington, the city was reviving, once again becoming the political center of the emerging superpower. However, Tony and Lucy were far more interested in cafes, restaurants, and street food stalls. In this regard, the NUSA remained true to itself, having gathered all the world's national cuisines.
"So, we started the day with sweet cereal. How about something meaty next? Burger? Hot dog? Shawarma?"
"Crepes with meat?" Lucy suggested a compromise. She didn't particularly like meat or flour, but she had a real sweet tooth. In her view, crepes with meat were almost the same as crepes with fruit, except instead of washing out the sweet taste of the crepe, the meat complemented it. Logical? Well... maybe.
"Okay, so we need a Russian restaurant," Tony nodded, beginning to search for the right place.
Overall, Washington was a pleasant city, much better than Warsaw, surrounded by slums teeming with criminal elements of all kinds and ranks, some of whom had come from abroad. Sometimes, being unwanted was useful, especially when the whole world was going to hell.
They found the restaurant quickly, ordered tea, the aforementioned crepes... and also syrniki, jam, honey, and sour cream. Tony had dated Black Widow for a while, and in gratitude for particularly passionate nights, she sometimes treated him to Russian cuisine. He hadn't been a fan of borscht—he didn't like soups in general—but he had enjoyed the crepes, buckwheat, potato pancakes, and even okroshka (especially with beer).
"Here, try this," Tony said, mixing sour cream and strawberry jam into a pink mass and offering it to Lucy, while spreading the artistic creation on his own crepe.
"Tasty," Lucy nodded importantly, expressing her professional opinion as a sweet destroyer.
Lucy was gradually thawing, which couldn't help but please Tony. Of course, what she had been through couldn't fail to affect her, but seeing a smile on young Kusinada's face was already a great relief for Stark, against which other worries seemed trivial and insignificant.
That's how they spent the day—walking around the city and gorging on treats. Hot dogs with lots of ketchup and fried onions, burgers with juicy patties, cotton candy, waffles with chocolate and nuts, lollipops, and all kinds of other goodies. By the end of the day, Lucy was walking with her little belly sticking out, holding it with her hands and breathing contentedly.
"You really are a kitten," Tony chuckled, sipping his coffee. This time, it was decent, bought from some pompous café.
"Why?" a white-haired individual asked lazily.
"Because only a kitten, with a stomach the size of a thimble, can eat its own weight in food."
"Yeah," came the indifferent reply. Lucy felt too good to react to Tony's teasing.
Unfortunately, back in the room, the mood became far from joyful again, though not as tense as in the morning.
"Tony," Lucy asked, clearly unsure if she wanted to know the answer, "what... what are we going to do next?"
"Next?"
"Mhm," confirmed Lucy, hugging a pillow and burying her nose in it so only her eyes were visible. The girl was clearly nervous, but she still brought up the topic. Despite her age, she understood what Tony had sacrificed for her. In fact, everything—prospects, his parents' inheritance, his stepfather's home, connections, his future!
"Well..." Tony pretended to think. "How about 'they lived happily ever after'?" he asked, leaning back on the pillow and putting his hands behind his head—a highly provocative question. Truth be told, Tony didn't realize it was provocative. As mentioned earlier, the morals of society in the second half of the 21st century had plummeted extremely low, and though Lucy was a sheltered girl raised in a good family with elite education, she was still a child of her time. A child with the skills of a decent netrunner, with access to the net and absorbing information from there with all the consequences.
"What...?" Kusinada squeaked, her face turning bright red from her forehead to her neck as she pressed harder into the pillow. If Tony simply meant a good future for the two of them, free of problems and worries, seeing Lucy more as a mischievous little sister (no matter how Omnissia and Claire had tried to push otherwise), then Lucy clearly heard something else. Her amazing rainbow eyes darted panicked glances around the room, her little heart pounded so loudly it echoed in her ears, and her above-average mind supplied one lewd scenario after another for what might happen next. "W-well..." Lucy fidgeted nervously in her spot, gathering her courage. "I haven't had my period yet, but if you want, I'm not ag—and-and-and-and!" And, unable to handle the embarrassment, she finally hid completely in the pillow space, missing the sight of a pair of blue, utterly stunned eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets.
"What's going on in her head?" Tony thought, coldly realizing he would have to reject a girl—small, but still a woman. His tastes were clear and simple: tall with large breasts, a toned butt, and long legs. Ideally, taller than him so he could rest his head on her chest. Weird? Convenient! If She-Hulk had a different personality and didn't threaten to break his spine in a moment of passion (or crush something more important), she would have been perfect. So little girls, no matter how cute their genetically modified monster features were, were out of the question. Completely! He understood the appeal of lolitas, especially with big breasts—there was something in that contrast (yes, he was a dog; problem?). But a tiny chick with nothing to hold onto? Let's just say he once took a particularly skinny model to bed and ended up with bruises on his hips afterward.
The subsequent conversation was painfully awkward, uncomfortable, and outright bizarre, somehow ending with...
"...as soon as you grow up, we'll continue," Tony said, willing with all his soul for this to end soon.
---
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}