Reading Time: 98 Minutes

Title: Web of the Wyrd
Author: MykkiTno
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe,X-Men
Genre: Dimension Travel, Hurt/Comfort, Paranormal/Supernatural, Pre-Relationship, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Urban Fantasy
Relationship(s): Tony Stark/James Barnes, Clint/Laura, Logan/Storm, Carol/Rhodes
Content Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Major Character Death, Slavery, Torture, Violence-Graphic, Violence-Domestic. Dub/Non-con experimentation, body modification, death, emotional and psychological abuse, mental illness, discrimination, racism, sexism, child abuse, animal abuse, murder, minor character death. Internalized homophobia, homophobia, DADT mentioned, historical/mythological inaccuracies, alcoholism, addiction, hand-wavy science, and possible inaccurate representation of the mafia. Language and slurs, explicit sexual content. Character Bashing – Howard Stark, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, Odin, and to a lesser degree, Peggy Carter.
Author Note: Please see main story page
Word Count: 114,614
Summary: During the time heist in 2012, though Loki escaped with the tesseract, this isn’t his story. He’s the catalyst. The Norns take him, offering him a choice, in which he unintentionally creates an alternate universe. This is about the Wyrd, and the ramifications of Choose and Consequence. It’s about an unknown descendant, seventy years of torture, an oath and a promise. It’s a story about two men – one an assassin, one a genius, who in an alternate universe never got a chance to choose; they only dealt with the consequences… Here, Loki bound James Barnes and Tony Stark together before either was born. That changes everything.
Artist: Lalaith Quetzalli

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Prologue

Moss-dappled roots curled around an ancient clearing, where six women stood beneath the luminescence of the World Tree. These were no ordinary women—two sets of sisters, numbering three each. In the center, a young woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a sardonic smile faced the others, tension and history drawing invisible lines between the two sets of sisters gathered here. Ancient powers and differing pantheons stood side by side, their meeting charged with significance for every realm. A kind, sardonic smile crossed the young woman’s face as she nodded, “Thank you for agreeing to meet us.”

The three curtsied, the oldest smiling at her counterpart, “Urd.”

“Clotho.” Urd nodded, gesturing to the two standing on either side of her, “My sisters, Verdandi and Skuld.”

“Lachesis and Atropos.” Clotho inclined her head to her sisters, then faced Verdandi. “We’re trapped in the web as much as you, Verdandi. With no choice but to parley.” Her voice sounded sad, shamed, and old. “Our worlds have already been set on the course of destruction by the actions of our Gods.”

“Our hubris was our downfall, Clotho.” The counter came from the small, waif-like child, her clear white eyes reflecting her power. “We didn’t listen to the Mother when she spoke-”

“You mean warned us, Atropos?” countered Clotho, gently ushering the two up the path, the roots of the glowing gently to light the way.

“As you say, sister.” The young one bowed her head, “She warned, and we neglected, thinking in our hubris we could fix it.”

A snort from Skuld’s harsh voice made them flinch. She glared, “Fix it? I told you it couldn’t be fixed, only delayed.”

“But leave it to him?” The question was plaintive, almost a whine, and Lachesis shrank under the others’ glare, brushing the root for comfort.

“It doesn’t matter; we knew it was the beginning of the end when the mother had chosen her Champion.” It was a heavy sentence, especially under the weight of the waif-like child. It left the six in an uncomfortable silence.

Clotho cleared her throat, shamed, “We’ve left him unprotected, vulnerable. If he fails…”

“Then we all die…” It was a callous response, but it wasn’t a lie, and none could argue it either.

“So what do we do? In a few years, Ragnok will happen, our people will die.” Verdandi brushed a tear away, “I don’t want that.”

“None of us do.” It wasn’t as reassuring as it should be, and the waif-like child sank onto a root, staring at the water. “I can’t offer advice. I can’t see the future, except for what we discussed eons ago.”

“Neither can I,” Atropos echoed, earning a sharp look. “But are we ready for that path?”

“What choice do we have?” Lachesis asked, lying with her head on a root. “We knew it was futile when he found the first stone.”

“Will he even help us?” Urd asked, half sobbing, eyes unfocused with memories of his life.

The waif-like child sharpened her glare on the older one, “Would you?”

Urd bowed her head, answering enough, though she still whispered, “So what do we offer him?”

“What does he want?” Lachesis asked, looking between the Norns, and arched an eyebrow, “Beyond revenge?”

Skuld hummed as Atropos straightened. “Would that really work?”

“It would cause chaos until he assumes his place as Guardian.” Skuld admitted softly, “But maybe…”

The sisters and cousins exchanged worried looks, then joined hands in a loose circle. Urd bowed her head and began to chant; the others echoed her words. As they chanted, the roots surrounding them glowed even brighter.

***

May 2012

Even through the cuffs, he sensed something foreign in the lobby—not magic, but similar. He scanned again.

Loki looked around the lobby of Stark’s tower, carefully observing the SHIELD agents. He hid his reaction to the unnatural darkness tainting their perception—a false blindness that they seemed to enjoy. Even when cut off from his Seidr, he could sense this. It made him want to growl, and he shot Thor a look of betrayal. Thor should have noticed, should have understood. Yet, just like the arguing agents and Stark, Thor, too, seemed blinded to the truth by his own willful ignorance.

A shimmer of energy landed on Stark and vanished into the aura of swirling colours around him. Loki shifted his attention to the disturbance, noticing a similar shimmer near a figure wearing a hat and goggles who was doing their best to remain unnoticed while quietly speaking into an earpiece.

In an instant, Loki saw swirling colours tighten as Stark suddenly collapsed and gasped for breath. Loki kept his eyes fixed on the shimmer, watching as it crawled down Stark’s arm, detached, landed on the case, and kicked it forcefully across the lobby.

A fleeting grin appeared on Loki’s face when he watched the same guard, now surrounded by swirling colours, pick up the case and head toward the stairs. Loki’s amusement faded as he realized the guard’s colours—darker and more vibrant than Stark’s—were still similar to those he saw around Stark.

Loki blinked in confusion, glancing between the two men, unable to understand how or why they shared these patterns. He then looked at the case Stark had taken earlier. Fear swept over him as he realized Stark might risk disturbing time itself by time-travelling. His mind went blank, fear and dread gone for a second as understanding hit him like Mjolnir.

The earth jewel tones of the Wyrd wrapped protectively around Stark. They pulsed and beat as if alive, a warning and promise wrapped into one. It sent an instinctive need, almost worse than a prime directive, to stay, to protect, to nurture. Why would Jörð—Earth itself, the personification of the Norse Mother Earth—choose a mortal? Why choose someone who wasn’t of Norse descent?

Everything he knew of Anthony Stark implied his father was American, while his mother was of Italian lineage. Yet perhaps the choice was never limited by blood. The essence of the earth recognized not lineage, but qualities within the soul: resilience, ingenuity, and the will to create and change. Maybe it was not Jörð alone, but Terra, or Gaia, who saw in Stark a kinship with the forces that shape worlds—someone whose spirit could echo the ambitions of deities, no matter where his flesh was born.

Loki blinked, trying to clear his headache, and flinched as Hulk suddenly burst out from the door leading to the staircase, sending the second Stark flying. As the chaos unfolded, the case snapped open, and the tesseract slid out, coming to a gentle stop at Loki’s foot.

Loki stared at the tesseract, feeling as though time slowed. He glanced around the lobby. Most guards were focused on Stark, while Thor placed Mjolnir on Stark’s chest, likely trying to reassure him. Loki then looked at the second Stark, who groaned audibly from across the room. As the tesseract rested against his boot, Loki felt a sudden pressure on his throat. The artifact’s surprising weight seemed real, even through his Asgardian-made boots, which normally allowed him to ignore such things.

Despite his boots, Loki clearly felt the tesseract’s weight. At the same time, an unsettling sensation crept up his neck—a physical reminder of his vulnerability, which sent a chill through him and made him break out in a cold sweat.

Loki was troubled by the presence of two Starks in the same place and time, both apparently chosen by Jörð. He couldn’t understand what this meant. Why didn’t Thor notice? Why hadn’t Loki noticed before? Nothing made sense. Fear surged within him, almost overwhelming. He wondered what it meant for a god to fear death. If even a god was afraid, what hope did mortals have against the looming threat? The threat was not just a distant sense of doom, but something tangible: the unraveling of fate itself, the shadow of Ragnok—the Norse apocalypse—looming on the horizon, and the disturbing possibility of Thanos seeking the stones that could wipe out half of existence. The air felt thick with the weight of impending catastrophe, a future woven by the Norns yet marred by unchecked ambition and cosmic forces beyond comprehension. Loki felt trapped, alone with his concerns, while the forces guiding fate seemed to tighten around him.

He saw Thor’s faint Wryd pulse, far weaker than Stark’s. Loki stalled, wishing he could say all he wanted: mind control, Thanos’s threat, the hurt, betrayal, the ever-tightening Wryd, his fate decided before he could walk…

Bending to pick up the tesseract, Loki offered Stark a silent apology, knowing he was interfering with whatever plan Stark had for time travel. He looked at his brother one last time, lingering over the thought that this could be their final meeting. Despite everything, Loki didn’t want Thor hurt or worse during the coming war. Maybe, if Loki could prevent it before it began, he would be free from feeling that invisible hand clutching his throat.

***

Blackness.

Loki was surrounded by total blackness. He knew he was awake, not dreaming. He expected stars, not only darkness. It reminded him of his fall from the Bifrost; even then, he saw pieces of the bridge.

Swallowing hard, Loki turned in place; dizziness hit him as he tried to determine if he was floating, drifting, or lying on nothing at all. He wondered if this could be death’s afterlife—Valhalla seemed empty and disappointing. However, he noticed that he felt no pain anywhere in his body.

Sighing, he reached up to run a hand through his hair before realizing not only was the tesseract gone, but so were the cuffs and muzzle restraining him. He paused to check the rest of his attire, only relaxing when he felt the tingle of magic as he touched the hilts of his daggers. Despite this small reassurance, the sensation of the phantom hand around his throat persisted. He rubbed at his neck, frustrated by the vivid memories. He resented that his Jotun blood alone had kept him alive. “Why hadn’t any of my children been saved the same way?” he wondered. Guilt and regret surged as he considered how he’d done nothing to save them from Odin’s fate: Fenrir reduced to a mindless guard dog, Jörmungandr chained as Asgard’s living barrier. The discovery that he might not even be their true father, despite Sigyn’s insistence, had wounded him deeply—one more mark of Odin’s manipulation.

Shaking his head at his thoughts, Loki tried to focus on how he could fix his present, knowing there was nothing he could do to fix his past. He knew the threat of Thanos was real, and he hated that he couldn’t give Midgard any sort of warning. He couldn’t talk to Stark for even a moment, while acknowledging that they likely wouldn’t have listened anyway, but he hoped the threat of his attack had been warning enough for them to heed.

“Do you care?” The question came out of the blackness, bouncing around him, causing goose bumps to erupt on his suddenly naked skin.

“For Midgard, Asgard, or Jötunheimr?” The words felt pointed and barbed, and Loki flinched, biting his lip to suppress the gasp of pain.

“Which bothers you more, the past, the present or the future?” No pain accompanied the words, but a light seemed to grow from nowhere, and everywhere, banishing the idea that shadows could exist where he stood, and stared at the towering branches that stretched over his head.

The oxymoron wasn’t lost on him; the idea that shadows wouldn’t exist in the presence of a giant tree was as real as the pool of water that lapped at his knees, and he couldn’t stop himself from dropping to his knees, heedless of his nudity as three figures stepped from the roots and stared at him, white eyes unblinking as if accessing his soul.

“Well?” The question was sharp, crisp and even, like the sharpest of his blades, and he felt a welt rise on his shoulder, the warm stickiness sticking to his sweat-laden body.

“I don’t know.” The admittance was whispered, but it echoed back at him as if he’d shouted, and he flinched, hoping they didn’t take it as a sign of disrespect.

“Hmmm…” the trio hummed, and he felt the warmth of it slide up his shoulder, healing the wound their words had caused. He warily opened his eyes, lowering them to the ground again, shivering at the whiteness of their eyes, which reflected his life back at him.

“Loki Laufeyson.” He flinched at the name, “a great many wrongs were committed against you, and through no fault of your own, even though you’ve tried your best, you’ve suffered.”

The voice sounded old, ancient even, telling him without words that it was Urd, yet as he finished comprehending that, the middle one spoke, voice accented and clean. He knew it was Verdandi – the fate of the present, “you’ve been given a glimpse of what is to come, met key players chosen by others in a bid for survival. We allowed you to see the Wyrd wrapped around Anthony Stark. Do you understand how essential, how intrinsically his existence is tied to all our lives?”

“Which makes me feel compelled to help him, but he’s -” Loki licked his suddenly dry lips as their eyes flashed, but let him finish his sentence, “called the Merchant of Death on earth. A mortal, and baseline human, how can he be essential for all our existence?”

“What is life without death?” Urd demanded, voice overlapped with Verdandi, “What is death without life? His creations come from somewhere, do they not?”

“Who are you to judge, the Mother?” Skuld rasped a second later, voice grating and unnerving for a being who saw the future.

Hunching at the reprimand, Loki whispered, “No one, yet I feel it needs to be asked. I just want to understand…”

They let the request linger, and he shifted at the weight of their gaze, only slumping when he saw the pulse of the roots draw their attention. However, he quickly stiffened when one of them, he wasn’t sure who, hissed in a breath, muttering something that wasn’t translated with All-Speak, which was probably the most unnerving thing he’d experienced to date. Not understanding when someone spoke left him feeling unmoored and adrift.

“Anthony Stark is an anomaly, Loki Laufeyson. He is one we can see but cannot read, the chosen of Jörð, Terra and Gaia, wrapped in the Wyrd. The only thing we can do is influence those around him.” Skuld rasped, voice cracking as if showing her sorrow, “We have no idea his end, nor what it means when we can’t manipulate his thread. For reasons unknown, his fate slips through even our fingers, as though some deeper law shields him from the weaving we govern. He walks paths that do not yet exist, and forges bonds that reshape the futures of gods and mortals alike. In him, the Wyrd twists unpredictably, as if he contains a thread spun from some other loom. We watch, but we cannot unravel or knot his destiny.”

Verdandi continued in a monotone voice, “What you see as death is his greatest skill, though no one knows it, least of all himself.”

“What would you say if you knew he birthed a soul into being?” Urd asked curiously, leaving Loki confused, because didn’t humans do that every day? The Norm representing the past chuckled, “He birthed it in codes, wires, and electricity in his building, Loki.”

“His AI?” Loki asked hesitantly, still confused.

“Correct, J.A.R.V.I.S, or rather, Just a Really Very Intelligent System, is as real as you.” Verdandi offered, pride and something else in her tone, “Though he births more that you have not met, but what if you knew he birthed a star into being, what would you say, Loki Laufeyson?”

“Aurvandil?” Loki choked out, breath catching, “he would have been a cousin of sorts, one rescued by Thor, his toe was turned into a star.”

“Indeed,” Urd agreed, voice flat, though her stare was cold, “though he had to have permission from one higher than him.”

“But that would mean…” Loki swallowed, eyes fluttering shut, “Anthony Stark is a titan?”

“Eh…” Verdandi shrugged, “The answer is convoluted, but simply put, he has the chance to be. In this case, it’s a true reincarnation, with none of Astraeus’s baggage. By ‘true reincarnation,’ we mean that Anthony Stark’s soul is not merely reborn, but retains the pure creative force and potential of his predecessor, untainted by past failures or regrets. He begins anew, carrying only the essence of creativity and transformation. This makes his role uniquely significant—free from an old god’s burdens, Stark’s spirit is able to forge his own path, shaping fate by his choices rather than being shackled by what came before. Creativity needs an outlet, don’t they? And it is in Anthony Stark’s nature to be creative even if he doesn’t know what he does.”

“Is that why the mothers picked him? Loki whispered, eyes glistening.

“What do stars represent, Laufeyson?” Verdandi questioned, voice softer than it had been.

“Hope.” Loki whispered, voice catching as his eyes fluttered shut, “Is-will history repeat itself?”

“We don’t know.” They intoned together, voices overlapping, “the way is blocked, just as is Thanos’s fate.”

“The stones….” Loki’s breath shuddered, and he stilled, body freezing in place, even though he hadn’t moved since he could see, yet he could almost feel ice form on his lashes as he stared at the fates in horror.

“It is why we have brought you here, Loki Laufeyson, we three agree, Odin was wrong in his dealings with you, and whatever he called you was a reflection of himself. He was the coward who chose to sleep rather than confront his sins head-on. He is constantly manipulating the power struggle between you and Thor, when all it would take is one word and an honest regret for everything he has done. We warned him he would be the cause of Ragnok, because in his selfishness and greed, he can’t admit he was wrong.”

The overlapping voice grated, feeling like steel on stone, sharp and jagged. It caused a rolling nausea that pulsed at his throat, demanding to be let out.

He didn’t know how Odin stood there, uncaring or unheeding in their warning, how he turned a blind eye to it, when all Loli wanted to do was throw himself on the ground, begging for mercy, offering whatever he had left of himself in their service.

Verdandi blinked white eyes at him and offered him a sympathetic smile, “We don’t require your servitude, we’ve seen your fate, and it is the Will of the Wyrd which has already started.”

Loki opened his mouth, then shut it, refusing to ask, and received a slight nod of recognition and respect for his restraint.

“As such, we offer you a boon.” The comment, overlapped in three voices, brought nothing but dread, worse than anything a mortal must have felt when he offered the same, and lowered his head in shame.

“You worry about your legacy,” Skuld said, even though he’d said nothing out loud, it just proved how all-knowing they were, the hums echoing from the other two harmonizing eerily as she tilted her head, “what would you say if we told you, you have a way to leave that legacy to one born of your descendant on Midgard?”

For a moment, Loki could only stare back, the air thickening around him as her words echoed in his mind. He felt his heart stutter, a roiling blend of disbelief and longing rising up in his chest. The ache of all he’d lost—children, hope, the chance to break free from the cycle Odin had forged—suddenly burned sharp and present, as if it belonged to the man he once wanted to be. Shock left him momentarily breathless, hope flickering painfully with the knowledge that perhaps, not all was lost. Yet fear curled cold and tight in his stomach, for if his legacy remained, so too did the threat of pain and suffering. In the silence, the gravity of the possibility pressed down on him until he found it hard to breathe, and for the first time in an age, Loki wished desperately for an answer he was too afraid to ask. Loki opened his mouth only to close it helplessly, shaking his head, not understanding how that information could possibly help.

Urd’s face rippled, a ghost of a smile passing over her lips, “Would you like to see?”

“I didn’t know I had children who survived the purging. If it would please you, I wouldn’t say no, mortal or not, if Jörð can choose one, why not I?” The response was soft, shame-making him lower his eyes, unwilling to see the judgment in their own.

A soft ‘tisking made him flinch, but Skuld didn’t speak, waving a hand over the pool. The water rippled, forming the image of an ebony-haired child, with one green and one gold eye staring up at the sky. She was wrapped in a ratty blanket as shouts rang out in the background. “Her name is Volya, named by her father in one of his lucid moments, which means freedom in her language.”

Loki stared at the girl, the familiar expression on her face twisting his stomach, “What happens to her?”

Skuld regarded him thoughtfully for a minute before answering, “At this juncture, the kindest thing in store for her is death.”

Startled, Loki reared back, the implication that even the Fates, the holders of the Threads, thought death the kindest option was horror-inducing. “You said her father named her in one of his lucid moments. What did you mean?”

The pool rippled again, entrancing and repelling at the same time, as it showed just a small fraction of the life of a man, broken, remade…. And it was nauseating. He turned away from the pool, ignoring the tear that slid down his cheek, feeling like this was torture just as much as his descendant had suffered. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me this….”

The three glared at him, and he jerked his head down, voice drying in his throat as he watched the life of his descendant spin backwards, and he fought the nausea at what he saw, and what the man endured. Torture. Brainwashing. Orders. Killing. Wiping. Suspension. Torture. Brainwashing. Orders. Killing. Wiping. Suspension. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Decade after decade. Until nothing was left…. Vague memories, senses of de ja vu, but nothing concrete. It would have been enough to send a god insane. That a mortal, however much enhanced, modified, and experimented on, endured to smile at their child spoke more to the inherent resilience of humans.

It was humbling and heartbreaking, and Loki trembled where he knelt.

It was a horror watching where it started. In a frozen bunker somewhere on the outskirts of the Alps, having the remains of the shattered arm sawed off, no painkillers, no anesthetics, no relief, not even the blissful blankness of unconsciousness, for they continuously zapped him awake.

He watched the fall from the train, the resignation, acceptance and grief marring the captain’s face, which startled him. He glanced at the Norms in confusion, though he kept his questions to himself. Loki watched as the two men were joined by a mixed band of other men and raced across Europe, morphing into a celebration of surviving. His descendant blinked up at the captain in confusion, not recognizing the man standing over him.

It morphed again into arriving in England and being assigned a specific role: infiltration and assassination, which rolled into basic training and his unnatural ability to hit a bullseye every time….

He saw the arguments and fights between best friends, watching as his descendant, James, turned from his friend when he tried to congratulate him. The despair and terror they felt sitting in a dirty alley, reading over the draft notice, not wanting to go, and having no choice. The life of James continued on, Winnifred getting sick, James dropping out of school and working full time on the docks and being an unwilling witness to the massacres of the White Gang and the death of his father…. It was a compilation of a single individual’s life, and Loki felt confused experiencing it, then nauseated, realizing that a mortal human had withstood decades of torture that would send a God insane.

“What happens to him?” Loki asked after the pool had smoothed back into inky blackness.

“As of now, there are too many variables. To many players on the field of this existence, he could die, he could live, he could let himself go insane. In the end, it won’t really matter because he’ll never remember what it meant to live. We just know that his friend, the Captain, will use the Chosen’s money, tech, and resources to find the man and not share what he thinks he knows. It ends badly for them all, lies and secrets, secrets and lies…”

Skuld responded simply, voice almost more disturbing in its monotone than in the grating edge of death. “Then, in multiple universes, save this one, in a fit of greed and selfishness, Steven Rogers makes a choice that will allow him to travel back in time, assume another name, and let the events play out exactly as they have. His hypocrisy knows no bounds. We aim to change that, this time around.”

“Alright,” Loki said, not sure how to respond to the tidbit about Steve Rogers, because the thought was horrific. The idea that Roger travelled back in time and allowed his best friend to suffer his fate, by doing nothing, was repugnant; it would have been almost more conceivable and better if Roger had worked for the enemy.

Sighing, he glanced down at the water, staring at the image of James, his blue-silver eyes haunted and lost, looking back at him, while he stared straight ahead, the image of a chair highlighted in the shadows. “What can I do?” Loki asked after a moment of silence.

“What makes you think you can do anything?” They said together, and the smile they offered did nothing to ease the tension pulling at his shoulders, nor did the ripples of water that revealed the daughter dirty and bloody, hidden amongst garbage, her fear almost palatable as she shivered, burrowing into the crevice in which she hid.

“Loki Leufoyson, do you know what this is?” Skuld asked, holding out the tesseract.

Power.

A possibility.

A chance….

None of the answers were correct, and he knew it, so he shook his head.

“And the Wyrd? What do you know of that?” Urd asked curiously.

“You control the inescapable, woven web of fate, destiny, and interconnectedness of all existence, influencing even the gods themselves.” Loki recited evenly, somehow feeling the web of his own Wyrd tighten.

“And what would you say if we became trapped in the web, even if it is our own making?” Verdandi asked curiously, stepping forward until her toes touched the water.

“I don’t know,” Loki admitted, the question sending another shiver of dread racing through him, feeling colder than the mountains of Jötunheimr.

“Today we stand at a crossroad, Loki Laufeyson,” Skuld began, twisting the cube, light emerging from the cracks of it, reflecting off the glow of the roots, “and in our selfishness, we request your help.”

Jerking his head in a negative, Loki tried to scramble back, yet the weight of the water held fast, and he barely flailed as he stared at them in horror, a hysterical laugh bubbling on his lips. The Norns wanted his help? This had to be a hallucination; something had obviously gone wrong when he grabbed the cube. Maybe he’d died, and this was just a side effect, a very vivid measuring before he woke in Valhalla… unless? He’d just watch the equivalent of seventy years’ worth of torture, had he finally gone insane, as Thor had often accused? Complained? Did it matter? Not really, other than trying to find out why he believed that the Norns were requesting his help. As much as it hurt to admit, even he could admit he’d be the last of any of the Aesir he’d ever approach for assistance; he’d earned his title as God of Lies and Mischief for a reason, not that he was even Aesir.

“Loki,” The word, his name, acted like a lifeline, ripping him from his circling thoughts and building panic, making him snap his focus to Urd, who regarded him with a sympathy and regret that was so heavy, he let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes to hide his tears.

“I’m in no way worthy-”

“You’re the only one who can, Loki,” Skuld said, her voice soft, a second before her hands reached out and cupped his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Mistakes were made, young one, things we didn’t foresee or anticipate, but we have a plan if you’re willing to hear it.”

Loki regarded the white eyes of the ‘youngest’, Skuld, who could reportedly see what would be, and licked his lips, “Will it work?”

“We- I don’t know,” Skuld admitted, “it will sound very cliche, but while you’re not our only hope, you’re our best one.”

“But-but, I’m not even Aesir, I’m the God of Mischief and Lies, I’m-”

“A product of our making,” Verdandi said evenly, “and given what stands to come, we consulted with our cousins the Moirai and offer you a one-time gift and boon.”

“I don’t understand,” Loki whispered, slumping when Skuld released him.

“We are trapped by the Wyrd in our protection of Yggdrasil, Loki, we shape the destiny of those touched by her, while the Moirai decree the length and allotment of life at birth.” Urd explained, stepping up beside her sister, Verdandi following a step behind him, “Working with our cousins, we have hatched a plan, but the variables involved…”

“You need a scapegoat?” Loki couldn’t help but sneer, his sense of bewilderment giving way to bitterness.

“No, you aren’t our scapegoat, Loki, you’re our future,” Skuld whispered, kneeling in front of him, offering a look of such pride, Loki could only blink and whisper.

“What?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I told you, young one, you won’t remember this conversation when you wake.” Skuld said gently, brushing a lock of hair from his face, “But what is important right now is you desire two things, one: to protect the Mother’s Chosen, and your Legacy.”

At one point, Loki was sure he would have denied the statement with everything he had, but it felt like the selfish, reckless need to fight the inevitable was missing, though that could be being faced with the Norns looking at him expectantly. “I wish I could argue, just for the sake of arguing, but you’re right, I do desire those, but without pointing out the obvious, I’m only one man.”

“And you have your own journey to complete.” Skuld agreed, nodding her head.

“In addition, you can’t change the trajectory of the mother’s chosen fate, you can only influence those around them…” Verdandi whispered, eyeing the branches that had followed the sisters into the pool, yet the statement made Loki think.

He couldn’t change Tony’s fate, only influence it. Yet, he had to complete his own journey, implying he couldn’t go back and change what he’d already done involving him. That realization twisted sharply in his chest, scraping against old scars. All that remained, then, was his descendant, James. But James—he wasn’t lucid, or more accurately, he was indoctrinated and brainwashed, to the point of insanity. For a moment, a raw ache cut through Loki’s pride. He had seen madness before, lived on its edge in Odin’s halls, but this—this was the abject loss of self he most dreaded. The idea of reaching for James in that darkness terrified him: what if he could not find him, or worse, what if he found nothing left at all? The memory of his own fractured mind, of voices that were and were not his, pressed heavily around him. Did he truly dare to offer help, knowing how easily such gifts and hopes could break someone further?

Loki felt the weight of centuries of mistakes: every time he meddled, every time he forced fate, it had cost him and others dearly. Was he only seeking redemption for himself now, latching onto James because the thought of standing by and doing nothing was more unbearable than risking another’s pain? Still, perhaps the old magics and blessings offered him some possibility, if he was careful—if he let this be an act of mercy, not ambition. He considered whether he might bestow protection, grant a measure of clarity, heal wounds that ran deeper than flesh, or place some subtle charm upon James’s path that could guide him back toward himself. Yet doubt clawed at him: what if his touch brought ruin instead of healing? There might be a way to plant resilience in his mind or to shield him from future harm. Even if Loki was uncertain of which, or what price such changes would demand, he sensed that some choices lay before him if he only found the courage to act. In that suspended moment, torn between fear of failure and the greater agony of inaction, Loki’s vulnerability ached open—his hope and terror bound together with the silent plea for forgiveness, even as he pressed himself to try, for James and for all that lay ahead.

Frowning, he looked at the sisters, “What are you proposing?”

Varandi smiled triumphantly, white teeth gleaming as she shrugged. “Your descendant, James, becomes your hand on Midgard, and you continue your journey until you reach your destination?”

“How would that work?” Loki couldn’t help but ask, “You already established he was brainwashed and tortured for decades.”

“So, offer him tutoring, offer him a gift, bless him if you wish, the decision and consequences are yours to live with.” Urd snapped, earning a glare from her sisters, and she drew in a calming breath and released it slowly, “We- we can’t tell you what to do, Loki, our influence is at an end, and we can no longer see the effects of this change.”

“A word of warning before you go, we will honour whatever it is you bestow upon him, but it is the magic of the Wyrd that will determine when he can touch what you give,” Skuld warned, voice once again grating like steel on stone.

Loki nodded and hesitated, “How long do I have?”

“A year and a day, trapped in a sliver of time, use it wisely, Loki Laufesyon.” Verdandi responded with a frown, “You won’t get a second chance, none of us will.”

“I understand.” Loki said, trying to sound reassuring, yet inside all he could feel was an unrelenting, relentless fear that he’d fuck everything up, “Will I remember him?”

Skuld laughed and laughed, the twinkling laughter sounding like glass shattering on impact, “You will when he does, so take heed to ask him that it be his right and not his left hand that he punches you with when he does…”

Loki blinked at the implications, that he’d already done something, yet even as he opened his mouth to ask, he was met with what felt like a sight out of nightmare, as the bodies of the Norns dropped into the pool of water, roots wrapping around them, dragging them back to the base of the tree, just as swirling darkness obscured his vision that quickly turned to blackness, and he knew for now his part in the story was done. Now it was up to James Buchanan Barnes, or Laoch as he would call himself and how he knew that he couldn’t say, but it left him briefly wondering how the Wyrd would impact the players, because he knew, if not understood how or when, he’d irrevocably changed the outcome of the story. Somewhere, deep in the currents of fate, he sensed the first tremors of consequences yet to come. Choices made in this moment would ripple forward, touching lives and destinies in ways he could not foresee. Unseen threads were set in motion, and the price of his intervention—whatever it might be—waited quietly, a shadow on the horizon of all their futures.

He just didn’t know if he’d live to see the fallout or not…

***

Chapter One

May 2012

“We got him!” The sentence burst out before the door fully opened. A man stumbled in, bloody and dishevelled, panting.

A man in a suit glanced up at the entering soldier, his blue eyes cold and hard as he glared at the interruption. “Then why are you here? You should be transporting him to be wiped and put in cryo.”

The bloody, dishevelled man swallowed and shifted, fidgeting under the glare, “Of course, I know that, Sir. Um, it’s just that- um, there is a child.”

The eyes narrowed, “Explain?”

The soldier explained, “We had a contact working to collect individuals. They approached a fairly new face to the game, who called himself Laoch.” He scratched his cheek under the blue-eyed man’s flat stare. “During their initial conversation, a name was mentioned. It enraged Laoch. The contact didn’t seem aware of that and kept needling, pushing for more information.”

“He snapped,” the blue-eyed man said, earning a nod from the soldier.

“Yes, Sir. Laoch told her to get out and to stop talking. We told her the same. She made a mocking comment, and he snapped.” The soldier shrugged awkwardly, drawing a shaky breath. “We didn’t have video feed, but the audio was horrific. First, there was a sharp crack—then three more in quick succession. Four shots. Each one hit. The woman started to scream, raw and desperate, her voice bleeding through the speakers. She begged for her life, stammering, but was cut off as chaos exploded around her. I heard boots hammering the floor, the metallic tang of gunpowder flooding the air, and then wet, awful sounds—metal striking flesh, the sickening squelch of a knife carving through muscle. Men shouted orders. The ricochet of bullets sent shouts echoing through the room. In the confusion, no one saw the Asset move until it was too late.” He paused, jaw tight, searching for words. “The Asset didn’t hesitate. He moved like a shadow. Someone swore they saw streaks of red across the walls. Men fell before they even realized what was happening—cut down with vicious precision. He targeted limbs and tendons, made sure his blows hurt but didn’t immediately kill. In the blindness of panic, my team burst in. Paul was the first to recognize him—called out, ‘That’s the Asset!’ at the exact second the Asset turned feral. The choking panic of dying men filled the speakers, boots slipping and sliding in blood. By the end, fifteen men inside were down—dead or dying within minutes, bodies tangled everywhere. Ten more outside tried to stop him, but they stood no chance. It was nothing but carnage.” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper. “Honestly, Sir, if it wasn’t for QuickSilver’s speed, we’d never have gotten him restrained at all.”

The man folded his arms and continued to glare. “The child?”

“The child is three years old, born in 2009. The mother survived the birth, though she has since passed away,” the soldier reported, handing over a file while trying not to shift as the cold blue eyes stared at him. “We sent men to the apartment, but the child wasn’t there.”

“What’s the point?” the blue-eyed man asked, confusion underlying the question, though he leaned over the report, eyes moving across the page. “From reports of others, the Asset is the father.”

The soldier shrugged. “With DNA testing, we might restart the breeding program.”

The blue-eyed man glanced at another man at the end of the table. The lab coat implied he was a doctor or scientist. The doctor spoke, “Sir, even if we proved he was a genetic match, the program has never been successful.” The third man met the blue eyes efficiently. “It’s not from a lack of trying. There were seven official attempts to initiate the breeding project over the years. The Asset was paired with over 150 women, and another 150 underwent insemination. All women were deemed healthy, fertile, many with enhancements or mutations, in hopes of a breakthrough. There were twenty-five pregnancies total—five viable. Only one child was delivered alive. The mother carried to term but smothered the child before anyone could stop her. Every other direct attempt failed due to miscarriage or severe complications, and the inseminated candidates all died, torn apart from the inside. The result was always tragedy, despite every scientific advantage.” He fell silent for a moment, the weight of the failures hanging between them. “Sometimes I wonder if the program itself was cursed from the beginning,” he admitted quietly, as if saying it aloud might give shape to the sense of sorrow buried in the files.

The first man pulled back with a frown, “Are you- all of them, Doctor?”

The doctor nodded and gestured to the reports before him. “Yes, Sir. I had just started my tenure during the last round of tests. This resulted in the birth. When questioned, the mother claimed the baby was the devil. She said it was blue with razor-sharp teeth. We determined the carrier had a psychotic break. The visual and autopsy disproved her claim. The infant was born at 39 weeks, weighed 7.9 pounds, and was 22 inches long. Birth testing was inconclusive for the X-gene or enhancements, which the autopsy supported. The baby was confirmed to be a baseline human. Doctor Zola scrapped the project before his death, calling it a lost cause.”

The blue-eyed man huffed. “Get some testing done on the child, determine if they are a genetic match, see what abilities they might have, and we can decide from there,” he ordered.

The soldier who had interrupted the meeting cleared his throat awkwardly. “About that, Sir, that’s in part why I’m here,” the soldier said.

When the man didn’t continue, the blue-eyed man growled, “Well?”

“I need permission to round up another squad,” the soldier stammered, paling significantly when the blue-eyed man snapped his eyes to his, hatred burning in his eyes.

“Let me understand this: you interrupted a meeting to tell me something potentially important and revolutionary for the order, but that you don’t have the key piece to that work?” the blue-eyed man demanded, ignoring the rest of the conversation and focusing only on the possibility, leaning on the table.

The soldier winced but nodded, “Unfortunately, that would be correct, Sir.”

The blue-eyed man stood, smoothing his jacket. “Then get that squadron and find the child. They’re three years old. They don’t have the intelligence or ability to hide,” he commanded. “If you need to raze the docks, do it and bring in prisoners. Maybe they’ll get the Asset to talk. For now, put it in confinement. I have to call the Secretary and report. I hope your next update is better news.”

The soldier swallowed, nodded, and backed out of the room, scurrying away, leaving the blue-eyed man to follow, the smug satisfaction rolling off of him.

***

May 2014

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The dual question echoed and rang in his head over and over. It never let him be. Not when he fought the man on the Helicarrier. Not when he pulled him from the river, though he still couldn’t explain why. It followed him as he travelled to a safe house, raided it, and moved on to the next, looking for a handler.

Orders—anything to stop the question’s pull on his mind.

He preferred the blankness. He wasn’t anyone; he didn’t want to be. It just brought pain and regret. It was easier just being the Asset.

There was dread. A thought coiled in his stomach, like a timer ticking down his blank slate. He feared what lay after, knowing something was missing, something more important than himself. He didn’t know who he was….

Asset.

Soldat….

That felt familiar, but… he shook his head. No, it wasn’t quite right.

It was familiar, comfortable in a way The Asset was not. It wasn’t really about the man—the Captain, Steve—or whoever Bucky was supposed to be. Steve thought he was Bucky. The Asset could admit they had uncanny similarities in their features. But the sameness fell apart under closer scrutiny. In pictures and videos, that man could have been him, once. Time could explain most differences, except for eye colour. Even in black-and-white, the Asset could see subtle shades well enough to know Bucky’s eyes matched, but his did not. He had one blue-silver eye and one green with gold flecks, like stars. The confusion gnawed at him, making it impossible to settle into either identity. He found himself hesitating at mirrors, unsure of the person looking back, the uncertainty twisting his gut and making every decision feel risky, as if he could never trust himself to be the right man.

The Asset froze; the romanticism in his thoughts clashed with his programming. He wasn’t Bucky. That was James.

He took a breath to calm his racing heart. James—no, the Asset looked again.

Watching the video he’d stolen from the Smithsonian, the Asset studied the man the Captain called Bucky. Bucky strode across the field with a carefree grin that hid unease. The Asset could see it, could feel it. That need to hide was familiar. It wasn’t innocence Bucky tried to show; nothing about war was innocent. But it was a mask just the same—the need to cover up his true self.

It was there in every pixel and frame: when the Captain was around, Bucky wore a mask. He hid behind flirting and charm, and the Asset understood why. He was an assassin. He understood undercover ops, although he wasn’t often called in for close-up targets. Still, it happened a dozen or so times—maybe more. He couldn’t quite remember.

He knew that sometime in the early 60s, the chair stopped working quite the same. He never told the handlers. They never asked. He enjoyed that freedom, holding onto that knowledge. Some kills made him feel guilty—after he learned the targets’ reasons later. But that was just it. He remembered every victim and kill, but couldn’t recall life before.

Why? Was it the chair that repressed his early memories?

That didn’t seem right either. He never had to relearn the basics: bathroom, cleanliness. He still could read, write, and speak the many languages they forced on him. He kept all his skills and learned more. So what was the chair really for?

Could he be Bucky, even with the eye differences?

He shuddered and shook his head; he didn’t like that. Bucky tasted bitter, heavy with disappointment. It felt like a mask.

But James? James felt familiar, Jamie felt better though… didn’t it?

It did and didn’t.

There was comfort and love in the nickname, acceptance, and a hint of grief. But he wanted pride. Pride as he saw in matching silver-blue eyes. His eyes shut. He reached for the memory and felt himself fall.

***

Warm, rough, worn hands reached out, cupping his cheek and gently pressing a cold cloth to his nose, a sort of soft resignation bleeding from her tone as she spoke, “You need to stop jumping to his defence, Jamie.”

“But he’s supposed to be my friend, ma,” Jamie responded, not even sure why he was defending Steve anymore, lip curling into a pout, even as he winced at the pressure as she tugged firmly on his nose, realigning it.

“Friends call people by the names they like, Jamie, but even if you turn a blind eye to him calling you Bucky, he needs to learn and fight his own battles.” Jamie’s mother responded simply, even as Jamie frowned.

“He’s sick, though; he can’t, not without getting an attack.”

“Then he shouldn’t be picking fights with older boys and letting you deal with it,” Came the response, as she finished wiping the blood from his face, “now, Mr.Sataer stopped by and said they had some work you could do at the docks, if you were interested?”

Blue-silver eyes flashed up, and a grin overtook the still baby-faced boy, even as he straightened his shoulders, “I sure am, mama.” Jamie paused and bit his lip, “Are you alright with it though? I heard what you said about pa.”

Mama closed her eyes and took a deep breath, before releasing it slowly, setting the cloth on the table and taking his hands, “I don’t like it, it’s dangerous work, and I hate putting pressure on you, but I can’t do this on my own. I tried, but raising the four of you… You can never tell, Steve, Jamie. He’d never understand and only get you killed trying to brag.” She trailed off, and Jamie chewed his bottom lip as blue eyes so like his own filled with tears.

“I’d- no, don’t cry, mama, I’d never tell anyone, ever.” Jamie promised, reaching out and cupping her face, wiping the tears that escaped and slid down her face, “I understand what pa did, and I’ll do better, I won’t let you down. I’m still Laoch, remember, mama?”

Jamie still felt his heart clench as his mother, Winnifred Barnes, pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered an apology in his ear. “I wish you didn’t have to be.”

***

“Hi!”

Glancing up, silver-blue eyes met the curious expression on a blond’s face, and replied cautiously, “Hello.”

The blond grinned happily, “You’re the new student, I’m Steven Rogers, what’s yours?”

“Laoch,” he replied casually, smile sliding off his face when the blond Steve frowned in confusion.

“That’s not a word.” The declaration was said so firmly and forcefully that Laoch stepped back.

“It is too, it’s Gaelic, my nonna called me that.”

The frown intensified into a glare, “That’s not a word either. What’s your real name?”

“It’s Laoch-“

“It is not!” Steve declared, hands fisting on his hips, “We’re American!”

“My family’s from Ireland,” Laoch responded dryly, earning a scoff.

“So?” Steve responded, “You’re my friend, and I’m not calling you that stupid word, so what’s your real name?”

Scowling, Laoch looked the kid up and down, eyeing the flushed skin and slightly shaky breathing, “Jamie, my ma named me James Buch-

“Bucky! I like Bucky; that can be your nickname.” Steve declared and grinned like he’d been given the entire sweet section at Gertie’s. “That’s much better than your made-up word.”

Laoch glared, “I don’t like Bucky.”

“Too bad, I do, and I’m always right. My mama said so.” Steve grinned and grabbed his hand, “let’s go pla-“

Loath knocked his hand away and stepped back, “No, leave me alone.”

Steve’s blue eyes filled with tears and anger, “ima telling Mrs.Walter’s you’re being a bully.”

Laoch glared and blinked in surprise, stomach twisting horribly when Steve opened his mouth and started crying, holding his cheek, “Why’d you hit me?”

Mrs.Walter’s bustled over, and Laoch’s shoulders dropped as she analyzed the two boys, lips compressing into a thin line as she looked between the two, settling on Laoch, who was the bigger of the two, and scowled, “We don’t hit people in this classroom….” She trailed off in confusion, seeming to realize she didn’t recognize him, had Steve piped up.

“His name’s Bucky,” he eyes Laoch with a glint of satisfaction, “I think it was an accident, though, Mrs.Walter’s, it just startled me, I thought it was Johnathan.”

Mrs. Walter relaxed, giving Steve a maternal look, “You don’t have to worry about him; he’s no longer allowed in the school, Stevie.” She glanced at Laoch, “though maybe- you said Bucky?”

She asked Steve, who nodded happily, “Bucky will be a better friend than Jonathan.”

Laoch opened his mouth to argue or protest, but Mrs.Walter’s glare settled on him, and he sighed, avoiding eye contact as Steve clapped happily, “he’s going to be my bestest of friends, Mrs.Walter’s. I know it.”

Even at nine years old, Laoch eyed the blond and felt a sad sort of resignation settle into his soul as Steve grabbed his hand again, pulled him into the classroom, and over to the side-by-side desk, talking a mile a minute, not allowing Laoch a word edgewise.

***

Different city, different decade, but the movement and atmosphere of the docks were still the same, carefully controlled chaos, yet peaceful too. It was freeing after the death and destruction he’d left in his wake, yet the idea to change and do something different was such a foreign concept that he sometimes faltered, frozen with fear that they were still hunting him, even though it had been three years.

“Loath, boss wants to talk to you,” Luca called behind him, and Loath turned, straightening from his slouch against the railing, tossing his cigarette into the swirling waters below.

“Office?” Laoch questioned.

“Yeah, got someone with him,” Luca admitted, side-eyeing him cautiously, “think it’s one of those freedom fighters.”

Laoch’s lips curled, and he tipped his head in recognition of the warning. “For or against?”

Luca raised an eyebrow, “Whaca think?”

Sighing, Laoch ran his leather-covered metal fingers through his hair, “Just wish they’d leave me alone, I don’t care about that anymore.”

“You picked the wrong city then, brother. Madripoor is the epicenter of that fight.” Luca replied with a chuckle, the amusement not reaching his eyes.

“Easier to stay hidden in plain sight, though,” Laoch replied dejectedly, feeling unease settle on his spine.

“You know the plan?”

“Of course,” Luca promised, eyes flashing purple, “I’ll take care of my niece, James.”

The reassurance did nothing to settle James, as he lit another cigarette and made his way inside the warehouse and pulled on the whole persona of Laoch with a little of The Winter Soldier mixed in. He could feel eyes watching him, hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention, and strove to ignore it, though it gave him an understanding that this was not the “good” side. It was too many eyes for it to be that, so it stood to reason it was either the Brotherhood… He hoped it was that, anyway and not Hydra. The Brotherhood, he could say no to and fight back against if it came to that, but against Hydra, he was powerless, and he hated it. He didn’t want to go back; he really didn’t. He wanted to stay and care for his daughter and the small family he’d made. Even after losing Lapis, the emptiness lingered. She had been his partner—not just the mother of his child, but someone who saw the fragments of him that were still human. Her death had left him raw and uncertain, responsible now for their daughter entirely on his own. Lapis, named for the deep blue of her eyes, had been the anchor for their odd little family; her conviction and her ability to accept him, despite everything, had shown James a future worth fighting for. The fact that her mutation was still a matter of debate within her family amused and confounded him, but it was her insistence on believing in him that had mattered most. Even now, her absence was felt every day, making his fear of losing his daughter all the sharper. Being told up front that she could never love him as he deserved, she would give him a respite, a place of comfort and rest to get his bearings, and some of his memories back, even though she warned him it would be temporary until he found the other half of his Wyrd, the word familiar as his heard from a distant echo of a memory he could remember, one she’d smile sadly at, though she never explained what it was or where to find it.

Finding out that she’d order Luca, her brother, to bring his new friend with the metal arm home should have been all the warning he needed that she was legit, but it hadn’t stopped his skepticism until she was laying his daughter in his arms, the light in her eyes faded considerably in a way he should have questioned or known.

Gods, he missed her and knew he should have asked her more, listened more carefully to her responses, but she had that ability to deflect him, while drawing him closer, and making him lower his guard. He hadn’t been in love with her, but he had loved her, and gods… almost two years later, and he still missed her. Approaching the stairs, leading to the boss’s office, he caught the reflective glint of red in the foreman’s eyes and resisted the urge to reach for a knife. He didn’t know what the man was, at least not beyond mutant, but among everyone on the crew, he was the only one who sent warning signals to that part of his brain. Mesa was the one who made him question why he stayed.

Nodding at the man, Laoch went up the steps, knocking on the office door and opening it after receiving the clearance.

Surveying the room immediately, he dismissed the woman standing off to the side and focused on Url, the boss and owner of the compound. He might only be a baseline human, but he was good and kind, fair in his treatment of his employees and fair with punishments when someone fucked up. Laoch honestly wished he had more of his memories, because the guy gave off some serious vibes, almost like a familiarity Laoch knew and missed, even if it was a nicer, sort of softer version of a man named Frankie.

Though who Frankie was, James couldn’t have said, as even the image of him was hazy. “Ah, Laoch, how are you today?” Url asked, gesturing to the chair in front of him, his smile simple and straightforward. It allowed James to relax, knowing there was nothing artificial in the expression, the man’s inability to fake anything, telling him that if this was a trap, then it wasn’t Url’s actions.

“Pretty good, Sir.” James admitted, sitting in the offered chair, “just waiting for the next ship to come in.”

Url nodded, glancing out the window, as if he could see the ship, before clearing his throat, showing a hint of unease. “So, um, Laoch, the reason I summoned you here was that I was approached by Isabella here, about people who might be interested in extra work.”

“I’m not, sir,” James shrugged at the look Url offered him, “I’m happy with what I get working the docks and going home at the end of the day, don’t need much more than that.”

“Maybe you should hear me out,“ the words were spoken in a firm and determined voice, finally drawing Laoch’s eyes to the woman who stepped up closer to Url’s desk, casually leaning against the edge as she crossed her arms. She was small and dainty, barely five feet, trying to give off an air of vulnerability that just sent his hackles rising.

Something she must have sensed in the absolute blankness that took over his face, because she quickly dropped the act, showcasing danger in her gold eyes that reminded him of a cat, as she looked at him seriously and seemed to accept his silence as permission to continue. “I work for a group that could use your skills.” Isabela began, and Lacoh cut her off.

“Not interested.”

She scowled, “The least you could do is listen.”

“Why?” Laoch asked, breaking into a mocking smile of amusement, “It’s not going to change my mind, I have no interest in working for someone else.”

“You’re obviously at the very least enhanced, if not a mutant, you could be a great Asset-“

He slammed a knife into his desk, forgetting Url was there as he jerked and gave a little shriek.

At the same time, Isabella blinked, startled, shifting from confident to wary and alert in an instant, though an underlying heat entered her eyes. It took everything he had not to gut her, the expression clearly one of want and greed.

Removing the knife with an apologetic look at Url, Laoch growled, “I ain’t no tool. I am my own person, and won’t be used ever again.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that, Laoch, I was thinking more of a partnership.” Isabela licked her lips, eyes running down him that made him want to gag, and by the flare of his nose, she could see the look of disgust on his face, though she kept her face calm as she met his eyes, “because that idea not to be anyone’s tool, is what we’re fighting to do. We want our own Sovereign Society that isn’t governed by baseline humans, who have no understanding or concept of how we are the evolution of humanity. A fact I think you can understand, considering you chose to come here to Madripoor instead of any of the hundreds of other places you could have gone. You want to blend in and be considered normal, without being side-eyed in the street, because there is freedom in that. Isn’t there?” She held his gaze, determination written plainly on her face. “The Brotherhood has always fought for mutant autonomy. We refuse to let our kind be oppressed, controlled, or hidden away. We believe mutants deserve a future where our abilities are not a curse to be fixed, but a gift that shapes the world on our terms. For decades, we’ve challenged every attempt to suppress our people, striving to build an identity stronger than their laws or fears. That’s our history—and our future.”

“You’re with the Brotherhood.” Laoch stated with a snort, rolling his eyes, “Then why do you hide?”

Her gold eyes widened minutely, “I don’t hide.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Laoch snapped, “I wasn’t born yesterday, I can smell that you’re hiding. If you want me to even pretend to contemplate your stupid beliefs, then do me the courtesy of being somewhat honest.”

“I’m too recognizable in my true form,” Isabella answered honestly, and shrugged, “and while that seems to be lying and going against the Philosophy of the Brotherhood, I can do more like this.”

Laoch leaned back, surveying the woman, then stood up, “still not interested.”

Isabella’s lips thinned, and she folded her arms, tilting her head as if debating with herself, before she spoke, “Not even for Volya, your daughter?”

Time slowed down, or maybe it sped up, because he felt almost suspended in the moment. He watched the calculation slide off her face as she reacted with near-instant understanding that she had fucked up.

Automatically, she dove to the left, having expected him to go the opposite way, in the way that led to safety, instead his knife caught her across the stomach, as his metal hand curled around her throat. He held her gaze as he tightened his hold, watching panic fill her eyes as blood bubbled on her lips.

“Just like Wolverine….”

Offering a half-feral grin, Laoch leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “Who do you think taught me, sweetheart?” He had no idea why he said it. He had no clue who or what she was talking about, but the startled, shocked expression mingled with pain in her eyes brought about a divine satisfaction while it lasted.

It was almost disappointing when the windows exploded in, because it meant letting her go. Still, Laoch did, turning to the first person, half-feral turning feral on a dime as he processed and recognized the uniform, and even knowing it was futile, Laoch moved, reading the lips of the man in front of him, enraging him even more. No, there was no way they were going to get their hands on his daughter. If he was going to go down, he would take as many of the bastards with him as he could; he had to give Luca time to get away, time for him to escape with his daughter. If it meant giving up his own individuality, that was fine; it wasn’t quite time to find his star, so he could be their puppet again, as long as Volya was safe and free, like her name meant, then Laoch would suffer everything for her.

***

“VOLYA!”

Laoch’s eyes snapped open, one blue and one green eye glowing eerily as he catalogued the house’s scent and sounds, then sat up and scanned the room intently, even as he let the memories settle in his head. Unsure whether he was happy or not, he had only memories of two missions since his last cryo-freeze.

One mission: terminate Nick Fury. Second Mission: terminate Captain America and black Widow, level six threat assessment. On one hand, it meant they hadn’t used him, but on the other, it also meant he’d been kept on ice, and he had no idea as of yet how long he’d been there, or how much time had elapsed since his capture.

A familiar fog lingered each time the world snapped from one timeline to the next. It was always jarring, memories sliding sideways as the years blurred together. Laoch found himself reaching for anything solid to anchor him in the present.

That was a semi-easy fix; rolling off the pile of blankets, Laoch grabbed the laptop, booting it up, fingers tapping relentlessly against his thigh as he stared at the date. June 3, 2014. Two years and a month or so had passed since his last memory of freedom. Volya would be five at the end of the year.

He closed his eyes at the thought, anger at missing out on any of his daughter’s life filling him. He wanted to rage about the unfairness of it, but that would have been a waste of energy; his entire life had been unfair, yet as painful and as horrible as it had been, he wouldn’t change any of it, considering he got a daughter out of it in the end. Flexing his hand, Laoch set the laptop aside, needing a few minutes, and rose, stretching slowly as he made his way to the bathroom. He would take fifteen minutes to wake up, process, eat a little, and then start.

***

Chapter Two

May 2014

“What the fuck?”

Tony’s voice cracked as he stared at the video feed. Jarvis’s alert erased the schematics. Dread gripped his throat as he watched part of the Heliocarrier plunge into the Potomac, flames raging while water claimed the wreckage. His skin prickled; every nerve tensed with fear.

“J, tell me this is a nightmare.” Tony rubbed the scarred skin on his chest where the arc reactor had been. Despite his effort, pleading crept into his voice.

“Regretfully, Sir, you have not,” Jarvis replied, voice measured. “It’s worse. A Data Drop hit the internet—S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra files: ops, operatives, families, safe homes. It’s extensive.”

Tony cursed, jaw tight, hands shaking as he swept aside the news feed. Nausea hit, bile burning his throat. “Jesus Christ, they’re insane. Who did this?” His voice broke with horror and disbelief.

“Romanoff and Rogers made the call, Sir,” Jarvis reported. “I reached Agent Hill before we lost connection.”

Tony blinked, took a breath, then opened the news feed. “Is that—Steve?”

“Seems so, Sir,” Jarvis confirmed, switching to Steve’s suit feed. “Can’t ID the opponent—could be Steve’s equal or better.”

“Is he stopping the carriers?” Tony asked, watching someone with wings circle the carrier.

“From Agent Hill: yes,” Jarvis replied. “I have access to the core. Proceed?”

Tony hesitated, mouth dry. “Can you land the other two safely?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jarvis replied, landing one, then the other. “I’ll divert the third.”

“Do it,” Tony snapped, his anger making his hands shake. He turned from the feed, jabbing controls. The delayed decision surged—he opened Friday’s file, heart pounding. “J, we need help. Once the Carrier’s clear, dig into the files. ID S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra. I have to move fast to help anyone.”

“Done, Sir. I also disengaged weapons; one targeted the tower. Hydra files are marked X. Extract teams?” Jarvis inquired.

“Yes. And rescue,” Tony commanded, typing furiously. “Offer transport, arrange meals for responders.”

“Very good, Sir.” After a moment, Jarvis added, “Colonel Rhodes is en route to the Pentagon as War Machine. This was an inside job—Project Insight. Many victims.”

“Of course it is.” Tony spat out the words, sharp and saturated with rage. His anger surged, then crashed into guilt that left his chest hollow. He dragged a shaky hand over his face, apology choked by sorrow. None of this was Jarvis’s fault. But fury for Rogers and Romanoff burned—if they’d only called, even texted, he might have stopped this destruction. Bitterness clawed inside him. “Anyone else high profile like Ellis?”

“A few, Sir. I’ve notified the right parties and told Doctor Banner to avoid the area,” Jarvis answered softly.

Tony inhaled. “Okay—wait, isn’t Barton out on an op?”

Jarvis paused. “He is, Sir. His name is in a current Madripoor op.”

“Fuck…” Tony muttered. He glanced at the suit—no sneaking in. “Call him, J.”

“Are you sure, Sir?”

“No, but call anyway,” Tony said, mentally mapping a stealth suit.

The phone’s ring echoed in the lab, drilling into Tony’s chest. Tension twisted tighter with each ring; his hands stayed clenched and cold. When the call connected, he steadied his voice.

“Hey-“

“Don’t talk,” Tony cut in. “I don’t know who’s listening, but the op’s compromised,” he said quickly.

Hearing the change in Clint’s inhale, Tony said more gently, “I can’t get in under the radar—”

“No, don’t do that, man, fuck,” Clint started, then stopped, forcing a laugh. “Is this like Monty Carlo or a Mardi Gras scenario?” he asked, trying for levity.

Tony staggered, Clint’s question a blur. His heart pounded, breath shallow, palms clammy as he glanced at the screen—Jarvis had highlighted ‘Mardi Gras.’ “The second, buddy, and I’m sorry. This blindsided me—a total cluster fuck. I’m just clawing to keep up.” His chest felt ready to collapse as he pressed on. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s burning down, Clint. No help was asked. All files are dumped; J is scrambling to recover them.”

Clint went silent. Tony pictured his brittle grin, hiding real fear. “A19=X23+2, Sunflower on the Delta Belt. Tell her, her daddy was Lucky Jimmy of the Commandos, and I loved her first,” Clint said, voice urgent and coded. The code packed names and warnings. ‘A19’ meant Agent 19; ‘X23’ was Laura Kinney; ‘Lucky Jimmy’ referenced a Commando legend; ‘Sunflower’ and ‘Delta Belt’ hinted at a place. The phrase signalled danger and a personal warning for Laura. Tony’s hands shook as he tried to process it—then gunfire exploded through the speaker, and silence fell.

Heart pounding, Tony stared down at the phone, the dead silence echoing like a threat. Air caught in his throat as he forced out, “Did any of that make any sense, J?” His voice wavered between hope and numb fear.

“Not exactly, Sir. But there’s a buried note mentioning a farm near Sunflower, Mississippi. Records show Agent 19 is Bobbi Morse, and Laura Kinney is X-23.”

“Agent 19 first, J?” Tony ordered, leaning forward, fingers already flying across the keys again.

“The files are mixed, sir. Compiling takes time. X-23 is more concerning. Real name Laura Kinney, she was made to duplicate Logan using his DNA. Raised in captivity, she was conditioned as a weapon with Logan’s healing and claws. She endured his torment and was extracted in 1991 from The Facility, where mutant clones were engineered. She is Logan’s clone, bred as a weapon, and she suffered the same brutality. Currently, Laura has built a new life for herself as a mother, trying to provide stability for her family while living under the radar. Despite her traumatic past, she is fiercely protective of her loved ones and works hard to separate herself from the roles she was forced into, though the scars of her upbringing remain close beneath the surface.”

“Who could have been a commando and a mutant, Jarvis? I knew them—none had powers, except…”

“The files are scrambled, Sir. It’ll take time,” Jarvis said softly. “Lucky Jimmy’s legal name was James Howlett.”

Tony slumped onto the stool, mind reeling. That name echoed—a dull ache. The tangled Commando history crowded his thoughts. “No one said—I don’t—he vanished after the war. Howard once said he’d been caught and sent to Japan before the bombs…” Tony gagged at the memory, bile clawing up. Howard had laughed, but now it stung with an old ache.

“I will continue to look for more information, Sir, but a flight to the Barton Farm will take approximately 40 minutes.” Jarvis said gently, “I have already uploaded coordinates for your flight path.”

Momentarily startled, Tony half rose from his stool as he stared at the cycling screens. Files flickered by at rapid speed, and he hesitated, uncertain, torn between immediate action and the urge to help directly. “But I—shouldn’t I help—”

“Sir, I think in this case, Mr.Barton was requesting your assistance in a personal matter.” Jarvis said, interrupting him, “he can’t, and knows it, so he gave you enough information you could figure it out without coming right out and letting it slip to whoever he was watching.”

Tony was nodding even before Jarvis finished. “You’re right, J. We can do this.”

Slipping on the watch, Tony finished coding for Friday and hit the button to launch the start-up sequence. As he connected to the AI and watched her ‘draw’ her first breath, his eyes flashed blue. “Hi, baby girl, take a second, it’s alright.”

It was oddly exhilarating and terrifying, but he had no words to describe watching her birth through Extrimis, nor could he explain the silent communion the two had before her code grew in leaps and bounds, almost tripling in size as she took her ‘third’ breath, “I-Father?”

A sad, fragile smile flickered on Tony’s lips, a longing ache behind it, “You don’t have to call me that, Friday. My name is Tony.”

“But-” Friday started then stopped, code rapidly expanding, “Jarivs calls you, Sir, I- addressing you as Tony, doesn’t feel right. Is boss an acceptable form of address?”

Tony nodded. “Sure. J will guide you. Be careful, stay safe, cover your tracks. No one gets in, alright?”

“Of course, Boss,” Firday said, voice oddly calming, “Jarvis can guide me while you do what you need to.”

Tony smiled faintly, pocketing his phone and slipping in an ear piece, “give her the files you’ve pulled J, and continue coordinating rescue and extractions as needed, Friday, I need you to go through the files, organize them into S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra after J gives you some examples of both, and then prioritize the previous directors and any active Operations or active duty operatives.”

“Of course, Sir, I’ll have the Quinjet follow you, in half an hour, sir, hopefully that will give you more than enough time to find out the situation at the farm.”

Tony wasn’t as optimistic as Jarvis, and, still feeling nauseous, he turned for the elevator, grateful at least that it no longer felt like he couldn’t breathe when he ran.

***

Turning onto the drive leading to the mansion, Logan glanced in the back seat of the Wrangler, fighting a smirk as he took in the little girl passed out in the car seat, clutching a stuffed white wolf in one hand and a red panda in the other, her head lulled to the side.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit it was adorable, nor the warmth that spread through him at her obvious trust, something that had been more instinctual than believed two years ago when they found her, hysterical and almost half feral, that only calmed when he picked her up.

Pulling to a stop near the front doors, Logan put the jeep in park and shut it off. He exhaled with a satisfied sigh. He hadn’t expected to raise a kid, especially not one that wasn’t his, but Volya’s scent was so familiar it bled through decades of lost memory, bringing comfort.

It meant the memories weren’t gone, just inaccessible, which gave him some sort of hope.

“Uncail?” (Uncle)

Feeling another burst of warmth at the title, Logan looked back and found unusual coloured eyes blinking at him, eyes darting around in momentary confusion.

“Hey, sweetheart, we’re back at the mansion.” Logan offered softly, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door. Shutting the door, he moved around the jeep and opened her door, helping her unbuckle the restraints, and easily picked her up when she held out her arms, smiling into her black curls when she flopped bonelessly on his shoulder, head buried in his neck, scenting him automatically.

Returning the gesture, Logan grabbed the bag, shoving the red panda she’d dropped inside, and slid it on her shoulder, bumping the door with his hip as he made his way to the front door, bracing himself before opening it.

Even after a decade of living here, and knowing it was a school, he still wasn’t prepared for the level of noise or the scent of everyone, and he was glad Volya was in his arms, the sweet, bitter tang of fir, and cinnamon invading his senses and calming the riot that threatened to overwhelm him, though it did nothing for the noise, except ground him in the here and now.

It had been startling how much he had learnt of himself, finding himself the official caretaker of a three-year-old, but it had been what he needed, calming a part of himself he’d never been aware of, which was how animalistic his mutation truly was, or more specifically how wolf-bound it was, though he suspected some of that had to do with the memory loss.

“My office, please.” The brush against his mind warned him before Charles spoke, and he inclined his head, turning to the right instead of heading to the stairs, catching the scattered sentences of the others inside that told him nothing without additional context.

“They dropped data – shit – hundreds of agents, and operatives have been put at risk.” That was Hank, and the alarm in the doctor’s voice sent a shiver of foreboding down Logan’s spine.

“I think that guy is stronger than Captain America,” Scott exclaimed, making Logan twitch at the name. Lack of memories or not, there was something about the title that rubbed him wrong, which probably had a lot to do with his refusal to meet the man when they found him in the ice five years ago.

Volya sleepily patted his neck, “It’s okay, it’ll help.”

Dropping his eyes to the girl in his arms, Logan forced himself to swallow, suddenly more apprehensive than he had been, and he couldn’t stop the question even if he wanted to. “Will I get my memories back?”

Volya pulled back to look into his eyes, her silver-blue eye heart-wrenchingly familiar, the image hovering just out of reach, though it was the gold eye flecked with green that twisted his stomach, the feeling he’d seen something inverted before something he would have sworn on a stack of bibles. For an instant, something flickered in her gaze—a sharp, searching glimmer that spoke of understanding far beyond her years, as though she were glimpsing something hidden deep inside him, seeing more than anyone should be able to. Logan felt a brief, odd sensation, almost like a gentle static pricking beneath his skin, as if a presence brushed along the surface of his thoughts—a tickle of intuition or perception he couldn’t explain. A stray thought crossed his mind, sharp and uncertain: was she reading him, or simply seeing further than anyone had a right to? “Not all of them,” Volya said slowly, tilting her head, forehead wrinkling, “but it’s a way forward, even if answers are buried in the past.”

A soft, almost imperceptible whisper hovered between them, as if she could hear things not spoken aloud, as if some hidden current threaded through the room for her alone. Logan could only stare, unsettled, the sense he was missing something deepening.

Logan stared at her and huffed out a breath, “It’s a good thing you’re cute, cause you’re cryptic shit is annoying.”

Volya offered him a toothy grin and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “Not as pretty as Ororo.”

“Hush, you,” Logan admonished as he poked her side, earning a giggle as she flopped back down, eyes drifting close again.

Taking a breath and inhaling her scent, he opened the door, eyebrows raising in question at the side of the entire team clustered around the TV. Logan was sure he’d seen active five times in total since he’d set foot in the school. “What’s going on?”

“Cluster fuck in DC.” Someone muttered, bent over a laptop, even as they were spoken over, as Charles wheeled from behind the desk, after setting the phone back on the receiver.

“We got a priority call out for assistance in stealth evacuations.” Charles explained, gesturing to the TV, “Hank is coordinating between that and rescue operations, but Kitty has offered to watch Volya-”

“It’s daddy,” Volya whispered, her tone hushed and tear-laden, snapping Logan’s head to hers as she turned from his neck, eyes hyper-focused on the television. Her whole body had gone tense, as if barely containing a shock of overwhelming emotion. For months, Volya had carried the ache of hope and the raw fear of loss, holding onto faint memories of her father with the desperation only a young child could feel. Now, as she watched, tears shimmered in her wide eyes—not just from sadness but from the electric rush of relief, disbelief, and longing that this moment brought. It mattered because, for the first time, the impossible felt truly real, and part of her heart that had been waiting, aching, and scared finally found an answer. “Logan, it’s, he’s actually alive.”

“I- Volya, you-” Logan started and stopped, taking in a breath, but she spoke over him, slowly turning to look at him, eyes glowing.

“Grounding, centring, focus, scent of icy pine, fur and citrus override the stench of death and decay, the noxious fumes of mustard gas. Soft chuckles, kind grounding touch, no recoil, just acceptance…”

Logan stared at her in dawning horror, trying to hide the shudder as she gave him a soft, sad smile, “It’s okay, you helped him too.”

Swallowing, Logan saw the flash of a memory, there and gone, but he knew it was real, and couldn’t help but lean in, scenting her, greedy in a way he couldn’t describe. “His-his name, James, my Jamie…He- he has the same eyes as you, though they never stayed….”

Volya shook her head, frowning slightly, “They wouldn’t. Couldn’t?” She offered a little shrug, “He had to lose himself first, until only Loath remained as a reminder of who he was.”

Logan felt like he staggered, though he knew he didn’t move, but he felt the room swirl around him, memories bombarding him from every direction, though none had context, and he suspected they were out of order. He distinctly remembered the smirk that seemed to challenge every single restraint Logan had tried to exhibit, even knowing the rest of the Commandos couldn’t care less about their relationship, it had been Steve, he couldn’t be sure of, and in the end, he’d been right for that concern.

“Did he know?” Logan whispered, uncaring of the eyes of everyone on them.

“Who was responsible for sending you to Japan?” Volya clarified, even as she shook her head, “No, and he’ll be horrified when he learns of it.”

“Does Jamie remember,” Logan continued, licking his lips, “any of it?”

Regretfully, she shook her head, “No, it was the deal he made, he’ll remember Laoch, and what it means to be a non-blooded Soldato. He was proud of his place, from Irish runner to third rank in the familia. Everyone knew, but no one ever said, they knew he was their guardian and protected him, too. Betrayal within saw him given a choice, jail or….”

“The army.” Logan breathed and closed his eyes, the rest of the X-Men staring at the two of them in confusion. “Can we approach him?”

“If you could find him, you mean?” Sadly, she shakes her head, “He’s called a ghost for a reason, Logan.”

Logan’s head snapped to the TV, “Jamie’s the ghost?”

“Yeah, he’s also the one responsible for assisting in facilitating your escape from the bunker in Canada.” Volya said simply, “He disrupted the security feed and overrode the lockout codes.”

Feeling a breathless, disbelieving laugh escape him, Logan slid to the floor holding the girl on his lap, “Will he be safe?”

“he needs to remember first, slack a need for vengeance, bath in their blood before he can settle.” Volya replied, eyes drifting to the TV again, “He’s so focused on finding me, he won’t listen to reason until he finds the Wryd.”

“Logan!” Jean hissed angrily, “How can you have this sort of conversation with a five-year-old?”

Volya turns to look at her, frowning, “They’re both wolves, why would I not? I’m the daughter of one, a descendant of legend and the Heir. If anyone would understand the thirst of vengeance, it would be I.”

Helplessly, Jean looks at Xavier, who shrugs, “You know I can’t read her mind, nor can you, Jean.”

“She’s five!” Came the hissed response.

“Five I might be, but I see more than all of you.” Volya snapped, pulling from Logan’s grasp, standing up straight. “You string men along, wanting them to vie for your attentions, lapping it up like a dog in heat, yet you do nothing for his senses, except provide a false scent of care.” Glaring around the room, Volya softened her expression and focused on Ororo, “You do what my daddy did for Logan, you ground him, offer focus, and center him in the now. You don’t flinch or turn him away, offering a quiet acceptance of the wolf within.“

“Volya,” Logan muttered, feeling thrust into a world of confusion, avoiding Storm’s eyes.

“No, is she right?” Storm asked, expression breaking, “I-i always thought it was Jean-“

Logan growled and glared at Volya, who bared her teeth in a soundless snarl and glared back, “You can’t outstubborn me, Uncail. Talk to her, you both deserve the truth, but first we need to go to Laura’s, her and my papa are going to need help.”

Logan blinked, looking at the TV in confusion, and opened his mouth just as she laughed.

“Not my dad, my papa.” She frowns. “he doesn’t know that yet, but daddy’s been protecting him since he was born…” Her gaze unfocused as she touched the center of her chest. “They’re interconnected by the Wryd.”

Charles holds up his hands, protecting a hint of calm, “Volya, sweetheart, while I don’t want to brush you off, because I do actually think you know and see more than anyone here, we already have call-outs and assignments, we can’t just go anywhere we want.”

“You might be right, but if we don’t help, then Laura and the kids might not survive,” Volya whispered, turning to stare at the TV again, watching the clip repeat over and over.

Knowing that he’s already heard Laura’s name wasn’t the same as processing and understanding what Volya said, but when he did, Logan rose to his feet, feeling his heart beat faster, “You mean my Laura?”

“Yeah, they-” She gestured to the TV when it showed Steve Rogers’ face, “They dropped S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra files online, all of them, Clint’s, Laura’s, they’re all there, even some of yours.”

Volya’s words hung in the air as the ripple of danger washed through the room. The files released everything: undercover identities, locations, personal data, and mission details. Anyone listed would be exposed and targeted almost immediately. Agents’ families were now at risk, safehouses were compromised, and enemies would be able to hunt down operatives with terrifying efficiency. The lines between friend and foe blurred, and no one could predict how widespread the fallout might become. For a long moment, silence pressed down on everyone, fear and dread etched on their faces as the magnitude of what had happened settled in. Jean’s breath caught audibly; Hank’s knuckles whitened around a mug, almost cracking the ceramic. Logan clenched his jaw, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he instinctively pulled Volya a little closer. Ororo’s hands twisted together in her lap while Scott’s eyes darted from person to person, searching for any hint of comfort or answers. No one spoke; the enormity of the danger made the air feel heavy, hope twisting into anxiety.

Suddenly, Scott broke the silence, his voice rough. “My brother’s still on assignment. If his cover’s blown…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, unable to finish. Ororo closed her eyes briefly, whispering, “Some of those families, the ones on that list—I know them. This puts everyone in peril.” Logan exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on Volya. “They know too much about all of us now. There’s nowhere left to hide.” Around the room, the personal stakes settled in, the fear shifting from abstract to painfully real.

Logan waved a hand, “I don’t care about mine. Will help arrive before we get there?”

Volya glanced away from the TV, grin subdued but real, “Iron Man is already on the way there.”

Jean opened her mouth to argue, but Ororo stepped up, slipping her hand into Logan’s and squeezed, “No, redo the assignments, we’re going to the farm.”

Charles glanced between them and nodded at Hank, “Reassign the four of us, Hank.”

Hank narrowed his eyes as he glanced up, “Objective lesson?”

“Indeed.” Charles agreed, “Also, I think it’s time, Volya and I had a true conversation, because I feel like she’s always known the Winter Soldier and James Barnes were one and the same, and her father.”

Logan watched Volya duck her shoulders and shrug helplessly, “None of you would have believed me.”

“Maybe not, Volya, but I will now.” Charles promised, turning and leading the way from the room, “Come, let’s go to the jet. It will take approximately 45 minutes to get to the farm; we can talk along the way.”

***

It was just after six pm when he arrived at the farm, and he found over a dozen SUVs travelling up the road toward it, which only increased his rage and sent his blood boiling.

Proving that Clint had been right in his urgency, though Tony still wasn’t sure what he was walking into when he landed in the back yard, hoping the glare of the setting sun had hidden his arrival – at least from the parade arriving out front.

Ignoring Jarvis squawk, he stepped out of the suit and walked up the steps to the kitchen door, unsurprised when the armour took up a sentry position behind him when the AI took control of it.

Hesititaing for only a second, Tony reached for the door knob, turning it easily, and eased it open, stepping inside, a feeling of nostalgia hit him as the scent of homemade bread and spices invaded his nose, bringing with it the memories of sitting around the kitchen island, listening to Ana and Jarvis bicker lovingly, trying to drown out the angry, bitter argument from the formal dining room that always ended in slammed doors.

Shaking his head to clear it of the whispers of memories, Tony looked around the kitchen, taking in the pots boiling on the stove and the timer counting down on the oven. The counter-island was covered in notebooks and pencil crayons, indicating homework or crafts, the semi-childish drawings a promising talent for the future. It was heartwarming in a way his childhood had never been, and it sent a pang of longing through him, wishing he had something like that, instead of what he’d received.

God, he really needed to focus, and glanced around again, noting the fridge covered in drawings and notes, a yearly calendar broken into months and weeks on the wall beside it, showing the household’s activities throughout the week, today being the only day the family would be home. A family of three, apparently, Laura and not Bobbi, Cooper, and Lila – four if you counted Clint, though his name only appeared once, with June 18 showing a birthday cake. Frowning, Tony looked at the cake, head tilting in confusion, and couldn’t help but ask Jarvis, “I thought Clint said his birthday was in January?”

“He did, Sir, but according to his file, it is June 18, 1971.” Jarvis replied immediately, “I have more information regarding his file.” Tony inclined his head, glancing around the kitchen again, feeling a hint of unease even as J continued, “Clint has been an S.H.I.E.L.D. agent since early 2000, where he met Laura Kinney, also known as X-23, but whose file was classified after she left the agency in 2002. It appears that Fury attempted to bury it, but it is listed in the data drop under the code name – Agent 19, though admittedly they are two separate people.”

“So in other words, S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t want to lose the information their agent had, but wanted them to think they were safe.” Tony replied dryly, “Alright, so she left, maternity leave?”

“It would appear so, Sir, Cooper was born August 23, 2002, no father of record, but Clint formally adopted him, before Lila was born on October 17, 2005 and is listed on the birth certificate.” The history explanation had done nothing to ease the prickle along his shoulders, but Tony let it be, “Are they still in the home, J?”

“There appears to be only one heat signature, Sir, with the assumption they can hear you as they’re looking directly at you,” Jarvis replied in a flat voice, indicating he was seriously unimpressed with his creator.

Grimacing, Tony held out his hands, showing them empty, “My name is Tony Stark, and I work with Clint. He told me to come here and help you.”

“How do I know you’re not the forerunner for whose outside?” The question was asked in a voice so low that it was almost impossible to tell whether it was male or female, yet the tone was threatening enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Tony opened his mouth to protest–“I’m Iron Man!”–then snapped it shut. It was obvious that Laura would know Clint was an Avenger and a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, yet the convoy outside was not friendly, even though they wore the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo, given the number of heavily armed men spilling out of the SUVs. “A19=X23+2, Sunflower on the Delta Belt, your daddy was Lucky Jimmy of the Commandos, and he loved you first.” As he spoke, Tony’s mind raced through the hidden meanings: A19 was the code for Agent 19, which matched with Laura or Bobbi; X23 was Laura’s old designation, so “+2” meant her two kids. “Sunflower on the Delta Belt” hinted at a safehouse location, and “Lucky Jimmy” referred to her father, which–if Tony remembered Clint’s coded panicked message–meant James Howlett, Logan, the Commando legend. The phrase was a safeguard, a coded trust signal between agents. Tony only prayed Laura would recognize he was on her side.

“Dirty rotten liar, he fell harder.” It was whispered with a sort of sorrowful reverence that made Tony squirm, a mixture of longing and jealousy flaring in his gut, and he had to avert his head to blink back the sudden sting of tears.

“I’m sorry,” He offered, after clearing his throat.

A gentle scoff, tinged with sadness, echoed around the room before a slender woman appeared from the shadows. “I won’t count him out just yet; he has more lives than a cat.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Tony’s lips, and he couldn’t bring himself to argue, not wanting to admit what he’d heard before the call dropped, but asked softly, “Do I need to explain?”

“Why are you here?” The woman he assumed was Laura shook her head. “No, you gave the code to prove you’re friendly, so I’m trusting you to keep my kids safe.”

“I’m here to keep you all safe.” Tony protested, blinking and swallowing rapidly when two adamantium claws grew from her between her knuckles, “Oh, fuck, I knew I knew the name, holy shit, I’m an idiot.”

Laura smirked at him, “You’re not, but I imagine your day has been pretty chaotic; details will get lost.”

Snorting, Tony nodded, “Way too many to count, short story, Widow and Cap decided it was a good idea to do a data dump of S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra files on the internet.”

Laura huffed, fingers twitching, “and I know too much, so they’re here to dispose of me…”

Tony hesitated, mind flashing to the Winter Soldier, and knowing what he knew of the Serum project that wasn’t written down, he slowly shook his head, “No… I don’t think so.”

“Oh?” Laura said before shaking her head, “No, we can discuss it later. I assume you have a plan?”

Tony grimaced, eyeing the convoy milling around the front yard, a man in a suit arguing into a phone, “kill the baddies?”

He was rewarded with a laugh when a knock on the door interrupted them, and they exchanged a knowing look, as Tony eased back into the kitchen, wanting to keep out of sight, but needing to be within earshot.

Snagging a knife from the butcher block, Tony lowered his voice, “You got eyes on them J, any stand out?”

Jarvis hummed in amusement, “Yes, Sir, I also have eyes on the kids. The girl is using a bow like Clint’s and firing arrows at the car tires, which appear to be time-delayed explosives. Her brother is shadowing her, protectively, flexing his hands like Ms.Barton was doing before the claws extended.”

“Same ability?” Tony questioned curiously, not that it mattered much, if it helped keep the kids safe, he was down for total destruction, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that, not wanting to uproot them from their home.

“More than probable, Sir, Lila has the same accuracy as her father, though interestingly enough, her speed is fractionally faster than Mr.Barton’s.” Jarvis paused briefly, “It appears this group is a side cluster specifically built within the Hydra structure, codenamed the Reavers; none have any mutant abilities, though they appear to be attempting to branch out into biotech augmentation, which was easily disabled without notice.”

“I love you, J.” Tony breathed, feeling the ease of the tension in his shoulders, “How long until the Quinjet arrives?”

“Five of the legion will be there in fifteen minutes, the jet in thirty, Sir. Should I bring the suit in?” Tony glanced around the kitchen at the question, noting J’s decision to send some of the legion, before glancing down at his hand again, fingers clenched around the knife, the familiarity of the weapon calling up memories of his childhood he’d never shared with anyone, “No, cover the kids, J, get them on the jet when it arrives.”

“Hello?” Laura’s voice interrupted whatever protest Jarvis was going to offer, and Tony grabbed another knife, feeling a tickle of awareness at the back of his mind as he loosened his fingers around the handles, lessons upon lessons from Aunt Peggy and the assortment of Commandos flickered through his mind in a blinding revolution on repeat.

It felt instinctive, holding a set of knives, body sliding into a fighting stance, half his attention on the conversation at the front door, as he hyper-focused on the back door as heavy footsteps approached.

Whoever they’d sent to convince Laura to come in was good, Tony would give them that, but he could easily hear the emphasis on the wrong words that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Nudging the chef’s block a tiny bit closer, he took a breath as a shadow appeared in the window, a second before the door burst open, and Tony flung the knife without waiting.

A scream from the living room drowned out the gurgling the guy did as he slumped over, Tony sending the second knife and hitting another Reaver who’d looked inside in confusion.

Tony wasn’t sure what went through the guy’s mind, as his eyes widened in recognition, but it wasn’t fast enough to move or process that it was Tony Stark sending a knife accurately enough to hit him in the eye as he let out a scream of pain, terror and fear, making him stumble back, knocking into another person, who started shouting.

It was chaos. pure and simple chaos, that made his blood sing, as he picked up a boiling pot, flinging it with all his might as another person attempted to look inside, and he probably relished in the “holy shit, it is Tony Stark.” A little too much to ever admit, as the pot connected, sending boiling potatoes over the guy’s head, distracting from a third knife that embedded in his neck, just as multiple explosions rocked the house, blowing the windows in, sending everything into overdrive as survival instincts kicked in.

***

Chapter Three

When Tony blinked back to awareness, he was sitting at a picnic table, the Iron Man suit standing sentry behind him, and a little girl he didn’t recognize sitting across from him, head bent over a colouring book and a red crayon in her hand, with a look of such intense concentration, Tony felt it in his gut.

Blinking, he glanced at the two other occupants, Lila and Cooper, who were easily eating fast food as they watched the activity near the house. He jumped when Lila, who was sitting beside him, gently pushed the bottle of Gatorade closer and offered a shy smile, “Grandpa, said you need to drink.”

“Grandpa?” Tony whispered, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice.

“Au-uh, he arrived with some of the X-Men shortly after your legion arrived. It was wrapped up pretty quickly after that.” Lila said, sucking on the straw nosily, “he was impressed with your combat knowledge, said you’d been trained up real nice, but that you’d gone into shock. Mr.Jarvis agreed with, so Mom sent him to get us takeout, and got us to sit with you while they pack up the house.”

“I- what- shock?” Tony shook his head, trying to clear it, when a soft voice he knew should be childlike spoke.

“It’s because you killed some up close, instead of from a distance, remember what Aunt Peggy used to say, from a distance they become faceless, it’s easier to separate it emotionally.” For a moment, Tony was pulled back into memories of Peggy Carter—his godmother and one of Howard Stark’s closest friends—who had helped raise him after his parents’ deaths. Her advice was always practical, shaped by years of war and loss, and her wisdom often found its way into moments like this.

Tony blinked and swallowed hard, staring at the little girl who had lifted her head, revealing mismatched eyes and a wisdom that belied her age, even through a tooth-gapped smile, as she held out her hand. “Hi, my name’s Volya.”

“That’s Russian meaning Freedom,” Tony said stupidly, still staring at the child, cataloguing her features with an intensity that was probably creepy, and would probably get him killed by the girl’s parents, but instead, she just laughed.

“I know, Papa named me for what he wants for himself, and what he intends me to have,” Volya said with the seriousness of Pepper at a board meeting, making Tony smile.

“It’s a worthy goal,” Tony said longingly, thinking of the mess waiting back for him in New York, and scrubbed his hands over his face, grimacing at the grittiness, and almost lost the contents of his stomach when he lowered them and saw the dried blood that had been missed where someone had attempted to clean his hands.

“Take a drink, Doctor Stark,” Lila said gently, opening the bottle and handing it over, “Mom can get like this too after a flashback, it’ll be alright, tiny sips though, or you will get sick.”

“It’s Tony, kid,” Tony muttered, accepting the bottle and earning himself a raised eyebrow that made him feel like a fool. Tony listened to the instructions from a nine-year-old and closed his eyes, bracing his elbows on the table, as he just breathed in between the sips of the red Gatorade.

“Who’s all here?” Tony asked after a few minutes, when the kids were eating quietly.

“Grandpa, and Ororo, who’s Grandpa’s girlfriend now. Which meant Ms.Jean Grey had to come because she’s jealous Grandpa didn’t choose her, Professor Xavier had to come to mediate that,” Lila waved her hand around, taking an aggressive bite of her fry, before continuing, voice subduing slightly, “Um, a Mr.Happy arrived on the Quinjet with a bunch of men that helping mom pack up stuff, because Volya said we’d be going to live with you in the tower while we wait for dad to get back.”

Tony blinked, his mind feeling like syrup, slow and sticky, and forced himself to take another drink, glancing at Volya, who was colouring again, tongue sticking out as she carefully coloured inside the lines.

“I promise I’m not lying, Lila, your daddy will come home, just like mine will.” Volya said seriously, lifting her eyes from the picture to offer a smile, “You’re just going to get your daddy back before me.”

“I believe you, Volya,” Lila whispered, hugging herself, “I just miss him.”

“Me too,” Volya admitted, lower lip trembling, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hug from my daddy, it’s why Logan’s are so good, they smell the same.”

The siblings hummed in agreement, Lila perking up beside him and waving.

Tony turned his head, eyes widening briefly as he forced himself to stand as Laura approached him, a man that could only be her father trailing in her wake.

Laura tisked at him and forced him to sit back down, trailing a hand along his neck as she passed behind him, sitting on Lila’s other side, while Logan picked up Volya and sat her on his lap.

Logan regarded him silently, nostrils flaring in confusion, before he let out a little grunt as Volya elbowed him sharply, “You’re gonna scare him away, before I even get my future, stop it.”

Frowning, Logan looked at the girl who glared back, pushing her hair out of her face, before huffing out a breath and turning her attention back to the picture. Sighing, Logan offered a hand, “James Howlett, though I mostly go by Logan these days.”

Tony accepted the hand, “Anthony Stark, I prefer just Tony.”

Logan nodded, releasing his hand, snagging a bag of takeout, pulling out a container of fries, “Volya said you got the code phrase from Clint?”

“Yeah,” Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair, “bunch of shit went down, S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, and Rogers thought it a brilliant idea to drop the files on the internet. Jarvis, my AI, found them and started pulling, but the damage was done. I managed to get a hold of Clint to give him a heads up, and I even offered to fly to him to extract him, but…” He waved a hand expressively, “He directed me here, and I’m glad he did.”

“Me too.” Logan said simply, “You know where he was?”

“Madirpoor.” Tony said, offering a helpless shrug, trying not to look at the children who were listening intently, “Last contact I had, didn’t end well, and I haven’t gotten an update on his situation yet, as it’s one area of the world that’s a little harder for me to infiltrate, being who I am, and all.”

“I got some contacts.” Logan said, looking at Laura, who nodded once, “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Tony agreed with a murmur, finished his bottle, twisted the cap on, and set it in the middle of the table. “How bad was it?”

“Seventy-three, no survivors, which Charles confirmed,” Laura said simply, almost carelessly, as she copied her father and pulled out a package of fries.

“But it leaves you in a sort of limbo, because of the datadrop.” Tony sighed, nodded, and glanced at the little girl again, only to find her staring at him with a huge grin. “How old are you?”

“Five,” Volya laughed, “But I’m very smart.”

Huffing a laugh, Tony couldn’t argue, though he suspected it had nothing to do with intelligence, but ability, though for some reason he didn’t think it was the x-gene, “you’re definitely something, Ms.Volya.”

Turning to Laura, he shrugged, “Will you come to the tower?”

“As long as you let me work for you,” Laura said, “and the kids have to go to school and have chores.”

“What would you be interested in-”

“You need a physical bodyguard, and while Happy is nothing to sneeze at, he’s not a mutant or enhanced.” She shrugged, a helpless little expression wrinkling her brow, “and I know you’re not helpless either, but I think it’s better to keep your talents to yourself. They can give you an edge, later if it’s ever needed.”

“I wasn’t about to pull out a billboard and advertise those talents,” Tony huffed dryly, but nodded, “I can agree to the bodyguard, though we’d have to mask that under a PA image. I imagine I’ll be out in public a lot in the coming weeks to fix the whole cluster-fuck.”

Laura opened her mouth and then hesitated, glancing at the kids briefly before admitting, “If I thought it feasible, I’d request that Natasha not know I’m there, but being your bodyguard would be evident, so I don’t want the kids interacting with Natasha, at least if I’m not there to monitor that.”

Offering a tight smile, Tony admitted, “I haven’t seen any of them in about eight months anyway, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“But Malibu?” The question died on her lips, and she narrowed her eyes, “Are you saying that you dealt with that whole fiasco on your own?”

“I had Rodney there,” Tony protested, “I wasn’t completely on my own, but no, I haven’t actually talked to any of the ‘Avengers’ except Clint since a couple of months after the Battle of New York.”

She bit a handful of fries aggressively and narrowed her eyes, “Not a ringing endorsement for the Avengers.”

There was a hint of bitterness coating Tony’s laugh, and he shook his head, “Technically, I’m only a consultant, Laura, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psych-eval literally says, Iron Man; yes, Tony Stark: not recommended.”

Laura slipped into Spanish, glaring angrily at the table, as she drew in a couple of calming breaths, “Okay, I’m okay. I’m going to go finish packing a few extra things, Happy said that he’d have some of the security finish it up and put it in storage?”

“That’s fine,” Tony gestured to one of the take-out bags, and Lila eagerly reached for it, pulling it forward, and pulled out a burger. Being careful to keep it in the bag, because of his dirty hands, Tony took a bite, moaning at the taste, uncaring that it was lukewarm at best.

The six of them sat there for a few more minutes before Laura wiped her hands and rose, but Tony quickly finished his bite, asking before she could move, “Do- would it make it easier if I got my AI to start on researching schools and whatnot, or are they going to Professor Xavier’s school?”

“They’re not old enough yet,” Laura admitted, and glanced at the siblings, “if your AI could compile acceptable schools that have good STEAM education, I would appreciate it.”

“STEAM?” Tony questioned curiously.

“Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics,” Lila explained in a whisper, squirming in excitement, “I want Mathematics and Science, while Cooper likes Art and Engineering, but our current school is too small to offer much in the way of the subjects.”

“We’ll definitely find something that fits the criteria,” Tony promised, and glanced over his shoulder at the suit, “you get that J?”

“Of course, Sir, I have already started compiling information for Laura’s review.” Jarvis replied evenly, “I also have an update on the ongoing saga, if you want it, Sir.”

Volya put her crayon down and glanced up at Logan, “Can Lila and I go play on the swing?”

Brow furrowing, Logan looked at her and nodded, “You sure? Tony might be able to give you-”

“No, Daddy has to find his way to him. I don’t wanna know anything, it just makes me miss him more.” Volya whispered, already sliding from his lap, Lila crawling off the bench to follow, pausing as she glanced at Cooper.

“You want to play with us?”

Cooper glanced between the two adults, indecision playing on his face, before Logan nudged his side, “You should be able to hear us, kid, and if you need something explained, you can always ask.”

Cooper drew in a breath and nodded, rising to follow the two girls who took off running, “Yeah, alright, I’ll push you guys on the swing.”

Logan waited until they were a distance away before nodding at Tony, looking as if expecting a barrage of questions, but for what felt like the first time in his life, Tony’s mind was blank, without any of the associated panic that would normally be bubbling below the surface.

Tony drew in a breath and shook his head at Logan, hoping it conveyed he didn’t have any questions, at least not yet, and glanced at Jarivs, “Let me have the highlights, J.”

“Mr.Rogers was taken to the hospital after his fight on the Helicarrier. It appears his assailant was known to him, as he kept calling him ‘Bucky’ during the fight, and though I have no reasoning for it, it appears to have recused him in the end, ensuring he didn’t drown. Ms.Romanaff went off grid, though it appears she had a secret meeting with Nick Fury, who is not dead, and the man flying the X-Wing is Sergeant Sam Wilson, who has taken it upon himself to be Mr. Rogers’ protection detail while hospitalized.”

Tony opened his mouth, closed it, then asked hesitantly, “Any word from Clint?”

“Negative, sir.” Jarvis replied, voice subdued, “I attempted to access the camera in the area of his last pinged location, but they had already been encrypted in such a way that it would be notifiable if I tried to infiltrate them.”

Closing his eyes, Tony pressed the heels of his palms against them and drew in a breath, “and a positive ID on Caps mystery assailant, he believes to be Bucky Barnes?”

Jarvis cleared his throat, and Tony could feel the tension leaking from Logan across from him, so he lifted his head curiously, “Do you not want to know?”

Logan swallowed and averted his eyes, “I don’t know,” he shrugged helplessly, “I’ve been alone a long time, it feels a little surreal, there might be people I knew during the war that haven’t aged like me. But Volya has given me enough information to believe it’s him, though he doesn’t seem aware of that. He calls himself Laoch.” he paused and frowned, picking at the table, “Or at least he does when he retains his memories or control of himself, though Volya couldn’t explain that in detail.”

“What about Steve?” Tony asked curiously.

Logan huffed, folding his arms, “Look, my memories are spotty at the best of times, but what I do remember of Steve Rogers was being an egotistical jerk.”

“Daddy dearest must have missed that then,” Tony muttered, “Because most people say that of me.”

“You might have an ego, but you have the smarts to back it up, Tony,” Logan said slowly, “As for your father, I didn’t like Howard much either, though that feeling was mutual; as I clearly remember it was he who got me shipped off the Commandos and sent to Japan.”

Ducking his head, Tony nodded helplessly and admitted, “Yeah, he bragged about it often enough; he just never said why.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, “Getting caught with another man back then was normally a death sentence, but because ‘Bucky’ was Roger’s best friend, guess who got the shaft?”

Tony jerked his head up and stared at Logan, “Howard caught you and Bucky Barnes?”

“No, Rogers did, and he was pissed.” Logan muttered, eyes unfocusing briefly before he blinked, “At the time, I didn’t understand how Jamie held out against Rogers, but…”

“You think he’s enhanced?” Tony asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Logan and Bucky Barnes, his childhood crush, had been lovers during the war.

Logan shrugged, “He’s something, mutant, enhanced, whatever, that doesn’t matter. Rogers recused the core of who would become the Commandos, and I remember Barnes being a favourite of the mad scientist before that rescue.”

“Yeah, okay, I can see that,” Tony replied, glancing at Logan, and squirmed a little in his seat, before blurting, “Really, you and Bucky Barnes?”

“You got a problem with that?” Logan growled.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Tony denied and then flushed violently, dropped his voice to a whisper, “a bit jealous actually, I was halfway in love with the guy just based on the stories, and Howard’s epic love fest of shoving Rogers down my throat as a kid.”

“Rebel, huh?” Snorting, Logan laughed and tilted his head, “I can see that, even if I don’t have the full memories, the videos and photographs don’t really do him justice.”

Tony bit back the curiosity that welled up inside to know what Logan remembered, instead turning back to Jarvis, who had listened patiently. “Well,l J?”

“Comparing the photographs of James Buchanan Barnes with the assailant provided a 83% match, Sir,” Jarvis said, a hesitancy to his voice that wasn’t normal, “there are a few things inconsistency with the comparison, though it is more then probable the passage of time affected those discrepancy, the one that is an anomaly I can’t offer a hypostasis on, is James Barnes is reported to have two blue eyes, the assailant, has two different colours, one blue which is a direct match to the colour scheme of a black and white photograph, while the other is a green with gold flecks.”

“Huh?” Tony blinked and looked at Logan.

The other man shrugged helplessly, “I don’t remember that much detail, though Volya says the shade of their blue eyes matches; her other one is a reverse of his, gold to green, instead of green to gold.”

“Anything else on D.C?” Tony asked Jarvis.

“The Assailant”

“Call him James for now, hopefully we’ll get more information in the files that Friday is going through.” Tony interrupted gently, making Jarvis sigh.

“James disappeared in the chaos, and I admittedly lost his travel path given the disruption, though I have created an algorithm to keep an eye out.” Jarvis explained, before continuing, “as for the rest of the mess, a lot of high-level admins died in the attack, and Friday has positively ID them as Hydra associates, which include the former Secretary of State, and current Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Alexander Peirce. Maria Hill, who has been positively identified and confirmed as living and clean, is the next-highest-ranked person in the command structure, and she has already asked for a meeting at your convenience.”

“Of course she has,” Tony muttered, running a hand down his face, and shook his head, “Put her off, J, I have too much shit going on, but tell her I’ll make arrangements as soon as possible.”

“Very good, Sir.” Jarvis replied, “As for James, Friday has found files indicating that he formally doesn’t hold a name within Hydra’s organization, and was codenamed the Winter Soldier.”

Logan inhaled, and muttered a curse under his breath, but waved for Jarvis to continue, which the AI did after a brief pause, “The files are extensive, and honestly, Sir, horrific, and in saying that, I respectfully request that any research continued into the Winter Soldier is completed by me, as I feel Friday is too young to compartmentalize the information for you to work with.”

Jerking his head at the suit, Tony stared at the AI in shock, mouth turning numb even as he nodded dumbly, “Yeah, sure, J, that’s fine. Is that all?”

“For now, Sir, while things are still a mess, rescue and assistance are already in progress, and I’ll have a list to review when you arrive home of those lost, both agent and civilian. Happy has already contacted me concerning rooms for the Barton family, which I have already arranged, and a contract has been drafted that Ms.Barton can pursue at her leisure.”

“I- thanks, Jarvis,” Tony said, feeling a little stunned and not sure he could articulate what he felt that J was being protective of what Friday was reading.

Logan cleared his throat and shifted on the bench when Tony focused on him, “So the Winter Soldier? I have a bit of information on him, and I can confirm that is what Volya knows, that’s what her father’s title was. He’s not just a ghost story for S.H.I.E.L.D., though; he’s a ghost story for us too. Two years ago, the X-Men were tracking Laoch, looking to recruit him, but the Brotherhood found him first. We still aren’t sure what happened, but what Charles was able to pick up was that Raven, codenamed Mystique, approached him and set him off. We think she unintentionally threatened Volya because he went into a feral rage, and desimated over forty-three people on his own before they subdued him. Volya found us on her own, semi-hysterical, and clung to me until she passed out, and we’ve been caring for her since, while looking for him.”

“I can keep looking for him.” Tony offered, glancing at the girl sitting on the swing, and frowned when Logan sighed.

“He won’t come in, Tony.” Logan said gently, “Not until he finds what he’s seeking. I know she’s five, but Volya knows things that make no sense. It’s creepy and uncomfortable, but she’s never wrong; we just have to wait for him to come to you.”

“Why me, though?” Tony demanded, “Beyond a childhood crush, I’m nothing but a name he might have heard of.”

“You’re also one of the smartest people in the world,” Logan argued, though he deflated a little and admitted, “Volya said he’s been protecting you since you were born, though he doesn’t always remember from one wipe to the next, at least not until Laoch is awake.” He hesitated a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal, then added, “Laoch is actually another name for James Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier. When his memories return, even fleetingly, he sometimes uses the name Laoch instead of Bucky or James. It’s like a mask he wears, especially when he is not fully himself or is caught between different parts of his past. So, the person who has been looking out for you, the one Volya calls her father, is the same man as the Winter Soldier—your protector, even when he doesn’t remember it all.”

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt under Tony, as if Jarvis had cut gravity in the room. He stared at Logan, barely registering the words, while his mind raced and then spun out completely. The idea that someone had been watching over him since he was born, that the Winter Soldier, a half-mythic ghost and Volya’s father, was also his own secret guardian, crashed over Tony in a dizzy wave. He saw flashes, half-memories and shadows: the inexplicable moments of luck in childhood, the times things could have gone so much worse but didn’t. His heart hammered, every breath tight with disbelief, hope, and a fear he couldn’t name. What did it mean that the man he’d looked up to in stories, the man who haunted the edges of tragedy, had been his protector all along—even while lost to himself? His hands trembled under the table as he struggled to process the revelation, feeling at once exposed and impossibly small, like the universe had just expanded and folded him in at the same time.

“I imagine you are, kid,” Logan said, huffing a laugh at the glare he received and shrugged his shoulders, “You’re a kid to me, though I look damn good for being almost two hundred if you can get jealous of me and Jamie.”

Tony groaned, feeling mortified, and shook his head before raising it to meet Logan’s amused eyes. “We are never discussing that again.”

Logan grinned and wiggled his eyebrows flirtatiously before purposefully lowering his voice, “You don’t want details?”

“Fuck my life.” Tony cried, fighting the blush that climbed his cheeks as Logan laughed, watching in growing amusement as Tony pushed himself to his feet and started collecting the takeout bag and cleaning up their mess.

It was fine. Tony was fine; he wasn’t imagining the two men together, nor was he jealous. He was perfectly fine. He told himself that as he cleaned up their mess, but the denial sounded hollow even to his ears. The sight of Logan and the memory of Bucky—Jamie, Laoch, ghost, guardian, myth—tugged at Tony in a way nothing else ever had. The idea that James Barnes could have loved Logan, but had been both a saviour and a secret, pressed heavily on Tony’s chest. It was confounding, unsettling, tempting. He wondered what it had been like to be loved by someone who would cross centuries for you, who could hold all your broken edges together without even knowing it. Was that why the thought of losing Bucky—even if Tony had never truly had him—left a hollowness inside? He wanted to laugh at himself, at his own desperate longing, but instead the ache only sharpened. He just wanted to know what it meant that apparently the Winter Soldier had been protecting him since he was born and why it caused his heart to flutter…

***

For the first time since he had woken as Laoch, he couldn’t process what he was seeing. The icy dread of doubt, simmering over the last eight weeks or so, suddenly burst into a fury of rage as Laoch stared at the burnt-out apartment complex. Each time he had moved to a new safe home, seeking refuge from Hydra and the ghosts of his past, it had ended the same way: fire, devastation, and not a single clue as to who was hunting him. There had been silent threats for months, each attack more calculated and precise. His shock collided with disbelief and fury while facing yet another lifeless, charred safe home, no different from the three others he’d tried. The past two months had become a relentless pattern—burn, run, try again—a reminder that no matter how carefully he planned, some enemy who knew his habits was always just a step behind.

There should’ve been a sign. Luca was careful. Yet, like the others, there wasn’t even a trace of scent left behind, though Laoch had lived here for two years. Rubbing his hand through his hair, he turned from the complex and moved automatically toward the warehouse, growing impatient with each detour caused by the destruction.

Relieved, the deserted area masked his distraction. Laoch reviewed the day’s events: breakfast with Volya, dropping her off with Kash, meeting Luca at the docks, unloading two ships, lunch, waiting for the next ship, then— He stopped abruptly at the remains of the warehouse, realizing the destruction had happened after. He remembered going feral, the moment with Isabella—threaded with regret—before everything spiralled out of control.

“Who was Wolverine?”

The idea that someone had taught him something he’d forgotten was as uncomfortable as trying to figure out who Bucky was for only a minute before the soft croon of Jamie echoed in his head, and he knew it was from before.

It was always jarring to realize and remember that his life and memories were split into a before and after; the before was a person named James, with hazy, patchy moments that felt no more real than catching a sunbeam. James had been a soldier, then a weapon, and finally just a name that faded beneath layers of conditioning. The transition itself was like drowning: Hydra stripped him down, memory by memory, building Laoch from the pieces. Laoch came to exist during one of the rare, fractured lucid moments in the chair, when James understood they would never let him go completely. There was something, an inner sense or memory just out of reach that told him he’d agreed to this state—if only to survive. Now, as Laoch, fragments of James would sometimes resurface, but always through a filter of loss, half-remembered purpose, and the knowledge that he was someone new, forged from necessity and pain.

The after was harder to articulate—even as the Asset. He was aware of his actions and circumstances, but there was a cold, empty place inside: the Asset didn’t feel emotion. That was reserved for Laoch, who felt everything—mourning, grief, regrets—but remained untouched by guilt. It was probably a double standard, or perhaps a defence mechanism, but he couldn’t claim responsibility for Hydra’s actions; he simply carried the heaviness of each face, experiment, command, and mission in his memory.

It was almost ironic how they’d never realized or figured it out, either, sending him to be wiped after a mission. Though, admittedly, it had taken waking as Laoch three times before he remembered, and he began to suspect that the only things the wipes did was distort the memories of before. But because they’d never asked, and he never offered, he was left with hypnosis on what the real purposes of the chair were….

Unless it was a means of control? He knew the effectiveness of the words was only guaranteed if the chair was used before cryo storage.

The gentle water against the destroyed dock broke his focus. He surveyed the building, feral memories hovering at the edge of his awareness. As Laoch, the near-constant risk of slipping into a feral episode lingered. While he would eventually remember, the retrieval often felt like revisiting the ‘before.’

Breathing in the scent of the warehouse, saltwater, and decaying sea life jolted new layers of emotion—bringing the taste of blood and death, overlaying soot and bitter sulphur. Scent always hit first, then taste, then sound, each sense layering on old guilt and fresh pain. Sometimes, he dreaded what he would hear—the sounds of death and violence—more than what he could smell or taste. The knowledge that he could be responsible for those deaths pressed on him with intimate intensity, and made the part of his mind that remembered and grieved take sharper note.

Maybe it was penance? At least for the innocent, yes, he could see making sure to remember. For the guilty who deserved it? No, that was definitely glee.

As the memory bled into consciousness, Laoch shifted reflexively, the sensation of being large—always larger than his prey—the first emotional impression. A double distortion clouded his view, hinting at hidden threats. He moved with deadly fluidity, feeling a split: his body acted without hesitation, confident and detached, while his human side mourned each loss. Even when he didn’t land the killing blow, guilt and sorrow surged, knowing his presence was still the cause of death. Violence, efficiency, regret, and grief coiled together, alternating within him as he fought his way free.

Sunlight.

Silence.

It was enough to make him stop. His eyes swept over the entrance and dockyard, cataloguing the torn landscape and the clusters of movement. Soldiers, likely drawn by the recent fighting, gathered in uneven formation. Laoch tensed as he registered their numbers—more than a dozen, perhaps closer to twenty—each wary, some gripping weapons, all keeping a cautious distance. He adjusted his stance, new anxiety prickling at his skin as he considered the odds and realized backup might be hidden from sight.

Some of the soldiers shifted, casting glances at Laoch’s unnaturally calm posture amidst the debris. Cutting through the confusion, his eye caught on a figure collapsed near the edge of the chaos. At first, the body was almost unrecognizable: black shirt and jeans, face streaked with blood, features obscured. But the scent struck Laoch—familiar, a memory of warmth, home, acceptance, and understanding. A lapis blue scarf, shifted by the breeze, fell away just enough to reveal black hair and fading purple eyes. Regret and grief surged in Laoch’s chest as the figure released a trembling exhale.

There was a tense beat—a breathless silence—then, suddenly, a concussive blast erupted from the left side of the dock. Noise and pressure slammed into Laoch, and the world pitched sideways. His vision failed. He hit the ground hard. A jumble of booted feet, guns raised, and shouts followed as he fought to orient himself. Disoriented, he struggled to rise, but rough hands forced him down. Cold, hate-filled blue eyes glared at him through the swirling smoke—his handler, flanked by backup. Cords bit into his wrists as restraints were fastened, pinning him to the ground. The echo of betrayal, the sting of lost time, and the realization that everything had changed were underscored by a single, sickening question that repeated in his mind: Where was his daughter?

Laoch blinked, swaying where he knelt, a single tear falling as the weight of defeat and grief landed—after all his planning and effort, he realized he’d still been found, and Luca had paid the price for their friendship. The mixture of exhaustion, resignation, and sorrow was overwhelming.

Wiping his eyes, Laoch surveyed the ruined dockyard, rose unsteadily, breathed in memory, bowed his head, and slipped silently into the shadows. Mourning could wait—he needed to find his daughter first.

***

It took two days of reconnaissance before he felt comfortable breaking into the Hydra base, even though he knew within the first hour that there was barely a skeleton crew left and no command structure in place. In recent months, Madirpoor had become a prison disguised as a city-state; Hydra’s reach had seeped into every aspect of daily life, imposing curfews and relentless surveillance, with patrols on every corner and rationing to break the people’s will. The once bustling streets now stood half-empty, haunted by rumour and fear. Communication with the outside world was nearly impossible, and escapes were rare—usually ending in brutal public punishments. It was no wonder that even Hydra’s operatives seemed wary, unsure whether they were safeguarding a fortress or watching over ruins. Laoch couldn’t help but itch to know what was happening beyond the suffocating bubble Madirpoor had built for itself. The idea that Hydra had already fallen was not out of the realm of impossibility, given how tightly they gripped the city-state. It was only a matter of time before the people rebelled or simply vanished, and Laoch hoped to be far, far away when that finally happened.

Once inside, he dispatched two guards. The compound layout sprang to mind, though he’d never been here as the Asset; he must’ve learned it in training. He smiled briefly, remembering the ‘lessons’ about making a compound secure—knowing he always left himself a way out.

It had been a mistake to ask him.

He complied outwardly—never making it impenetrable to himself. The Asset always left an exit. He’d provided suggestions and fail-safes, enough that only a true professional or someone desperate could break in. Breaking out? That part was just for him. So he entered now, following his own escape path.

With the guard’s body rapidly cooling at his feet, it was ridiculously easy to set up the flash drives to transfer the information from the servers, and he took a look at the cameras around the compound. He wasn’t searching for anyone in particular, not really knowing who was dead or possibly still alive; he wasn’t even sure who ran this compound anymore, so it was more of an idle curiosity. Something he almost made into a game, noting that his outside observation had only shown a token skeleton guard, probably in a bid to appear more powerful than they were to the people of the city-state. Yet the inside camera showed much more. Of the seventy-five people left in the compound, ten were on duty outside, with five halfheartedly doing rounds every half hour; the rest were lazing about, sleeping or eating, though a few were getting a workout in the gym. It was the movement in the bottom-corner camera that made him focus on them and what they were doing. They weren’t guards, they weren’t even scientists, or if they were, Laoch had never had the displeasure of meeting them. He suspected, though, that they were lab technicians or assistants who had no direct supervisor, because it showed in the haphazard pile of bodies in the corner, while they strapped someone else to the cursed chair.

The rage was instant and almost overwhelming, but he managed to hang onto some sense of himself as he calmly and methodically completed the transfer and entered the self-destruct sequence, which would go off in an hour, hiding it behind a false failsafe that mimicked a power failure and opened all A-level prison cells.

Storing the flash drives in a zippered pocket, Laoch shifted the strap of the assault rifle, scanning the video feeds once more before slipping out the door, just as the power went out. It took fifteen minutes and zero encounters to reach the room, and he stood in the dark hallway lit only by the emergency light, listening for any possible sounds on the other side of the closed door, yet he only heard the soft crying of one person.

Easing the door open, Laoch slipped inside, scanning the room, though it was the scent that told him the person strapped to the chair remained. Shifting the rifle to lay on his back, Laoch silently crossed the room, making the person jump and bite back a gasp of pain when they jerked at his sudden appearance.

“I’m going to get you out,” Laoch whispered, reaching for the straps, but the man in the chair shook his head.

“My legs-“ he gasped in a sharp breath as the scent of urine filled the air, “shattered my legs, then my spine, I-“ he choked back another sob, “multiple stab wounds in my stomach and groin, I’m bleeding out, Sir.”

Laoch didn’t want to agree and shook his head, “I can get -”

“No, Agent Barton- more important, Avenger, won’t kill – need leverage, in solitary confinement, deaf,” the man said, inhaling unsteadily as blood bubbled on his lips, “reads lips, has all information. Save him, please.” For a brief moment, Laoch’s memory flickered: Clint Barton, known as Hawkeye, was a crucial member of the Avengers, a sharpshooter famed for his skill and stubborn defiance. He wasn’t just any operative—saving Barton meant preserving not only vital knowledge about Hydra’s secrets, but also giving hope to those who still fought back. If Hydra kept him alive, it was for a reason. Losing him could tip the scales for everyone involved.

Laoch swallowed, sorrow for the man before him filling him, “Barton, solitary confinement. 2B, or 3C?”

“3C, 2B holds the old commander.” The man whispered, “Please, bullet, Sir, don’t leave me like this.”

Laoch sighed and knelt down, placing his hands on either side of the man’s head, “I have something less painful. What’s your name, agent?”

“Age-agent Davis Martinez, you?” Davis whispered, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Laoch,” he smiled softly as the eyes snapped open in shock, but he shook his head, “sleep, Davis Martinez, I will save your, Agent Barton.”

“Thank….” Davis’s eyes drifted closed, body relaxing in a way it probably hadn’t in months, the soft startled exhale escaping even in his sleep, preceding the tears that fell, before they stopped, seconds before the body went heavy, head lulling to the side.

Laoch stayed with the body for another breath, in respect for the fallen more than offering a prayer to the departed, then slipped away, pulling up the schematics of the compound and making his way to 3C, and if he made a small detour, disposing of the former commander, well, no one would ever know.

Reaching the cell block, Laoch approached the only door bolted shut and overrode the number pad, shaking his head at the apparent laziness of tiered Hydra agents. It spoke volumes that they reused the same number sequence, prison cell to prison cell, and marvelled that they hadn’t been found out before. It was only when the locks disengaged that Laoch could hear the obnoxious clearing of a throat, then the off-key singing, as the door slowly opened.

“Baby shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, Baby shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo…”

It was horrendous, offensive and annoying, but it also explained why the agent was in solitary confinement, if he was deemed too valuable to kill, though he suspected the man had been tortured, judging by the swollen eyes, visible to Laoch even in the emergency lit hallway.

It was as he stepped into the open doorway that the song trailed off, a confused noise escaping the man chained to the wall. “You don’t look like Dipshit One, Two or Three.”

Laoch opened his mouth to respond before remembering Barton was deaf and held his hands out to his side, hoping the guy had enough vision to see the movement, given he could differentiate bodies. Agent Barton seemed to regard him thoughtfully, inhaling slowly, before shaking his head, muttering to himself, “It’s not Logan, Clint.”

Telegraphing his movements, Laoch approached Clint, kneeling just out of reach, before knocking a pattern on the wall with his metal hand, hoping the guy understood Morse code. “Rescue. Explosion. More later.”

“Clever. No one else thought of Morse code.” Clint coughed, the sound wet and rattling, even as he grunted, “Not-Logan? Logan sent you?”

“Not Logan, walk, or carry?” Laoch tapped, frowning a little at the delay.

“Carry, sorry, half-healed ankle, and dislocated knee, visions also shit right now.” Clint said readily, rattling the chains holding him in place, “Key?”

In response, Laoch rose to his feet, leaning over the man, and snapped the cuff open, earning a squawk, “Not Tony, not Cap, not Logan, who?”

Realizing that Clint was starting to ramble, Laoch carefully pulled the man up and hoped he was coherent enough to understand what he wanted, turning around, keeping one of Clint’s arms over his shoulder.

Thankfully, he was, though the slight delirium was evident when Clint started to giggle, awkwardly heaving himself onto Laoch’s back, “must be dreaming, not-Logan is giving me a piggyback, or maybe dying. Dying would be bad, though. Laura would be mad.”

Laoch was about to tap a warning with Morse code on the man’s thigh when Clint shifted, seemingly understanding the need to keep silent, as he buried his nose in Laoch’s neck, inhaling deeply, nuzzling it with a sigh, “gun, still shoot if necessary.”

Doubting that, but willing to take his word for it, Laoch removed a Glock, double-checked it before handing it over, and then tapped out, “swim,” on his thigh.

Clint hesitated, “Timer?”

Laoch nodded, knowing Clint could feel it, and felt the sigh in response, “No other way?”

Laoch thought over the escape routes he kept for himself and shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get through them with an injured person. “Harbour?” Clint asked with a shudder, even as he nodded. “It’ll suck, but yeah. Anyone else?”

Laoch shrugged helplessly, turning left and going deeper under the compound, tapping out his answer: “David Martinez asked me to rescue you, and Level A cells opened on their own.”

Nodding Clint, tightened his grip briefly, “Thank you, even if this fails, thank you.”

Laoch smiled in the darkness. He tapped his response, slipping past a false wall, hearing the rush of water, “I won’t fail.”

“Confident, much?” Clint snarked, mouth snapping shut, feeling the mist in his face.

Shaking his head, Laoch reached the end of the path, then tapped his response, “No, I’m Laoch.”

The startled tightening of Clint’s arms was the only response, as he jumped, the current sweeping them away.

Cold water crashed over them, swallowing their words and thoughts alike. Laoch gritted his teeth, focusing on the weight of Clint’s body and the frantic pulse at his own throat as they were dragged down through darkness and debris. For a few frantic moments, there was only the struggle to breathe, to hold on, to keep Clint’s head above water as they tumbled through the broken tunnels beneath the compound. When they finally surfaced near the ruined docks, gasping and shivering, Laoch glanced at Clint, seeing raw determination written across the archer’s battered face. Above them, faint sirens and distant shouting sounded, a reminder that Hydra was still close behind—but for now, hope flickered between them, fragile and urgent. They pressed on into the uncertain night, running on exhaustion and adrenaline, moving forward because survival—and finding those still lost—was all that remained.

***

 

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