Skeptics and Dupes

The cold night wind soaked through his suit and stung his skin, but he had to push that hair-raising sensation to the back of his mind as he swung through the city. Cold was the least of his worries. He could hear the tell-tale commotion of an inner city robbery erupt from a few blocks away, and just like that, Spider-Man was racing to the scene. 

He released his grip on a cord of webbing and let himself tuck and roll to a stop on top of a small apartment building. A peek over the ledge told him that the bottom floor held a small bank service, and a sweeping view of civilians on the street running away told him that the bank’s assailants were armed and dangerous. 

He shot a web out to stick to the ledge and leapt off the building, swinging down and crashing through the bank window. Using the momentum from the swing, he took down two robbers with a well-placed roundhouse before rolling into a stop. 

Information from the scene flew at his senses at light speed. Four more robbers. One holding a hostage. One guarding the exit. The other two stuffing their bags with cash. Each equipped with assault rifles and cheesy masks. Spider-Man would have sighed from the lack of originality in the scene, but he only had a split second or two before the goons opened fire on him. He could complain about it later. 

He webbed Hostage Holder’s gun wielding hand to the wall, allowing the hostage to escape, and he webbed the nearest Money Grabber’s jacket to the wall. That was all he could do in the split second before the robbers regained their senses.

The Guard opened fire on him and he dove out of the way as the remaining Money Grabber scrambled to tie up his bag and flee. He shot a glob of webbing into the barrel of the Guard’s gun, which exploded when its user tried to shoot at him even while it was blocked up. Spider-Man tried to get back onto his feet, but the first Money Grabber had slipped out of his jacket and tackled him from the side as soon as he tried to. 

A sharp grunt escaped his throat as he fell onto shards of shattered glass from the broken window, but he swiveled and dealt the robber a knockout elbow to the neck. From his position on the ground, he swept his legs out to trip the Money Hauler attempting to escape. 

He jumped to his feet and planted a foot on the back of the robber he tripped, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Hostage Holder relinquishing his glove and trying to flee. Spider-Man caught him with a cord of webbing, yanked him back into a heavy blow to the jaw, and watched him crumple to the ground in a pathetic heap. 

Within a few minutes of Spider-Man incapacitating all the robbers, they were cuffed and lined up on the outside of the bank to await the arrival of the cops. He sat beside them on the curb, giving them the stink-eye as he tugged the glass shards out of his side. It was honestly embarrassing that he got such an annoying injury from such bottom-of-the-barrel goonies. 

He was so focused on the shame of the situation that he almost didn’t notice the low ringing reverberating through the area. It sounded somewhat muffled, like if someone was repeatedly hitting a small gong in one of the nearby buildings. He looked around in confusion, because for once he couldn’t pinpoint where the sound was coming from. 

As he looked behind him, the thought of finding the source of the sound completely left his mind as a new, far more pertinent question came to the front. Wasn’t there… collateral damage? He could have sworn the robbers’ guns tore up the walls, and a gun exploded, setting a small fire near the entrance, didn’t it? Hell, he was actively pulling shards from the broken window out of his side. 

So why did the bank look good as new? 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

He pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose from the bitter winter air as he strode by shops closing down for the night. His muscles ached; not from too much use, but from too little. After so many years of near-constant activity, he still couldn’t get used to his sedentary job, and all the overtime he had to take up just to make a living certainly wasn’t helping. 

Of course, he should be grateful for the job, and he was. Calculating the tabs in the back of an old shoe store was probably the only job in the city available for a 15-year-old double amputee who'd never made it past middle school. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. Anything to pay rent. 

As he slowly got farther from the bustling downtown and closer to his neighborhood, he dug through his burgundy overcoat for his keys. He grabbed them between his knuckles with the tightest grip he could muster until he could push through the door into the lobby of his apartment complex. He’d been the victim of multiple muggings in the area at that point. They see he’s missing an arm and immediately mark him as an easy target, so he always has to be ready to leave a gash across someone’s knuckles, even if it leaves his keys bloody. 

The woman manning the front desk usually didn’t even look up from her magazine as he walked in; he knew she didn’t need to. His uneven walking pattern was all she needed to know who he was. So it struck him as unusual when she stopped him before he could turn down the hall toward his apartment. 

“I’ve got a few questions for you, kid.” She spoke with a harsh New Yorker accent, which probably made her seem more rough with her question than she was trying to be. That didn’t change how his head registered the question like a threat. He hesitantly turned back to face her and saw that she was holding up a letter. He couldn’t help but furrow his brows. To his knowledge, no one other than his employers should have known where he lived. 

He inched toward the front desk skeptically and snatched the letter from her outstretched hand. His eyes went wide and he damn near dropped the letter upon seeing the return address. 

“Now, how on earth…” the old woman cut her sentence off with a chuckle as he stared flabbergasted at the logo on the letter, “did you get involved with Stark Industries?” She let out a string of dry laughter as he stood as still as a statue with the letter in his vice grip. He was asking the exact same question in his own head. 

“I guess all that metalworking you do in there has finally paid off,” she said, gesturing toward the end of the hallway where his apartment was. Without a word, he stomped over to the apartment, shoved the key into the doorknob, and threw the door open. 

It was a simple studio, with an unmade bed, a desk piled high with books and a wiring project, a small kitchen, and of course, the seven-foot-tall suit of armor with glowing red eyes staring at him. Ed closed the door behind him and threw off his messenger bag, scarf, and coat with reckless abandon before furiously waving the letter in the suit’s face. 

“Al, what on earth is this?” he shouted.

“Brother, I can’t see what it is if you keep hitting me with it!” the suit defended, holding his arms up to shield his face from Ed smacking him with the letter. He sighed and relinquished the letter to his younger brother before dropping into his chair dramatically. 

Al didn’t have a proper face, but he didn’t need it to express how excited he was: his shoulders lifted, he pinched the letter harder, and Ed could hear a gust of wind suck into the armor as if he had gasped. Al frantically ripped the envelope open and held the letter so close to his head that it looked like he was trying to absorb the ink rather than read it. He gasped again, but significantly louder this time, and aggressively shoved the letter into Ed’s hands before grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him. 

“Brother!” Al screamed, apparently ignoring his dearest brother yelling at him for the whiplash he gave him. “This is incredible, this is amazing!” 

“Let me read it, let me read it!” Ed slapped away his brother’s arms from his shoulders and stared at the letter. 

Dear Mr. Elric,

On behalf of Stark Industries, we are glad to inform you that your application for a paid internship in the Chemical Engineering Research Department has been accepted. Please heed our terms of internship while working with our company:

• Duration of internship will be from January 1st to June 1st.

• You will be designated as “Trainee” and will be entitled for a wage of $20 per hour as per our company policy. 

• Trainees must be enrolled in and consistently attending school throughout the entire duration of the internship. 

• During the internship, trainees are expected to abide by the Code of Conduct prescribed by the company for all employees. 

You are requested to submit your acceptance to the terms mentioned above as confirmation of your internship. After receiving your acceptance, we shall send your appointment letter for the same.

Please feel free to contact us in case of further details. Wishing you good luck for your future endeavors. 

Ed tried to say something, but his brother’s excited jabbering and the hurricane of thoughts hurtling through his head at Mach speed wouldn’t let him get a word out. 

“This is the best possible scenario, brother! You get to research with the top scientists in the state, maybe the country, maybe even the world! And you get paid enough that you don’t need to take up overtime!”

“So you… You applied for me? Without any of my input whatsoever?”

“Of course. You’re so cynical in your own abilities that you probably wouldn’t even try, so I did. It’s not like I can do much else when I’m stuck here.” Ed felt a sinking feeling of guilt in his stomach at that comment. He’d tried to think of any possible way to let Al out and live a normal life, but there really wasn’t a way for a giant suit of armor to go to school or get a job without… questions. 

“They seemed quite interested in your research of prosthetics when I sent in your notes for the portfolio. Maybe you’ll be able to learn more about it when you’re there, and finally be able to build one for yourself!” 

He glanced at the piles of notes and wires strewn across his desk. So that’s how he got the job. He didn’t even realize that Stark Industries would probably be researching the same general topic as he was… Perhaps this would bring him more benefits than what meets the eye. Maybe he could finally build himself a proper prosthetic. 

A nasty smirk spread itself across his face as he swiveled around in his chair, grabbed his laptop from inside his desk, and pulled up the email listed at the bottom of the letter. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

He swung the door open into the enormous, window-lined bedroom to be greeted by a glare from his little friend. He chuckled at the attitude as he dropped a manila folder onto the bed and sauntered up to the windows next to him. 

“Well good morning to you too, Rhodey,” he said snidely, looking out over the Manhattan streets as the sun just began to peek over the highrises. 

“Tony, it’s rather early for you to be bothering me.” 

“Don’t be like that; for once I come with good news!” Rhodey smirked and maneuvered his wheelchair to face him. 

“Now, why do I doubt that?” 

“Oh, come on, I don’t always get you into life-threatening and sometimes petty situations.” 

“Ah yes, not always, only about 9 times out of 10.” Tony complained and jokingly knocked him on the shoulder before walking back toward the bed. 

“I just imagined that you would be getting restless by now, being out of the workforce for so long.” he said, opening the manila folder and spreading its contents out on the bed. “‘Thought I might as well offer a time killer until you’re up and running with the leg braces.” Rhodey raised an eyebrow and rolled up next to the bed, grabbing the first paper that caught his eye and scanning it over. 

“God, this handwriting is terrible.” 

“You should see the actual writing.” Tony smirked, holding up a paper piled high with notes in what was quite possibly the worst handwriting he’d ever seen. Rhodey snatched up the note paper and compared it to the first paper he picked up: an internship application. 

“You say ‘actual’... implying that the application is forged?”

“Yep. Whoever wrote the application certainly made a valiant effort to copy the handwriting of the notes, but there’s a clear difference when compared side-by-side.” Rhodey sighed and tossed the papers back on the bed. 

“So some kid forged an application. Why do we care, exactly?”

“Because that research happens to align strangely well with one of my teams’ research. This could mean two things: either one of my scientists leaked information, or some other researcher is out there who I would like to have on my side. Either way, I want to know whose notes these are, and I believe you could find that out easily.”

“So… you want me to find and interrogate him?” Rhodes asked, looking at him with an exasperated expression.

“No, no, no,” Tony assured, waving his arm to accentuate his point. “I accepted the application just to make it easier, so he’ll be coming to us. All you need to do is oversee an intern and ask him a few questions. Don’t be too direct about it, or he’ll probably never come back. You can handle that, can’t you?”

Rhodes sighed at how indirect Tony had to be, but it was hard to turn the guy down. 

“Fine. Anything for an excuse to get out of this damn tower.”