The Armorer

I see immediately that he's not struggling, so the first order of business is to look around for the Winter Soldier. If I've strung his buddy up, I fully expect a smackdown. I'm isolated out here, but even I've heard about Sokovia and the exciting news that the Leipzig airport is inconveniently broken because the Avengers are a house divided.

But using every trick I've got in my playbook reveals nothing. For some reason, Cap is without his best friend.

Now I know something's up.

I'm thinking about this when Cap clears his throat. "I don't suppose you could let me down? I'm not here to cause trouble."

And because the one thing that everybody agrees with, even Tony Stark, is that Cap is a straight shooter, I go back to my workbench, activate the trigger, and slowly and gently, Cap is lowered until he's about at the height to do a handstand, which is when the ankle cuffs release. He does a little handspring and stands, looking around but always keeping me in his peripheral vision. Fair enough. I shut off my music, which is on an Andrews Sisters playlist.

"What can I do for you?" I ask, not identifying him on purpose. Since the throwdown in Germany, there's been a conspicuous absence of about half of the Avengers in the news media, and it's been announced that Captain America is an international fugitive from justice, which is such an immense load of manure I can't even begin to shovel it.

"I heard there was an ace mechanic out here," he says, looking at me kind of sideways. I don't feel any judgement in it, though. I'm the first to admit that I don't look like much, being on the short side and not built like a blacksmith. Or a stereotypical superhero. I nod instead.

"I'm good," I say. "What are you looking for?"

"Well...it would be made of metal. A circular object, rather large, slightly domed."

I stare at him, then it hits me that he isn't carrying his shield. Which was part of his costume. That a famous fugitive can't carry around. I finally smile. "Perhaps like a large, shallow salad bowl," I remark.

He catches on and grins. "That would be a fairly good description."

"It would be interesting, from a technical perspective, to bring the handles in from the edge."

"It would be the talk of the party," he agrees.

"I've been working on some interesting alloys," I mention. "I can certainly guarantee that they'll hold up against an oil and vinegar dressing."

"That would be great," he says. "Pitting would ruin the aesthetic I'm after." I walk over and extend my hand.

"Emma Harrington," I introduce myself. He shakes my hand briskly and I realize that he looks absolutely exhausted. Even after the battle for New York, he looked only mildly fatigued on camera.

"I don't really have any money, though," he tells me baldly. I shrug.

"I usually work for barter anyway. You look pretty strong. As I said, I'm working with alloys. I could use your help testing them. You could pay for the salad bowl by trying to destroy them."

He smiles again, but there's no humor in it. "I'm good at destroying things," he says.

"Ok, then," I say. "Well, I won't be starting on this today. If you want, I've got a cot set up behind the forge."

"I can't take your bed," he says immediately, but I shake my head.

"I keep it there for naps when I'm working on something interesting. I have a treehouse with my real bed."

"I'll take it," he says, and immediately heads back when I point out the forge. It doesn't really look like a forge, more like a kiln, but it's my design and I can use it to anneal things as well. Of all the things I've made, I'm proudest of that, because it's all done with scavenged parts. Heavily modified, of course.

I work until the sun goes down, then make dinner. It's nothing fancy, just vegetables, some beef I had marinating in the fridge, and fruit for dessert. I walk back to offer some to my visitor, but he's out like a light, so I eat by myself and go upstairs to read before bed.

I can't concentrate, though. Here's the world's most famous expert in the performance of vibranium. I don't have any vibranium since it's the most tightly controlled element in the world, but here's an unparalleled opportunity to see how my constructs can hold up. I ditch the reading and after a couple of hours determine that my high performance salad bowl will be made of thin layers of different alloys. Each one will give something different to the mix.

I'm up at dawn, eager to start.