Chapter 1
1.
Raindrops batter the glass. Streaks and streaks of water lines burst in every direction, trailing from the tip of the concealed aircraft to the sleek tail. The patter sounds like a thousand snare drums, crescendoing as they peeter in and out of saturated clouds.
Relying entirely on FRIDAY's coordinates, Rhodey's been flying sans visuals - which sucks considering they don’t have any ground assistance - since he’d dipped into the scud a couple minutes ago. Not that there's much to look out for. Most commercial air buses are grounded - half of the world is gone, so the nonessentials are shut down while the death toll is tallied. Even if they weren't, how many flights went to the middle of nowhere, West Virginia on a Wednesday afternoon? All the major ports collect goods and distribute them amongst the remaining population.
Navigation beeps twice, and Rhodey glances down. The ship's little white dot hovers a centimeter away from their destination.
Tony leans to look at the screen, steadying himself with one hand on Rhodey's right thigh. His hands are too thin and too pale, like dying branches left out in the sun for too long without a leaf to shield them. A heart monitor hangs loosely on his wrist. His hold is so light, had Rhodey not been looking down, he would’ve mistaken it for a gnat.
“How the hell are we supposed to land if I can't see the ground?” Rhodey asks. Nightmare scenarios play in his head: cannons pointed at the belly of the ship and splitting it wide open with them all spilling to the ground in a gory confetti, the barrel of a gun firm and unyielding against his temple as he’s forced to watch those around him settle in the dirt.
“Ballpark it ‘til we're closer. The ship can take a little off roading.”
“I'm not worried about crashing. I'm worried about an ambush, Tony.”
Tony leans back in his chair, fidgets with the face of the beep-beep ing monitor, “if he knew we were coming, he'd take us out before we could get this close.” He'd probably drop the fucking moon on their heads just because he can.
“Fuck it,” Rhodey mumbles. He pulls the radio from the hook, holds one of the buttons on its side, and announces over the speakers, “we're about five minutes out. I'm gonna land her just outside of the field. Everybody stay in their seats until I give the order.”
Nails pitter-patter into cockpit. Rocket scampers between their armchairs. He’s twitchy like a caged animal. On high alert, but focused. Determined.
“All hands and tails inside the vehicle, Ranger Rick,” Tony says, swiveling a hair to counter clockwise. “You heard the man.”
“I'm getting antsy back there. Lemme strap in. Rhodes can copilot if he wants,” Rocket says, waving at the controls. “Come on, I'm the best pilot on board! I've flown through thicker fogs in the Keystone Quadrant.”
Rhodey catches Tony's eye, who raises a brow. He pointedly widens his eyes backward and nods at Tony. Tony scoffs. Rhodey repeats the motion again with more force. The two stare at each other in silence for a beat, then Tony sighs and stands.
“Yes!” Rocket jeers as he scrambles into the chair. Tony points a finger as he steps out of the room
“You owe me.”
“Beer on me when this is over,” Rhodes waves at him. Rocket cracks his knuckles and magnifies the digital map. “Check in with Banner.”
“Whatever you say, honeybear,” Tony mutters. The raccoon gestures animatedly when he steps into the threshold of the main cabin.
The team sits in rows along the walls: Nebula on the starboard, her legs spread along the fore-facing edge of the bench; Thor leaning on his knees by his elbows; and Bruce, thumbing the cushion's seams and ripping threads out. He blinks and smiles up at Tony. Romanoff eyes Nebula from the port; Clint keeps his hands in two of the dozens of pockets on his vest; Scott just looks happy to be here; and Steve stares blankly out one of the windows. There's just a little bit of empty space at the end of both benches.
Tony hobbles to the starboard bench and plops on the very end next to Bruce. The craft trembles and tilts forward, nearly flinging him from the cushion. Bruce slaps his hand over Tony's chest. Tony latches onto his arm until the turbulence clears.
“Give me your wrist,” Bruce instructs. He reads the vitals off Tony's screen, checks his pupils a couple of times. His condition is no worse than it was at takeoff. “I wish you would've rested a couple more weeks. A little more muscle density would've done you some good.”
“I'm fit as a fiddle, doc. Promise.”
Nebula's head inches a fraction of a degree in their direction. Her lips quiver at the corners, daring to comment where she’s not sure it’s earned. The tone of Tony’s voice is one too familiar, breathy and light, laced with humor and sarcastic bravado to mask the pain just below the surface. It’s the tone he adapted after going weeks with a nearly empty belly. A deflection.
“Are we there?” Thor asks. The glass is painted by unbroken warm grey strokes of clouds so thick not even the sun penetrates them. Romanoff draws a circle on the glass with her knuckle.
“I don’t see anything,” she observes. They have to be close, though. They've been flying for a little over an hour, and ETA puts them landing at 3. Her watch blinks 2:58.
“Almost. R-Squared are trying to find a good landing spot,” Tony says. “Didn't plan on the weather shitting out on us.”
“Hmph,” Thor huffs.
“You try clearing the skies, Point Break?”
“I can't.”
“Then quit sulking. Jeez, you're like a kid on his way to Disneyland,” Tony mutters. Steve sighs something along the lines of ‘please take this seriously’ that he elects to ignore. “Anyway, Rhodey thinks this is a trap, so they have to land a little out of the way.”
“No shit,” Clint says.
The cabin lurches again. Tony's lunch drops out the bottom of his stomach. Again, he clings to Bruce, though the other is less prepared and clings to the god to remain upright. All the lights flash off simultaneously, throwing the cabin in darkness. A hand clutches his in a death grip.
“What did you do?” Rhodey shouts.
“Nothing! We're just dropping out of the freaking sky!” Rocket snaps back.
“That doesn't sound great!” Bruce yells.
“Grab onto as many people as you can!” Steve instructs. “Nebula, help Rhodes and Rocket!”
Nebula launches toward the bickering pilots as Thor extends a sparking arm for Clint and Romanoff. Steve clicks his belt and wraps a hand around Tony's bicep, and the other around Scott's. The pressure in the cabin quickly rises, filling their ears until they pop. Even though they’re freefalling out of the scud and into what should be daylight, it remains dark. At least the rain has stopped. They're going to crash before they even have a chance to attack.
Well, fuck.
“Lang, grab Barton,” Tony says. The power might be out in the main cabin, but the panel in the back glows blue, dimly illuminating their faces. “Rogers, with me.”
Steve waits until Scott is secure to release him. Tony hobbles to the stern one step at a time, Steve clinging to every available surface they pass to prevent them from falling. He lays his palm on the scanner twice, but he's shaking too bad for a good read. Steve shifts closer.
“What are we doing?” he asks, leaning close enough to Tony's ear that he doesn't have to yell. His lips almost brush against Tony's unkempt beard. Tony shudders.
“Activating the emergency pod. Hold me steady,” Tony mouths back. Steve wraps an arm around Tony's shoulders and cradles his wrist with the other. After a failed attempt, the door slides open and a drop of light spills onto the blue carpet.
“Everyone, get in!” Steve yells. Thor leads the pack, shuffling first Romanoff, then Clint, Bruce, and Scott inside the compartment. His eyes aglow, he sends electricity from his fingertips for the rest.
“Nebula, Rhodey, Rocket!” Tony calls.
Nebula drags Rhodes by the collar, Rocket clinging to her back. The second they’re in, Thor slams the door shut. It’s cramped, air hot and heavy and elbows colliding with ribs and knees knocking like a ball pendulum. Only a ring of lights by their feet to see, Tony feels blindly around for the release switch.
“Hey, that's my butt!” Scott yelps.
“Anyone feel a lever?” Tony says, ignoring him. He touches the nearest wall, and brushes Lang’s ass again by accident, coming up empty.
“Is this it?” Nebula’s monotone replies. An audible click gives them a five second warning before they’re dumped unceremoniously to the earth.
-----
Of course, the search team left some of the most capable fighters in house, just in case something happened to them. Pepper Potts, most familiar with Stark tech, holds the mantle at HQ. Responsibility always finds a way to fall into her hands. Just like with Stark Industries. Not that she minds, micromanagement comes as natural to her as breathing.
She nurses a steaming cup of coffee - a dash of cream and zero sugar - with both of her hands. The holograms of Okoye, Carol Danvers, and Valkyrie stand in a half circle in front of her, all glowing a faint shade of blue around the edges. Okoye’s transparent form drifts to the right, listening to the whispers of an unseen person. She responds in hushed isiXhosa. When she faces Pepper again, she clicks the roof of her mouth twice in consideration.
“What's the standard amount of time to pass until we go on a rescue mission?” Okoye asks.
“Not yet,” Carol says, a tad uncertain. The situation - the team - is foreign to her. The tales she’s heard from Nick imply they’re capable fighters, though. He was very fond of them. “I'd guess. It's only been a few hours.”
“We'll know when it’s time,” Pepper answers. She takes a slow sip from the mug. Hurry up, guys.
“You misunderstand me. I'm seeking your counsel.”