Epilogue
(New York Sanctum, New York City)
Vision stood in front of the wooden door silently, perhaps a little too silently to pass as a regular human, as his current disguise suggested. But the vastness of the information that he had access to didn't quite cover the etiquette of dealing with a group of easily-spooked sorcerers that he and his allies only had tentatively neutral relationship with. He didn't like to be treated distantly, but he was hoping to not start on the wrong foot by appearing too resistant to general preconceived notions.
Stubbornly, Vision ignored Tony's chiding voice in his head. 'Your feelings matter too, Viz!'
He knew that, of course, but he also needed these people's help more than he needed his self-identity not offended.
The oak door opened smoothly, revealing two rather unhappy men standing stiffly. Both had been present during the Hong Kong incident, but only the man with the cape was keeping a somewhat regular contact with the accord representatives.
Dr. Stephen Strange, ex-neurosurgeon, now the leader of the Masters of the Mystic Arts; the Sorcerer Supreme of the Earth. Records of his accident and subsequent disappearance suggested a time frame of a measly one year and a few months that he had spent with the mysterious order.
Vision had no way of knowing if that was a typical period of time in which a complete initiate could train his way into mastery, but he had to try. Even the secretive organization and their (apparently new) leader had begrudgingly confirmed the mysterious knowledge reveled to them by the stone in Vision’s forehead.
War was coming, and they had little time to waste.
"Are you going to state your business or not?" Dr. Strange asked crossly.
"Yes," Vision answered, calm and even, more thanks to his ability to modulate his body to minute detail than true fortitude of mind. "I require your assistance, Sorcerer Supreme."
Said sorcerer looked like he'd rather bite into a lemon rather than indulging on Vision's request. Nonetheless, he said in a relatively even tone, "And what sort of assistance might that be?"
Vision straightened up, and let his illusion drop. "To train me," he said. "War comes for the stones; for me. I require training."
(Pym Mobile Laboratory, Undisclosed Location)
“You know, Dad, if you keep this up people will think you’re a fugitive.”
The old man snorted dismissively, not looking up from his work. It’s been a running theme lately since he had reluctantly taken Tony’s—very generous—olive branch. Hope was sure that most of it came from his relief of not having to look back every other minute while he’s looking for his wife—her mom. But she also knew him, and she knew that a little petty part of him wanted to finish his private project of reaching deep into the Quantum Realm (and coming back intact, hopefully) before Tony could finish his.
Apparently the words “UN contract” and “Accord Defense Project” couldn’t change Hank Pym’s one-sided rivalry against Tony’s “pet project”. If this hadn’t been her dad’s most productive week in forever, Hope would’ve been a lot more annoyed. As it stood, she just wished her dad would hurry up and bring back her mom.
Hope figured if she kept rejecting the possibility of her not waiting on the other side, than it wouldn’t dare come true.
“We already have our equipment here,” her dad answered distractedly. “And we can’t be too careful these days anyway.”
Hope was, well, hoping for a way to break the news gently. Clearly that wasn’t on the table.
“Did you find anything else?” she said, keeping her eyes forward into the screen that she wasn’t really seeing.
“Nothing,” her dad answered with a sigh, “we found not trace of human DNA, or mechanical leftovers. Just some sort of quantum energy residue. For all we know, it might be a technical failure after all.”
“Or a Ghost,” Hope said, dropping a rather large folio on her father’s desk. “Tony found that lying around on the internet—no, don’t give me that. You can check it yourself if you don’t believe him, but I do.” She squared her shoulders and looked at the stubborn old man right in the eyes. “I’m calling the Avengers, dad. I’m not dealing with a S.H.I.E.L.D. assassin on my own.”
(New Avengers Compound, Upstate New York)
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Yes,” Tony answered.
“No,” Jane Foster said at the same time.
Tracy raised an eyebrow at them both, torn between amusement and annoyance. “I swear to god, Stark, if this is some kind of convoluted revenge for your coffee—”
“So it was you—!”
“What he means is,” Jane said quickly, “we don’t know if it will make contact with Asgard, but we do know that it will make contact with someone out there. It’s our first contact! Well, officially, anyway.”
Tracy looked at her incredulously. “What—literal alien invasion didn’t do it for you? Are you even sure this won’t fry my head?”
“Positive,” Jane said just as Tony made an ‘eh’ sort of gesture.
“Great,” Tracy said with a sigh. “Just great. And for the record, I did not change your coffee to decaf. That’s all Harley.”
She took a seat on the sleek, sci-fi esque chair that barely disqualified itself as a torture device. A set of headgear built itself around Tracy’s temple as she settled against the headrest, like a cross between space princess tiara and high-tech dentist appliance. All around her, machinery hummed alive, lighting up with blue and purple flash.
“Initiating project I.N.I.T.I.A.T.E.—”
“Ugh,” Jane grumbled to herself while Tony grinned mischievously.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., proceed with caution, baby girl.”
“Yes, Boss. Reverse containment field initiated.”
A glowing blue, cocoon-like energy shield flared around the chair, and immediately, Tracy lost her connection to the emotional atmosphere in the room.
“It’s not perfect yet,” Tony said, his voice muffled by the energy shield’s low hum. “You’ll feel a background resistance as you reach out and do your thing, but we figured better safe than sorry, you know?”
“Gee, thanks,” Tracy muttered, only feeling half as sarcastic as her tone. She was a little nervous, though she’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“You’re welcome. Trajectory Enhancement initiating in three… two… one…”
The headgear started to glow, and all around her, the scenery dissolved into white nothingness… and then black… and then…
“Holy shit,” she said to herself.
The vast, inky darkness broke and reformed itself into the interior of a room; dim, humid, but warm and cozy. A… man, large, heavily muscled, heavily tattooed, green-skinned man stared at her with narrowed, unblinking eyes.
“Tracy? Tracy, do you copy?”
“Oh yeah, I copy,” she said, voice cracking a little as the man silently drew a pair of daggers from his belt. “And this is definitely not Asgard.”
“Well,” Tony said in her ears after a beat of silence, “never too late to make a good first impression.”